Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split (13 page)

She had him stretched out nude on towels on the bed, and she was naked, astride him, working her hands across his well-oiled deltoids.

“Hey,” he said, turning his head to look at her, “you’re really good at this.”

“I know, baby,” she murmured in his ear. She rubbed a little more. “Who was the guy, Michael?” she asked, digging her fingertips into his knotted trapezoids.

“Huh?” He was blissed-out, relaxed, his defenses down.

“The guy you were supposed to meet at the track last night?”

“Computer nerd,” Michael said, letting a long groan escape. “Do that neck thing again, doll. This guy, he’s got a computer program that can pick the winners at the track.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, no shit,” he assured her. “He’s got a girlfriend, knows a lot of inside information, he takes all the information about all the dogs running in a race, feeds it into this computer on some charts he’s set up, and the computer spits out the winners. One, two, three. Win, place, and show.”

“Cool,” Cookie said. “But why’s he gonna sell it to you?”

“The little geek doesn’t have enough capital to use the program for maximum effectiveness,” Michael said. “A two-buck bet, even if it’s right eighty percent of the time, don’t make you rich.”

“Don’t I know,” Cookie said.

“Anyway, I had Nunz all talked into going partners with me on the deal. We were supposed to meet the geek in the clubhouse last night. Only it’s getting late, and the races are about to start. The guy comes in. There’s problems. He don’t have the goods. From there on in, you don’t wanna know.”

“Bad, huh?” Cookie asked, kissing the back of his neck, letting her breasts brush his skin.

“You feel the tension in my back, right?” he asked, his voice muffled. “Nunz was very, very annoyed.”

“I’m sorry,” Cookie said. She continued kneading and rubbing, losing herself in thought.

“Hey, I read in the paper where a girl got killed at the track last night. Her name was Rosie. Rosie something. She was a tout. A girl tout. You ever heard of one of those?”

The massage had lulled him nearly to sleep. “Uh-huh,” he said drowsily.

Cookie sensed he was vulnerable. She slipped off his back and lay beside him, pressing her body into his. “Michael,” she whispered. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“What, sugar? Tell Mikey.”

“It’s that midget. The one I told you about.”

“What about him?”

“He’s a troublemaker. He’s stirring everybody up down there. The phone didn’t stop ringing after that goddamn thing was on the news. Every newspaper, radio, and television station in Florida called. Larry King’s producer. Even Oprah! That little bastard.”

She started sniffling now, big tears welling up in her eyes. “You could do something about it, Michael. Shut the guy up.”

“Me?” Michael rolled his head around to look at her. “You want me to rough up a midget? Get the hell out of town, Cookie. I’m a businessman. I told you that already.”

“Just talk to him,” she pleaded. “Tell him he better keep his mouth shut. That’s all. He’s gonna get me fired, Mikey.”

Michael sat up to face her. She was kneeling on the bed, naked. Tears were running down her face, down her chest, dripping from the ends of her nipples. Very erotic, he thought.

“Help you how?” he heard himself saying.

“You know,” she said, playing coy now. “Take care of him. For me.” She ran a finger down his chest, down his belly. He shivered involuntarily. “And Cookie will take care of Mikey.”

He rolled off the bed and onto his feet in one swift motion. Now he started dressing. Better get dressed and let his brain start making decisions again. He pulled on his pants and found his shirt on the floor.

“You’re good, Cookie,” he said, zipping his fly. “But not good enough for me to put a hit on some goddamn Munchkin. I told you before, I’m in sales. Not service. Try somebody else, dollface,” he suggested. “Maybe somebody who has to get paid to get laid.”

“I’ll find somebody all right,” she shrieked at his departing backside. “Somebody good. Somebody with balls, unlike you, you dago son of a bitch.”

When the door slammed, Cookie sat and thought. Jewell Newby was on to a good thing with this condo scam. She’d done some homework. He thought she was too stupid to read those sales contracts. She knew how he operated. And when the time was right, she’d make her move. Get a piece of his action. With what she knew, he’d have to cut her in. For now, though, she’d have to play dumb. But only until she got things set up just right.

She showered and dressed. She liked nice hotels because they had thick towels and bathrobes and hair dryers in the bathroom. This one even unplugged. She wrapped the cord around it and tucked it in her shoulder bag along with the robe. She took pains with dressing, making sure the coral silk minidress was adjusted just so, that her heavy gold rope necklace and matching earrings hadn’t been displaced. Then she applied eyeliner, lip liner, blusher, and cologne. She stood in front of the full-length mirror and sighed.

Then she sat on the bed and reached for the telephone on the nightstand.

“Sun Bay Rentals.” The voice was a woman’s.

Unfamiliar. Cookie frowned, but she asked for Butch. No, she told the woman, she did not care to say who was calling, just tell Butch it was personal.

The woman put the phone down. Five minutes later Butch was on the line. His voice was wary. “Hello?”

“Hey, Butchie,” she said breathily. “Guess who?”

“Gibby?”
It was dark in the El Cap. Dark and cool, with the over-head fans twirling slowly overhead. Truman had to squint hard to see the figure standing beside him at the bar.

Frank Gibhart slapped his rounded belly proudly. “I’ve put on some weight since I quit drinking. Bet you didn’t know me, huh?”

“Oh,” Truman said. He frowned. “Gibby, I’m sorry. I clean forgot about that. We can go somewhere else if you like. McDonald’s or something.”

“Nah,” Frank said, pulling out the bar stool next to Truman’s. “This is fine. I always liked this place. Sober, it looks even better. I’ll drink iced tea. Do they still have navy bean soup on Mondays?”

An Italian family had owned the El Cap Bar on Central for as long as Truman could remember. Years ago it had belonged to a relative who’d been a major league umpire. Various cousins had run the place ever since, but they’d kept all the signed baseballs and bats, the faded black-and-white team photos, pennants, and yellowing newspaper clippings.

Aside from the cold beer and authoritative sports talk, the El Cap was famous for six-inch-thick sandwiches and homemade soup.

Truman took a sip from the pilsner of beer sitting in front of him. “I already ordered it. Ham sandwiches and navy bean soup. Right?”

“Don’t tell me you’re buying?”

“First round only,” Truman retorted. “I’m an old pensioner, you know. Besides, the way I remember it, you always were good at rigging expense-account lunches.”

“I learned everything I know from the master,” Gibhart said.

Frank Gibhart had been pleased to hear from his old boss. Truman Kicklighter was the last of a breed. A newsman down to the bone. If Truman Kicklighter needed a favor, he had plenty in the bank.

Frank had spent Monday morning working the phones, relishing the opportunity to do some old-time dirt-digging.

Rose, who was married to one of the cousins, brought Frank a mug of iced tea and another beer for Truman.

Frank slid a manila folder toward Truman.

“I saw that piece on the news this afternoon. Hell of a thing. How come you didn’t call me sooner?”

Truman shrugged. “Didn’t think of it as a story. You know how it is. You’re close to something, it doesn’t strike you as newsworthy.”

They both knew Truman hadn’t called his old colleague in the first place because he didn’t want Frank, or anybody else, to feel sorry for him. Now, though, Ollie had forced his hand. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.

Truman opened the file. “Left my cheaters at home,” he said. “Give me the highlights, will you?”

“As far as I can tell,” Frank began, “this Church of Cosmic Unity’s been in St. Pete for about nine months. They’re having services in some old movie theater downtown.”

“Must be the Rialto. It’s the only one left,” Truman said. “What about the head honcho? Name’s Newby or something.”

“The Reverend Jewell G. Newby,” Frank said, relishing the sound of the names rolling off his tongue. “Age fifty- two. Up until 1987 Newby drove a truck for a wholesale distributor of candy, potato chips, and snack cakes in Dayton, Ohio. That year our man got himself a gilt-edged diploma from a mail-order divinity school out in Laguna Vista. He moved to Plano, Texas, and started an outfit called the Church of the Higher Being.”

“That’s a religion?” Truman asked. “What do they believe in?”

He had Frank there. “Besides capitalism? Beats me. The church was rolling along pretty good for a while there. But in 1988 he and his wife split up, and the Rev pulls up stakes and moves to San Antonio.”

Frank looked down at his notes and frowned. “Things get a little bit cloudy then. For two years, I couldn’t find an address, a church, nothing. Then, in 1991, he pops up again. Now he’s running an outfit called the Church of Cosmic Unity. He’s bought an old Baptist church in down-town San Antonio, and he’s packing ‘em in.”

“What’s the scam?” Truman said.

Rose set their plates and bowls in front of them and went to the other end of the counter to watch television. Hot, ham-scented steam rose up and fogged Truman’s glasses. He dipped a spoon in, tasted, and sighed. The soup was the same, maybe better than he remembered.

“The scam?” Truman repeated.

“Always the cynic,” Frank said, adding pepper to the soup.

“Tell me.”

“Well, the church bought up a good bit of real estate in San Antonio. A couple of parking lots downtown, maybe half a dozen foreclosed houses. And church members were being encouraged both to give money and to buy property and deed it over to the church outright.”

“Anything wrong with that?” Truman watched the younger man’s face. He’d been right to call Frank. Never missed a trick, this guy, and since his drinking days were over, he’d only gotten better.

“You tell me,” Frank said. “A cop buddy ran a check. The Reverend Jewell Newby has no record. Not even an unpaid parking ticket. Pays his taxes, seems to report every dime.”

“Smart,” Truman said. “What else have you got?”

“The Rev likes a warm climate, seems like. After San Antonio he opened a church in Scottsdale, Arizona. Same church name, same game plan. First he rents space, builds up a congregation, and starts acquiring real estate.”

“Still nothing illegal or immoral. Right?”

“Not as far as I can tell. The church has a two-hour program on a cable station out there, called Blessing Time. I talked to a guy at the station, he promised to send you a videotape.”

Frank stopped talking to eat his soup before it got cold. It was coolish outside, high seventies. The bar was nearly empty today. Camilla, the owner’s wife or daughter, he didn’t know which, emerged from the kitchen and was drying and stacking glasses at the back bar.

After they finished, they traded war stories for a while.

“Got remarried two years ago,” Frank said. “She’s a great gal.”

“Good for you,” Truman said.

Frank put his hand on Truman’s arm. “I felt real bad when I heard the news about Nellie, TK.”

“Thanks,” Truman said simply.

Gibby gave Truman a searching look. “So. We’ve been scooped on this church thing once already. Think there’s still anything in it for us?”

“I don’t know,” Truman said. He motioned for Camilla, asked her to wrap his sandwich half in foil. “Did you check with the law in Arizona to see if everything there is on the up-and-up?”

“No record there either,” Frank said regretfully. “There are a couple of callbacks I’m still waiting on, but so far the guy’s as clean as they come.”

“Slick’s more like it,” Truman muttered.

“I’m waiting,” Frank reminded him.

“Oh.” Truman shrugged. “Like I told you. It’s early yet. We only got the notice last week. All I know is, the prices they’re asking, none of the current tenants can afford to buy. And everybody’s got their bowels all in an uproar over it. I’m the fact-finding committee.”

“Condo conversion, huh? How much time did they give you?”

Truman tucked the sandwich into his jacket pocket. Camilla brought the check and tucked it under Frank’s glass. “I got this one,” Gibby said, laying money on the counter.

“Ninety days,” Truman said.

“That’s all?”

“Doesn’t much matter,” Truman said. “Unless we can find a way to stop this Newby fella, we’ll all be looking for a new address.”

Frank looked at his watch and sighed. “I better hit the road before traffic gets backed up on the bridge.” He clasped Truman’s hand, squeezed it tightly. “Let me make some more calls,” he said. “Something sounds kinky.”