Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split (22 page)

“I won?” Jackie was startled, looking around for confirmation. The numbers flashed on the tote board.

“I won,” she screamed. “Thirty-eight dollars!”

“Beginner’s luck,” Truman said. “Take the money and run.”

“No way,” Jackie said. She pointed to the program. For the sixth race someone had penciled in “trifecta key-8- over-1-4-7.”

“What’s that?” she asked, showing the notation to Truman.

“Three trifecta tickets betting the eight-one, eight-four, and eight-seven combinations,” Truman said. “Fool’s bet. Cost six bucks, too.”

“I can afford it,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She fairly danced back from the betting windows, ticket in hand.

“Marion says that Sunny Gal, the eight dog, is a long shot with twenty-two-to-one odds. I could win forty-six dollars if she comes in.”

“Or lose the six bucks,” Truman pointed out.

Jackie couldn’t watch the race. She covered her eyes with her hands and poked her thumbs in her ears to shut out the shouts from the others in the bar. “Come on, eight, come on, eight,” she chanted over and over.

She was still chanting when Truman reached over and shook her shoulder.

“It’s over,” he said. “That eight dog of yours was a bum. Hardly made it out of the box before he was over in the infield, sniffing the flowers.”

“Oh,” Jackie said glumly. “Oh well.”

“Sorry,” he said.

Truman was standing up now. “Come on,” he said, pulling her chair out. “You won one and lost one. You came out ahead. Let’s get out of here before you lose both our shirts. We’ve got work to do—remember?”

“You’re right.” She tore her losing tickets in half and put the bits in the ashtray on the table.

Cookie Jeffcote poured a capful of bubble bath into the tub. The stuff was forty-two dollars a bottle and usually she … The hell with it, she thought, emptying the whole bottle under the tap.

Bubbles frothed up and over the side of the tub. She giggled and stepped in, sinking into the hot, scented suds up to her chin. She raised the champagne glass and took a long, deep sip.

“To me,” she said aloud, raising her glass in a toast.

Tonight was the night. Butch would take care of Zorn and then she’d be in a position to deal with Jewell Newby. She’d been doing some calculations. Her share could be worth close to a million.

She thought briefly about Butch. Her bathwater was steaming hot, but she shivered at the memory of those grease-stained hands roaming over her body.

Butch could become a problem, she realized. But nothing she couldn’t handle.

She’d made him tell her his plan, fearful of another of his monumental screwups. But actually, the scheme should work.

She’d made vague promises to Ollie Zorn about “special consideration” in return for his cooperation.

He’d practically drooled all over the floor when she’d suggested meeting at her condo. Men, they were all the same, young or old, tall or midget, they all wanted the same thing.

Butch had an alibi all planned out: He and Curtis were to get themselves into a brawl at a bar out on Treasure Island, allow themselves to be tossed out, and go on to another bar.

Cookie, the only witness to the unfortunate incident, would say the killing happened at exactly the time Butch and Curtis were getting shitfaced down the beach at Shacky’s. There would be no neighbors to contradict her, because the condo on one side of her was empty—its Canadian owner still up in Ottawa—and old Mrs. Fuller, on the other side, was deaf as a post.

It was nine now. She sighed. Zorn would be here soon. She would order takeout from the Chinese place down the street when he got there. She had plenty of booze on hand. She wanted the little twerp good and drunk by the time Butch and Curtis arrived.

When the door buzzer rang, she sat upright in the tub, spilling some of the champagne. What the hell? She’d told Zorn it would be a late-night meeting.

The buzzer rang again and Fluffy, her Pekingese, went nuts, barking and yipping and throwing himself against the door. Cookie threw on a short satin robe and matching satin mules and hurried to the door. If Butch was early, the plan would be ruined.

She scooped Fluffy up into her arms and jerked the door open. “You idiot—”

Michael Streck stood on the other side of the door, his suit jacket hitched over his shoulder, a bottle of champagne in his hand. A slow, self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Hey now, doll,” he said, when she’d grabbed him and jerked him inside the condo and shut the door. “Thought I’d come by for a little visit.”

Fluffy growled and bared his teeth.

“Shush, sugar,” Cookie said, patting the dog’s bow-tied topknot. “This is mama’s friend Michael.” She took a deep breath. “Baby,” she cooed. “I didn’t mean to yell at you, but you know, I wasn’t expecting you. And these god-damned neighbors are all so nosy. Well, I’m always glad to see you, you know that, but you should have called, honey.”

Michael set the champagne bottle on the table in the foyer. He pulled her to him, untied the robe sash, stood back, and took in the view; her skin still pink from the bath, bubbles clinging to the curves and folds.

“Why so jumpy?” he drawled. “Let’s celebrate.”

She set the dog down gently on the floor. Michael’s hands were all over her now and despite the voice in the back of her head that screamed “Caution, caution,” Cookie found herself responding in kind.

“What are we celebrating?” she asked.

Michael reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a fat packet of bills.

“The big score,” he said, chuckling. “Remember that thing I mentioned, the thing Nunz wanted me to get for him and the boys? The guy delivered tonight, and I tried it out. Works like a charm.”

He peeled off ten hundred-dollar bills and tucked them in the pocket of her robe. She shrugged out of it, laid it on the arm of the loveseat, and led him by the hand to the sofa.

He sat there, amused, while she walked, naked, to the French doors and pulled the curtains shut. Then she went to the wall switches and flicked the lights off, one by one. He was being so sweet and generous, she couldn’t chase him off.

When she joined him on the sofa, he was struggling out of his shirt.

“Let me,” she said, nuzzling and unbuttoning at the same time.

“I almost forgot,” he said, taking a tiny tinfoil-wrapped package from his shirt pocket. “Another present—to get you in the mood.”

She was already in the mood. But she drew a line of powder on the glass-topped coffee table and snorted it all.

They made love on the living room sofa, with Fluffy barking like hell every time Cookie screamed or moaned.

“Just a minute,” Michael said. He got up, picked up the snarling Pekingese, and groped his way in the dark to the French doors, then opened them and threw the dog out onto the terrace.

“Hey,” Cookie said, struggling upright. “You’ll hurt him.” She glanced at the glowing clock on the VCR player. It was almost ten. Jesus. She had to get herself straightened up. If Zorn walked in now, the whole deal would be ruined.

She stood up and put on her robe. “You gotta go, babe. I’m supposed to have a business meeting. Somebody from the Fountain of Youth is supposed to come over in a little while.”

Michael picked up the slacks he’d tossed on the floor. Another tinfoil packet fell out. “Oops,” he said, holding it up so she could see it. “I forgot about dessert. Relax, Cookie, it’s early yet.”

Ollie looked out the window of the bus and back at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. Ten after ten! He fumed silently. He’d been on the damned bus for nearly two hours. And before that he’d spent another hour on the wrong bus, gone all the way out to the Veterans Administration Hospital in Gulfport before discovering his mistake.

He’d had to go all the way back downtown to Williams Park to catch another bus. And after all that he’d forgotten to get a transfer, so he had to pay full fare again. Full senior citizen fare, but still.

Now his stomach was growling. The newsstand had been busy today, so busy he’d only had time for a package of cheese crackers and a chocolate soda for lunch. He hoped Cookie Jeffcote was a good cook.

He glanced out the window. Rows of high-rise hotels and condominiums lined both sides of the street, but he couldn’t make out any street numbers because the buildings were set so far back from the road. He stood up and walked unsteadily down the aisle of the bus to the driver.

“I’m looking for the San Souci condominiums,” he said politely. “Fifteen thousand Gulf Boulevard. How far away are we?”

“Far away?” The woman laughed. “Mister, we passed that ten minutes ago. Big pink building on the right.”

“Passed it?” Ollie said shrilly. “We passed my stop?”

“What am I, a mind reader?” she asked. “You want off here?”

“Right here,” Ollie said. “And listen here. You drivers need to be more courteous to senior citizens. We pay your salary, you know.”

The driver slammed on the brakes, watching with grim satisfaction as the tiny man caromed off the back of her high-backed seat and into the empty seat in the next row.

They were late. Five minutes. Curtis had insisted that they put a real pizza pie inside the thermal case, in case they got stopped. “We can leave it there. The cops will go looking for a real pizza man.”

“Keep your head down,” Butch said quietly as they entered the condo lobby. There were closed-circuit cameras in the lobby aimed at the elevators. They’d worn baseball caps pulled down low.

In the elevator Butch whipped the ski mask out of his shirt pocket. Curtis followed suit.

“You know what to do?” Butch demanded.

Curtis nodded. He was busy pulling his mask over his head. It was hot. The wool was itchy and the eyeholes, they must have been made for a Chinaman or something. They were too close together. He twisted the mask to the right and to the left. But he could see out of only one eye-hole, no matter how he moved it around. “Daddy,” he said urgently, “I can’t—” The elevator stopped moving and the bell dinged softly. Six times. They were there. The door slid open. Butch put his foot out to keep it open. He felt a rush of adrenaline. It felt right. Everything was worked out to the last detail. Hit the apartment, pop the midget, get the money and jewelry VCR player. Deliver the pizza, that’s how he thought of it. Get rid of the shotgun and clothes and then head for Shacky’s.

He took a deep breath and glanced over at Curtis, who was fumbling with his mask and muttering something. Butch couldn’t tell what he was saying because the mask muffled his speech. “Let’s do it,” he said.

Three steps out of the elevator, four steps to the left. He peered around the elevator doors. The hall was deserted.

“Come on,” he hissed, grabbing Curtis’s arm. They were in front of the door. Butch pulled the baseball cap off and stuffed it in his pocket. The mask went on. Itchy. Hard to see. He rang the doorbell, held the thermal pizza box in front of him. “Pizza man,” he said loudly.

Cookie stirred on the sofa. The room was dark, its contents dim and spinning around. Jesus! She’d done two more lines of coke and drunk half a bottle of champagne. She felt dizzy. Nauseous. And there was that insistent buzzing in her ears.

Then she heard it. Muffled, but distinct. “Pizza.” Oh God, oh God! What time was it? Where was Ollie Zorn? She couldn’t remember him coming in, didn’t remember when Michael left.

The door buzzed again. “Pizza,” the man called again. She stumbled toward the light switch, banging her knees on the edge of the coffee table. Goddamn, that hurt. They’d wake up the whole fucking building at this rate. She found her robe, clutched it around her waist, and opened the door.

“Cut it out,” she whispered. The masked men on the other side pushed her aside. For a moment there the terror of seeing them made her forget. She started to scream.

What the hell was Cookie doing? She wasn’t supposed to scream. It wasn’t in the plan. Butch whipped out the sawed-off shotgun and thwacked her across the back of the head. The scream died in her throat and she crumpled to the floor.

“What the hell?”

Michael Streck walked into the living room from the bathroom; the light spilling from it barely illuminated the darkened room. He was dressed only in his boxers, and there were two masked men standing over Cookie. “What the fuck?” It was a hit. Nunz had sent someone to whack him.

His Beretta was in his pants. He dropped to the floor, groping for them.

“Look, Daddy,” Curtis said, awed. “He’s crawling. Begging us.”

Butch kept his eye on the man on the floor. Pretty tall for a midget, but then Cookie always did exaggerate.

Michael found the Beretta and stood up.

“He’s got a gun,” Curtis screamed.

Butch raised the twelve-gauge, pumped, and fired.

Blam. The first shell hit the glass coffee table, shattering the top and sending a shower of shards shooting into the air.

Michael screamed. Bits of glass pierced his face, chest, hands, and neck. “What the fuck?” He wiped the blood out of his eyes, pointed the pistol again.