Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course (15 page)

“Junior’s dead,” Wormy said.

“Did I say he wasn’t?” Truman asked. “Are you going to take me to Ronnie, or do I have to go looking for him myself?”

“The boss is in the office,” Wormy said.

Ronnie Bondurant was still on the phone, his desk chair leaned way back, feet propped up on the desk, with the receiver cradled under his chin. “Now that’s something to think about,” Truman heard him say. When he looked up and saw he had company, Bondurant took his feet down and straightened up. “Talk to you later,” he said.

Ronnie stood up, held out a hand to shake. He wore some type of college ring on his right ring finger, and a gold signet ring on his left pinkie. “Decide on a car already?” he asked affably.

“Don’t need a car,” Truman repeated. “I’m looking for a job. My name is Truman Kicklighter. Friend of mine, Junior Stegall, he used to talk about you a lot.”

“Old Junior,” Ronnie said. “We were running buddies a long time ago, that’s true. What’s he up to these days?”

Truman stared at Ronnie like he was crazy.

“Junior’s dead,” he said. “Over in Arcadia. Been two years ago now. I still got a cowboy hat he gave me once when he was drunk. A black Resistol. Nice hat, too. I meant to give it back but didn’t get the chance.”

“Junior gave you his cowboy hat?” Ronnie was impressed.

“He was bad drunk,” Truman said. He got right to the point. “I can type, file, answer the phone. I’ve been in sales before, and I can work with any kind of people. But I don’t want to work late nights and I’m no good at fixing cars.”

Ronnie thought about it. “How did you come to know Junior?”

“Met him in Tampa,” Truman said, which was the truth. “I used to work down by the courthouse, and we got to talking that time he had some trouble over there.” Also the truth; the AP office wasn’t far from the courthouse, and he actually had met Stegall during the trial.

It was enough for Ronnie. He was president of Bondurant Motors, not some secretary or file clerk.

“I haven’t been looking to hire,” Ronnie said. “But…”

He looked over Truman’s head, at Wormy, who was frowning and giving the boss the ix-nay sign.

“But then again,” Ronnie continued, ignoring Wormy, “we had an opening come up suddenly this weekend, and things are starting to back up.”

Wormy was shaking his head furiously. He didn’t need any geezers hanging around, especially not this one.

“We don’t pay benefits,” Ronnie warned.

“Don’t need ‘em,” Truman said. “I need to get paid cash. Off the books. Otherwise I lose my Social Security benefits.”

“Five dollars an hour,” Ronnie said quickly. “You give me, say, twenty hours a week.”

“Sounds fine,” Truman said. Five dollars an hour. It was an insult. Kids flipping burgers at McDonald’s made more than that. But he wasn’t here to make a living.

Ronnie was on his feet again. “Come on out here then. I’ll show you how the payment books work. That’s what you’ll be doing. Taking payments, keeping after people, answering the phone. That way, Wormy and me can concentrate on sales.”

He went to the outer office, to a cluttered, old wooden desk, reached in the drawer, and got out a thick ledger book.

“This here’s the accounts,” Ronnie said, flipping through pages filled with cramped writing and tiny numbers. He ran a finger down the columns. “Here’s the names, and the amounts and the date the payment is due.” Then he pointed to a metal file box. “Every current customer has a card in there, with all the phone numbers and addresses we got on ‘em. You look in that account book, see what their due date is. If they’re not here by noon that day, start tracking ‘em down. Tell ‘em we’re expecting to see ‘em. And don’t take no shit. These people, they got all kinda sob stories. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of ‘em. So you gotta be tough. Think you can be tough, Pops?”

“It’s Truman,” Truman said. “Kicklighter. With a K. And I can be an ornery son of a bitch if I need to be.”

The good thing about having the old man working for them was that Wormy and Ronnie could leave the lot together for lunch. Talk about business.

Ronnie loved spicy tacos and burritos, and the Mexican place down the street had the authentic stuff. You could tell because of the beat-up pickup trucks and station wagons full of Mexican laborers who piled into the place.

Wormy swallowed half a bottle of Di-Gel, and picked at a plate of nacho supremes. His stomach rumbled ominously. He reached in his pocket and brought the insurance check out to show Ronnie.

“Nice,” Ronnie said, taking it and putting it in his own pocket. “Good work, Wormy. I thought this deal was gonna be dead after that shit with the black chick and Cantrell and all.”

“This Zuniga guy, the claims agent,” Wormy said. “I think the guy wants to work with us.”

“What makes you think so?”

“He’s on the make,” Wormy said. “I can spot the type. He cuts the check, then he makes a big deal about making me take about a dozen of his business cards. Tells me he’ll work with me any way he can.”

“A claims adjuster?” Ronnie chewed on his taco, took a swig of his Dos Equis. “It’s an idea.”

“He made a point of telling me he does claims for half a dozen different insurance companies,” Wormy said.

“So we could spread the business around to the different companies, but always go through this guy, who’s on our side. I like it. But what kind of cut is this weasel going to expect?”

“I didn’t talk numbers. Wanted to run it by you first.”

“Good,” Ronnie said. “Talk to the guy. Offer him five percent. Tell him it’s no risk to him. We know what we’re doing. Different cars, drivers, insurance companies, everything. All he has to do is what he’s already doing, processing the checks. We want everything expedited, of course, since we’re paying him.”

“I’ll call him today,” Wormy said, sipping his beer. “I got an appointment to see Doc after lunch. That monkey, Billy, man, he nearly killed me. I’m telling you, Ronnie, he’s hopped up on something. He nearly ripped that red ‘Vette in half. Opened up my nose again, screwed up my knees and my back. My good pants were ruined.”

Ronnie shrugged and took a bite of his beef burrito. “You been hollering about personal injury,” he told Wormy. “Let’s give it a shot. See what Doc can come up with. Ask him to call the insurance company back, tell him we’re holding the check on account of you got some serious injuries. Tell the guy you ain’t been able to work since the accident.”

“All right,” Wormy said. “This is the way to go, Ronnie. I know it is. Back, neck injuries. Physical therapy. Disability. We can milk these guys for maybe fifty thousand more.”

“We’ll see,” Ronnie said. Then he winked at Wormy. “You know that LeeAnn, Cantrell’s girlfriend? Guess where it turns out she works?”

Wormy’s caution signal went up. “Hey, Ronnie. Don’t you think we oughta stay away from her? I mean, if she gets curious about where old Jeff went, she might go looking for him, might ask a lot of questions that could cause us some problems.”

“She’s a stripper, for Christ’s sake,” Ronnie said. “I called the number she gave me. She’s right across the street, at the Candy Store, shaking those bodacious titties of hers. That’s where Jeff must have met her. How come I never noticed her over there before?”

“You said that was a low-class joint,” Wormy pointed out.

“Yeah, well, it used to be. She classes it up. Even the name’s classy. LeeAnn. Pretty, huh? I never knew a LeeAnn before.”

LeeAnn Pilker lifted her hair off her neck, trying to get a little cooler. She’d parked in the shade, across the street from Jeff’s garage apartment, but she didn’t dare go to the door. Mrs. Borgshultz, Jeff’s landlady, was bad to spy on people. She used to spy on LeeAnn and Jeff all the time.

She sniffed a little, feeling sorry for herself, and tugged at her bra. It was hot and itchy. Life had been so much simpler when she was an A cup. But Jeff had insisted. He’d offered to pay, too. Now he was gone, and the plastic surgeon was sending certified letters, threatening to turn her over to a collection agency if she didn’t pay up.

LeeAnn had scraped up $2,000 in what Jeff liked to call “up-front” money, for the down payment. She’d been squirreling away tip money to take a trip up north, but Jeff had talked her into using it for the breast enhancement. Her boss had kicked in a $500 loan, saying it would be good for business, and Jeff had come up with another $500. But there was still $6,000 due. Past due.

It was so damn hot in the car. LeeAnn felt her mascara running down her face. She couldn’t stay here like this much longer, her implants might start to melt any minute now.

With a little sob, she wiped away the black rivers trailing down her cheeks. She’d try later on in the day, before she went on for the four o’clock show. She started the car and drove slowly down the street. Half a block away, she saw a flash of movement in her rearview mirror. A purple sedan. Old lady Borgshultz.

LeeAnn circled back around the block and parked in the same spot across the street from Jeff’s place.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she chanted as she darted across the street and past Mrs. Borgshultz’s back door.

“It’s okay,” she told herself, unlocking the door to the garage with the key Jeff had given her.

The air in the tiny apartment was hot and stale. Like a gas oven.

“Jesus,” she muttered, but she didn’t dare turn on the window air conditioner. It shouldn’t take long anyway.

Jeff’s bed had been the pull-out sofa. She pulled it out. The sheets were still on the mattress. Red satin sheets she’d given him. Just like a man.

The galley kitchen was filthy but bare except for the trash basket overflowing with beer cans and fast-food wrappers. LeeAnn wrinkled her nose and went quickly through the trash. Nothing exciting.

The bathroom was hardly big enough to turn around in. She checked the medicine cabinet above the sink. Empty. The last time she’d been in here, she’d teased Jeff about his stash of hair creams, cologne, aftershave, and mousse.

“You’ve got more cosmetics than any of the girls at the club,” she’d told him.

“They’re men’s products,” he’d said, not offended in the least. “Is it a crime for a guy to smell good? I’m in sales, you know. Presentation is everything in sales.”

“You just want to smell good when you hit on chicks,” LeeAnn had accused him.

He pulled her to him. “It works. Right?”

As she thought about Jeff that last time—how he combed his hair just so, sucked in his belly when he walked around the apartment naked, she was surprised to realize just how much she really did miss him. Aside from the fact that he’d left her in the lurch for a $6,000 pair of D cups.

The shit. She sat down on the lid of the commode and cried for a little bit. When would she learn? Twenty-five years old and she was still falling for the pretty face and the funny lines.

There was a wicker laundry hamper wedged in front of the wall opposite the commode. She gave it a vicious kick. Wait a minute. She could see a bit of red through the hamper’s open weave.

She raised the lid of the hamper and peered in. She pulled out a red knit shirt and a pair of Gap blue-jean shorts.

Jeff’s lucky shirt and shorts. He claimed he sold a car every time he wore this outfit. Of course he never wore the same clothes for more than six hours at a time. Claimed it wasn’t hygenic.

And he’d left this outfit behind?

LeeAnn stuffed the clothes in her purse. She peeked out the front window to make sure old lady Borgshultz hadn’t come back.

Then she sprinted for the car. Her shift didn’t start till four. Those guys at the car lot were lying. And she was going to find out what was going on.

Dr. Costas Sperduto ran a practiced hand down the patient’s back.

Wormy jumped at his touch—the cool, calloused flesh on his own. “What’s the story, Doc?” he asked.

Sperduto peered over the black-rimmed bifocals perched on the end of his nose. Wormy Weems’s back was unexceptional-looking; pale, speckled, a long pink scar on the left-lower side, two smaller punctuation-type scars below that, near the base of the spine. Long, graying hairs were sprinkled lightly over the skin near the shoulders.

“Not good,” Doc said. “We’ll do a complete workup. But I tell you right now, not good. Ruptured disc at the L4 level. And your neck …” He tsk-tsked. “I don’t like the feel of this neck at all, possibly a ruptured disk in the neck. Your entire spinal column is out of alignment. Possible tear in the cruciate ligament. I’m amazed you could walk in here, Wormy. These are very serious injuries.”

“I knew it,” Wormy said, grimacing as Doc’s fingers walked to the base of his spine. He groaned and managed to roll over onto his back. He tried to sit up, but flopped back down again. The pain was a sudden, fiery surprise.

“Son of a bitch. I really am hurt.”

Sperduto rolled his eyes. “Of course. You’re going to require many, many treatments. Months, perhaps years of therapy. I think perhaps you have the permanent disability.”