Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course by Kathy Hogan Trocheck Page A
Authors: Kathy Hogan Trocheck
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cars, miss, we don’t take their life histories.”
“Yeah,” Jeff said. He’d heard Ronnie use that one a million times.
“Tell you what,” Ronnie said, winking at Jackie. “You bring the car back here today, same condition you bought it in, I’m going to make an exception to company policy and buy it back. We can’t have unhappy customers, now can we?”
He glanced from Jackie to Jeff to Wormy, an impromptu opinion poll.
“Suits me,” Jeff said, shrugging.
“I don’t HAVE the car,” Jackie said, her teeth clenched tightly. “It was stolen last night. By him.”
“Stolen?” Ronnie said, like he was hearing it for the first time. “That’s a rotten shame. Damn shame the crime problem we got in this town. No police protection. And with all the taxes we pay, too.”
Ronnie shook his head, saddened at the sudden upswing in crime in the quiet retirement town. “Least you got insurance—right? Hey,” he said, brightening. “You get that insurance check, come back here, I’ll personally fix you up with the sweetest deal ever. I got a ‘86 Toyota Tercel. Loaded.”
Jackie was fighting back tears. She’d been flim-flammed good.
“You people ripped me off,” she shouted. “This place is a damn nest of thieves. And I’m gonna prove it. The cops are gonna get after you. And I’m getting a lawyer and I’m calling the State Department of Motor Vehicles and reporting you for messing with odometers. And I’ve got a friend, he’s a reporter. He’s gonna blow this thing wide open.”
Ronnie’s eyes took on the hooded look of a reptile about to strike. He reached in his pocket and brought out the ledger page he’d taken out of the files when Wormy had informed him about the trouble on the lot. Jackie’s name was at the top of the page, and there were spaces marked off in weekly increments.
“We don’t have to steal cars, young lady. We run a reputable business. You bring around all the police you want. But if you start making unsubstantiated charges against me, I’m going to make you regret it. Now this here’s your payment book,” he said softly, letting her get a good look. “And this here column is the day your payment is due. This Friday. You got until then to come up with what you owe on the Corvette. Because on Friday, we’re going to want our money. And if we don’t get our money, and if you no longer have the car, we’re gonna be very, very unhappy with you.” As he tucked the ledger page back into the breast pocket of his banana-colored sports coat, Jackleen got a brief but convincing look at an ugly black pistol nestled in a holster at his waist.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“He had a gun, Mr. K,” Jackie repeated. She was too mad to get back on that bus, not when she’d sworn off bus riding forever just two days ago. So she’d walked to a convenience store across the street, picked a quarter out of her dwindling supply of tip money, and called to ask Truman to come pick her up.
Now they were sitting in Truman’s car. Jackie pointed out the sales office for Bondurant Motors.
“They’re inside that office,” she said, near tears. “Jeff and that Ronnie Bondurant and some other guy who works there. I know they stole my car. Stole it, and they’re gonna sell it again. I’ll bet all those cars over there are stolen.”
“Maybe so,” Truman agreed. “But if they’re like most of these car lots, they don’t have to resort to common auto theft. The law lets them rip folks off with huge interest rates and sales contracts that mean people will be paying for junky cars like your Corvette for years after they quit running. I still can’t figure out why they’d steal your car back. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s a crock of horseshit, is what it is,” Ollie said, leaning forward from the backseat. He had insisted on coming along to rescue Jackie. “And I don’t think we should let these guys get away with it, stealing from an honest, hardworking girl like
“Yeah,” Jeff said. He’d heard Ronnie use that one a million times.
“Tell you what,” Ronnie said, winking at Jackie. “You bring the car back here today, same condition you bought it in, I’m going to make an exception to company policy and buy it back. We can’t have unhappy customers, now can we?”
He glanced from Jackie to Jeff to Wormy, an impromptu opinion poll.
“Suits me,” Jeff said, shrugging.
“I don’t HAVE the car,” Jackie said, her teeth clenched tightly. “It was stolen last night. By him.”
“Stolen?” Ronnie said, like he was hearing it for the first time. “That’s a rotten shame. Damn shame the crime problem we got in this town. No police protection. And with all the taxes we pay, too.”
Ronnie shook his head, saddened at the sudden upswing in crime in the quiet retirement town. “Least you got insurance—right? Hey,” he said, brightening. “You get that insurance check, come back here, I’ll personally fix you up with the sweetest deal ever. I got a ‘86 Toyota Tercel. Loaded.”
Jackie was fighting back tears. She’d been flim-flammed good.
“You people ripped me off,” she shouted. “This place is a damn nest of thieves. And I’m gonna prove it. The cops are gonna get after you. And I’m getting a lawyer and I’m calling the State Department of Motor Vehicles and reporting you for messing with odometers. And I’ve got a friend, he’s a reporter. He’s gonna blow this thing wide open.”
Ronnie’s eyes took on the hooded look of a reptile about to strike. He reached in his pocket and brought out the ledger page he’d taken out of the files when Wormy had informed him about the trouble on the lot. Jackie’s name was at the top of the page, and there were spaces marked off in weekly increments.
“We don’t have to steal cars, young lady. We run a reputable business. You bring around all the police you want. But if you start making unsubstantiated charges against me, I’m going to make you regret it. Now this here’s your payment book,” he said softly, letting her get a good look. “And this here column is the day your payment is due. This Friday. You got until then to come up with what you owe on the Corvette. Because on Friday, we’re going to want our money. And if we don’t get our money, and if you no longer have the car, we’re gonna be very, very unhappy with you.” As he tucked the ledger page back into the breast pocket of his banana-colored sports coat, Jackleen got a brief but convincing look at an ugly black pistol nestled in a holster at his waist.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“He had a gun, Mr. K,” Jackie repeated. She was too mad to get back on that bus, not when she’d sworn off bus riding forever just two days ago. So she’d walked to a convenience store across the street, picked a quarter out of her dwindling supply of tip money, and called to ask Truman to come pick her up.
Now they were sitting in Truman’s car. Jackie pointed out the sales office for Bondurant Motors.
“They’re inside that office,” she said, near tears. “Jeff and that Ronnie Bondurant and some other guy who works there. I know they stole my car. Stole it, and they’re gonna sell it again. I’ll bet all those cars over there are stolen.”
“Maybe so,” Truman agreed. “But if they’re like most of these car lots, they don’t have to resort to common auto theft. The law lets them rip folks off with huge interest rates and sales contracts that mean people will be paying for junky cars like your Corvette for years after they quit running. I still can’t figure out why they’d steal your car back. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s a crock of horseshit, is what it is,” Ollie said, leaning forward from the backseat. He had insisted on coming along to rescue Jackie. “And I don’t think we should let these guys get away with it, stealing from an honest, hardworking girl like
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