Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split by Kathy Hogan Trocheck Read Free Book Online Page A

dipped into the waistpack and brought out the kitten, who squirmed happily in her hands. “This is Punkin,” she said. “I’ve got to leave town, but I don’t have anybody to keep her.”
    “How much?” the woman asked.
    “No, I want to give her to you,” Rosie said. “Will you take her?”
    The woman smiled softly, taking the kitten in her arms, turning to the dachshund. “Look, Buster, a kitty.”
    Rosie saw that the dog’s eyes were filmed over with cataracts, the fur on its ears turning white at the tips. It turned its face toward the woman’s voice and barked twice. “See, Buster’s excited. She’ll be fine,” the old woman said.
    She put Punkin in the basket. Then she got back on the bike and slowly pedaled away.
    Rosie walked in the other direction, her fists clenched tighdy. “Don’t cry,” she told herself. “Don’t cry, dammit.” She saw the number 8 bus, the bus to the racetrack, pull up to the curb and she quickened her step to meet it.
     
    “Listen,” Pearl said. “It’s nothing. Really. Sometimes when I take the blood pressure medicine, I get dizzy and bump into things. I feel so stupid, running into my own bathroom door.”
    Truman lightly touched her cheek. A shiny, greenish-black welt was rising and her right eye was swollen almost shut. “We’ll sit the track out tonight,” he said.
    Mel stood there silently, his hands jammed in his baggy pants pockets, jingling his change and car keys.
    “Absolutely not,” Pearl said. She gave Mel a little push. “You boys go on. I’ve got unpacking to do, and then Dotty Milas wants me to come down and play canasta. Go on now,” she repeated. “I’m fine. I feel stupid, is all.”
    She handed Mel his hat, a beat-up straw fedora. Then she edged both men toward the door. She gave Mel a quick peck on the cheek, then turned to Truman. “Keep an eye on him, TK,” she whispered. “He’s not himself tonight.”
    “You sure this is all right?” Truman asked, alarmed. Mel had spoken only a couple of times since Truman had gone up to the Wisnewskis’ room to see if they were ready to go. He wasn’t even sure Mel recognized him.
    “He’s better if he gets out and doesn’t sit around and stew,” Pearl said. “He likes to be around people. But he forgets where he is sometimes, just sort of fades-like. You stay with him and he’ll be fine.”
    So Truman stayed right at Mel’s elbow when they got down to the street. They stood out in front of the Fountain of Youth, waiting with the good-sized throng for the Snowbird Special to pick them up.
    It was twilight, and the sky was streaked pink, orange, blue, and purple. There was a hint of a breeze coming off Tampa Bay a couple of blocks away, but it was nice and dry tonight, not like in the summer, when you wanted to pick a handful of that wet, suffocating air and wring it out like a washrag.
    “So the trip down was good?” he asked Mel. “Traffic okay leaving Pittsburgh?”
    Mel nodded enthusiastically. “Got twelve-point-four miles to the gallon. Put in a quart of oil when we got to Kentucky. The turnpike was murder, though. You never saw so many potholes.”
    Truman felt himself relax. If Mel was up to bitching about road conditions and bragging about the mileage on that Newport of his, he was feeling fine again.
    “Whattabout it?” Truman said. “Think the Bucs can stay out of the cellar this year?”
    “Don’t start with me,” Mel warned, his deep voice rumbling with pleasure. “We got the finest centerfielder in the NL. He’s gonna hit .326, make the All-Stars. We’re going all the way this year, my friend. It’s the Pirates’ year, all right, especially if—”
    “Hey, Mr. K, Mr. Wisnewski,” a young female voice interrupted. “How y’all doin’?”
    Jackleen Canaday edged her way through the crowd to their side. She was wearing a big white tunic top with gold and silver sequins pasted on in a swirling design, tight white slacks, and gold high-heeled shoes. She had