Switcheroo

It wasn’t until Lewis got home that he noticed he’d taken the wrong suitcase from the airport baggage claim. He cursed himself under his breath when he opened it up on his bed to unpack and realized his error. It was probably the anxiety of flying that had clouded his mind and led to the mix-up, although it would’ve been an easy mistake for anyone to make. The outside of the case was nearly identical to his own, an old hard-sided bag in pale blue with twin brass clasps. The contents, however, pointed to a great polarization. Where Lewis wore argyle sweater vests and tweed blazers, the stranger wore silk shirts and designer tracksuits. Lewis’s clothes smelled of coffee and dry erase markers, but the stranger’s smelled like cigarettes and cologne. Lewis studied Joyce and Eliot, and the stranger had packed Hustler and a couple of detective paperbacks. The only thing that could not be found inside was any kind of identifying information. In his own luggage, Lewis had a little tag sewn into the lining, bearing his name, address, and phone number. Standing over his bed, staring into the wrong suitcase, he hoped with all his might to hear the phone ring.

The clothes, the books, and the extra pair of shoes he had packed weren’t particularly important to Lewis. Those could be replaced. What couldn’t, was his notebook. Small enough to fit in his palm, suede covers dark as outer space, it contained the entire first draft of his novel. That was the entire reason why he’d flown out to the coast to clear his mind, why he’d taken a yearlong sabbatical from the university, why he’d called his publishing agent last night to tell her he’d finally done it. Between those black covers was the peak of Lewis’s achievement. There had been short stories before, a novella, a couple memoirs, but this was something else entirely. He’d known from the moment the idea took root that this was the one. It was too important to entrust to a computer, and so he’d spent months putting blisters on his fingers scribbling away in blue pen. Now though, all of his work was in the hands of someone who likely wouldn’t bother to take a second glance at it.

Lewis spent the rest of the evening trying to calm down, to reassure himself that the phone would ring, and his bag would come back. If not tonight, then maybe tomorrow. It had to. Otherwise, nobody would ever read his novel. He’d have to start over completely, and all that time and thought and effort and money would be a waste, straight down the drain. He went across the apartment, to his little yellow-tiled kitchenette and poured himself a finger of cognac, but it didn’t help. What he really needed was a distraction. There was nothing worth watching on television, though, and all the books on his shelf had already been read over and over. Going back to the bedroom, he opened up the stranger’s suitcase again. He took a glance at the Hustler, decided against it, and picked up one of the detective novels. The cover read: The Ice-Pick Murders. It was a brick of a book, heavy in his hand. He took it to the living room, sat down with another cognac, and flipped it open. Where the first page should’ve been, he was met with green portraits of Benjamin Franklin.

“Oh my god.”

The book had been hollowed out, its guts carved away like a pumpkin, and completely stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. All in all, there were ten rubber-banded stacks. Lewis pulled them all out and piled them on his coffee table, then stood up and half-ran to the bedroom to get the other book. This one was titled Meat Cleaver Blues. The cover bore an image of a blade dripping blood. It too contained nothing but hundred-dollar bills. The facts of his situation occurred to him one at a time, a list forming in his mind.

1. No one who is doing anything legal smuggles twenty thousand dollars across state lines inside cheap mystery novels.

2. He should call the police.

3. This was more money than he was set to make from his book.

4. He should tell no one about this.

5. He could pay his credit card bills off completely.

6. The leftover student loans from his doctorate, too.

7. He could finally afford to do something about his left eye, the one that’d forced him to pause from his writing for hours as it flared up in a throbbing ache.

Thumbing through the stacks, Lewis started to count it over again, making sure it wasn’t too good to be true. The phone rang. As he walked to the kitchen to answer it, Lewis added another item to his list.

8. If whoever this money belonged to had his suitcase, they knew where he lived.

The receiver was cold in his hand, and he took a second to pull in a deep breath before speaking.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Professor Lewis Er… Ear…“ The stranger’s voice was deep and slow.

“Earhart. Like Amelia.”

“Professor Earhart, I have your suitcase.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I was hoping someone would call.”

“Now, the reason I grabbed it by mistake is it looks an awful lot like my own. Same make and model, I believe. So what I’m wondering is if we both made the same mistake.”

“If we got them switched?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment of silence. Lewis felt his palms growing damp, just as they had when the plane began to climb into the air that morning.

“Professor Earhart?” The stranger said, gently, as if speaking to a child. “Do you have my suitcase?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. I know it’s late, but I’m going to drive over there and we can trade back. Otherwise, you know, I won’t have any clean clothes for tomorrow. Does that work for you?”

“Yes.”

“And the address on this card is correct?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon.” As soon as he heard the click, Lewis scrambled into the living room and began shoving bills back into the books. His breath caught in his throat as he realized he’d accidentally creased the cover of Meat Cleaver Blues, and he tried as best he could to smooth it out with the back of his thumb nail. When the money was tucked away again, he went to the bedroom and put the books back in their place. He was about to fasten the clasps when he began to have second thoughts. Maybe the stranger on the other end of the phone wouldn’t notice one or two stacks missing. Even if he did, perhaps he’d consider it a finder’s fee, or compensation for not calling the police. Lewis opened the case again, and something caught his eye. Beside the books was a white button down shirt with the arms folded up over the chest, and at the end of one of the sleeves was a spot. It was just a tiny little stain on the cuff, but it was so dark, and so red. He closed the suitcase and clasped it shut tight. Wine, probably. Nothing more. The doorbell rang, and Lewis nearly screamed.

In the entryway to the apartment building was the biggest man he’d ever seen, with carefully styled black hair and a squashed nose like a boxer. Outside, it had begun to rain, and the man held an umbrella in one hand and Lewis’s pale blue bag in the other. Lewis had brought the identical bag with him, all the contents still inside, and hopefully appearing undisturbed.

“Did you like my murder mysteries, Professor Earhart?” The man asked, a grin stretching across his face.

“It’s still there, I promise. Every penny.” Lewis was nearly whispering. It was all the air he could manage to force out. He stuck the suitcase out in front of him, and the man took the handle. Lewis clung to it a second, before letting go. Then he got his own suitcase back.

“I did a bit of reading too.” The man said. “I hope you don’t mind. Your little black notebook. It’s great stuff you have there. I'm looking forward to finishing it when you have it published.”

“Thank you.” Lewis said.

“Well, goodnight Professor Earhart.”

“Goodnight.”

Legs still a little unsteady, Lewis walked upstairs. There, he pulled the little black notebook from his luggage, and began to make the first of his revision notes. He would not sleep tonight.