Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split (30 page)

“Northeast corner of Beach and Third,” Truman repeated, trying to picture it. “That’s Little St. Mary’s.”

“A church?” Kenyon asked.

Carmichael cracked a smile. It was the first one anybody had seen in the house in nearly twenty-four hours.

“It’s a bathroom,” Carmichael explained. “Sixty years ago this builder had a beef with St. Mary’s Church. You know, the big red brick one on Fourth Street South? Something about unpaid bills. I heard they stiffed the guy. So a few years later he’s hired to build restrooms for the city right there at Beach Drive at the foot of the Municipal Pier. He builds the most beautiful civic outhouse you ever saw—an exact miniature of the church.”

“You’ll see it tomorrow,” Carmichael promised. “Up close and personal.”

It had been years since Truman had seen a Festival of States parade. When Cheryl was a kid, he and Nellie went every year. They sat on the same corner every year, outside Mastry’s Bar and Grill, ate the same ham sandwiches, and cheered for the same beauty queens. They loved the bands and elaborate floats—but Cheryl always covered her ears when the Hernando de Soto Festival float came into view, bristling with savage buccaneers and a live, booming cannon.

Today they were on a different corner, but Cheryl was with him, clutching his hand as tightly as she had when she was eight. The corner was thronged with people; they’d had to jostle their way through the mob, even at 8 a.m., to claim a spot on the curb.

“Dad, I’m scared,” Cheryl confessed. Her hand in his was sweaty, or was it his hand? It was ten-forty-five, almost two hours into the parade. Dark clouds had threatened rain around nine, but mercifully the clouds scudded off to the west and the sun burned its way through the morning mists. Now it beat down mercilessly, eighty-seven degrees already.

Truman squeezed Cheryl’s hand. “It’ll be all right, honey. We’ve got company, remember?”

Standing right next to them, wearing a sun visor and loud plaid shorts, was a female police detective named Mindy. There were more plainclothes detectives lurking around inside and outside Little St. Mary’s. Across the street, wearing a fishing vest and carrying a long-lens 35mm camera and a press badge, was Matt Carmichael.

Kenyon, the FBI man, had passed by twice, pushing a shopping cart loaded with stuffed animals, bags of cotton candy, and helium-filled balloons.

There were still more cops stationed up and down the parade route. “Oh,” Cheryl said, glancing to her right. “Don’t look, Dad, but Bobby’s right there.”

“Where?” Truman asked, glancing around.

“I told you not to look,” she chided him. “He’s standing on the curb. He’s got on a white baseball cap and he’s carrying binoculars.”

“Look,” Truman said, pointing up the street. “Here comes the Shriner units. Remember how much you used to love their funny cars and all the clowns?” Under his breath he muttered, “I see him now.”

Cheryl snorted. “As I recall, you were the one who was so enthralled by those silly Shriners. You used to threaten Mama that you’d join the Shriners just so you could drive one of those go-carts.”

“Hey, Dad,” Cheryl said, nodding slightly to their left. “Didn’t you say Jackleen was supposed to work today?”

Truman turned and saw Jackie standing half a block down, staring intently at the passing unit, which consisted of eight old rattletrap Model A pickup trucks loaded with members of a hillbilly band. The cars bucked and snorted, backfired and spewed black smoke all over the street, drawing screams of laughter from the crowd.

“She was supposed to work, but I knew she’d be down here,” Truman said. “She feels as bad as I do about the whole thing.”

“It’s five of,” Cheryl said, glancing down at her watch.

“I can’t take this. I really can’t. Do you think they’ll bring Chip with them?”

“They might,” he said. Secretly he figured if the kidnappers made good on their promise, they would leave Chip somewhere else. A parade with four hundred thousand witnesses was just too risky.

“Think about something else, honey. Hey. You know, we’ve never brought Chip down to this parade, have we?”

“Not since he was a baby,” Cheryl said sadly.

“Next year, what say we do it? Bring him down to Mastry’s, sit on the curb together?”

“I’ll make the ham sandwiches,” Cheryl said, attempting a smile.

They heard a sudden roar then and the hillbilly unit gave way to a battalion of motorcycle-riding Shriners. The riders wore jeweled red fezzes, red jackets, and rode the biggest, loudest Harley-Davidsons Truman had ever seen. Slowly, they rode in and out of fancy formations—stars, interlocking circles, pinwheels.

From out of nowhere three dozen red-wigged clowns on mopeds swarmed the street. The clowns buzzed in and out of the motorcycle formations like small, annoying gnats, riding inches away from the powerful Harleys, then veering away only seconds before a collision. The street filled with the thick white smoke from the motorcycles’ exhausts.

Next the clowns launched an assault on the crowds lining the streets, careening toward a throng and screeching to a heart-stopping halt right at the curb, pitching handfuls of candy and phony foil doubloons, causing adults and children to spill onto the pavement to grab for the treats.

Truman bent down to pick up a piece of candy at his feet.

“The disk, man, gimme the disk.” A moped-riding clown sped up alongside Truman, so close he could see the cracks in the clown’s white pancake makeup.

He heard Cheryl gasp, and without thinking he held out the disk. A moment later the clown disappeared into the smoke-filled street, joining three dozen other identical clowns on wheels.

Truman turned to the plainclothes detective beside him, but she was gone, running into the street, trying to get closer to the clown unit.

Carmichael, across the street, had seen the exchange take place through the long lens of his camera. He was sprinting along the other side of the street, trying vainly to keep up with the unit, which was moving in a ragged formation rapidly down the block.

Now Kenyon came running past, his shopping cart abandoned.

“Where’s Chip?” Cheryl cried, her voice cracking. “Where is he?”

Bobby Roberts rushed over. “What happened?” he asked. “I couldn’t see anything. One of those Harleys nearly mowed me down.”

“A clown. On a moped,” Truman said, craning his neck to see up the street. “He took the disk. Carmichael and Kenyon are following them.”

By now the motorcycle unit was a distant hum. The parade finish line was two blocks down the street.

Two police motorcycle units roared down the street past Truman and Cheryl, sirens blaring, lights flashing.

“I’m going to see if they need any help,” Bobby said, dashing off.

Cheryl buried her head in Truman’s shoulder. “What happens now?” she asked.

They had agreed to meet under the banyan trees in Bayboro Park, near the parade finish line, by no later than eleven-thirty. They had to fight their way through throngs of people, packing up to leave.

The streets were clogged with traffic, all of it at a standstill. Uniformed traffic cops tried vainly to unsnarl the mess, and frustrated motorists sat in their unmoving cars, honking horns out of boredom.

Carmichael was standing under the banyan tree, gulping water from a cup when they arrived. His face glowed beet red and his shirt was drenched with sweat.

“We lost him,” he said glumly. “Kenyon didn’t want us getting too close, afraid we’d spook the guy. We followed that clown unit all the way to the finish line, right down by the Yacht Basin. You know how many guys they got dressed in those clown outfits? Forty- two.”

“Lost him?” Cheryl said incredulously. “What does that mean?”

“We did find the guy who owned the moped, locked in one of those motorcycle trailers,” Carmichael said. “Guy nearly died of heat prostration too. It must have been over one hundred fifteen degrees in there.”

“Did he see who stole the moped?”

“Nah,” Carmichael said. “Those guys have been up, drinking beer, partying, since 7 am. Our guy went behind his trailer to take a leak, somebody hit him on the head. Next thing he knows, he’s in his skivvies, minus his costume, locked inside the trailer.”

Kenyon walked up now, mopping his own sweat- streaked face with a handkerchief. “We found the moped,” he reported. “It was abandoned behind a construction trailer a few blocks from here. They’re processing it now for prints.”

“The clown wore white gloves,” Truman said.

“Figures,” Kenyon said. He put his hand on Truman’s shoulder. “We need to get you and your daughter back to her house. They’ve got what they want now. They know that the longer they keep Chip, the riskier it is that they’ll get caught.”

Cheryl’s face was pale, drained of emotion. “They’ll call now, right, Mr. Kenyon? To tell us where Chip is?”

“Hey, Mr. K!” It was Jackleen, jogging toward the group, a tall plastic drink cup in each hand.

“I brought you a drink,” she said as she drew closer. “Y’all like blueberry Slur—”

She was almost beside them when her foot caught something and she tripped.

Truman reached out and grabbed her arm to keep her from falling, and twenty ounces of icy blue ooze sloshed down his shirtfront.

“—pees?” Jackleen righted herself and looked at the empty cup, then at Truman. His shirt and trousers were covered with Slurpee. “Oh no,” she gasped.

Kenyon handed Truman his handkerchief, and Truman dabbed ineffectively at the mess.

“I’m so sorry,” Jackie wailed.

“Look at this,” Truman said, annoyed. “This stuff is sticky as hell.” He looked at Jackie. “Can you give me a ride back to the hotel so I can change?”

“Sure,” she said. “I’m parked in a lot two blocks away, shouldn’t take any time to get there.”

Kenyon glanced down at his watch. “We’ll take you home, Cheryl. They could call at any time. Mr. Kicklighter, should we send someone to the hotel to get you?”

“I’ll be right there,” Truman promised. “Jackie can bring me.”

“Hurry,” he said when they were out of earshot of the others.

“I said I was sorry,” she said. “Your fault anyway, it was your foot I tripped over.”

“We’re not going back to the hotel,” he said when they were in the car, moving into traffic.

“What?”

“Those cops lost the clown,” Truman said. “The kidnappers aren’t going to just hand Chip over. I’ve got an idea.”

“What?” she said warily.

“Take me back to that tourist court,” Truman told her. “I want to see if Wade’s been back there. Maybe he’s got Chip.”

“You’re crazy,” she said, but she did as he said.

They parked near the manager’s office. “Now what?”

Jackie said. “That guy might have a gun. You think of that?”

Truman scanned the horseshoe-shaped courtyard. On the porch next to the manager’s office he saw a familiar face.

“Hey there, D’Antonio,” he said, getting out of the car.

The boy looked up from his paperback novel,
Encyclopedia Brown
.

“Y’all the police,” D’Antonio said, getting up and coming up to them.

“That’s right,” Truman said. “Have you been playing James Bond again, D’Antonio?”

The child looked warily around. “Y’all won’t tell my auntie?”

Truman and Jackleen promised.

“Wade been back here and now he got a girlfriend,” D’Antonio said. “That blond lady, the one with the black car? She come back over here and Wade be with her. They got another white dude with ‘em too.”

“When was this?” Truman asked eagerly.

The child screwed up his face and thought. “This week. After I saw y’all.”

“Did you look in the window?” Truman asked.

The child gave them a conspiratorial grin. “Uh-huh. Wade be typing on that computer, and the others be yelling at him, telling him to hurry up.”

“Say, D’Antonio,” Truman said. “You haven’t seen them with a little boy, have you? A blond-headed little boy?”

“Nah,” D’Antonio said. “They ain’t been back since then. I been watching too.”

Truman’s face sagged with disappointment. “All right.” He reached in his pocket. He brought out one of his old business cards, scribbled out the office number, and wrote in his number at the hotel. “If you see them again, you call me, okay? It’s really important. Can you do that?”

D’Antonio nodded eagerly. Truman took out a five-dollar bill and handed it to the child.

They were in the car, getting ready to leave, when D’Antonio ran up to them. “Hey, mister,” he said, showing them the back of his hand, the numbers written there in fading blue ink. “I wrote down that white lady’s license plate number, like the crime dog say on TV. You want that?”

He found a pay phone at a convenience store nearby and sent Jackie in with money to buy him a clean T-shirt.

“Gibby?”

“Hey, Truman,” Frank Gibhart sounded concerned. “I heard about your grandson. What the hell are you mixed up in over there?”