Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split (27 page)

“Give it to the cops,” Truman said. “This was a one-shot deal.”

“Too bad,” Marian said. “Saturday is the Festival of States race.”

“That’s a good one?” Jackleen asked.

“Biggest program of the year,” Marian said. “It’s a stakes race, so all the winningest dogs of the year race that night. The best dogs bring out the big bettors and big crowds. The more people bet, the more money you can win.”

“Mr. K?” Jackie said when Marian was gone. “How much?”

“Our share? Roughly six thousand dollars.”

“Oh my God,” Jackleen said. “Oh my God.”

Tammi stood up and looked down at Wade with an expression of pure loathing. He was slumped over on the table, glassy- eyed and mournful.

“Let’s go get the disk,” he mumbled. “Gimme the gun.”

“Shut up,” Tammi said. By her own reckoning, the old man and his friends had cleared at least a couple thousand. Halfway through the night, when it was clear just how useless Wade was, she’d made up her mind about a plan of action.

“I’m out of here,” she announced.

“Hey,” Wade protested. “Wait for me.”

She took a dollar bill from her purse and slapped it down on the table. “Take the bus.”

Jackleen opened her eyes, yawned, and shifted in her seat. She looked out the window at the passing scenery. The streetlights flickered off. Six-thirty and it was still nearly pitch dark outside.

Mama had taken the car today. She had to get to work at Publix by 4 a.m. to start baking pies, and Jackie didn’t like her having to walk to the bus stop alone so early in the morning.

Her stop was coming up. She yanked the bell cord and stood up. The bus heaved to a stop, shuddered once, and the pneumatic doors flung open.

Jackie picked up her tote bag and stepped off the bus.

The street was quiet, deserted. Stores on this block wouldn’t be open for two more hours yet. She shifted her tote bag to her right hand and started walking the half block to the hotel.

Someone grabbed her, rudely, from behind. An arm clasped tight around her neck, so tight it lifted her off her feet. She tried to scream, tried to kick, but now she was being dragged off the street, into the alley.

The alley was dark and smelled of urine and rotted garbage. She was choking, gasping for breath. Her attacker’s free hand roamed over her, touching her pockets, now ripping at her tote bag.

For a moment the pressure around her neck relaxed a bit. She tucked her chin forward and sank her teeth into the big hairy forearm.

She bit down until she tasted warm salty blood.

Her attacker screamed in pain, but kept yanking at her arm, the one holding the tote bag. She let go of it suddenly and her attacker released his hold on her for a second.

It was all the time she needed. She whirled around and saw him for the first time. He was tall, maybe six-three, white, clean-shaven with brownish hair and an arm that was now dripping blood. Jackie moved closer and he grabbed her around the neck again. She jerked her knee upward with all the force she could muster, into his crotch.

He howled in agony. She took off running and didn’t look back until she was inside the lobby of the hotel.

Out of breath, she collapsed into an armchair to try to catch her breath. She was still sitting there, trying to collect her wits, when Mr. Wiggins, the dining room manager, came looking for her.

“There are three tables full on your station,” he said, in that snippy tone of voice he had. “Are you planning on joining us today?”

“I was mugged,” Jackie gasped. “Just now. A block from here. A man grabbed me as I was getting off the bus. He dragged me into an alley.”

Mr. Wiggins raised one eyebrow. “You weren’t hurt?”

“No,” she said, shivering. “Just scared.”

“Good,” Mr. Wiggins said. “I suggest you get to your station then. You can call the police and report the attack after the last seating.”

He hurried away. The thug who’d attacked her hadn’t hurt her, but Jackie was hoping he’d have some stitches in his arm to remind him of her. He had her tote bag, but not her wallet, which was at home.

Then it struck her. Her shoes. Her eighty-five-dollar, brand-spanking-new white work shoes that she’d bought with her racetrack money. She looked down at the broken- down loafers she’d worn on the bus. “Shit.”

Truman finished his deep knee bends and looked at the clock on his bedside table. Only 7 a.m. The sky outside was still plum-colored and streaked with pink and yellow. He opened his window and stuck out his head, and looked way, way off to the right, so that he could see the glimmer of Tampa Bay in the distance. There was a slight chop on the water this morning.

Beautiful day coming, he thought with satisfaction.

He knelt down on the floor and slipped his hand down in the space between the wall and the radiator, bringing out a brown envelope. The disk was still there and so was most of the money. He took out a twenty and wedged the envelope back into its hiding place.

It made him uneasy, keeping the cash in his room like this, but he didn’t feel right about putting it in the bank yet, either. He didn’t plan on keeping the money for long, anyway. They’d decided yesterday: one more trip to the track, to try to win enough money for the down payment on his unit. The Festival of States race.

He put on a sweater, locked his door, and headed downstairs.

Ollie had just finished unlocking the pull-down door at the newsstand when Truman strolled up.

“Pearl’s coming home this morning,” Ollie announced, pushing a box of HavaTampas across the counter. “The doctor put her on some new blood pressure medicine. Haven’t seen you around lately.”

Truman pushed the cheap cigars away. “No thanks. Let me have a box of those Cubana Selectas, will you?”

Ollie had to stand up on his stool to reach the shelf where he kept the expensive stock. “They’re twelve dollars a box,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“I know,” Truman said. He selected a Sports Illustrated and plunked it facedown on the counter, adding a package of razor blades, a pack of gum, and a ladies’ magazine. The gum was for Mel, the magazine for Pearl.

“Swimsuit edition, eh?” Ollie said coyly.

“Good story in there about spring training,” Truman said.

He collected his change and started for the door. He wanted to stroll around the block, smoke one of those cigars before breakfast.

“You hit the lottery?” Ollie asked. “Sure are throwing money around good all of a sudden.”

“Got four numbers right this week,” Truman lied. “Decided to treat myself.”

“Thought you and me were gonna have a talk,” Ollie said, leaning over the counter, getting right up in Truman’s face. “Thought you were gonna tell me about that computer thing.”

Truman felt his face flushing. “Computer thing?” He glanced down at his watch. “I’ve got to be going. I’m making some phone calls, a little research on the Church of Cosmic Unity. I’ll look you up this afternoon. All right?”

He hurried for the door.

The last thought that entered his mind was this: Have to be more careful.

A second later he heard a loud bang, accompanied by a metallic grinding noise. Turning, he was confronted with a blur of shiny black paint and a gleaming chrome bumper. The bumper nicked his thigh. Truman leapt sideways, slamming up against a brick storefront.

He turned to scream at the driver, but all he saw was a flash of blond hair as the car fishtailed back off the sidewalk and onto the street, taillights glowing in the dawn shadows.

Ollie was on the sidewalk now, breathless with excitement. “Jesus Christ, Truman,” he said. “An inch closer and that crazy broad woulda mowed you right down. You okay?”

Truman looked down at his leg. His slacks were ripped on the left knee where the bumper had grazed him, and there was a sharp stinging. A dark stain was spreading on the fabric. His right shoulder hurt, too, from where he’d banged up against the brick storefront.

“Did you get the license number?”

Ollie looked shamefaced. “Geez, I’m sorry. It was all so fast.”

“Never mind,” Truman said. “I’m all right. Shook up a little, that’s all.”

“Goddamn crazy women drivers,” Ollie said, shaking his fist at nothing in particular. “They’ll kill us all. You wanna go back in the stand while I call the cops?”

“Cops? What for? There’s nothing they can do. I’ll see you later, Ollie.”

He limped off down the street.

Truman unlocked the door and went into his room.

“What the—?”

His neat-as-a-pin, everything-in-its-place room looked as if it had been hit by a whirlwind.

He shut his eyes and leaned against the doorjamb. He was drenched in sweat, exhausted. His knee was throbbing.

He limped over to the radiator and slipped his hand down in the space in back of it. The envelope was there. The cash and disk were still inside. He took the disk out, then put the envelope with the cash back in its hiding place. Was it worth it? he wondered. Maybe it was time to call the cops.

He hefted the mattress back onto the boxspring, grunting at the effort, and sank down on the bed. The phone rang.

“Mr. Truman Kicklighter?” The voice was a woman’s, faint over the long-distance lines.

“You’ll have to speak up,” Truman said irritably.

“Can you hear me now?” She was almost shouting.

“I’m not deaf,” he said. “You can tone it down a little.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Listen, my name is Leda Aristozobal. I live in Austin, Texas—”

“And you’re interested in Jewell Newby and the Church of Cosmic Unity,” Truman said, sitting up now. “How the hell did you find me? I’ve been meaning to call you.”

She laughed. “I called the newspaper in Scottsdale to get them to send me photocopies of their files on Newby and the woman mentioned that she’d talked to you. Um, she was under the impression you worked for the
St. Petersburg Times
. But I called there and they said they didn’t have a reporter by that name.”

“I lied,” Truman said briskly. “That a problem for you?”

She chuckled. Her voice was deep, faintly accented. “I admire tenaciousness. Maybe we could help each other.”

“You work for the Texas Department of Revenue, that right?”

“That’s right,” she said.

“You folks know your Reverend Newby’s church bought the hotel I live in here in St. Pete, don’t you?”

“I figured he was up to something there,” Ms. Aristozobal said. “Let me guess. They’re converting it to condominium units. Right?”

“The Fountain of Youth Residential Hotel,” Truman said. “That’s the name of it. It’s no Ritz, but it’s cheap and it’s comfortable and there’s quite a few of us here who’re going to be out of a home if Newby’s condo scheme works.”

“I’m sorry about that,” she said.

“What kind of tricks has he been up to out there in Texas?”

“Same kind of thing,” Ms. Aristozobal said. “He bought a small apartment complex here in Austin, over near the University of Texas campus. He kicked out the tenants, mostly students and older people, and converted it to condos for—quote—church members.”

“Is that illegal?” Truman asked.

“Not in and of itself,” she admitted. “But the way Reverend Newby conducts his church business raises some interesting questions about his church’s tax-exempt status.”

“Oh?”

“He’s since bought a shopping center and a little restaurant near campus,” Ms. Aristozobal told him. “Quite an empire he’s building. And, you know, the State of Texas wouldn’t mind collecting taxes on some of that. If we can prove it’s a profit-making enterprise he’s running rather than a bona fide religious organization.”

“Don’t know if there’s much I can tell you,” Truman said. “I don’t know anything about the church itself. I know nobody’s tried to recruit us to join.”

“You’re not rich enough,” she said. “I was sort of hoping … Oh well,” she said briskly, “I wish you luck.”

“Hold on now,” Truman said. “Can’t you give us some ammunition to keep him out of our hotel?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Truman said, feeling hopeless. “They’ve already started knocking down walls and messing stuff up. The lobby looks like a demolition derby. We’ve had some crime too. A neighbor was attacked in her room this week. Guy just walked right in the hotel.”

“He’s already starting with the nuisance stuff, huh?”

“Nuisance stuff?”

“Construction. People bothering and harassing tenants. It’s a game he plays—a game designed to make the tenants give up and vacate before they’re legally obligated to do so,” she said.

“Can we do anything to stop it?” Truman asked.

“Depends on how good your lawyer is,” she said. “Your tenant group has hired a lawyer to fight it, haven’t they?”

“There was some talk about that,” Truman said. “Tell you the truth, I’ve been kind of preoccupied, don’t know if they did or not.”