Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split (6 page)

“With,” Michael had corrected Wade, “I work with the Giannis.”

Nunz and Michael were “like this,” as Michael liked to put it, holding up two fingers pressed tightly together. Lately he’d been looking for something to solidify his relationship with the family and to get him the hell out of manufactured housing.

This computer thing, he knew, was it. He’d suggested to Wade that he might be interested in investing some capital, an advance, the way Wade the banker’s son put it, against future earnings.

“The kid’s got a system,” Michael told Nunz. “Something that’s a sure thing. What I need from you, Nunz, is some working capital for tonight, when I try the thing out.”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“How much?”

“I’m thinking ten.”

Now there was button-punching, the sound of an adding machine on the other end of the phone.

“What kind of terms we talkin’?”

Michael was stunned. He’d been sure Nunz would give him the money just on a handshake. That was the way they’d done business before. Handshake. Man to man.

“Nunz,” he said, “I thought we’d go partners. You know. I get the system, you provide the up-front money, we split fifty-fifty.”

“You thought,” Nunz said. “We never discussed. Pick me up on the way to the track. I wanna meet this kid. See what the system is.”

“Sure,” Michael said. “We’ll have dinner. Drinks. You’ll see.”

He hung up the phone and swore loudly.

“Shitfuckdamnhellpiss!” This was not how he’d planned the evening. The original plan went: Shake the kid down. Take the computer thing away from him. Lay down the bets. Then dinner, a nice rib-eye and caesar salad in the clubhouse. Maybe call Cookie from the track. He was sure he could find a way to get her to meet him. Winning made him horny as hell.

All that was off now. He’d have to get the program away from Wade but at the same time keep him away from Nunz.

“Shit,” he said, this time with feeling.

She made herself small, nearly invisible, eyes cast down, arms held close to her body. It was a trick she’d learned in grade school so that the teachers wouldn’t call on her and the bigger kids would leave her alone.

People got on and off the bus, laughed, talked, complained. If the driver noticed that she’d been riding for two hours, he said nothing. Finally, when the bus got to Williams Park, the central departure for every bus in the city system, she reluctantly got off. She had a plan now.

There was a pay phone on the corner, across the street from the old Maas Brothers department store. Rosie dialed James’s number. It rang and rang.

She hung up, dialed her girlfriend’s number. She had only a couple of real friends. But the answering machine picked up. Rosie looked at her watch. It was after four. Her friend Marion was probably on her way to work. Okay, she’d see her there.

The warm bundle around her middle shifted, and she heard a plaintive mewing. She looked down, saw the kitten’s tiny pink nose poking out of the opening. She unzipped the zipper a little and stroked the kitten’s head. “Poor Punkin.” No way she could take the kitten to the track. Wade and those men would be looking for her, for sure. She sat down on one of the green benches. The fading afternoon sunlight still felt good and warm.

She got out the schedule she’d picked up and scanned it, looking for the bus that would take her to the track. There was a soft flapping noise and she looked up, startled.

Dozens and dozens of pigeons fluttered to the walkway in front of her. Parked in their midst was one of those adult tricycles, ridden by an old woman wearing a white sunbonnet, pedal-pusher slacks, and sunglasses with a white noseguard. The tricycle had a pair of wire baskets mounted behind the seat. In one basket sat a bored-looking dachshund, in the other there was a large bag of breadcrumbs, which the woman was dipping her hand into, throwing the crumbs to the flock of pigeons circling the bike.

Rosie sat up and watched. The old woman clucked and cooed to the birds. The kitten stirred again. She looked down at it, then got up and walked over to the woman.

The woman cringed and stopped throwing the crumbs as Rosie drew near. “I’m not hurtin’ nobody,” she said in a frail, high-pitched voice.

“I like the birds too,” Rosie said. “And cats. You like cats?”

The woman nodded. “Buster and me love all God’s animals.”

Rosie dipped into the waistpack and brought out the kitten, who squirmed happily in her hands. “This is Punkin,” she said. “I’ve got to leave town, but I don’t have anybody to keep her.”

“How much?” the woman asked.

“No, I want to give her to you,” Rosie said. “Will you take her?”

The woman smiled softly, taking the kitten in her arms, turning to the dachshund. “Look, Buster, a kitty.”

Rosie saw that the dog’s eyes were filmed over with cataracts, the fur on its ears turning white at the tips. It turned its face toward the woman’s voice and barked twice. “See, Buster’s excited. She’ll be fine,” the old woman said.

She put Punkin in the basket. Then she got back on the bike and slowly pedaled away.

Rosie walked in the other direction, her fists clenched tighdy. “Don’t cry,” she told herself. “Don’t cry, dammit.” She saw the number 8 bus, the bus to the racetrack, pull up to the curb and she quickened her step to meet it.

“Listen,” Pearl said. “It’s nothing. Really. Sometimes when I take the blood pressure medicine, I get dizzy and bump into things. I feel so stupid, running into my own bathroom door.”

Truman lightly touched her cheek. A shiny, greenish-black welt was rising and her right eye was swollen almost shut. “We’ll sit the track out tonight,” he said.

Mel stood there silently, his hands jammed in his baggy pants pockets, jingling his change and car keys.

“Absolutely not,” Pearl said. She gave Mel a little push. “You boys go on. I’ve got unpacking to do, and then Dotty Milas wants me to come down and play canasta. Go on now,” she repeated. “I’m fine. I feel stupid, is all.”

She handed Mel his hat, a beat-up straw fedora. Then she edged both men toward the door. She gave Mel a quick peck on the cheek, then turned to Truman. “Keep an eye on him, TK,” she whispered. “He’s not himself tonight.”

“You sure this is all right?” Truman asked, alarmed. Mel had spoken only a couple of times since Truman had gone up to the Wisnewskis’ room to see if they were ready to go. He wasn’t even sure Mel recognized him.

“He’s better if he gets out and doesn’t sit around and stew,” Pearl said. “He likes to be around people. But he forgets where he is sometimes, just sort of fades-like. You stay with him and he’ll be fine.”

So Truman stayed right at Mel’s elbow when they got down to the street. They stood out in front of the Fountain of Youth, waiting with the good-sized throng for the Snowbird Special to pick them up.

It was twilight, and the sky was streaked pink, orange, blue, and purple. There was a hint of a breeze coming off Tampa Bay a couple of blocks away, but it was nice and dry tonight, not like in the summer, when you wanted to pick a handful of that wet, suffocating air and wring it out like a washrag.

“So the trip down was good?” he asked Mel. “Traffic okay leaving Pittsburgh?”

Mel nodded enthusiastically. “Got twelve-point-four miles to the gallon. Put in a quart of oil when we got to Kentucky. The turnpike was murder, though. You never saw so many potholes.”

Truman felt himself relax. If Mel was up to bitching about road conditions and bragging about the mileage on that Newport of his, he was feeling fine again.

“Whattabout it?” Truman said. “Think the
Bucs
can stay out of the cellar this year?”

“Don’t start with me,” Mel warned, his deep voice rumbling with pleasure. “We got the finest centerfielder in the NL. He’s gonna hit .326, make the All-Stars. We’re going all the way this year, my friend. It’s the Pirates’ year, all right, especially if—”

“Hey, Mr. K, Mr. Wisnewski,” a young female voice interrupted. “How y’all doin’?”

Jackleen Canaday edged her way through the crowd to their side. She was wearing a big white tunic top with gold and silver sequins pasted on in a swirling design, tight white slacks, and gold high-heeled shoes. She had on a gold cowboy hat too, with her hair tucked under it.

Mel smiled uncertainly. “Hello.”

Truman squeezed his elbow. “This is Jackleen. From the dining room. Remember?”

“Sure,” Mel said. “Good to see you again, Jackleen.”

“So, Jackleen,” Truman said, “did you get the night off?”

A smile lit up her face. “La Wanda wanted to work double shifts today. All the girls put our money together.” She held up a little white purse on a gold chain. “Thirty dollars. Enough to play every race. Talkin’ ‘bout big money.”

“Well now,” Mel said. He straightened his shoulders. “You don’t mind being seen in the company of two old coots like us?”

“You can help me carry my winnings home,” Jackleen said, grinning.

The bus pulled up to the curb then and made a loud snorting sound as the hydraulic doors were flung open. It was a standard green-and-white transit authority bus, but someone had pasted a big banner on one side. “Snowbird Special!” it proclaimed.

The pitch of voices raised, and the crowd began inching toward the curb. Truman caught hold of Mel’s sport coat. “Stay by me now,” he said, keeping his voice light. “I’m counting on you buying the first beer. It’s your turn, remember?”

“Don’t worry,” Mel said, and then the crowd pushed them down the aisle of the bus, toward the back. They stayed standing, because all the seats were taken.

The bus bumped and lurched, but the crowd was packed so tightly that there was no chance they’d fall down. The air was hot and stale, it smelled like hair spray and Brylcreem and canned tomato soup. Truman wished someone would open a window.

When they all got off into the balmy night air, they were directly in front of the main entrance to the track.

Mel got off first, and the crowd seemed to swallow up the tall, straw-hatted man. Panicked, Truman tried to push his way through the throng, but it was too thick, too unmoving.

He reached into the pocket of his lightweight poplin jacket and pulled out his old press card.

“Excuse me,” he said loudly, holding the white card aloft. “Working press. Coming through. Press here.”

People looked at him curiously, but let him through. He managed to jostle his way toward the glass-fronted ticket booth. Mel Wisnewski stood there, anxiously looking for his friend.

“Truman,” he said when he spied him. “What the hell took you so long?” It wasn’t until Truman reached the window and was reaching into his jacket pocket for his wallet that he felt the tugging at his coattail.

“Mr. K,” Jackleen said breathlessly. “You run pretty good, you know that? I had to hang on for dear life.”

“Never mind,” Truman said. He hated to admit it, but his heart was racing with fear and excitement. God knows what might happen if he lost Mel in this crowd.

As long as he had the press card out, Truman thought, it wouldn’t hurt to use it. After Mel and Jackie paid, he stepped up to the ticket booth.

“Working press,” he said, flashing the card for a moment.

“What?” the girl said. “Can I see that card again?”

Truman’s face flushed. His press card had expired last year. “I’m with the press,” he said. “AP.”

“What’s that?” the girl said.

“Associated Press,” Truman said, puffing his chest a little.

“Like a newspaper?” the girl asked. “‘Cause we got a separate press entrance. You gotta go around to the gate on the other side.” She was already looking over his shoulder at the next person in line.

Truman shrugged and gave her a dollar. “Never mind.”

Inside the gates the three walked quickly down a runway to the grandstand. Truman, in the lead, strode past the rows of green benches to the fence around the track. He stood and sniffed appreciatively. It smelled like old times. Cigar smoke mingled with perfume and the tangy salt of the bay. “Nice night,” he said to his friends.

The three of them clung to the fence surrounding the track and drank it in, a postcard view of Florida. The white sand track had been raked smooth and it sparkled next to the lush green lawn of the infield. There was a rock fountain there in the middle, and it was outlined with some kind of frilly pink, white, and purple flowers. The tote board was lit up atop the bandstand, numbers winking on and off as the odds changed. On the bandstand itself a dozen red-jacketed men tootled away at “Sentimental Journey.” Tall sabal palms swayed in the evening breeze.

Truman felt himself relax. As always, he wished fleetingly that Nellie were here.

“Twenty minutes to post time,” the public address system announced. “Twenty minutes to place your bets.”

“I gotta go find Rosie,” Mel said abruptly.

“That your girlfriend?” Jackleen asked. “I’m gonna go call Miss Pearl and tell her on you, Mr. Wisnewski.”

“Girlfriend?” Mel was puzzled for a moment. He blushed. “No, no, no. Rosie’s a … uh, she tells people which dogs to bet.”