Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course by Kathy Hogan Trocheck Page B
Authors: Kathy Hogan Trocheck
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Jackie.”
“She says the man has a gun,” Truman said. “You want to argue with a pistol-packing used-car dealer, be my guest.”
“So we just let them get away with it?” Jackie asked, not believing what she was hearing. “And I go back to that stinking bus?”
Truman rubbed the bridge of his nose. When it was hot like this, his glasses rubbed a raw spot on it. “Did you call that cop who left his card? Tell him about the can of transmission fluid we found?”
“He was gone,” Jackie said. “Won’t be back till tomorrow morning. By that time they’ll have my car painted purple and sold to two or three more people.”
“No they won’t,” Truman said. “Anyway, you can’t just go busting back in there, accusing them of stealing the car. Let the police handle it.”
“Like they did today?” she said. “How come that cop didn’t find the can of transmission fluid? Or the tire tracks? All they do is take reports and then throw them away.”
“Tell you what,” Truman offered. “Tomorrow, you call that cop back. In the meantime, I’ll make some phone calls. Find out what I can about this Ronnie Bondurant. I used to know somebody in the state attorney’s office. I think they’ve got a consumer affairs complaint division, something like that.”
“Red tape,” Jackie muttered.
“Bureaucrats,” Ollie agreed.
“It’s the best I can do,” Truman said. “This is a police matter. Can we go now?”
Jeff Cantrell sat very still. Maybe, he thought, he was having an out-of-body experience. He’d done enough drugs in his time, had the ticket stubs from a couple of LSD trips.
Ronnie Bondurant was right up in his face, not screaming, but whispering.
“You left a can of transmission fluid? Right there? Can this be true?”
He slapped Jeff hard with the flat of his hand, the big ring tearing at the flesh on Jeff’s cheek.
“Did you know this, Wormy?” Ronnie asked, turning to look at his sales manager, who was perched casually on the edge of a chair, rather enjoying the spectacle of Jeffy boy’s humiliation.
“Shit, no,” Wormy said. “Even a retard can steal a car without leaving a track. I thought he was smarter than a retard.”
“Tracks leading all the way back to Bondurant Motors,” Ronnie said, his hot, wine-soaked breath making Jeff’s eyes sting. “That black chick puts it all together for the cops, they start looking at our operation, what do you think that means for Ronnie Bondurant? Huh?”
“I didn’t mean … Jeff, said, gulping, searching for words. “To leave the can … Wormy came back and honked the horn. I was afraid somebody would catch us … I forgot to take the can.”
“You forgot,” Ronnie said, nodding. With his left hand, he slapped the other side of Jeff’s face, catching him on the jaw with such force that Jeff fell off the chair.
“Ronnie? Where y’at, dude?” The voice came from the outer office.
Wormy stood up, and with the brass-capped toe of his ostrich-skin cowboy boot, kicked Jeff squarely in the crotch. “Get up,” Wormy said. “That’s Boone. We got business.”
Somehow, oozing blood from both sides of his face, Jeff managed to stumble out of the inner office and collapse on his desk chair. He would have run, but he knew already it was no use. People having out-of- body experiences never escaped.
Hernando Boone was used to turning heads, had been since his linebacker days at the University of Florida. Half black, half Miccosukee Indian, he kept his kinky dark hair in a plait, strung with colored beads, that hung down his back. The Gator press guide had put him at six three, 240. It was really more like six two, 275. He had high, broad cheekbones and long, droopy earlobes and no facial hair to speak of. His eyes drooped at the corners and were the same flat black color as a water moccasin’s. The fact that he’d been expelled his sophomore year, for selling steroids to his Gator teammates, had never turned him
“She says the man has a gun,” Truman said. “You want to argue with a pistol-packing used-car dealer, be my guest.”
“So we just let them get away with it?” Jackie asked, not believing what she was hearing. “And I go back to that stinking bus?”
Truman rubbed the bridge of his nose. When it was hot like this, his glasses rubbed a raw spot on it. “Did you call that cop who left his card? Tell him about the can of transmission fluid we found?”
“He was gone,” Jackie said. “Won’t be back till tomorrow morning. By that time they’ll have my car painted purple and sold to two or three more people.”
“No they won’t,” Truman said. “Anyway, you can’t just go busting back in there, accusing them of stealing the car. Let the police handle it.”
“Like they did today?” she said. “How come that cop didn’t find the can of transmission fluid? Or the tire tracks? All they do is take reports and then throw them away.”
“Tell you what,” Truman offered. “Tomorrow, you call that cop back. In the meantime, I’ll make some phone calls. Find out what I can about this Ronnie Bondurant. I used to know somebody in the state attorney’s office. I think they’ve got a consumer affairs complaint division, something like that.”
“Red tape,” Jackie muttered.
“Bureaucrats,” Ollie agreed.
“It’s the best I can do,” Truman said. “This is a police matter. Can we go now?”
Jeff Cantrell sat very still. Maybe, he thought, he was having an out-of-body experience. He’d done enough drugs in his time, had the ticket stubs from a couple of LSD trips.
Ronnie Bondurant was right up in his face, not screaming, but whispering.
“You left a can of transmission fluid? Right there? Can this be true?”
He slapped Jeff hard with the flat of his hand, the big ring tearing at the flesh on Jeff’s cheek.
“Did you know this, Wormy?” Ronnie asked, turning to look at his sales manager, who was perched casually on the edge of a chair, rather enjoying the spectacle of Jeffy boy’s humiliation.
“Shit, no,” Wormy said. “Even a retard can steal a car without leaving a track. I thought he was smarter than a retard.”
“Tracks leading all the way back to Bondurant Motors,” Ronnie said, his hot, wine-soaked breath making Jeff’s eyes sting. “That black chick puts it all together for the cops, they start looking at our operation, what do you think that means for Ronnie Bondurant? Huh?”
“I didn’t mean … Jeff, said, gulping, searching for words. “To leave the can … Wormy came back and honked the horn. I was afraid somebody would catch us … I forgot to take the can.”
“You forgot,” Ronnie said, nodding. With his left hand, he slapped the other side of Jeff’s face, catching him on the jaw with such force that Jeff fell off the chair.
“Ronnie? Where y’at, dude?” The voice came from the outer office.
Wormy stood up, and with the brass-capped toe of his ostrich-skin cowboy boot, kicked Jeff squarely in the crotch. “Get up,” Wormy said. “That’s Boone. We got business.”
Somehow, oozing blood from both sides of his face, Jeff managed to stumble out of the inner office and collapse on his desk chair. He would have run, but he knew already it was no use. People having out-of- body experiences never escaped.
Hernando Boone was used to turning heads, had been since his linebacker days at the University of Florida. Half black, half Miccosukee Indian, he kept his kinky dark hair in a plait, strung with colored beads, that hung down his back. The Gator press guide had put him at six three, 240. It was really more like six two, 275. He had high, broad cheekbones and long, droopy earlobes and no facial hair to speak of. His eyes drooped at the corners and were the same flat black color as a water moccasin’s. The fact that he’d been expelled his sophomore year, for selling steroids to his Gator teammates, had never turned him
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