Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course (33 page)

“We’ll take care of it,” Weingarten said curtly.

“Wait a minute, damnit. Did you hear me? Tripp has Jackleen Canaday. She’s been shot, I think. He’s driving a seventies gold two-tone Monte Carlo. I don’t know the license plate number. Tripp intends to dump Jackie’s body in one of those canals on Weedon, then meet up with Bondurant at…”

“We’re aware of the situation,” Weingarten said, interrupting. “Stay away from Weedon Island, Mr. Kicklighter. You’ll just be in the way. Go home. Watch the eleven o’clock news. Channel eight.”

“You called in a television crew?” Truman was incredulous. “You idiot. I told you, Tripp has Jackie. We think she’s still alive. And he could be anywhere on that island. If he gets wind that anybody’s onto him, he’ll finish the job and dump her. There are alligators in those canals, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’ve got to keep this line clear for official communications,” Weingarten said. “Good-bye, Mr. Kicklighter.”

“Son of a bitch,” Truman said. He was going so much faster than the rest of the traffic, nobody could see him talking to himself. As if he cared now. He threw the cell phone on the seat next to him. “He’ll get Jackie killed. And give an exclusive on my story. To a television station.”

Jackie’s head felt like somebody had tried to chop it in two with an ax. It was the worst headache she’d ever had, and there was a place high up on the crown of her head that burned something fierce. She guessed the bullet had merely skimmed a new part in her hair. If there was a bullet lodged in her skull, she’d feel it, wouldn’t she?

At first, after she’d been shot, she’d been sure she was dead. Then, when Bondurant grabbed her, all she could think to do was lie still and play possum.

Up in the front seat, Billy Tripp was mumbling to himself.

The back of the Monte Carlo was like a rolling garbage can. Beer bottles, paint cans, old shoes, dirty clothes, a big plastic bucket full of junk.

Jackie snaked a hand down to the bucket, keeping her eyes nearly closed, watching Tripp to make sure he wasn’t watching her. She wondered where his gun was. The bucket was stuffed with rags, brushes, rollers, and a caulking gun. Too bad it wasn’t a real gun. Her fingertips probed silently until they closed on something useful.

She sat up quickly and jabbed the knife blade into the base of Tripp’s skull. “Don’t turn around,” she said fiercely. “Don’t you move, boy, or I’ll cut you ear to ear.”

Tripp stiffened. “I thought you were dead. Don’t cut me. Put the knife away. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You’re not gonna get the chance,” Jackie said, emboldened. “Take that gun of yours and toss it back here to me.”

Tripp did as she said. The gun was black and it looked and felt real.

She looked out the window and tried to get her bearings, but everything she saw looked out of context until she saw a street marker and realized they were on Fourth Street North. Up ahead, she saw a big gas station with a little convenience store in the middle.

“Turn in at this Texaco,” she said, jabbing at his neck. “And don’t try to pull anything.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked. But he signaled and turned into the gas station.

“Pretty snotty for a cracker boy with no gun and a knife in your neck, aren’t you?” she said. “We’re both getting out of this car now, and I’m going to call the police and tell them how you and your boss killed Jeff Cantrell and tried to kill me and toss me to the ‘gators. Then we’re going to sit and wait for your sorry butt to get put under arrest.”

“I didn’t kill anybody,” Billy protested. “Ronnie killed Jeff Cantrell. They tried to kill me. They did kill Weems.”

“Too bad they didn’t kill you,” Jackie said. “Anyway, I heard you tell Ronnie that Wormy was going to meet up with you at that motel. How’s a dead man going to a motel?”

“There’s no time for all this now,” Tripp said, sighing. “You’re screwing up everything. Look. I don’t work for Bondurant. I’m an undercover FDLE agent.”

“And I’m Aretha Franklin,” Jackie said.

“I work for Ed Weingarten. Your friend Truman knows him. We’ve been investigating Bondurant and Boone for a long time. I’ve been undercover two months. Tonight’s the night we bust them. Wormy is dead. If I don’t show up to meet Ronnie at that motel, he could get suspicious and blow town. He won’t go after Boone alone.”

“How do I know you’re not just making all this up?” Jackie asked, keeping the knife to his neck, but easing up a little, just in case.

“My service revolver is in a holster strapped to my ankle. My badge and ID are there, too,” Tripp said. “And there’s a microphone taped to my chest, under my shirt. I’ve been transmitting to our people. They’re parked in a van out near the Boy Scout camp. Take that knife off my neck and I’ll show you.”

“Wow,” she said after he showed her the badge and gun. “You could have shot me any time you wanted.”

“You could have cut me ear to ear,” he reminded her. “You called me a cracker boy.”

“That was bad manners,” Jackie said apologetically. “Anyway, it was only a putty knife. See?”

Truman reflexively eased off the gas when he saw all the flashing blue lights converging on the Texaco station at Sixty-second Avenue North. Probably another holdup, he thought, pitying the poor devils who had to work late nights at convenience stores.

He stopped at the light at Eighty-third Avenue and saw, out of the corner of his eye, a hideous yellow Monte Carlo go barreling right through the red light.

Tripp. It had to be. And if he really meant to dump Jackie’s body at Weedon Island, he’d just passed the turnoff for the quickest way there. He was still headed north on Fourth Street.

Truman zipped through the red light, too. When he was two car lengths back from the Monte Carlo, he backed off the accelerator. If Jackie was still alive, he didn’t want to spook Tripp. There was one other way to get to Weedon Island that Truman knew of. If the road was still there. It had been a long time.

Tripp made a sharp right onto Gandy Boulevard and Truman did the same. Now Tripp could do one of two things—turn right onto Sam Martin and the back way across Riviera Bay to Weedon, or keep going a few blocks east if he were headed to meet Bondurant at the Flora-Bama Motor Court.

The Monte Carlo didn’t slow as it passed the turnoff for Sam Martin. One, two, three, four blocks, then it veered left across traffic and into the parking lot of the Flora-Bama Motor Court. Truman passed the motel at a sedate speed, wishing that Eddie’s customized $40,000 tow truck wasn’t quite so conspicuous.

The Flora-Bama had been built in 1950 and the red neon VACANCY sign had been flashing since the end of the Nixon administration. There were three cars parked out front, but only one was a gray Lincoln, air-conditioning running but failing to cool Ronnie Bondurant’s temper.

Billy Tripp pulled up beside the Lincoln. The electric window slid open. “What the fuck took so long?” Ronnie demanded. “Boone isn’t going to hang around all night. Did you take care of the girl?”

“Boone’s still selling ribs off the back of that truck,” Billy said. “I checked. After I dumped the girl back in those mangroves. ‘Gators love mangroves. And dark meat.”

“You sure she’s dead? The last girl you were supposed to take care of is probably in Vegas by now.”

Billy sniggered. “I cut her throat. Ear to ear. She’s dead. Hey. Where’s Wormy?”

“How the fuck should I know? Probably zoned out of his skull somewhere. Forget him.”

Ronnie got out of the Lincoln and locked it up. “We’ll take the Monte Carlo. Boone knows my car.”

“Right,” Billy said loudly, doing that freaky head-bobbing thing with his head. “Right, Ronnie. We’ll take the Monte Carlo. Good idea.”

The Save-Inn was right next door to the Flora- Bama Motor Court and more modern by thirty years. Its mildewing yellow-adobe facade and cracked red-tile roof weren’t what filled up the parking lot on Friday nights. That would be the Save-Inn Lounge. Most of the vehicles were pickups. Truman parked the tow truck in a row of Chevys and Fords. He saw Bondurant climb into the Monte Carlo.

Truman eyed the other trucks. If Weingarten’s men really were “on top of the situation,” were some of them hiding in these trucks? Why didn’t they move in on Bondurant and Tripp right now? Before Jackie got hurt. Unless they planned to wait and catch them in the act of robbing Boone. Television news crews loved that kind of live-action stuff. And if innocent civilians got caught up in the crossfire, they could score even bigger ratings points.

After the Monte Carlo passed, Truman followed. All the Chevys and Fords stayed right where they were.

It was getting close to eleven o’clock. Hernando Boone was in a murderous mood. All night he’d been dickering with these people. What did he have to show for it? Maybe $15,000 in cash, rolled up in the pocket of his baggy silk warm-up pants. Now there were four women left, huddled up over there between their cars, trying to make up their minds about whether they wanted to pool their money and buy the last ten cases of ribs for a stinking hundred bucks. It was almost as bad as giving it away, but Boone didn’t care.

“Okay,” he yelled at the stragglers. “Closing time. You want the meat or not? Let’s go, folks.”

The frizzle-haired white lady was appointed to be the payee. “All right,” she said. “We’ll buy it.”

Boone held out his hand for the money and she started counting out the bills. “One dollar. Two dollars. Three dollars—”

“What’s this shit?” Boone roared. “No way. I don’t want no hundred singles. This ain’t bingo night, lady. Nothing smaller than a twenty. And hurry up.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, and she shuffled off to consult with the others.

Boone walked up the ramp to start moving the packing cases toward the back of the trailer. He turned. “Cash and carry,” he yelled at the women. “That means you gotta carry it off the truck. Or no sale.”

A new car pulled up fifty yards from the trailer, its headlights extinguished. The driver honked the horn twice. Boone stuck his head out of the trailer. “I’m closed,” he hollered, and he went back inside.

Beep. Beep.

“I’m closed, asshole. You’re too late.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Boone had been wanting to shoot somebody. Now he would. He came out of the trailer and started down the ramp, semiautomatic drawn.

Tripp reached for his own gun.

Ronnie Bondurant knocked his hand away. “Wait. Let him come closer. The stupid fucker still thinks we want to buy meat”

“He’ll shoot us, Ronnie,” Billy whined.

“Give him the horn again,” Ronnie ordered.

Beep.

Boone couldn’t believe this fool. He kept walking, gun pointed right at the car. What was it, a Monte Carlo, something like that? The driver had long hair. A woman. With a man beside her.

“One more step,” Ronnie said slowly. “Then hit him with the brights. Then you shoot.”

“Okay, Ronnie,” Billy repeated. “Boone takes one more step. Then we hit the brights and we kill him.”

“What are you, a fucking parrot?” Ronnie snarled.

Truman had been driving without lights since the turnoff at Weedon Drive. He was running slow and staying back. At the marker for the Boy Scout camp, he pulled off the road, backed in a dozen yards or so, and left the truck with the motor running.

He stayed off the paved road, struggling to jog along the soft, sandy shoulder. Every step reminded him of his age and the night’s events.

When he could see the lights of the construction site ahead, Truman swung wide to the right. It was slower going dodging around the heavy equipment and the stacks of materials, but this way there was less of a chance that he would be seen.

Now he could see a big white tractor-trailer rig, with green lettering on the side. A Publix truck out here? Somebody was honking a car horn. Two cars he’d never seen before were parked on the road. Fifty yards away, he saw the now familiar outline of the Monte Carlo.

Hernando Boone was yelling and walking straight toward the Monte Carlo, and he had a semi-automatic pistol aimed right at the car’s windshield. Tripp, behind the wheel, kept honking his horn.

Truman’s only plan was to keep anybody from shooting in or at the Monte Carlo. Jackie could be in the backseat, or even the trunk. He began running toward the Monte Carlo, Eddie’s bulky .38 clutched tightly in his hand.

Suddenly, two shafts of blinding white lights snapped on and were crisscrossing the trailer, Boone, and the Monte Carlo. Four middle-aged women he hadn’t noticed before were pulling short-barreled shotguns out of their phony Fendi handbags and now they were leaned across the hoods of their cars. One of the women, frizzy-haired, had a megaphone, too.

“This is the Florida Department of Law Enforcement,” her voiced boomed, echoing in the dark, swampy night. “Put your weapons down. You are under arrest.”

The door of the construction trailer burst open and six burly men wearing black commando gear came pouring out, brandishing yet more short-barreled shotguns.

Boone froze.

“Shoot, goddammnit,” Ronnie screamed at Billy. “Shoot!”