My Dad, the Private Eye: Keep on Truckin'

CHAPTER 3

Dad sat in front of the shiny walnut desk of Frank Borneman, the owner of Cortland Trucking. He was a tall man, about ten years older than Dad, and he looked slick in his tailored suit and expensive haircut. Dad tried not to fidget, feeling a bit like a kid in the principal's office. You're a professional just like him, Dad told himself. You don't have to be nervous.

"We have internal security, of course," Mr. Borneman said, "but for this job, we felt it best to bring in someone from outside, especially since you're already involved in the case."

Dad tensed up. "What case?" he asked, totally confused.

"The disappearance of Harlan Beaudry. He's been a driver for us for eight years now."

"Oh! Harley works here? I mean, of course, Harlan Beaudry works here. I knew that." Dad leaned in and lowered his voice a bit. "So Mrs. Beaudry actually recommended me? Not that there's any reason why she wouldn't..."

"We got your name from a news report about the shooting last night," Borneman explained. "It doesn't look good for employees of Cortland Trucking to be associated with things like this, so we have a vested interest in finding Mr. Beaudry."

"Well... great!" Dad said, sitting back and relaxing. "I'll find him for you. My daily rate is –"

"Just submit an invoice to Accounting," Borneman said. "We'll need you to start right away. You have free rein to talk to anybody here. But, Mr. Winnette..."

"Yes?"

"Outside of the company, keep it quiet. You understand?"

Dad straightened his coat. "Absolutely, Mr. Borneman. 'Confidentiality' is my middle name."

As soon as Dad got out of the meeting, he FaceTimed me. "I hit the jackpot!" he said, trying to keep his voice down as he walked down the long hall of the trucking company offices. "It's like they're writing me a blank check!"

"Perfect! Double your daily rate." I said, trying to keep my own voice down in chem lab.

"Double it?"

"It's corporate!" I cheered, a little too loudly. "You could probably triple it and they'd still pay." A couple kids in class gave me a dirty look, and one shushed me. But I didn't care, I was just so happy for Dad.

And Dad was, of course, so happy for himself. He stood up straight and proud. "I'm working corporate now!"

Dad went straight to work on the case. He found the main warehouse where lots of men were loading and unloading trucks. But there was one person who was clearly in charge, a small woman with a hardhat, a clipboard and a really loud voice. I guess you have to be loud when you need to yell across a big warehouse, and when the men you're yelling at are nearly twice your size.

Dad walked up to the lady, Inez Garcia, and asked her about Harley. "When he didn't show up a couple days ago," she said, "we had to give his haul to one of the other drivers."

"His wife is convinced he's holed up with a woman somewhere," Dad said, not mentioning the big misunderstanding from the night before.

Inez laughed. "Wouldn't put it past him. From what I hear, he really gets around."

Just then, a guy name Luther "Gator" Suff walked in through a side door. He was about ten years younger than Dad, and he wore an old cowboy hat, a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and brand new cowboy boots. "Gator!" Inez called out. "This is Drew Winnette."

As Gator walked over, Inez said to Dad, "This is Luther Suff. He's taking over Harley's route for now."

Gator gave Inez some filled-out driver's logs and then shook Dad's hand. "Mr. Suff," Dad said.

"Gator to my friends. Hope you're a friend 'cause if you ain't, I'll break your wrist."

Dad turned white and slipped out of the handshake. Gator cracked up. "Just joshin' ya."

Dad forced a laugh, pretending to be tough.

"Mr. Winnette is looking into Harley's disappearance," Inez explained.

"You a cop?" Gator asked Dad suspiciously. "You don't look like no cop."

"No! No, I'm a private detective," Dad said.

Gator relaxed. "Don't get the wrong idea. I got nothin' against cops." He cracked a sly smile. "They just got somethin' against me!" He burst out laughing again, clearly his own best audience.

Ignoring his silly jokes, Inez said to Gator, "Maybe you can tell Mr. Winnette what you know about Harley not showing up Tuesday morning." She then spotted a problem across the cavernous room. "Hey, that stuff goes back!" she hollered as she rushed off with a nod goodbye to Dad.

"Not much to tell, really," Gator said to Dad. Gator then headed back to the door he came in through, and Dad followed. "Just got a call seven in the morning to take his haul. Wished I hadn't knocked back that two-four the night before!" He busted up again as he and Dad headed outside to the parking lot.

"So nobody here saw him at all that morning?" Dad asked.

"His truck wasn't here, it was an hour down the road in Niagara. Riverside Winery. Had to ship out a tank full of red."

"They ship wine in tanker trucks?" Dad asked, kind of shocked.

"Think about that next time you're sippin' your Cabernet!" Gator said, chuckling again.

Gator and Dad arrived at Gator's brand new Dodge Barracuda, a supercool car with racing stripes and mag wheels. Gator chirped it with his key fob.

Dad looked the car over, impressed. "Nice ride."

"Damn straight," Gator said proudly. "Just got it yesterday." He leaned in close and said in a low, mean voice, "Touch it and I'll break your wrist." Dad turned white again. And Gator cracked up again. "Just joshin' ya!"

As Dad reminded himself to play it cool, Gator jumped into the car and sped off, burning rubber. Dad could hear Gator's annoying laugh over the sound of the revving engine and screeching tires. He coughed, literally left in the dust.