“Come on,” he was saying. “Let’s play gin rummy. I’ll let you win this time.”

  When Ollie saw Truman with the iced tea, he began to feel guilty.

  “I’ve got a six-pack of Rolling Rock in my room,” he began, “I guess I could spare a couple, but…”

  “Go get it,” Truman said. “This is no time for tea.”

  Jackie went into the dining room and got a heavy chair to keep the front door propped open wider, and Truman remembered having seen somebody lug an old circulating fan into the coatroom near the reception desk. He angled it in front of the door, and pushed the three wicker armchairs into a circle around the fan.

  It was about as quiet as a Boeing 707 and as effective as a screen door in a submarine. Truman opened his beer and took a long drink, holding the cold green bottle against his forehead. “How the hell did anybody ever live in this damned swamp before air-conditioning?” he said.

  “Thought you said everything in the old days was better,” Jackie answered. She’d taken off her shoes and her bare feet were propped up on the big, peeling, rattan coffee table.

  “Everything, except we didn’t have air-conditioning,” Truman said.

  “My ‘Vette has air-conditioning,” Jackie told them sadly. “It’s the only thing that works on that vehicle.”

  She looked over at Truman. “You were right. The transmission is all messed up. That’s why it quit running last night. Milton had to put a whole quart of transmission fluid in it just so I could drive it back here. That car’s been wrecked, too. Milton said it’s no good. You were right about that Jeff being a crook, too. He won’t take the car back, and he won’t give me my money back.”

  “I wish I had been wrong,” Truman said. “Did that Jeff fella give you any satisfaction at all? Sometimes if you squawk loud enough, these people will offer to buy the car back. They’ll charge you a little more than you paid, but at least they’ll take it off your hands.”

  “He told me to get lost,” Jackie said bitterly. “He told me I better not mess with Bondurant Motors.”

  “TK, why don’t you go down there and get the goods on these crooks?” Ollie asked. He’d wrapped his own beer bottle in a brown paper sack. Liquor was strictly forbidden in the lobby or other public areas of the hotel, and unlike Truman and Jackie, he usually went strictly by the rules. If Sonya Hoffmayer caught him with a beer she’d go screaming to the management, and they might kick him out.

  “What goods?” Truman asked.

  “You know,” Ollie said. “Write an expose on this used-car racket.”

  Ever since the year before, when Truman had uncovered a Texas televangelist’s plans to turn the Fountain of Youth into high-priced Christian condos, Ollie had been urging Truman to write exposes of everything from the high markup on magazines to the true nature of professional wrestling.

  “I’m retired,” Truman reminded Ollie.

  “Yeah, but that guy at the newspaper loved that story you did about the kids shooting the pigeons in Williams Park. And how about that story about that mailman who was spending all afternoon drinking beer down at the pool hall instead of delivering the mail?”

  Truman had done some minor freelancing for the St. Petersburg Times and had handled a couple of local stories for one of his old buddies in the Associated Press bureau over in Tampa. The one he’d run before his retirement. It was penny-ante stuff.

  “Hey!” Jackie said, sitting up. “Maybe you could go over there to Bondurant Motors and tell them you’re a reporter. Like that Answer Man on TV. Like a consumer advocate or something. Maybe they’d do right if you got after them.”

  Truman took a swig of his own beer. “I’ll go down there with you tomorrow, Jackie. Not as a reporter. As a friend. These places take advantage of a woman by herself. Maybe if an old geezer like me starts raising hell, they’ll see things differently.”

  “Maybe,” Jackie said.

  The big gray Lincoln sailed into the parking lot at Bondurant Motors at precisely six P.M.

  Wormy Weems, assistant sales manager, was behind the wheel. Wormy was tall and skinny, with deeply tanned skin and a perpetual squint from being out in the sun on the car lot all day. Ronnie didn’t like him to wear sunglasses on the lot because he said people liked to see a salesman’s eyes. See if they could trust him.

  Ronald Xavier Bondurant, president of Bondurant Motors, was dozing in the soft leather front seat of the car. It had been an eight-hour drive from Atlanta. Four days of nonstop partying packed into forty-eight hours. That Ronnie, Wormy reflected. What a party guy. He’d never met anybody who could stay on the go like Ronnie Bondurant. They were good partners, Wormy and Ronnie. Wormy was good at details. Ronnie was an idea man. Ronnie was the straight man, Wormy fed him the goofy lines. They were the Martin and Lewis of the Tampa Bay used-car industry, a two-man Rat Pack.

  When the Lincoln glided to a stop, Ronnie must have sensed they were home. He woke up, yawned, stretched, peered out the window at the lot, taking inventory, checking the action.

  The cars gleamed in the late afternoon sun, and overhead, the 1957 pink Caddie mounted on a motorized rod on the roof of the lot spinned and dipped; an eye-catching symbol, Ronnie thought with satisfaction. The grass strip near the curb had been mowed and the sprinklers were spitting water on the pretty swath of green. No cigarette butts or beer cans in his flowerbeds, either. Ronnie liked a clean lot. And something else. Cantrell had moved the cars around. The big powder-blue Eldorado was in the hot spot near the street.

  “Jeffy boy has been busy,” Ronnie said, nodding his head in approval. “The kid might work out.”

  “Might,” Wormy said, noncommittal.

  Ronnie got out of the Lincoln and left the unpacking to Wormy.

  Jeff Cantrell met him at the door to the office.

  “Ronnie!” he said, flashing the trademark dimples. “How was ‘Hotlanta’?”

  “Not bad,” Ronnie said. “How many?”

  “Three on the street,” Jeff said proudly. “And I got a Mexican couple hot to trot for the El-Dog. They’ll be back Friday, Ronnie, you wait and see.”

  “You couldn’t close on the El-Dog?” Ronnie’s right eyelid twitched. Once. Twice. “A couple of spics got money in hand for a clean Caddy and you couldn’t close the deal?”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Jeff started to explain.

  Wormy pushed open the glass office door with his bony hip because both arms were full of suitcases. “Hey, Ronnie,” he announced, dropping the bags to the floor. “The red ‘Vette is gone.”

  “That’s right,” Jeff said, grinning. “I moved it yesterday morning. Nine thousand. Not bad, huh?”

  Ronnie’s eyelid was twitching violently. “How do you mean, moved it? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I bet the stupid jerk sold it,” Wormy said, sneering. “You sold it, didn’t you?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Jeff said. “For nine thousand. The blue book on it is seven. Not bad, huh?”

  Ronnie sighed. His eyelid went still, dropping shut. It did that sometimes, when he was tired or tense. He slapped Jeff hard across the chops, open-handed.

  The kid reeled backward, grasping at his face. Shocked.

  No more dimples, Wormy noticed with satisfaction.

  “Where’s the ‘Vette?” Wormy said, grabbing Jeff’s arm.

  “Enough,” Ronnie said.

  He tilted his head a little and gave Jeff a sad, knowing smile. “You didn’t know about the monkeys, did you, Jeff?”

  Jeff Cantrell shook his head dumbly, wondering whether Ronnie Bondurant was drunk or stoned or just plain crazy.

  “It’s a side business.” Ronnie Bondurant set Jeff down in the chair in his private office and sent Wormy back out to the Lincoln to bring in the cooler.

  “I was just thinking, on the way back here today. We should let Jeff in on this deal, ‘cause he’s all right. You like to make money, don’t you, Jeff?”

  “Yeah,” Jeff said. “Sure.”

  “You did a good thing, hustling cars over the weekend, to prove to me that you can handle business. That was a good thing,” Ronnie said. “But now, selling the red ‘Vette, especially without consulting me—that was a bad thing.”

  Wormy came into the office and put the cooler down on the floor by Ronnie’s chair. Ronnie reached in, took out two peach-flavored wine coolers and handed them to Wormy, who unscrewed the caps and wiped the ice water off the sides of the bottles. He handed one to Ronnie and kept one for himself.

  “We gotta get that ‘Vette back,” Wormy said. “I’m supposed to take it to the adjuster tomorrow afternoon, Ronnie. And Joe says he’s real backed up already.”

  “Jeff’s gonna go get the ‘Vette back tonight,” Ronnie said. “As soon as I tell him how this thing plays out.”

  Wormy scowled and sipped at his wine cooler.

  “It works like this,” Ronnie said. “I buy a Corvette, out of an ad in the paper or one of those Auto Trader magazines they sell at the 7-11. Always a Corvette. You know why?”

  Jeff sensed this was a test. “‘Cause you like Corvettes?”

  “No, asshole,” Wormy broke in. “Corvettes got an all-fiberglass body. No metal at all.”

  “Anyway,” Ronnie continued, “I got some guys, they do side jobs for me. Wormy here, he came up with calling them monkeys. Monkeys, get it? ‘Cause they do what they’re told and they don’t ask any questions.”

  “Sure,” Jeff said. He didn’t have the slightest idea what Ronnie was talking about. He was beginning to wish he’d never quit that bartending job.

  “I fix the monkeys up with junker cars, some old piece of shit Ford or Chevy. And I buy an insurance policy on the junker. Collision only. You getting my drift?” Ronnie asked.

  “Collision,” Jeff said dully.

  “Right. Then we have ourselves an accident.”

  “Between the monkeys and me driving the ‘Vette,” Wormy said, unable to stay quiet. “Only we don’t even have to really have accidents no more. Not since Ronnie found Joe.”

  “That Joe. Guy’s an artist with an air knife,” Ronnie said. “Give Joe an hour, he can carve up a Corvette like a Thanksgiving turkey. Door panels, grill, hood, whatever you want. Once he’s carved up the ‘Vette, he gives me an estimate, tells me how much it’s gonna take to fix what he just did. Then the monkey calls his insurance agent. Tells him the bad news. He’s been in an accident, and he’s bashed up some guy’s Corvette.”

  “Soon as the claim’s filed, I take a spin over to the claims adjuster,” Wormy said. “We just love those drive-up claims windows, man. They’re the best thing since the quarter-pounder. Guy comes out, looks at the car, looks at Joe’s estimate, maybe takes a picture or two, goes back inside and types out a check for ten thousand.”

  “Corvette repairs can be very expensive,” Ronnie said.

  “But not too expensive. Not more than ten thousand,” Wormy cautioned. “Or they can’t handle it at the drive-up.”

  “After we got the check,” Ronnie said, “the monkey gets paid, Joe solders the car back together, we take our cut, and we’re all set to do business again. Nice, huh?”

  “You can do this more than once?” Jeff asked in amazement. “Doesn’t it ruin the car?”

  “Who cares?” Wormy said. “Eight or ten wrecks, we made a nice profit. Works great, unless some asshole sells the ‘Vette before we get done using it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jeff said.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Ronnie told him. “I know a way you can make it up to me. And when we got the ‘Vette back, we can talk about you helping out on some deals. How’d you like that?”

  “Great,” Jeff said. He wished he was dead.

  At two in the morning, the streets around the Fountain of Youth were absolutely quiet. The city buses that ringed Williams Park had quit running for the night. The pigeons were roosted up in the eaves of the buildings surrounding the park. The street people, the Dumpster divers, dopers, and winos, had all dropped off to sleep, in the alleys and the park benches and the twelve-dollar-a-night hotel rooms.

  Wormy Weems and Jeff Cantrell circled the block three times to make sure everything was set. Finally, Wormy pulled a black Ford Explorer borrowed from the lot up beside the red Corvette. It was parked at the curb on Fourth Street, right in front of the entrance to the Ponce de Leon Restaurant.

  “That’s the place she works at,” Jeff said, hoping he could stall things. Maybe a cop would cruise by. Anything at all.

  “Good,” Wormy said. “She won’t miss the car at all. Do it. Now.”

  “I’m going,” Jeff said. He got the spare key to the Corvette out of the pocket of his shorts. Bondurant Motors kept keys to all the cars they sold, just in case of the need for a quick repossession. He stepped out of the Explorer and before he had even unlocked the ‘Vette, Wormy had pulled off and sped down Fourth Street, leaving Jeff alone.

  Alone to commit grand theft auto, Jeff thought, wondering what kind of sentence first-time offenders could get for that kind of thing.

  Chapter SEVEN

  The red Corvette had vanished. “I parked it right here,” Jackie said, pointing to the curb where an ugly, bronze-colored Pontiac was now parked. “It was right here…” The mailman, his spindly white legs visible beneath his summer-uniform shorts, was half a block away, wheeling his three-legged canvas cart down the sidewalk, and even he could hear the keening note in Jackie’s voice.

  “Maybe you parked it around the other side, over on Fourth Street,” Truman said nervously. “Let’s look there.”

  “I know where I parked my own car,” Jackie said. “I would never park over there. Those pigeons from the park poop on everything over there. I parked my car right here, right in this spot. I swear it!”

  Truman strolled down to the end of the park, surveying the cars parked across the street. Jackie was right. A red Corvette would have stuck out in this neighborhood like a crow in a parakeet cage.

  “It’s not there,” he said when he arrived back at her side. “Guess it’s time to call the cops.”

  The police cruiser pulled up in front of the Fountain of Youth, its lights flashing and siren wailing. The driver stepped smartly out of the cruiser, his hand on his black leather holster, his dark eyes darting back and forth, alert to unforeseen dangers or rampaging auto thieves.

  “Rookie,” Truman muttered.

  The cop was maybe twenty-four. His skin was the darkest black Truman had ever seen, his head shaved nearly bald. His face was already sheened with perspiration in the 90-degree heat and 100 percent humidity.

  “Are you the complainant?” he asked Truman, who took a step back.

  “No,” Jackie said, stepping forward. “It’s me. My car was stolen.”

  The cop’s metal nameplate identified him as T. Carter. His face brightened at seeing Jackie. “Fourth car theft of the morning,” he said importantly.

  He fetched a clipboard from the cruiser and started taking down the complainant’s complaint.

  His eyebrows shot up toward his scalp when Jackie told him the car was a Corvette.

  “Corvette?” He pressed his lips together in disapproval. “Parked down here?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Truman asked. “What’s wrong with her parking where she lives? Don’t you cops patrol our streets like the rest of town? We pay taxes, too, you know.”

  “I locked my car,” Jackie added. “And I checked. It was right here at eleven last night, before I went to bed.”

  Officer T. Carter nodded knowingly. “Sounds like Midnight Auto.”

  “What’s Midnight Auto? One of those gangs?”

  “Just some teenagers. Punks. Nothing so organized as gangs,” Carter said. “They cruise the streets looking for a fun ride. Corvettes look real good.”

  He finished writing on the form and handed it over to Jackie to sign. “You want my advice? File the insurance and take that money and buy yourself something ugly.” He thumped the hood of the Pontiac lightly. “Like this baby here.” He jerked his hand away quickly, the hot metal nearly searing his hand. “Once you get a new car, don’t park it on this street no more. We can’t be everywhere at once.”

  Jackie scrawled her name at the bottom of the form. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to do?”

  “We’ll put your tag number and VIN on the computer. A car like yours, these kids might take it joyriding. Maybe they’ll do something stupid and we’ll get them on a traffic stop.”

  He took out one of his business cards and printed his home phone number on the back. “Cheer up. There’s lots of cars out there. And call me if you want.”

  “Yeah,” Jackie said, dispirited, not caring that he was trying to flirt. “Whoever took that car—they already did something stupid. They should have stolen a car that would run.”

  After the cop left, Jackie sank down to the curb, put her head down on her knees, and boo-hooed like a baby. Truman sat down beside her and patted her back.

  “Oh, man,” Jackie said, raising her head. “What do I do now?”

  Truman asked the question even though he dreaded hearing the answer. “You didn’t have insurance on the Corvette?”

  “N-n-no,” she said, sniffing. “Jeff gave me a card for an insurance guy he knew. But it was too late to call him Saturday night. And I knew I’d have to borrow the insurance money from my mama because I’d spent all of my money on the car. I was gonna call her yesterday, but after I found out the car was no good, I decided I’d just make Jeff take the car back.”

  She stood up and kicked the rear tire of the bronze Pontiac. “Why me?” she wailed. “Why can’t something bad happen to somebody else once in a while, instead of me?” She pounded her fist on the trunk of the Pontiac, and a can came rolling slowly out from beneath it. She kicked the can, too, sending it spinning toward the sidewalk.

 

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