Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course (19 page)

“You done for the night?”

“I’m done,” Truman said decisively.

“What about going over there, to the Candy Store, getting a cold brew?” Eddie asked. “I’m thinking Jeff’s girlfriend might be working tonight. Maybe she’d still fix me up with her friend.”

“Or tell us whether she thinks Jeff really left town,” Truman said. “She told Ronnie she was working tonight. In fact, he’s supposed to take her out to dinner after she gets off. Yeah, sure, I could stand a cold beer. Been a long day.”

Truman hadn’t been in a strip joint since he was in the marines.

Not that he was a prude, or that Nellie wouldn’t have allowed it. Paying to watch naked women wasn’t his style. Anyway, Nellie always did claim he liked his thrills homegrown.

The bouncer was a woman, short, built like a fire hydrant. She had a peroxided-blond crew cut and a bright orange tank top to better display a powerful set of trapezoids and biceps.

“Ten bucks cover charge. Happy-hour beer is five bucks a pitcher. Free buffet. You coming in or what?”

“Senior citizen discount?” Truman asked, reaching for his AARP card.

“You’re kidding, right?” the woman asked. “You ask me, we should charge extra for dirty old men like you. In case you need oxygen or your pacemaker gives out.”

“Watch it,” Eddie warned. “Have some respect, here, huh?” He reached for his own wallet, which was attached to his belt by a thick, chrome-plated chain. His stubby fingers extracted a twenty. He pushed the money through the window at the blonde.

“No, no,” Truman protested. “I pay my own way. I was just surprised it was so much. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a place like this.”

“No shit,” the blonde drawled.

“Come on, Truman,” Eddie said. “I’ll let you buy the first pitcher.”

It had been over forty years since Truman had been in a strip bar, but one thing hadn’t changed: the smells. A thick blue cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the low-ceilinged room. It smelled like sour beer and aftershave, sweat and rancid grease.

There was a horseshoe-shaped bar at one end of the room, a long, neon-lit stage with a runway that projected out into the room, and in between, a sea of tables and chairs. The bar was lined with customers, the tables half full.

Onstage, colored light-bulbs flashed on and off, and a milky-white spotlight lit up three girls who wore wisps of cheesy see-through lingerie and bored expressions while they writhed around to a background of rap music. At least that’s what Truman thought it was. The music had a dull, thudding bass-line with multiple female voices dully reciting an invitation to “Do the Dirty Thang.”

Eddie led the way to a table near the stage. As soon as they were seated, a waitress appeared. She was wearing a black leather bikini with a metal-studded dog collar around her neck.

“You gentlemen like some champagne?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

Something else that hadn’t changed.

“No thanks,” Truman said quickly. “A pitcher of beer. It’s five bucks, right?”

“Miller or Bud? Imports are extra.”

Truman looked questioningly at Eddie.

“Bud,” Eddie said. He was bouncing his head up and down to the music, his eyes fixed on the girls onstage.

“I thought you said LeeAnn was working tonight,” Eddie shouted over the din.

“I saw her go in here, right before four,” Truman shouted back.

The waitress came back with their beer. It had a three-inch-thick head of foam.

“That’s five dollars,” she told them. “Either of you guys like a table dance? Fifty bucks. Lap dances are a hundred. Cash. MasterCard or Visa. No personal checks.”

“Not for me,” Truman said. .

“Nah,” Eddie said, clearly disappointed at the fee schedule. “Is LeeAnn working tonight?”

“She’s here,” the girl said.

“Can you do us a favor?” Truman asked. “Tell her Jeff’s friends would like to say hello.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “Ask her to come out to our table.”

The girl put one hand on her hip. She was so thin her pelvic bone protruded from the waistband of the thong bottom. “This is a business,” she said. “Favors aren’t free. Personal messages are ten bucks. And LeeAnn’s not supposed to fraternize with the customers. Not for free, anyway.”

Reluctantly, Truman reached for his wallet. Ronnie hadn’t mentioned payday yet. He had a twenty, a five, and some ones. He gave the girl the twenty and the five.

“Five for the beer, ten for you, ten for LeeAnn,” he said.

“Whoopee,” she said, flouncing off.

Truman was feeling queasy. The Candy Store’s free buffet consisted of Buffalo chicken wings, cold tacos, and cocktail wienies floating in some gelatinous red sauce. He’d tossed the food down quickly, along with two big mugs of beer. It was free, wasn’t it? He leaned against the Dumpster in back of the Candy Store and wished for antacid tablets.

“You think she’ll come?” Eddie asked.

“She’d better,” Truman said, swallowing hard to quench a rising bubble of gas. “I’ve got twenty dollars invested in her already.”

“Why are you so interested in Jeff? I mean, it ain’t like you knew him or nothing.”

Truman gave Eddie the condensed version of the whole story, leaving out the part about the FDLE’s involvement. “We’re pretty sure your friend Jeff is dead. And one of those guys across the street killed him. If I can find out what’s going on, we’ll nail these clowns. And I’ll have myself a story. Front-page byline. Exclusive to the
St. Petersburg Times
. By Truman Kicklighter.”

“Jeff’s really dead?” Eddie asked, kicking at the edge of a pothole in the parking lot. “Man, it don’t seem real.”

A heavy steel fire door opened slowly and noisily.

LeeAnn Pilker stepped down into the parking lot. She was wearing an oversized Tampa Bay Bucs football jersey and a pair of rubber flip-flops. Backlit that way, Truman could tell she hadn’t bothered with undergarments. She flipped her hair back over her shoulders, the way she’d done when she came into the showroom.

“Hi, Eddie.”

She looked Truman up and down. “I know you. From across the street. At Ronnie’s place. The note said you were Jeff’s friend. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This is Truman,” Eddie said quickly. “He’s a buddy of mine, actually. What’s this bullshit about Jeff leaving town, LeeAnn? He didn’t say nothing to me about getting a new job.”

She shrugged. “Guess it was sudden.”

“Real sudden,” Truman said. “I overheard you asking Ronnie if he’d heard from Jeff. Don’t you know where he is?”

“I’m not his wife or anything,” LeeAnn said. “We went out a couple times, that’s all.”

“Not what Jeff told me,” Eddie said. “What he told me—he paid for those hooters you’re in there shaking for the money.”

“Loaned me some money,” LeeAnn corrected him. “They’re not paid for yet. That’s why I was looking for your sorry-ass friend. It was his idea, not that it’s any of your business.”

“What idea?” Truman asked.

“These,” she said, thrusting her chest forward. “The implants. That surgery hurt like hell, too. Those lying doctors. And I had bruises for weeks. The customers all thought I was into bondage or something.”

She glanced backward, toward the door. “Look. I gotta go. I got a date, and I don’t want the boss to see me out here. We’re not supposed to hang around outside. It gives the vice cops the wrong idea.”

“You’re going out with Ronnie Bondurant,” Truman said. “How would Jeff feel about your dating his boss?”

She toyed with a strand of hair, shifted from one foot to the other. “Jeff’s gone,” she said finally. “I got bills to pay. I gotta look out for myself.”

Jackie and Ollie were in the Fountain of Youth lobby watching an old black-and-white movie, arguing about the identity of the actor playing the French foreign legion officer.

“Dirk Bogarde,” Ollie said.

Jackie looked up as Truman pushed through the front door. “Mr. K,” she called. “Tell Ollie that that’s Humphrey Bogart on the TV.”

Truman sank down into the sofa beside Jackie. “You’re both wrong. It’s Yves Montand.”

“Who?” Jackie asked.

“You’re too young,” Truman said wearily, rubbing at his eyes. “You still got any coffee left in the kitchen?”

“Coffee?” Jackie said suspiciously. “Why are you drinking coffee this late? You’re going somewhere, aren’t you? It’s about my car, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. Hernando Boone—the big guy you saw that night you went back to Bondurant’s—he came in to see Ronnie today, right at closing time. I think they’re mixed up in some kind of insurance scam. I overheard them talking about meeting at midnight, out at Weedon Island, by the old Florida Power plant.”

Jackie leaned over and started lacing up her sneakers. “Gimme just a minute and I’ll be ready. I’ve got a flashlight in my room.”

“Absolutely not,” Truman said. “These people are hopped up on some kind of drugs. They’re dangerous. I just came home to put on some dark clothes and get some Rolaids. My stomach is in flames. Anyway, I’ve got a flashlight in my car.”

Jackie jumped up from the sofa. “Two flashlights are better. And I know all about how bad these dudes are. I saw Jeff’s body, remember?”

Truman changed into a threadbare pair of dark trousers and a navy-blue sport shirt, got a box of Rolaids from his room, then brought the station wagon around to the front of the hotel. Jackie was waiting at the curb, a black gym bag slung over her shoulder.

A light drizzle had started to fall, so quiet and fine it was more of a mist, really, and clouds of steam rose up from the hot pavement. Tampa Bay was only half a mile away, and sometimes, at night like this, a breeze off the bay would waft across and set the palm trees planted down Fourth Street a-rustle, making the summer nights almost tolerable. Tonight was not such a night.

Jackie got in the Nova. It still bothered him, her insisting on going along. What if there was shooting? None of the parties involved in this deal tonight were playing with a full deck, as far as Truman was concerned. Anything could happen. “This isn’t right, your going along like this.”

She leaned her elbow on the open windowsill, then reached over and switched on the radio to avoid arguing with him. The station was Truman’s favorite big-band station. Woody Herman and his band were playing “Laura.” This was Woody’s earlier band, The Wood-choppers. He liked them better than The Thundering Herd, which was too jazzy for his taste.

“What would your mother say about all this? Running around at night, getting mixed up with criminals?” he demanded.

Jackie didn’t talk much about her family. He knew she called her mother every day and went over to her house to visit at least once a week. Jackie was the youngest of four girls. One was in the army, stationed at Fort Benning, one was married, with kids, and lived somewhere in Ohio, and Charleen, the one closest in age to Jackie, was unmarried, with two babies and another on the way. He’d met Nita, the mother, only once—in May, when Jackie brought her to the Ponce de Leon Room for Mother’s Day lunch.

Nita was an older, heavier version of her youngest daughter, with the same smooth, light-brown skin, big, long-lashed eyes, even the same tiny gap between the top front teeth, a gap that showed a lot because they both tended to smile frequently.

“What my mama don’t know won’t hurt her,” Jackie said tartly. “Besides, if you knew what my sisters put her through, you’d say I was an angel on earth, compared to those three. Besides, Mama’s not afraid of nothin’. It was my daddy who worried everything to death. ‘Lock the doors!’ ‘Be home at ten!’ ‘Take a quarter for the pay phone.’”

“He died while you were in high school?”

“My senior year,” Jackie said softly, looking out the window. “He had a heart attack at work. First week of May. He didn’t even get to see me in my cap and gown.”

“Too bad,” Truman said. “You turned out fine. I bet he’d be proud.”

“Maybe,” Jackie said. She was a young woman with strong ideas. The Glenn Miller Orchestra came on the radio, and the song was “Little Brown Jug.” Jackie made fun of the words, but he noticed she sang along after the second chorus.

“This is a long way away,” she said, looking out the window at the unfamiliar scenery after the song was over. “I’ve never been out here. This is Gandy Boulevard, right?”

“Those lights up ahead are the dog track,” Truman said. “You remember that, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jackie said.

“If I remember right, there’s a good road in back of the track. Nobody ever used to come out this way. Hell, I haven’t been out here in years myself,” Truman admitted. “We used to come out here by boat with a buddy of mine, years ago. Good fishing, or at least it used to be.”

“What exactly are we going to do?” Jackie asked. “Hide in the car?”

“Not the car,” Truman said. “Ronnie and Wormy know what I drive. I’ll know better when we get there. We’re looking for a lot of construction equipment,” he told her. “Probably after we cross over Riviera Bay up ahead.”