Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course (16 page)

“That’s good, right?”

“Not for the insurance company,” Doc said drily. As he moved about the examining room his stiffly starched coat made a crackling noise. He picked up Wormy’s chart and began writing.

“How much?”

“Full course of treatment, spinal alignments, X rays, consultations with my colleagues, drug therapy, hospitalization and surgery if necessary. One of my colleagues is on staff at the Pine Isles Back Institute. They have a new caterer over there. What they do with red snapper, capers, a reduced cream sauce …” Sperduto kissed his fingertips and sighed.

“I ain’t stayin’ in no bullshit hospital,” Weems said quickly. “And you can forget about me goin’ under the knife. That ain’t the idea. Go back to that drug therapy part. You got anything stronger than Demerol? That shit’s good, but it makes me puke.”

Sperduto made a note of this on the chart. “I’ve got something new. Very special. The FDA hasn’t approved it yet for this country, but a friend of mine brings it in from Malaysia.”

“I’ll take all you got,” Weems said. “Back to how much?”

“Conservative estimate? One hundred thousand easily.”

“That’s all?” Wormy’s right flank felt like some-body had stuck a knife in it. Of course, somebody had, but that had been years ago. This was worse.

“I said conservative,” Sperduto said, sounding slighted. “If you are forced to leave your automotive career, well, that is many thousands more.”

Worrmy rolled over on his side a little and massaged the place where the pain seemed to have its home office.

“Now you’re talking. When could I get this on paper? All certified and ready to go? I want to hit the insurance company right away. Get the ball rolling for my settlement.”

“Rush the paperwork?” Sperduto’s face crumpled like an old paper sack. “This paperwork takes days. My secretary must transcribe the notes. There are forms to be filled out. The company may require a second opinion. I’ll have to bring in an associate …”

“Ronnie says if this works out good, there’ll be more business headed your way. A lot more business. We’re getting into personal injury now. We’ll need a doctor. And a little bird told Ronnie you’re in a cash crunch, Doc. The bird says you’re getting you a divorce.”

“That bitch,” Sperduto said. “My mother, may God rest her soul, was right. This is what happens when a man marries out of his faith. All my hard work, my home, my cars, everything. She will not stop until I am penniless. These blood-sucking lawyers of hers. I tell you, these are the criminal masterminds of our time.”

This was Sperduto’s third go-round with divorce lawyers that Wormy knew of. You’d think the guy never heard of a prenup. You’d think, Wormy reflected, he couldn’t just pay a hooker to get laid, like the rest of the free world.

“Ronnie says to tell you we’ll pay you a thousand bucks. If the claim gets filed right now. Like today. Kind of a show of faith.”

“A thousand?” Sperduto was deeply offended. “What kind of fee is that? This is not some car lot. I am a physician. I have patients to care for. People in pain depending on me to heal them.”

“You got an empty waiting room, a degree from some dogshit diploma mill, and an upcoming trip down alimony lane,” Wormy said, reciting Ronnie’s exact same words. “You’ll get twenty-five percent of whatever you bill the insurance company. That’s on top of the thousand. You show us how good you are at the paperwork, Ronnie said, we’ll be running our people through the office every week. Like I said, we’re expanding the operation. Taking on another partner. It’s a right nice profit center, Doc. And your ex-old lady don’t have to know about any of it.”

Costas Sperduto was a man of vision. He liked the possibilities at once. “We could set up a new corporate entity,” he said. “Let the bitch have Costas Sperduto Neck and Back Clinic. What there is left of it.” He ran his fingers through the dark, wavy hair near the single shock of white at the crown of his high, shiny forehead. He would call his accountant immediately.

“It is possible,” he pronounced. “If my secretary could work through lunch to type up the charts,” he said. “And then, if we fax everything. Does this insurance person have a fax machine?”

“He’s got it all,” Wormy assured Sperduto. “You call and tell him you’ll be sending those papers at once. Don’t forget the whole crippled-for-life thing. And make sure he understands who you’re talking about. Wormy Weems. This agent, Ed Zuniga. He’s all right. There won’t be no problem. The claim should go like grease through a goose. Now what about them Malaysian pain pills?”

By three o’clock, Truman was exhausted. The phone never quit ringing. Before he’d left for an extended lunch, Ronnie had dragged a huge cardboard box out from the inner office. Car tides, correspondence, forms from the state, bills from suppliers, all of it thrown willy-nilly together.

“We’re kinda behind on the paperwork,” Ronnie said. “Just open the file drawers and take a look. You’ll figure out the system. Anybody calls, tell ‘em to call back. Anybody comes on the lot to look at a car, stall ‘em. I ain’t got time to give no OJT right now.”

“OJT?” Probably some computer thing he hadn’t heard about, Truman thought.

“On the job training,” Ronnie said. “This is it.”

As soon as he saw Bondurant’s car pull into traffic, Truman started digging through the file drawers, searching for the paperwork for Jeff Cantrell. There should have been job applications, withholding forms, sales reports. He looked under employees, personnel, Cantrell, every possible heading he could think of.

The drawers were more than half empty. Files had sagged forward into a limp mess, in no logical order that Truman could discern.

He got up from the creaking desk chair and stretched, hearing his own bones and muscles creaking. He walked casually over to the showroom’s plate- glass window, looking out to make sure he was alone. It wouldn’t do to get caught spying his first day on the job.

The lot was deserted, nothing but some blackbirds pecking at french fries that had fallen out of the trash container on the sidewalk in front of the lot.

A bus pulled up at the corner. The doors opened, and two women stepped off. They were dressed alike, sleeveless summer dresses, big straw pocketbooks, white sneakers and socks. In their early fifties, probably. One had short, teased blond hair. The other had black hair in a limp ponytail.

The blonde pointed toward the window. Truman jumped back, thinking he’d been spotted. Now the women were walking straight toward him. Truman stood very still.

They stopped when they got to a powder-blue LTD two rows from the front door. It had “KREME- PUFF!” written in red letters on the windshield. The blonde bent over to look at the price sticker glued to the driver’s-side window. Her friend was circling the car, clockwise, then counterclockwise.

Now the blonde opened the front door and poked her head in, exclaiming about something.

Truman was about to go out and stall them, like he’d been told, when Ronnie’s car turned into the lot.

Ronnie spied the women with that radar of his. In a moment, he had the car parked in the special slot marked R. Bondurant, CEO. Another moment later and he pushed open the office door, which made the doorbell peal automatically.

“Hey, Pops,” Ronnie called. “Customers on the lot. Didn’t Wormy get back yet?”

“Not yet,” Truman said, flustered. “You didn’t say how long you’d be. I was just going outside …”

Ronnie waved at him to shut up. “C’mon, Pops,” he said. “Out here. You said you done some sales work before? Watch this.”

Ronnie stopped abruptly just outside the showroom door. He gazed at his reflection in the window, then combed his fingers through his hair, adjusted his slacks on his hips just slightly, then snapped his head to the left, then to the right. Truman had seen an Elvis impersonator go through these exact same contortions once, years ago, at a motel lounge up in Tallahassee. When was that: ‘68 or ‘69? Maybe it was Tifton, not Tallahassee.

Now Ronnie was moving in on the prey. Wormy drove onto the lot in a white Mustang Truman hadn’t seen before. He parked, got out slowly, reached in, and pulled out a large metal cane.

Ronnie nodded at him, but kept going toward the women.

“Afternoon, ladies,” Ronnie was saying, caressing the word “ladies.”

He reached out a hand and grasped both the blond woman’s hands in his. “I’m Ronnie Bondurant. Now who might you two charming ladies be?”

The brunette giggled and nudged her friend. “I’m Polly Womack,” she said. “Donna’s the one doing the shopping. I’m just the one riding shotgun.”

Ronnie raised an eyebrow. “Donna? Donna what, if I’m not getting too personal.”

Wormy limped over to Truman, leaning heavily on the cane. “You listening to this?” he asked. Truman nodded.

“Sparks,” the blonde said, crossing her arms over her chest. She flicked the hood of the LTD with one fingernail. “Kind of high-priced for an ‘88, isn’t this? Any bargaining room on this car, Mr. Bondurant?”

“It’s an ‘88, not a ‘78,” Ronnie said, acting hurt to hear his inventory being bad-mouthed.

Donna Sparks was looking inside the car again.

“Well, hey,” Ronnie said suddenly. “We got a lot of money tied up in this here LTD.” He put his hand on the blonde’s elbow, and gently, effortlessly, steered her away from the LTD and toward a burgundy New Yorker parked two rows over.

“Look at this pretty play toy,” Ronnie said. “Four thousand on the dot. And it rides so smooth, you won’t even know you’re not sitting right on your living-room sofa.”

“I like the blue car, except for the price,” Donna protested.

“Let’s take a look,” Ronnie urged, opening the driver’s door.

Wormy chuckled. “If he unloads that dog, it’ll be party city tonight. That rust bucket’s been on the lot so long it’s probably got kudzu growing up through them rotted-out floorboards.”

Truman didn’t get it. “The other car was more money. Wouldn’t he rather sell it?”

“To them two? They ain’t got the scratch. Besides, Ronnie’s Rule Number One: ‘Don’t let the sucker
buy
a car—you
sell
‘em the one you want.’ That blue LTD’s only been on the lot a couple days. It’ll be killing bugs before the weekend, I guarantee.”

“Killing bugs?” Truman was still in the dark.

“You know,” Wormy said. “Burning gas.”

Truman shrugged, unenlightened.

“Sold,” Wormy said.

The two women got into the front seat of the New Yorker. Ronnie reached in his pocket, took out a jumble of keys, selected one and handed it to Donna Sparks.

After two or three halting tries, the New Yorker’s engine started. It inched toward the street and finally lumbered out into traffic.

Ronnie mopped at his red, sweating face with a handkerchief, then walked quickly over to Truman and Wormy.

He looked at the cane, but said nothing.

“Nice work, Ronnie,” Wormy said.

“Look,” Truman said, pointing to a trail of dark, glistening spots that led out of the lot. “That New Yorker’s leaking oil. There’s probably a quart right there.”

Ronnie wiped the back of his gleaming neck, wadded the handkerchief up, put it in his back pocket. “Cars on this lot don’t leak, old-timer,” he said, giving Truman a sharp look. “And we don’t ever point out that kind of thing. If anybody ever asks, you tell them the problem is probably just a little old gasket.”

“Yeah,” Wormy said. “A valve cover gasket. Very cheap to replace. Two, three bucks.”

He walked away, leaning heavily on the cane. When he came back out of the showroom, he carried a child’s plastic bucket. He sprinkled white sand on the oil trail, then went over to the puddle of liquid that had pooled in the space where the New Yorker had been parked. He kicked the sand around with his toe, letting it absorb the oil until it was the same color as the pavement.

“How’d it go at Doc’s?” Ronnie asked, staring out past the traffic, across the street, toward the half-empty parking lot at The Candy Store. He still hadn’t mentioned the cane.

“Two words,” Wormy said. “Permanent disability.”

The showroom door swung open, the doorbell pealing to announce the return of Donna Sparks and her friend Polly. Truman stood to help them, but just then Ronnie stuck his head out of the office, smiling broadly when he saw the two women.

“I’ll take care of these fine ladies, Pops. You just answer the phone.”

“Didn’t I tell you, Donna?” he asked, coming toward the women, arms outstretched. “That New Yorker is a one-owner car. Preacher’s wife. Preacher cried when he sold it to me, but he said it reminded him too much of his late wife. He had to make the sacrifice.”

“You’d think a preacher’s wife would have an FM radio,” Donna complained. “Or tilt steering.”

Ronnie gave an elaborate shrug. “I can’t add options to these cars, Miss Donna. That’s why they’re called used cars, no offense.”

“That air conditioner’s broke,” Polly said, fanning her face with both hands. “Lord, I never been so hot.”

“Broke?” Ronnie looked astonished. “It was fine yesterday. Blowing ice cubes. That’s factory air, you know.”