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

on a gold cowboy hat too, with her hair tucked under it.
    Mel smiled uncertainly. “Hello.”
    Truman squeezed his elbow. “This is Jackleen. From the dining room. Remember?”
    “Sure,” Mel said. “Good to see you again, Jackleen.”
    “So, Jackleen,” Truman said, “did you get the night off?”
    A smile lit up her face. “La Wanda wanted to work double shifts today. All the girls put our money together.” She held up a little white purse on a gold chain. “Thirty dollars. Enough to play every race. Talkin’ ‘bout big money.”
    “Well now,” Mel said. He straightened his shoulders. “You don’t mind being seen in the company of two old coots like us?”
    “You can help me carry my winnings home,” Jackleen said, grinning.
    The bus pulled up to the curb then and made a loud snorting sound as the hydraulic doors were flung open. It was a standard green-and-white transit authority bus, but someone had pasted a big banner on one side. “Snowbird Special!” it proclaimed.
    The pitch of voices raised, and the crowd began inching toward the curb. Truman caught hold of Mel’s sport coat. “Stay by me now,” he said, keeping his voice light. “I’m counting on you buying the first beer. It’s your turn, remember?”
    “Don’t worry,” Mel said, and then the crowd pushed them down the aisle of the bus, toward the back. They stayed standing, because all the seats were taken.
    The bus bumped and lurched, but the crowd was packed so tightly that there was no chance they’d fall down. The air was hot and stale, it smelled like hair spray and Brylcreem and canned tomato soup. Truman wished someone would open a window.
    When they all got off into the balmy night air, they were directly in front of the main entrance to the track.
    Mel got off first, and the crowd seemed to swallow up the tall, straw-hatted man. Panicked, Truman tried to push his way through the throng, but it was too thick, too unmoving.
    He reached into the pocket of his lightweight poplin jacket and pulled out his old press card.
    “Excuse me,” he said loudly, holding the white card aloft. “Working press. Coming through. Press here.”
    People looked at him curiously, but let him through. He managed to jostle his way toward the glass-fronted ticket booth. Mel Wisnewski stood there, anxiously looking for his friend.
    “Truman,” he said when he spied him. “What the hell took you so long?” It wasn’t until Truman reached the window and was reaching into his jacket pocket for his wallet that he felt the tugging at his coattail.
    “Mr. K,” Jackleen said breathlessly. “You run pretty good, you know that? I had to hang on for dear life.”
    “Never mind,” Truman said. He hated to admit it, but his heart was racing with fear and excitement. God knows what might happen if he lost Mel in this crowd.
    As long as he had the press card out, Truman thought, it wouldn’t hurt to use it. After Mel and Jackie paid, he stepped up to the ticket booth.
    “Working press,” he said, flashing the card for a moment.
    “What?” the girl said. “Can I see that card again?”
    Truman’s face flushed. His press card had expired last year. “I’m with the press,” he said. “AP.”
    “What’s that?” the girl said.
    “Associated Press,” Truman said, puffing his chest a little.
    “Like a newspaper?” the girl asked. “‘Cause we got a separate press entrance. You gotta go around to the gate on the other side.” She was already looking over his shoulder at the next person in line.
    Truman shrugged and gave her a dollar. “Never mind.”
    Inside the gates the three walked quickly down a runway to the grandstand. Truman, in the lead, strode past the rows of green benches to the fence around the track. He stood and sniffed appreciatively. It smelled like old times. Cigar smoke mingled with perfume and the tangy salt of the bay. “Nice night,” he said to his friends.
    The three of them clung to the fence surrounding the track