Wormy leaned up against the wall and watched while the monkey revved the engine of the Pinto, impatient to get started. As always, he wondered where Ronnie found his endless supply of people whose job skills were this negligible.

  “Do it,” Wormy said loudly. The monkey stomped on the accelerator, the Pinto’s engine raced, and the car shot forward, its tires digging into the crushed-shell pavement. At the last minute, the monkey slammed on the brakes, right before the Pinto slammed into the rear of the Corvette, knocking it forward and then spinning it sideways until the front of the ‘Vette was smashed up against Joe’s corrugated metal fence, pinning Wormy between the fence and the Vette.

  It felt as though he’d been cut in half directly above the knees. A knife blade of searing pain jabbed into the base of his spine as he fell forward onto the hood of the ‘Vette.

  “Goddamn!” Wormy roared. The son of a bitch had done it deliberately. For a moment, he thought he’d pass out, the pain was so bad.

  “Get it off me,” Wormy screamed. “For Christ’s sake get me out of here.”

  The Pinto’s motor abruptly cut off. Now the driver was pulling open the door of the Corvette, trying to start it. The ‘Vette’s engine coughed and then died. “It won’t start,” the kid called out. “I’ll have to put it in neutral and push it.”

  “Hold on, Wormy,” the kid said, grunting as he pushed against the car. A moment later, the Corvette was off him and Wormy was hunched over on the ground, the pain so bad he thought he’d puke.

  “Fuckin’ A, Wormy,” the kid said, standing over him uneasily. “I didn’t mean to hit you, man. It was, like, an accident. You ain’t really hurt too bad, are you?”

  “Asshole.” Wormy had to clench his teeth shut to keep from screaming, that’s how bad the pain was. The kid offered him a hand, to help pull him up. Wormy slapped at it, rolled away, grimaced, and managed to stagger to his feet before sinking into the front seat of the ruined ‘Vette.

  Shit. He felt like he’d been knee-capped. His black slacks were ripped across both thighs and his back hurt like a son of a bitch. He’d have to go see Doc, get some of those pocket rockets. The Demerol was good stuff, but he had to be careful how he took it or he’d puke his guts up. He was messed up bad this time.

  “Hey, Wormy,” the monkey said, dancing from foot to foot like he had St. Vitus’s dance or something. “You’re bleeding, man. Won’t it make Ronnie mad if you bleed in the ‘Vette?”

  Yeah, blood in the ‘Vette, Wormy thought. Almost as bad as a body with a bullet in the head.

  Wormy had to grasp the door frame with both hands to extricate himself from the ‘Vette. His head was throbbing and he felt blood trickling down the bridge of his nose from where he’d bounced off the ‘Vette’s hood. The nose was probably broken. He was getting too old for this shit.

  But he wouldn’t say a word about his pain to the monkey. Let ‘em see you were hurting, they might think you were vulnerable. A searing pain shot down the front of his right leg. With supreme effort he walked stiffly around to the back of the red Corvette to have a look. He’d already seen the front of the car, at a much closer vantage point than was necessary.

  The whole rear of the ‘Vette was accordion-folded inward. The ground was cluttered with tiny plastic rubies and glass diamonds from the shattered tail and brake lights and the Pinto’s front bumper had made jagged tears in the ‘Vette’s red-fiberglass rear panel.

  He turned to the monkey. “What’s your name?”

  The kid’s face fell. His eyes were set so far apart they were closer to his ears than his nose. His face was the color of a fish’s belly. There was not an iota of intelligence there. Where the hell did Ronnie get these people?

  “It’s Billy, man. I told you ten times already. Billy Tripp. We done two jobs together, Wormy. Last time I had that old sucky Taurus wagon. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Wormy said. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the cut on his nose. He remembered Billy because the Taurus job was the one that had sent the piece of glass flying that opened up the cut on his nose in the first place. It hadn’t even had time to heal.

  Wormy limped back to the Corvette. No way it was drivable now. Not with the front like this. The wheel wells were too crumpled. He’d have to get Joe to fix up the front end some before he took it to the drive-through claims window.

  “You know what to do, asshole?” he asked the monkey.

  “Shit, yeah,” the monkey said. “Think I’m stupid?” He reached into the Pinto, pulled out an open beer car, and took a long swig.

  Yes, Wormy thought. Yes. I think anyone with a shaved head and a nose ring probably qualifies as stupid. “Tell me what you’re supposed to do,” Wormy demanded.

  The kid took another long swig of beer. The nose ring clinked against the side of the aluminum can.

  “I call up the insurance agent.” Billy Tripp pulled a filthy scrap of paper from the pocket of his cutoff jeans. “Ed Zuniga. Hartford. Office is out in Gulfport. I tell him I was out on Eighty-sixth Street, where they got all that construction going on. I got confused ‘cause of all the signs, ran a stop sign, and rear-ended an old dude in a red Corvette.”

  “Funny,” Wormy said.

  Billy grinned. “Fucked the dude’s car up bad. But I want to make it right.”

  “You give him my phone number,” Wormy coached. “Tell him I’m pissed off. Threatening to sue. You got the registration papers, the policy numbers, all the stuff Ronnie gave you?”

  The monkey nodded rapidly. “I ain’t stupid, man. It’s all in the glove box.”

  “Get out of here,” Wormy said. “There’s a pay phone at a gas station up the road. Call from there.”

  The monkey nodded again, and got in the Pinto.

  “Hey, Wormy,” he said, getting out quickly.

  “When do I get my money? Ronnie said I could maybe get seven hundred dollars this time. He, like, promised.”

  “Soon as I get the check and it clears,” Wormy said. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Outtasight,” Billy Tripp said, waving good-bye. “See you in hell,” Wormy muttered.

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  “Now what?” The first six months after Nellie died, Truman had felt stupid talking to himself. He’d seen too many slump-shouldered old codgers roaming the streets of St. Petersburg, stomping and muttering to themselves.

  Then he got over it. Now he talked to himself whenever he felt like it. Just not on the streets usually.

  But these streets were clogged with traffic. Cars were everywhere. People poured out of the cars with baskets and coolers in their arms. The street in front of the Fountain of Youth was a solid line of parked cars. It was nearly six. Downtown should have been deserted by now. Something must be going on in the park.

  Truman finally found a place to park the Nova, around the corner from Chet’s.

  By the time he walked into the hotel lobby, he was in a mood all right. Stomping and muttering like a geezer’s grandpa.

  “Hey, Grandpa!”

  It was Chip. He jumped out of the armchair he’d been sitting in and rushed over and gave his grandfather a hug.

  Truman forgot that he was hot and tired and annoyed as hell. The boy was nine now. Pretty soon he’d swear off hugs, fishing with his grandpa, and sneaking off to watch PG-13 movies with an old man.

  “We’re gonna have a picnic in Williams Park,” Chip said. He waved toward the group sitting by the television set. “Ollie and Jackie said they’d come, too. We got fried chicken and Cokes and all kinds of junk.”

  “How about it, Pop?” Cheryl asked. “It’s the Temptations and the Drifters. Oldies. You’ll like it, I promise.”

  Cheryl was wearing a yellow cotton sundress, and she’d pinned her hair up on top of her head. She looked like a teenager. She looked like her mother.

  “Too hot for a picnic,” Truman groused.

  “Don’t be such an old crank,” Jackie said, coming over to them. “I got some icebox cake I saved back from lunch, and Ollie, he brought a twelve-pack of cold beer. Come on, Mr. K. It’ll be fun. Maybe I’ll even let you dance with me if you act nice.”

  “Please, Grandpa.” Chip pressed his hands together in front of his face, prayer-like. He was as brown as a berry, new freckles sprinkled across his nose, and his crew cut was sun-bleached a golden white.

  In the end, he let himself be talked into it. They set up their picnic under a live oak. Williams Park was a sea of people, dogs, baby strollers, and coolers.

  Right at dusk, they switched on the lights in the old band shell and the huge speakers crackled alive.

  A tall, skinny, drink of water in a Hawaiian shirt bounded out onto the stage, and then the first act came on.

  To be honest, Truman couldn’t tell one band from the other. Aging black men, well, maybe they were in their late fifties, sweated in their splendid sequined tuxes, executing marvelously smooth dance steps. Good, tight harmony, Truman grudgingly admitted.

  One of the groups sang a song about meeting a lover under the boardwalk, with the sounds of a carousel and the smell of hot dogs and french fries all around.

  Jackie pulled Chip to his feet and tried to show him how to dance.

  “White boys,” she said, acting exasperated, but laughing and giving it away. She took one of his hands and placed it on the small of her back and held his other in hers. Chip was blushing under his sunburn, but he managed to move his feet to the music after a few bars, and around them, everybody seemed to know the song, singing the lyrics out loud.

  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.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26