“Right here,” Ollie said. “And listen here. You drivers need to be more courteous to senior citizens. We pay your salary, you know.”
The driver slammed on the brakes, watching with grim satisfaction as the tiny man caromed off the back of her high-backed seat and into the empty seat in the next row.
They were late. Five minutes. Curtis had insisted that they put a real pizza pie inside the thermal case, in case they got stopped. “We can leave it there. The cops will go looking for a real pizza man.”
“Keep your head down,” Butch said quietly as they entered the condo lobby. There were closed-circuit cameras in the lobby aimed at the elevators. They’d worn baseball caps pulled down low.
In the elevator Butch whipped the ski mask out of his shirt pocket. Curtis followed suit.
“You know what to do?” Butch demanded.
Curtis nodded. He was busy pulling his mask over his head. It was hot. The wool was itchy and the eyeholes, they must have been made for a Chinaman or something. They were too close together. He twisted the mask to the right and to the left. But he could see out of only one eye-hole, no matter how he moved it around. “Daddy,” he said urgently, “I can’t—” The elevator stopped moving and the bell dinged softly. Six times. They were there. The door slid open. Butch put his foot out to keep it open. He felt a rush of adrenaline. It felt right. Everything was worked out to the last detail. Hit the apartment, pop the midget, get the money and jewelry VCR player. Deliver the pizza, that’s how he thought of it. Get rid of the shotgun and clothes and then head for Shacky’s.
He took a deep breath and glanced over at Curtis, who was fumbling with his mask and muttering something. Butch couldn’t tell what he was saying because the mask muffled his speech. “Let’s do it,” he said.
Three steps out of the elevator, four steps to the left. He peered around the elevator doors. The hall was deserted.
“Come on,” he hissed, grabbing Curtis’s arm. They were in front of the door. Butch pulled the baseball cap off and stuffed it in his pocket. The mask went on. Itchy. Hard to see. He rang the doorbell, held the thermal pizza box in front of him. “Pizza man,” he said loudly.
Cookie stirred on the sofa. The room was dark, its contents dim and spinning around. Jesus! She’d done two more lines of coke and drunk half a bottle of champagne. She felt dizzy. Nauseous. And there was that insistent buzzing in her ears.
Then she heard it. Muffled, but distinct. “Pizza.” Oh God, oh God! What time was it? Where was Ollie Zorn? She couldn’t remember him coming in, didn’t remember when Michael left.
The door buzzed again. “Pizza,” the man called again. She stumbled toward the light switch, banging her knees on the edge of the coffee table. Goddamn, that hurt. They’d wake up the whole fucking building at this rate. She found her robe, clutched it around her waist, and opened the door.
“Cut it out,” she whispered. The masked men on the other side pushed her aside. For a moment there the terror of seeing them made her forget. She started to scream.
What the hell was Cookie doing? She wasn’t supposed to scream. It wasn’t in the plan. Butch whipped out the sawed-off shotgun and thwacked her across the back of the head. The scream died in her throat and she crumpled to the floor.
“What the hell?”
Michael Streck walked into the living room from the bathroom; the light spilling from it barely illuminated the darkened room. He was dressed only in his boxers, and there were two masked men standing over Cookie. “What the fuck?” It was a hit. Nunz had sent someone to whack him.
His Beretta was in his pants. He dropped to the floor, groping for them.
“Look, Daddy,” Curtis said, awed. “He’s crawling. Begging us.”
Butch kept his eye on the man on the floor. Pretty tall for a midget, but then Cookie always did exaggerate.
Michael found the Beretta and stood up.
“He’s got a gun,” Curtis screamed.
Butch raised the twelve-gauge, pumped, and fired.
Blam. The first shell hit the glass coffee table, shattering the top and sending a shower of shards shooting into the air.
Michael screamed. Bits of glass pierced his face, chest, hands, and neck. “What the fuck?” He wiped the blood out of his eyes, pointed the pistol again.
Butch fired a second time. Michael was knocked backward, into the sliding glass doors, a gaping, grapefruit- sized wound in his chest. Now Fluffy was barking, yipping frantically, throwing himself again and again against the blood-spattered glass.
“Did you get him?” Curtis asked, whipping off the mask.
Butch already had his mask off. “I got him,” he said grimly. “Turn on the light. Let’s see if Cookie’s okay.”
Curtis stumbled around the room for a moment, feeling his way along the wall for a light switch. He stepped over the dead man and found a bank of switches on the wall near the French doors. With a single motion he flipped them on, bathing the room in harsh white light.
Butch and Curtis looked down at the dead man. Late thirties. Dark-haired, lean body. Definitely not a balding midget in his sixties.
“Uh-oh,” Curtis said.
Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
“Hey.” Jackleen said, nudging Truman. “Look at that.” They were working their way toward an exit gate, caught in a throng of like-minded racegoers who’d found that their luck had run out.
“Look at what?” Truman’s feet hurt, and his head throbbed. The whole night had been a wild-goose chase, he decided.
Jackie pointed to a woman ahead of them. She wore a red jacket and carried a set of clothes on hangers, draped over her back.
“That’s the same kind of uniform Marion was wearing,” Jackie said. “And she’s carrying street clothes.”
“Spell it out for me.”
“Lockers,” Jackie said, barely able to contain her excitement. “She works here, and she’s carrying her street clothes, so she must have changed into her uniform here. In a locker room.”
Jackie took out her key chain and jangled it, holding aloft a small silver key. “It’s to my locker at the hotel,” she said. “The waitresses have a little locker room off the kitchen. It even has a shower. Doesn’t my key look like Mel’s key?”
They were outside the track now, in the parking lot. The high-powered streetlights made it bright as daylight. Truman took the brass key out of his pocket and held it up against Jackleen’s. They were of approximately the same size and thickness.
“I’ll be damned,” Truman said. He turned around and looked at the turnstiles. “You think we should go back in and look some more?”
“They probably won’t let us back in,” she said reluctantly. “But we can come back tomorrow. I’m only working the breakfast shift.”
“I thought the track was closed Sundays.”
“Didn’t you see all the signs inside?” Jackie asked. “They don’t have live racing here tomorrow, but they broadcast races from other tracks around Florida on those television sets all over the place. They have off-track betting. That’s what that big satellite dish is for.”
Truman shook his head in disapproval. “You’d have to be a pretty hardcore gambler just to come over here for that.”
They’d reached Jackleen’s car. She handed him the key ring. “You drive, huh? I’m beat.”
He got in and looked for the seat belt, but there wasn’t one. “I’m supposed to have lunch with Cheryl and Chip tomorrow, but I can meet you out here after that. Say two o’clock?”
“No problem,” Jackleen said.
He started the engine. It turned over, wheezed, and died. Truman frowned, switched the ignition on again, and repeated the process.
“Give it a little gas,” Jackleen suggested, her eyes closed. “It’s kind of temperamental.”
“It’s a piece of crap,” Truman said, but he pumped the gas pedal, turned the key, and the engine fired, sending the car lurching forward.
Butch poured out a tall glass for himself. He set
the pitcher down and tossed the beer back, draining it in one long gulp. He paused, belched loudly, and poured a second mug.
“What about me?” Curtis asked.
Butch tossed back another mug of beer and belched again. “Better get your own pitcher, boy. My nerves are shot to hell.”
Curtis stalked over to the bar. The bartender, a tall, skinny man with Harley-Davidson tattoos on both his ropy forearms, regarded Curtis with friendly amusement.
“Hey there, buddy,” he greeted Curtis. “You and old Butch out tomcatting around without that cute little girlfriend tonight?”
“Uh, yeah,” Curtis said with little enthusiasm. “Me and Daddy been out drinking. Gimme another pitcher of Bud, will you, Lamar?”
Lamar drew the beer. “Y’all pretty thirsty tonight, I see.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Lamar,” Curtis said.
He took the full pitcher and walked carefully back to the table, trying hard not to slosh any beer on his shoes. They were the only pair of sneakers he had left now. Butch had made him throw out his favorite Nikes, along with the clothes and the twelve-gauge. After they’d left Cookie’s condo, he’d stripped and changed in the truck.
Butch drove a ways down Gulf Boulevard, toward Treasure Island, one of the string of tiny Gulf beach communities that went from Pass-a-Grille, to the south, all the way up to Clearwater on the far north end of Pinellas County. It was cool tonight and only a few tourists strolled along the sidewalks in front of the high-rise hotels and condo towers that lined the beach.
They crossed over a humpbacked bridge at John’s Pass, the cut between Tampa Bay and the Gulf that had been carved out by a long-ago hurricane. The last remnants of a once-thriving commercial fishing industry clustered around John’s Pass. Most of the fishing now was done from charter-fishing outfits catering to tourists who wouldn’t know a snook from a snapper.
Butch pulled the truck around in back of Mayhall Seafood, the biggest wholesale-seafood distributor on the beach. A long, shabby dock stretched out from the Mayhall seawall into the bay and three shrimp boats rode the tide there.
Wedged between the back of the Mayhall processing plant loading dock and the seawall stood a row of huge, stinking Dumpsters. Seagulls dipped in and out of the open containers of rotting effluvia.
Curtis swallowed hard to keep from gagging. Butch handed him a blue work bandanna. “Tie it on over your mouth and nose,” he said grimly. “And pitch this stuff in the Dumpsters.” He handed Curtis the black vinyl garbage bag with the clothes and shotgun.
Curtis shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes despite the protection of the bandanna.
“Do it,” Butch said, the tone of his voice implying violence. “Come Monday, they load this shit up on barges and tow it out to the ship channel and dump it. Nobody’s coming near this shit that don’t have to.”
When Curtis came back to the truck, brushing at imaginary fish scales, Butch got out. He opened the tailgate and jumped in, kicking a paint-spattered canvas tarp aside. “Get the feet,” he told his son.
It was slow, heavy work now. They’d wrapped the body of the dark-haired stranger in garbage bags from Cookie’s kitchen, then wrapped it again in an Oriental rug from the foyer of the condo. They used the service elevator to take the rolled-up rug out to the truck. With a length of chain wrapped around it, Butch promised the body would sink to the ocean floor like a rock.
Before they left the condo, Curtis had knelt down and touched the back of Cookie’s head. “She’s got a big old bump and there’s blood,” he reported, his face anxious. “You reckon she’s all right?”
Butch’s face darkened. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see what had been going on here. Cookie naked as a jaybird, the dead guy in his underwear. Cookie had screwed him again, but he hadn’t had nearly the fun the dead guy had.
While Curtis was wrapping the body, Butch had ransacked the place, filling a pillowcase with jewelry and cash. He’d found five thousand in cash in the dead guy’s billfold, along with his driver’s license. His name was Michael Streck, and he lived in Tampa. Another thousand turned up in the pocket of Cookie’s robe. He decided to pass on the VCR player.
Passing Cookie on the way out of the bedroom, he managed to give her a swift, soul-satisfying kick in the ass.
Curtis hadn’t wanted to leave his mama lying there, naked like that; it was indecent. But they had to get out of there. This way it looked more like a robbery. Now they were establishing their alibi.
Back at the table, Curtis set the pitcher down on the table, sloshing just a little over the sides. The beer ran out onto Butch’s lap.
The older man jumped up, his face reddened and twisted with sudden rage. “Son of a bitch,” he yelled. “You did that on purpose.” He took the full pitcher and dumped it all out on Curtis’s head.
“Daddy,” Curtis hollered, “don’t—”
Now Butch was shoving him, head-butting, yelling about how he wasn’t gonna take no more. He knocked Curtis to the floor and flung himself atop him, slapping and kicking him like a man possessed.
Curtis tried to deflect the blows, but Butch kept slugging away. Suddenly, though, Butch was gone. Curtis peeked through his hands and saw Lamar, dragging Butch away, toward the bar’s open front door. In the next minute he was back, jerking Curtis up by the front of his beer- soaked shirt.
“Hey, Lamar,” Curtis protested. “Don’t be tearing my shirt, man, this is my good shirt.”
But Lamar shoved him toward the door, propelling him further with a swift, powerful kick that sent Curtis reeling out the door, leaving him sprawled in a heap on the side-walk outside Shacky’s.
He looked up, dazed and bleeding. Butch was standing, leaning really, against the cinderblock wall, wiping at his bloody lip.
In the distance, they heard the wail of a siren, saw the glow of whirling blue lights atop a series of speeding police cruisers, and the fleeting flash of red from an ambulance.
Butch held out a hand to Curtis, helped him up off the sidewalk. He looked thoughtfully at the retreating lights of the emergency vehicles.
“Bad wreck on the bridge, maybe,” Curtis offered.
Butch shook his head. “Don’t think so, son, I don’t think so.”
Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
Cheryl was cracking eggs into a blue mixing bowl, humming to herself. She poured in some milk and began whisking the mixture. “Turn the bacon, will you, Dad?”
Truman put the scissors down on the kitchen table and held up a small scrap of paper. “Fifty cents off on peanut butter,” he said triumphantly. “That’s a dollar off on double-coupon day.” He moved to the stove, picked up a fork, and began flipping the sizzling slices.
“We don’t eat peanut butter, Grandpa,” Chip said, looking up from the word puzzle he was working on the funny pages.
“Don’t eat peanut butter? What do you take to school for lunch?”
Cheryl and Chip exchanged a knowing look. “He gets a hot lunch at school, Dad.”
“Isn’t that expensive? Your mom used to fix your lunch, honey. Peanut butter and jelly—”
“Oatmeal cookies and an apple,” Cheryl recited. “I know, Dad, but Chip doesn’t like peanut butter. Besides, his lunch is free.”
“Like food stamps? Welfare?” Truman’s long, thin face knotted up in disapproval. “No Kicklighter has ever been on the dole before, and we’re not starting now.” He reached into his pocket.
Cheryl dipped the slices of bread in the egg batter, then placed them carefully on the griddle on the front burner. “Put your money away, Dad,” she said calmly. “It’s not just Chipper, and it’s not welfare. The majority of the kids in his school qualify for a free lunch, so they go ahead and give it free to everybody. It cuts down on paperwork and it keeps the really needy kids from being stigmatized.”
“Stigmatized!” Truman muttered. “It still sounds like the dole to me, and I still don’t like it.” He went back to his coupon clipping.
By the tim
e Cheryl slid his plateful of French toast and bacon in front of Truman, he had a fat pile of clippings neatly arranged by category. Cheryl kissed the top of his head. “Thanks, Dad,” she said, tucking them into the pocket of her shorts.
She set a jug of orange juice on the table, poured out three glasses, and sat down. The sun streamed in through the kitchen window, bathing them in a honey-colored light.
Chip poured a river of maple syrup on his toast and took a big bite. “Hey, Mom,” he said, chewing away, “did you tell Grandpa about your date last night?”
She blushed. “Chipper! Don’t talk while you’re eating.”
Truman raised an eyebrow and sipped his juice. “A date, huh? How come I wasn’t consulted about this matter?” He was secretly glad to hear it.
“It wasn’t a real date,” Cheryl insisted. “But actually, you were consulted. Bobby Roberts came over yesterday afternoon. He said you’ve been trying to help the police come up with some information about that poor woman they say Mel killed. We watched an old movie on cable and later he invited Chipper and me out for pizza.”
“He paid, so it was a date,” Chip said, grinning.
“You went along. So it was not a date,” Cheryl said.
“Sounds like a date to me,” Truman told Chip in a conspiratorial whisper. “You like this fella?”
“He’s okay,” Chip said.
“So what’s happening with the church thing at the hotel, Dad?” Cheryl said, wanting to change the subject.
Truman thumped a padded envelope he’d set on the kitchen table when he’d arrived.
“They’re tearing the place up, got everybody in an uproar,” Truman growled. “Ollie was supposed to go meet that Cookie Jeffcote woman last night to talk about some special deal. Hah! This here,” he said, gesturing to the box, “came in the mail yesterday. I want you to play it in your VCR player for me.”
“Sure,” Cheryl said. “What is it?”
Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split Page 17
