Free Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course by Kathy Hogan Trocheck

he could catch just a glimpse of stylish nudity. Just a glimpse, that’s all he asked.
    Jackie blinked to keep her eyes open. It had been a long day, and the heat made her sleepy. “Hey,” she said, sitting suddenly upright. “Look at that.”
    Ollie reluctantly turned his head toward the Bondurant Motors lot.
    A powerfully built dark-skinned man with a long beaded braid stalked out of the office of Bondurant Motors. He got into a gaudy blue-and-orange pickup truck and went screeching out of the parking lot and onto U.S. 19, making the right turn without even slowing down. Moments later, the lights in the office snapped off.
    “Now what?” Jackie wondered. Five minutes passed. Ronnie Bondurant came out the front door. He glanced quickly around.
    “Duck,” Jackie ordered. They both slumped down in the front seat of the Nova.
    Bondurant took out a huge metal key ring, fit a key into the lock, picked up a briefcase, and walked quickly over to a gray Lincoln parked in the space nearest the door.
    “That was the boss. Mr. Bondurant,” Jackie said. “Looks like they’re closed. But then, why is Jeff’s car still there?”
    “Maybe he’s driving another car today? I knew a guy once, he worked at a Ford dealership. Never drove the same car two days in a row.”
    “Yeah,” Jackie agreed. “I never thought of that.”
    She opened the car door and stepped out. “Let’s do it.”
    “Now?” Ollie held up a spring roll. “I’m still eating. And look at all those people over across the street.” He waved the spring roll in the direction of the Candy Store. “Somebody might see us and call the cops.”
    “We’ll act like we’re car shopping,” Jackie said. “What’s wrong, Ollie? You wimping out on me?”
    Jackie’s own stomach had started to burn, and it had nothing to do with the spring rolls. She kept thinking about Ronnie Bondurant’s gun, his threats. Until now, she really hadn’t believed she would go through with this.
    “I’m no wimp,” Ollie protested. He pitched the remains of his spring roll out the open window of the car. “Let’s roll,” he said, doing his best imitation of Jack Lord. Or was it Jack Webb?
    They moved cautiously onto the Bondurant Motors lot. Jackie felt different. Jazzed. Her heart raced and she felt the tendons in her calves tighten with every step. The balls of her feet seemed to bounce inside her Nikes.
    “Go over near the driveway, okay?” she told Ollie. “Keep a lookout.”
    While they’d been sitting in the car, Jackie had noticed a long, low, metal building jutting off the back of the office building.
    “I want to check out that garage thing,” Jackie said, nodding toward it. “See if maybe they’ve got my car in there. They’re too smart to leave it out here where I might spot it.”
    “Why can’t I check out the garage?” Ollie asked, his face crumpling. “You keep lookout.”
    “There’s only that one window,” Jackie said meaningfully. The window was a horizontal slit in the metal door. High up off the ground. Too high.
    “What’s the signal?” Ollie asked, getting her meaning. “In case somebody shows up?”
    She thought about it. “Just holler my name. And meet me back at the car.”
    Even standing on her tiptoes, Jackie could only manage to bring her eyes up to the window ledge. It was too high up, and anyway, it was dark in there. She walked over to the roll-up door and tugged at the handle. It wouldn’t budge. Damn. She just knew her car was inside.
    She turned around to see where Ollie had gone. But the rows of cars had swallowed him up. He was nowhere to be seen. “Better not be over at that nudie club,” she muttered to herself.
    Trying to look casual, she walked around to the side of the metal building and turned the corner. This side of the lot was enclosed by a six-foot chain-link fence. On the other side of the fence was Bondurant Motors’s very own dump site. The area was littered with junk, rusting fifty-five-gallon oil