Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course (13 page)

“No way, man,” Wormy said. “We talked about this, Ronnie. I thought Joe was gonna take care of cutting the cars up. You said no more wrecks. Let Joe cut ‘em up. We just use the monkeys to file the claims.”

“Yeah, that was the plan,” Ronnie agreed. “But this thing with Jeff, it changes everything. We’re behind schedule. Joe’s backed up with work. Besides, it’s a matter of economics. If Joe cuts the car up, then solders it back together, I gotta pay him twice. That’s a mess of money. Now, if we keep letting the monkeys do the job, hell, it’s a lot cheaper. These sons of bitches are so stupid, some of them would do it for free. They just like banging up cars. Hell, maybe we should start charging them to get in on the fun. Whattya think?”

“I think it’s fucked,” Wormy said loudly.

The front door opened and the bell pealed softly again.

An elderly black man with stooped shoulders tapped lightly at Ronnie’s office door, came in, and nodded politely at the two men. He was dressed in white overalls, with a paint can in one hand and a large plastic bucket of supplies in the other.

“How ya’ doin’, Al?” Ronnie said. “That Bonneville still running good?”

“Nosuh,” Al said forlornly. “She got a dead battery.”

“Get this mess cleaned up, and then Wormy’ll see about it,” Ronnie said.

“Awright,” Al said. He got out a can of spackle and started applying it to the bullet holes left from Hernando Boone’s shooting spree. Al had worked for Ronnie’s old man. Now he worked for Ronnie in exchange for Ronnie letting him drive the biggest gas-eater on the lot. There was nothing Ronnie wouldn’t talk about in front of Al. It was like the old guy was invisible.

Ronnie pulled a sheaf of papers out of his desk drawer and handed them to Wormy. “Here’s the name of the insurance company,” he said, all business. “You gonna take care of this or not?”

They both knew Wormy would take care of it.

“Billy’s gonna do the job today,” Ronnie said. “Just get the car and meet him over at Joe’s. Get going. I want that check today.”

Wormy shrugged and rolled his eyes to let Ronnie know he was pissed off about having to deal with the monkeys and these bogus car wrecks.

“How’d that thing with Jeff work out?” Ronnie asked casually.

A1 was smoothing spackle over the holes in the wall, humming softly to himself, the putty knife making smooth, slurping sounds against the concrete.

“It’s taken care of,” Wormy said simply.

“He get that back rent paid?” Ronnie asked.

“All set. Cash. Like you said.”

“Excellent.”

Ronnie picked up the morning paper and started reading a story about the crisis in health care costs. He was always interested in national affairs. As a businessman, he had to keep on top of things.

Wormy started to leave again. He had no time to read the newspaper.

“So,” Ronnie called out. “You’d say we won’t be hearing from Jeff again? And he’s definitely left the premises?”

“You want me to tell you where he is?” Wormy asked nastily, losing patience with the game.

“Absolutely not,” Ronnie said hastily. “If you say it’s taken care of, then it’s taken care of.”

“He is,” Wormy said. Then he left.

The monkey drove the liver-colored Pinto slowly into position behind the red Corvette. They’d taken the cars out in back of Joe’s shop for convenience and privacy. The garage had a six-foot- tall board fence running around it. Kept out the nosy neighbors. Ronnie called the proprietor Joe. But his real name, which was posted in Cambodian on the business license tacked up near the garage door, was Xiang Huang Vu. Everyone who worked for Joe seemed to be a cousin of some sorts. Nobody seemed to speak much English. Communication was effected with pointing, gesturing, and large amounts of cash currency.

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.

“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.