Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course by Kathy Hogan Trocheck

about it,” she said, glancing uneasily at Jackie.
    “Wait now,” Jeff said, feeling his sale slipping away. “We haven’t even talked about financing. Or the rebate. We got a special two-hundred-dollar rebate going today.” The $200 was his margin on the crappy Mogen David-colored Cutlass. But he needed that sale.
    “My husband might come and look at it,” the older woman said. “Maybe tomorrow.” Clearly, it was Mama and Daddy’s money that would pay for this car. And if Daddy knew anything about transmissions, he’d walk away from the Cutlass.
    Wormy Weems was buffing the paint on a silver Ford Explorer two cars over. He heard the young black chick, saw Jeff’s hot prospect wriggle off the hook and swim away.
    He tucked the chamois cloth in his back pocket and strolled over to the sales office. A minute later, Ronnie Bondurant was on the scene. Good old affable, easygoing Ronnie.
    “You people came out and stole my car back,” Jackie said, shaking the police report in Jeff’s face. She’d gotten a little unnerved when the other two guys showed up, especially the tall one with the forearms that looked like Popeye’s, but now she was mad again.
    “We found the can of transmission fluid you put in it, ‘cause you knew you wouldn’t get far without it. It’s got your fingerprints all over it. You think because I’m black and I’m a woman you can do me any which way, but I’m telling you, you can’t get away with this mess you’re pulling. I already called the cops on you and…”
    “Whoa,” Ronnie said, laughing easily. “Hey, now, miss, calm down and let’s talk about this. How about we go in my office, sit in the air-conditioning, have us a cold beverage. I’m sure you’ve had a misunderstanding here.”
    “I didn’t misunderstand,” Jackie said, narrowing her eyes. “I know a crook when I see one.”
    “My name is Ronnie Bondurant,” Ronnie said, ignoring the remark. “I’m president of Bondurant Motors. Now if you’ve got a problem—”
    “You bet your ass I got a problem,” Jackie said. “This salesman of yours, Jeff. Sold me a lemon. A red Corvette. I took it to my mechanic and he says it’s been totaled out. The frame is bent, the odometer has been messed with. That’s against the law in Florida, mister.” Emboldened, she stepped up to Ronnie Bondurant and thumped him on the chest. “And it leaks transmission fluid.”
    She pointed to the front of the lot, at the spot where the red Corvette had been parked only two days earlier. “Bet it leaked fluid all over this lot, too. Bet the police find it when they come over here to put all y’all’s asses in jail.”
    Ronnie swatted her hand away, but Jackie kept talking.
    “I came over here yesterday to tell Jeff I wanted my money back. He tells me no. Then he threatens me. This morning my car is gone. You think I’m stupid? I know he stole it. And I can prove it. Now I want to know what you’re gonna do about it.”
    “Jeff here sold you a bad car?” Ronnie looked amazed. He was shorter than the others, at least three inches shorter than Jackie, and she was five six, but somehow, with his barrel chest, thick neck, and broad shoulders, he looked bigger than life. He had thick, curly dark hair, an uptilted, slightly feminine nose, and lips nearly hidden by a bushy black mustache.
    “Jeff,” Ronnie said, turning to his salesman. “Is any of this true? Did you steal this lady’s car?”
    “Hey, man,” Jeff said, turning from Ronnie to Wormy, then back to Ronnie. “She’s nuts. That car was cherry. She gets it stolen and wants to blame me? No way!”
    “I can prove he stole it,” Jackie said hotly.
    “I know that car,” Ronnie said. “And Jeff is right. That was choice merchandise. As for the car’s condition, if you’ll look on your sales contract, you’ll see that we sell all cars on an ‘as is’ basis. If it had a problem with the transmission, that is something we were not aware of. We just sell the