Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course (14 page)

Cheryl brought him a beer and sat down beside her father.

“Remember the summer you took us to Myrtle Beach, Pop? I had my first two-piece bathing suit. We had the new car. A Fury, I remember. And we played putt-putt every night and went to a pancake house for dinner.”

“You made your mother and me crazy,” Truman reminded her. “You were boy crazy.”

Cheryl smiled dreamily. “Not really. But I did kiss a boy at Myrtle Beach. His name was Bo and he was from Due West, South Carolina. Bet you didn’t know about that, Pop.”

“You’d be surprised what I knew back then,” Truman told her.

She leaned back on her elbows for a minute, singing along to another song that everybody but Truman seemed to know by heart.

“Hey, Mr. K,” Jackie said, rejoining them on the blanket when the band took a break. “There’s a lady over there waving at you and calling your name. That your girlfriend?”

“Where?” Truman said, searching the crowd for a familiar face.

“What girlfriend?” Cheryl asked.

Margaret McCutchen was seated on a folding lawn chair beside some women Truman didn’t recognize. When she caught his eye, she waved again.

He got up and walked over to her.

“Hello there,” he said, feeling suddenly shy. He could feel the other women staring at him, wondering who he was and whether he was trying to pick up their friend. He didn’t know whether to keep standing, or sit down on the grass beside her. “Enjoying the music?”

“It’s wonderful,” Margaret said. “Is that your family with you?”

“That’s Cheryl in the yellow dress, and my grandson, Chip, and that’s Ollie, and my friend Jackie.”

“Nice.” Margaret turned toward her friends, who were indeed watching and listening to her conversation with Truman. “Girls, this is Truman Kicklighter. From my Great Books group. He’s a writer himself. And a real lover of literature,” she added impishly.

Margaret introduced him to the women, whose names he instantly forgot. The loudspeakers whined, and then a new band ran onto the stage. “You’d better go back to your family,” she said, seeing his awkwardness and liking it that he was so vulnerable.

“That’s right,” he said gratefully. “We’re going to have lunch, aren’t we?”

“Whenever you say,” Margaret said.

He was humming by the time he got back to the blanket. Something about seeing somebody in September. He stopped when he saw that Cheryl and Jackie were watching him and laughing like a couple of loons.

“That was Margaret,” he said, ignoring their childishness. “A friend of mine.”

“I see that,” Cheryl said teasingly. “When do I get to meet her?”

“Sometime,” Truman said. “She’s a very interesting woman. Sails boats. Likes baseball.”

“Where’s Chip?” Cheryl asked suddenly. She sprang to her feet. “He was right here a minute ago.” She swung around in a circle, calling him. “Chip! Chip!” The teenager was gone, a frantic mother in her place.

Jackie tugged at the hem of Cheryl’s skirt. “Ollie took him to get a popsicle from the ice cream man,” she said, pointing. “He’s right over there. See?”

Cheryl walked a little way away, searching the crowd until she saw them, a little boy and a little man, standing beside an umbrella-shaded ice cream vendor.

“Oh.” She sat back down on the quilt. “It’s just that there are so many people here. And it’s getting dark. You know how he wanders off.”

Jackie and Truman nodded. A year ago, Chip had been kidnapped. It was Truman’s fault. He and Jackie had gone after the boy—and nearly gotten them all killed in the process. Cheryl had earned the right to be overprotective.

When they got back from the ice cream man, Cheryl hugged her son for a long time, swaying to the music until Chip managed to squirm out of her grip.

Ollie sat down in a folding beach chair beside Truman.

Jackie came over and flopped down on the grass between them.

“Must be a hundred degrees at least tonight,” she said, fanning herself with a paper plate.

She lowered her voice and turned big, sad brown eyes on Truman. “I noticed you missed lunch today. Did you find out anything about that jackleg murdering thief Ronnie Bondurant?”

“I talked to some people,” Truman said.

He told them both about the newspaper files, and going over to Jeff Cantrell’s apartment, and how the landlady was under the impression that her tenant had moved. Then he told them about meeting Clyde Guthrie, the retired FDLE man.

“I knew it,” Jackie said, slapping her thigh. “Now we’re getting somewhere. We need to go back over to that car lot, watch them, see if they’ll lead us to my car. And the body,” she added.

“Run surveillance,” Ollie agreed. “That’s what private investigators do. We did okay the other night, right?”

“This Bondurant character has a criminal record,” Truman said. “And he knows both of you. Especially you, Jackie. You go anywhere near the place and he’ll spot you. We know he’s violent.”

“I’ll wear a disguise,” Jackie said. “Go in there acting like I want to buy a car off him. Then, Truman, you go sneaking in the back and search the place.”

“Forget it,” Truman said. He reached into the cooler, got himself a cold beer, and took a long swig. “I’ve got an idea.”

By the next morning, he’d begun to have doubts.” Damn fool idea. Probably won’t let you near the place. Old fool.”

He went on like this through his sit-ups and deep-knee bends and jumping jacks. He should run in place, Truman thought, but it was too durn hot. He was already drenched with sweat, gasping for breath.

After his shower, he put some thought into his wardrobe. Casual, but smart. He reached up on the closet shelf and took down the turquoise knit golf shirt Cheryl had given him for Father’s Day. It still had the store’s tags hanging from the sleeve. His khaki slacks were fine with it. He added a shiny new pair of Nike tennis shoes, last year’s Father’s Day gift. He looked pretty good.

When he got downstairs to the lobby, Jackie was standing there, dressed in her waitress uniform, talking to somebody he didn’t recognize. She was glancing around, watching to see that Mr. Wiggins, the manager, didn’t catch her standing around like that.

“Uh, Mr. K, this gentleman came in a little while ago, looking for you. He was asking in the dining room, and I told him I knew you.”

The stranger was slim, with steel-gray hair, a trim mustache, and silver-framed aviator-type sunglasses. Maybe forty-five to fifty. Truman made him for a cop right away.

“Ed Weingarten,” the other man said, extending his hand to shake. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

“Right over here,” Truman said, motioning toward the wicker armchairs near the window.

Weingarten sat on the edge of the chair, his back very erect. “I understand you used to be a reporter,” he said.

“And I figure you’re some kind of cop,” Truman replied. “Who do you work for?”

“Florida Department of Law Enforcement, white-collar crime division,” Weingarten said. He took out a business card and handed it to Truman. “Clyde Guthrie tells me you were asking around about Ronnie Bondurant and his associates.”

“That’s right,” Truman said. “You know why I’m interested in Bondurant. He ripped off that young lady you just talked to. Sold her a lemon, then stole it back. She went looking for the car and found a body instead. The young salesman who sold her the car. Murdered. I know the FDLE doesn’t usually get involved in homicides, so I’m kind of surprised you folks are interested in a nickel-and-dime bum like Ronnie Bondurant.”

Weingarten took off his sunglasses, folded them, and put them in his breast pocket.

“This is a white-collar crime matter. We’ve been watching Ronnie for some time now. Clyde Guthrie said he mentioned the unsolved homicide over in Sebring to you? We believe the old man, Lawson Bondurant, did it, but his son, Ronnie, probably had a hand in it, too. The father seems to be dead. Now Ronnie’s running some kind of operation out of that car lot. We’ve got a man working it. Damn liberal judges over here won’t approve a wiretap. But Ronnie’s been seen in the company of an individual named Hernando Boone. Maybe you’ve seen this person, half black, half Miccosukee Indian? What our folks call a badass, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

“I’ve heard the expression,” Truman said dryly. “The young lady mentioned seeing somebody like that at the car lot, right before she found Jeff Cantrell’s body.”

“Boone deals in stolen meat, drugs, whatever turns a profit,” Weingarten said. “Word is, he killed an Ethiopian who tried to steal from him. We’ve got no witnesses, of course. If Boone and Bondurant are socializing together, it means they’re both planning to move up in the world.”

“One of them killed that car salesman. Name’s Jeff Cantrell,” Truman said.

“Guthrie told me about that and we looked into it. Nobody has reported Jeff Cantrell as missing. We got a tip from the St. Pete cops about that call over to the car lot the other night,” Weingarten said. “Officer searched the place, found nothing.”

“Jackie and Ollie are the ones who called the cops in the first place,” Truman pointed out. “By the time those jokers got there, Bondurant had moved the body.”

“I need to talk to your young friend,” Weingarten said. “I’ll get to her next. We need to get a description of who was on the scene that night.”

“Bondurant and one of his people. Older guy who works for him,” Truman volunteered.

“Sounds like our friend Wormy.”

“Wormy?”

“William D. Weems. He’s Bondurant’s sidekick. He used to work for Bondurant’s old man. Now he’s Ronnie’s associate. If Bondurant’s working an angle, Wormy’s the one doing the dirty work,” Weingarten said.

“I saw Weems’s name in an old story about one of Bondurant’s arrests,” Truman said. “Didn’t know his name was Wormy.”

Weingarten frowned. “Those folks know who you are?”

“They don’t know me from Adam’s housecat,” Truman said. “That’s my advantage.”

Weingarten looked up sharply. “What advantage?”

“I aim to find out what those crooks are up to,” Truman said. He told Weingarten what he had in mind.

The FDLE agent looked amused. “Now, you don’t want to go and do that,” he said. “These folks are into something heavy, Mr. Kicklighter. Hernando Boone is a player. And if you’re right—if he did kill this Cantrell—they’re into something a lot worse than grand theft auto. You better leave the investigating to us. Of course, if you run across any information on the case, I’d welcome hearing from you.”

“I can handle myself,” Truman said, getting up stiffly. “I’ve got a story to research, Mr. Weingarten. So I’ll be on my way now, if it’s all the same to you.”

Weingarten sighed. “You don’t back off, do you?”

“No, sir,” Truman said. “Never have.”

Ronnie Bondurant was sick of hearing excuses. “Listen to me, Tim,” he hollered into the phone. “I don’t give a flying fuck if you lost your job and your wife is knocked up. You shoulda kept it in your pants. Get another job. Get two jobs. You’re three weeks late. If you’re not here by six, you and that fat-cow wife of yours are gonna be hoofin’ it, because I’m coming to get that T-bird.”

Ronnie hung up, and as soon as he did, the phone rang again. It had been ringing all morning. He couldn’t get anything done. And now, as he looked out at the lot, he saw a battered white Nova pull in.

“Wormy,” he called to the outer office.

“I’m on the other line,” Wormy said. “It’s Al. The Bonneville died again and he wants us to come pick him up and bring him in to work. He says you wanted him to wash some cars.”

“Shit,” Ronnie said. It was raining shit today, and not an umbrella in sight. He picked up the phone. “Bondurant Motors. Hold, please.”

He put his hand over the receiver. “Tell Al we’ll send somebody, and get out onto the lot. There’s a prospect out there.”

A second later Wormy stuck his head in the door. “What somebody you gonna send to get Al?” he asked sarcastically. “We got rid of Jeff—remember?”

The man with the pockmarked face and a Band-Aid across the bridge of his nose sauntered up to Truman’s car as he was getting out.

Weems, Truman decided. Wormy Weems.

Weems walked around the Nova, shaking his head. He kicked one of the tires, stuck his head inside the open window to check out the interior.

“You thinking about a trade-in, mister? Because I gotta tell you, there’s not much demand for this model. I could do maybe six, seven hundred. You interested in a nice compact? I got a silver ‘88 Camry with factory air, just came on the lot.”

“Actually,” Truman said, “I’m not in the market for a car right now. What I am looking for is a job. Part-time. I’ve noticed how busy you folks stay. It occurred to me you could use some help.”

Wormy looked at Truman in the same appraising way he’d looked at the Nova.

“We don’t need no help,” he said. “Maybe you oughta get a hobby. Collecting string, something like that.”

“Maybe you ought to mind that smart-ass mouth of yours,” Truman replied. “I’m an old friend of your boss’s friend. Junior Stegall.”