Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course (6 page)

“Corvette repairs can be very expensive,” Ronnie said.

“But not too expensive. Not more than ten thousand,” Wormy cautioned. “Or they can’t handle it at the drive-up.”

“After we got the check,” Ronnie said, “the monkey gets paid, Joe solders the car back together, we take our cut, and we’re all set to do business again. Nice, huh?”

“You can do this more than once?” Jeff asked in amazement. “Doesn’t it ruin the car?”

“Who cares?” Wormy said. “Eight or ten wrecks, we made a nice profit. Works great, unless some asshole sells the ‘Vette before we get done using it.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeff said.

“Don’t sweat it,” Ronnie told him. “I know a way you can make it up to me. And when we got the ‘Vette back, we can talk about you helping out on some deals. How’d you like that?”

“Great,” Jeff said. He wished he was dead.

At two in the morning, the streets around the Fountain of Youth were absolutely quiet. The city buses that ringed Williams Park had quit running for the night. The pigeons were roosted up in the eaves of the buildings surrounding the park. The street people, the Dumpster divers, dopers, and winos, had all dropped off to sleep, in the alleys and the park benches and the twelve-dollar-a-night hotel rooms.

Wormy Weems and Jeff Cantrell circled the block three times to make sure everything was set. Finally, Wormy pulled a black Ford Explorer borrowed from the lot up beside the red Corvette. It was parked at the curb on Fourth Street, right in front of the entrance to the Ponce de Leon Restaurant.

“That’s the place she works at,” Jeff said, hoping he could stall things. Maybe a cop would cruise by. Anything at all.

“Good,” Wormy said. “She won’t miss the car at all. Do it. Now.”

“I’m going,” Jeff said. He got the spare key to the Corvette out of the pocket of his shorts. Bondurant Motors kept keys to all the cars they sold, just in case of the need for a quick repossession. He stepped out of the Explorer and before he had even unlocked the ‘Vette, Wormy had pulled off and sped down Fourth Street, leaving Jeff alone.

Alone to commit grand theft auto, Jeff thought, wondering what kind of sentence first-time offenders could get for that kind of thing.

The red Corvette had vanished. “I parked it right here,” Jackie said, pointing to the curb where an ugly, bronze-colored Pontiac was now parked. “It was right here…” The mailman, his spindly white legs visible beneath his summer-uniform shorts, was half a block away, wheeling his three-legged canvas cart down the sidewalk, and even he could hear the keening note in Jackie’s voice.

“Maybe you parked it around the other side, over on Fourth Street,” Truman said nervously. “Let’s look there.”

“I know where I parked my own car,” Jackie said. “I would never park over there. Those pigeons from the park poop on everything over there. I parked my car right here, right in this spot. I swear it!”

Truman strolled down to the end of the park, surveying the cars parked across the street. Jackie was right. A red Corvette would have stuck out in this neighborhood like a crow in a parakeet cage.

“It’s not there,” he said when he arrived back at her side. “Guess it’s time to call the cops.”

The police cruiser pulled up in front of the Fountain of Youth, its lights flashing and siren wailing. The driver stepped smartly out of the cruiser, his hand on his black leather holster, his dark eyes darting back and forth, alert to unforeseen dangers or rampaging auto thieves.

“Rookie,” Truman muttered.

The cop was maybe twenty-four. His skin was the darkest black Truman had ever seen, his head shaved nearly bald. His face was already sheened with perspiration in the 90-degree heat and 100 percent humidity.

“Are you the complainant?” he asked Truman, who took a step back.

“No,” Jackie said, stepping forward. “It’s me. My car was stolen.”

The cop’s metal nameplate identified him as T. Carter. His face brightened at seeing Jackie. “Fourth car theft of the morning,” he said importantly.

He fetched a clipboard from the cruiser and started taking down the complainant’s complaint.

His eyebrows shot up toward his scalp when Jackie told him the car was a Corvette.

“Corvette?” He pressed his lips together in disapproval. “Parked down here?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Truman asked. “What’s wrong with her parking where she lives? Don’t you cops patrol our streets like the rest of town? We pay taxes, too, you know.”

“I locked my car,” Jackie added. “And I checked. It was right here at eleven last night, before I went to bed.”

Officer T. Carter nodded knowingly. “Sounds like Midnight Auto.”

“What’s Midnight Auto? One of those gangs?”

“Just some teenagers. Punks. Nothing so organized as gangs,” Carter said. “They cruise the streets looking for a fun ride. Corvettes look real good.”

He finished writing on the form and handed it over to Jackie to sign. “You want my advice? File the insurance and take that money and buy yourself something ugly.” He thumped the hood of the Pontiac lightly. “Like this baby here.” He jerked his hand away quickly, the hot metal nearly searing his hand. “Once you get a new car, don’t park it on this street no more. We can’t be everywhere at once.”

Jackie scrawled her name at the bottom of the form. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to do?”

“We’ll put your tag number and VIN on the computer. A car like yours, these kids might take it joyriding. Maybe they’ll do something stupid and we’ll get them on a traffic stop.”

He took out one of his business cards and printed his home phone number on the back. “Cheer up. There’s lots of cars out there. And call me if you want.”

“Yeah,” Jackie said, dispirited, not caring that he was trying to flirt. “Whoever took that car—they already did something stupid. They should have stolen a car that would run.”

After the cop left, Jackie sank down to the curb, put her head down on her knees, and boo-hooed like a baby. Truman sat down beside her and patted her back.

“Oh, man,” Jackie said, raising her head. “What do I do now?”

Truman asked the question even though he dreaded hearing the answer. “You didn’t have insurance on the Corvette?”

“N-n-no,” she said, sniffing. “Jeff gave me a card for an insurance guy he knew. But it was too late to call him Saturday night. And I knew I’d have to borrow the insurance money from my mama because I’d spent all of my money on the car. I was gonna call her yesterday, but after I found out the car was no good, I decided I’d just make Jeff take the car back.”

She stood up and kicked the rear tire of the bronze Pontiac. “Why me?” she wailed. “Why can’t something bad happen to somebody else once in a while, instead of me?” She pounded her fist on the trunk of the Pontiac, and a can came rolling slowly out from beneath it. She kicked the can, too, sending it spinning toward the sidewalk.

Truman had been sitting on the curb, feeling bad for Jackie. Now he noticed a puddle of fluid on the asphalt. It was dark blackish red. He got up and fetched the can Jackie had just kicked. It was silver and green. Transmission fluid.

He took another look at the puddle. Tire marks were crossed through it, leading out into the street, and there were more drops of the same fluid, trailing up the street toward the light.

“Did you say your cousin had to put transmission fluid in the Corvette just to get it going?” he asked Jackie.

“Yeah,” she said. “He gave me another can to put in the back, just in case it all leaked out before I got back here. Made me watch how he put it in.”

Truman held up the empty transmission can to show her. “Was it this kind of can?”

“I don’t know,” Jackie shrugged. “Maybe not. I think the can Milton gave me was red and black. Why?”

“You didn’t put any fluid in it when you got back here, did you?” Truman asked.

“No,” she said. “Why are you asking me all these questions? What’s that can got to do with anything?”

“I think whoever stole your car knew it was leaking transmission fluid,” Truman said. “So they brought some along when they came to steal the car. Doesn’t sound like teenage gang members to me.”

“Not Midnight Auto like that cop said?” Jackie asked, bewildered.

“More like Bondurant Auto,” Truman said. “But why?”

Truman made her call that cop, that T. Carter. But the dispatcher said he’d gone off shift, and she’d have to wait until Tuesday morning to call him back. “Can’t I talk to somebody else?” she asked. “It’s about my car, a Corvette that was stolen. We’ve got a clue. We know who stole my car. Can’t I talk to a detective, somebody like that?”

“You’ll have to talk to Officer Carter,” the dispatcher said. “I can leave him a message if you like.”

“Never mind,” Jackie said, slamming down the phone.

“They won’t do nothing,” she told Truman. “I gotta get my car back myself.”

“Let the police handle this,” Truman said. “We’ve got the can of transmission fluid. They can fingerprint that, check to see if Bondurant uses the same kind. It should be easy to prove. But you let them do their job. You hear me?”

After the lunch shift was over, Jackie counted her tip money out on a bus tray. It was mostly silver, quarters, nickels, dimes. There was a New York Transit System subway token and a Canadian dime.

“Goddamn college kids,” Jackie said, flinging the token across the room. Altogether, her tips for the day came to $12.67.

Her savings were gone. Payday wasn’t until Friday. And now her dream car was gone. She started to get steamed. And then her anger made things seem very simple. First, she’d go out there to Bondurant Motors and straighten a knot in their tails—like her grandmama would say. She wasn’t coming home unless she had her money or her car. Second, she’d have to find a part-time job if she was gonna be able to save up for a decent car. No way she could buy something good with a handful of loose change.

On the bus, Jackie folded and unfolded the papers. Her copy of the sales agreement, her temporary title, and the police report. She was sure Truman was right. It wasn’t kids who had taken her car. It was that Jeff Cantrell—slimy bastard.

The slimy bastard was looking good this Monday. His hair still had the comb marks after his shower and his tan dazzled against the white golf shirt and the tight khaki shorts. And nobody who earned an honest living had tennis shoes as white and spotless as Jeff Cantrell’s.

He was stroking the hood of a maroon Cutlass, talking a mile a minute to an older woman who stood beside the open passenger door, a squirming toddler balanced on her hip. A younger woman—the baby’s mother, maybe, sat in the car with the motor running.

Jackie marched right up to them. Jeff was so busy feeding the woman a line of bullshit he never heard her coming.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Jackie said loudly. Jeff pivoted and when he saw who it was, his dimples vanished. “I need to talk to you, Jeff,” Jackie said loudly. “Somebody stole my car last night. My no-good, hunk of junk car you sold me on Saturday.”

The old lady set the toddler down. Her daughter cut the Cutlass’s engine and got out of the car quickly. She took the toddler by the hand. “Uh, well, we’ll think 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—”