Grave Promise

by David R Lewis

  He leaned forward for a sip of cold coffee and looked at Nudge where the cat sat on the sill peering out the window. Nudge turned and slow-blinked at Crockett, then directed his attention again to the outside, lashing his tail the way he did when he was irritated and slipping into tomcat mode. Crockett creaked to his feet and eased up behind Nudge to see what held his gaze.

  There on the sidewalk, a story and-a-half below, stood the Amazing Disappearing Woman, calmly looking at the front of the building.

  “Hello, LaVonne,” Crockett whispered. “Hang in there, Sweetheart. We’re dancing as fast as we can.”

  As Crockett carried the dirty cups into the kitchen, Nudge remained in the window, his halfhearted hiss bouncing off the glass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Air Crockett

  Ruby and Crockett didn’t make it out for sushi. Late afternoon Clete called with some information and at seven the next morning Crockett clambered out of a cab at the airport, bound for the City of Angels. If there was one thing he hated more than flying, it was airports.

  Ruby couldn’t make the trip. She had appointments to make up and felt she just couldn’t postpone some of her clients again. Behind her concerned demeanor Crockett detected a little perverse pleasure in the fact that she was casting him adrift in a strange land. She condescended to have coffee with him before he left. It was still dark outside when Crockett sat at her kitchen table. Ruby looked as if she’d been up for hours.

  “Ever been to L.A., Crockett?”

  “Never been farther west than Denver.”

  “L.A. is huge. Don’t drive.”

  “Thought I’d just take a cab wherever I needed to go.”

  “Rent a limo and a driver. You’ll find small ones available at the airport. Lincoln Towne Cars and things like that. Get one at the day rate.”

  “Jesus, Ruby, that’ll cost a fortune!”

  “You broke?”

  “No.”

  “Then, so what? You got it. Spend it. It’ll be a lot more convenient. Where you gonna stay?”

  “How do I know? I never been there. I’ll just get a motel room or something.”

  “Stay in a hotel, for chrissakes. Live a little, ya cheap bastard.”

  Crockett grinned at her. “Carrying some guilt, sending me off alone to the big city?”

  “No. I’d just feel better if I knew you were comfortable and well taken care of. Los Angeles and the surrounding metroplex can be a very stressful place to the uninitiated. You are among that number.”

  “I’ll get a car and driver at the airport and hire it by the day. I’ll get a hotel instead of a motel. I will be nice to me.”

  “Promise?”

  “On my Cub Scout oath.”

  “Los Angeles ain’t Kaycee, Crockett. Just keep that in mind.”

  Crockett had only one bag and a small carry-on. They went through security with no problem. The walk-through detector didn’t like his leg. Neither did the stout lady who manned the device. She stopped him as he walked through the portal and peered at Crockett as if he were wearing a burnoose.

  “I said for you to empty your pockets of all metal,” she said.

  “I have an artificial leg,” Crockett said.

  The lady folded her arms. “Show me.”

  Crockett raised his pant leg so she could see the strap steel.

  “How high up that go?” she said.

  “You’ll never know, Darling,” Crockett said.

  The x-ray device lit up over his cane. Two young minimum wage huskies hustled toward their location.

  Crockett’s cane was the one that Cletus gave him after his original one was lost when Martin Morrison tried to kill him. The handle was a serpent’s head with the snake’s German silver body coiling down the wooden shaft. The inspection lady looked at it and raised an eyebrow.

  “You ain’t takin’ that thing on no plane,” she said.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “You will then, of course, guarantee me someone will be available to carry me off the aircraft when we finally arrive in Los Angeles.”

  The woman marshaled her authority. “That thing could be used as a weapon,” she said. “No weapons allowed on the planes.”

  Crockett smiled. “Ah,” he said. “That would also include paper cups, magazines, credit cards, ball point pens, drinking straws, belts, shoes, car keys–”

  The woman glanced at the two young huskies and they began to edge a little closer.

  “Tell you what,” Crockett said. “Before Kanga and Roo get too froggy, I’ll just take my stuff and go sit out on the concourse. You call your supervisor and tell him there’s a wild man here with a cane and an artificial leg threatening to hijack this airport and move it to the sports complex. See if he might like to have a chat before I freak out and exercise the will of Allah.”

  He grinned at the two bouncers closing in on him.

  “It’s gonna look pretty stupid in the papers tomorrow if you guys start dragging a cripple around,” Crockett said. “Why don’t you two just put your dicks back in your pants and settle down. I’ll be right over there. Gimme my bag and my fuckin’ cane.”

  Crockett had less than five minutes to wait before an official young woman came striding in his direction from the inspection station. Thirty-five or so, wide set eyes, broad hips, narrow shoulders, wearing a dark blue-skirted suit. The two gorillas came with her but remained a comfortable distance behind.

  “Excuse me, Sir,” she said. “ My name is Diane Foster. I’m with the security department. Is there a problem?”

  He got to his feet and produced his commission case.

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “Daniel Beckett, Department of Justice. Your people conducted themselves with the utmost courtesy and competence. After some of the recent debacles around the country, it’s refreshing to see airport security exercised in such a professional manner.”

  She flushed and nearly wiggled with relief and gratitude as she checked out his commission.

  “Please feel free to make any calls you deem necessary to establish my identity to your satisfaction, Miss Foster,” Crockett said.

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Agent Beckett,” she said.

  “Special Investigator.”

  “Special Investigator. It’s a pleasure to have you with us. I am required to ask if you will be carrying a weapon on your flight.”

  “And what answer would guarantee that you’d have to search me?” Crockett said.

  She actually giggled. “I’ll take that as a no, Special Investigator Beckett.”

  “Darn. I missed my chance. Call me Dan.”

  Miss Foster blushed. “What can I do for you, Dan?” she said.

  Crockett chuckled. “My mind quivers with possibilities, but I do need to get on my plane. I’m expected in Los Angeles.”

  “Of course. Call me Diane. Is your baggage checked through?”

  “Yes, it is, Diane.”

  She picked up Crockett’s carry-on.

  “If you’ll allow me to escort you,” she said, “I’ll get you on the plane right away. Do you come to Kansas City very often?”

  “No, but if that changes, I’m sure I’ll need your assistance again.”

  “I’ll be right here if you do, Dan,” she said, and led him off through the crowd.

  As Crockett followed her past the check-in station he resisted the urge to flip the fat gal the bird. Word spread that Crockett was a Fed. All the way to L.A., the flight attendants couldn’t do enough for him.

  As he approached Los Angeles, Crockett forced himself to look out the window. Jesus. Ruby was right. After he got his baggage he engaged the services of a young man named Marcel and his nearly new, black, ten-year-old Lincoln Towne Car and watched as he put Crockett’s two bags in the trunk.

  Marcel noticed Crockett’s cane. “Where we be goin’?” he said.

  “I need a hotel, Marcel. Nice, but not too flashy.”

  In spite of the heavy traffic and Crockett’s bru
tal bout of motion sickness, it was only about a day and a half before they pulled up in front of the Beverly Monarch Hotel. Marcel was out of the Lincoln, into the lobby, and back with a baggage cart before Crockett got his stomach out of his throat and both feet under him.

  “They got pretty good food here,” Marcel said. “You be comfortable.”

  “Like I could eat,” Crockett said, handing him five one hundred dollar bills. “Consider this your retainer. When you need more, ask.”

  “This be my number, Mister Beckett,” Marcel said, handing Crockett a business card. “Six in da mornin’ to midnight, you call this number, I be waitin’ out front in no more than twenty minutes. Midnight to six take me about a hour, less you set somethin’ up ahead of time. I doan haul no other customers, doan take no other jobs. You got someplace you need to go, I take ya an’ I bring ya back. You got errands you need run, I run ‘em for ya. You need some medication, I get it for ya. You need some company, I got it for ya. An’ I guarantee you doan get no side effects an’ you doan take no surprises home. Fair enough?”

  “Just right, Marcel,” Crockett said.

  “What can I do for ya?” Marcel said.

  “Take the rest of the day off. I’m not going anywhere until tomorrow.”

  “Thas it?”

  “I am a man of simple needs.”

  “You gimme this money an’ then you tell me to take the day off? How you know I jus’ doan split an’ keep the green?”

  “It would be a sad world without trust, Marcel.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Alright. Greed. There’s more where that came from and the job will be easy.”

  “Thas better.”

  Crockett flashed his badge and ID.

  “And fear,” he said. “I’m a Fed, Marcel. You fuck with me, and I’ll have so much heat down on you, Martha Stewart’ll be able to fry an egg on your ass. I got your license number, I got your permit number, I got your phone number, and I got your prints on my bags. I don’t give a shit how much dope you deal, I don’t care how many ladies you run. All I want from you is loyalty. I’m not gonna be here very long and when I’m gone, I’m gone.”

  “Hey, Motherfucker, chill!” Marcel said, and got into his car.

  When Crockett got to his mini-suite he called room service and ordered a cheese omelet, toast and coffee. He was clicking his way through TV channels, searching for one that broadcast in English, when the food arrived. Crockett signed the check and sat to eat. Three small eggs, not enough cheese, badly buttered toast, terrible coffee. Twenty-one dollars. City of Angels?

  He took an okay soak in his slightly undersized Jacuzzi tub and a nap on his slightly too soft king sized bed, got up around four, California time, and called Ruby.

  “Doctor LaCost.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Hornsby,” Crockett rasped.

  “Oh, my!” Ruby gushed. “It’s you again. Let me put on a headset so I will have the use of both hands. What are you wearing?”

  “Two pounds of lime yogurt and one donut. Hungry?”

  “I was until you mentioned the lime yogurt. They’re never gonna get that out of the mattress pad, Crockett. Whacha doin’?”

  “Making friends and influencing people.”

  “I bet,” she laughed.

  “I am!” Crockett said. “Marcel has already offered to provide me with all the controlled substances and uncontrolled femininity I might require.”

  “Marcel?”

  “My newest friend. These Californians are really nice. All it took was five hundred bucks and I got a brand new California buddy.”

  “You tell Marcel that if he gets you in trouble, he’s gonna have to deal with me.”

  “Define trouble.”

  “Anything other than celibacy.”

  “God, you’re strict.”

  “Only because I like it. How ya doin’?”

  “Fine. The plane didn’t crash and a bad late lunch was only two thousand dollars. Life is good. I’m gonna kick back for the rest of the day, make some calls in the morning, and see if I can talk to a couple of these gals.”

  “Good luck. Phone me tomorrow evening and let me know what’s happening.”

  Crockett heard her doorbell sound in the background.

  “Late client?” he said.

  “Ah, no,” Ruby said. “That’s Jeri.”

  “Jeri?”

  “Yeah. You met her a few months ago, I think.”

  “A tall blond, thin, with hairless knuckles and an absolutely charming smile?”

  “That’s her. She’s dropped by for, ah, dinner.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you. Have fun, Ruby. Talk to you later.”

  “Okay. Shit. I love you, Crockett.”

  He hung up the phone, lay back on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and breathed. Crockett almost never felt lonely.

  Almost.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Opposing farce

  Crockett steamed his hanging clothes in the bathroom for a few minutes, slipped on a jacket and tie, and went down to the dining room a bit early, his appetite still on Kansas City time. The meal was much better than room service. Cheaper too. Back in his room he retrieved the information from Cletus and, declining to wait until morning, made his first phone call.

  “Hello?” An older female voice with a pleasant alto lilt.

  “Good evening. My name is Daniel Beckett. I’m trying to locate a lady named Connie Storm.”

  “Connie Storm?”

  “That’s correct. Is this she?”

  The woman laughed. “Not for many years,” she said. “Are you calling from the Twilight Zone?”

  “Sometimes it feels like it. You are Miss Storm?”

  “I was Miss Storm. Now I’m Mrs. Barkman. Call me Ellie. What’s this all about?”

  “I am attempting to find an actress that you may remember having worked with back in the 60’s. Her real name was Leona Marie Walters. I have no idea what name she used in films.”

  “Why do you want to find her?”

  A hint of guarded suspicion lurked in the question.

  “You have no reason to believe a word that I say, but my motives are honorable. I do not work for the IRS or an attorney. She is not being prosecuted or sued. I have checked with the Screen Actors Guild, the Producers Guild, even the Writers Guild, and I can find no trace of her. I thought you might be able to help.”

  “What was your name again?”

  “Daniel Beckett.”

  “Just who do you work for, Mr. Beckett.”

  “The United States Department of Justice.”

  “C’mon.”

  “Honest. I have a real badge and everything.”

  “I’ll just bet you do.”

  “I’ll be more than happy to show it to you, if you’ll consent to allowing me to drop by tomorrow and chat for a while.”

  “And if I say no, Mister Beckett?”

  “Then no it is. I’m not trying to pressure you in any way. If you say talk, we talk. If you say no, we don’t. That’s it.”

  “Okay,” she replied, warmth creeping back into her voice. “But not here, and not tomorrow. Where are you?”

  “At the Beverly Monarch Hotel.”

  “That’s just fine. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. You can buy me a drink. I’ll meet you in the lobby. How will I know you?”

  “I’m going bald and gray, I have a ponytail, and I carry a cane. How will I know you?”

  “You won’t, Sweetie, unless I decide you’re kosher.”

  “Good instincts, Ellie.”

  “Damn straight,” she said and hung up.

  Crockett brushed his teeth, got back into his coat and tie, and made it to the lobby with five minutes to spare, taking an exposed seat next to the entrance. After two or three minutes a female voice floated up from behind him.

  “Most cops don’t wear ponytails and earrings.”

  “Connie Storm, I presume,” he said, not turning around. “How long have you be
en here?”

  “About ten minutes,” she said. “I live close.”

  “Do I pass inspection?”

  “So far.”

  Crockett rose to his feet and turned around.

  “Good,” he said, holding out his hand. “Dan Beckett. Nice to meet you, Ellie. Thanks for coming.”

  “A free drink is a helluva inducement,” she said, accepting the handshake.

  “So is curiosity.”

  “Let’s go to the bar,” Ellie said, “and you can satisfy my curiosity about your employment.”

  Several years older than Crockett, Eloise Barkman was a very attractive woman. At five-six and about one-forty, she was twenty pounds overweight, but carried it well. She was dressed in a black man-tailored blouse, tail out, over dark gray slacks and low heels. She wore little makeup, her skin was softly lined with age and very clear. She noticed him studying her and smiled. Crockett felt his ears get hot.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re quite lovely. I guess I was just trying to see if I recognized you from films.”

  “I was in several,” she said “but you still wouldn’t remember me. I was Sandra Dee’s body double. Stand-in, if you will.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Until she married Bobby Darin and got so skinny. When she dropped to about a hundred pounds, I couldn’t keep up. So I married a producer and quit the biz. Sol died a little over five years ago, God rest his soul. Let me see your credentials.”

  She hid Crockett’s I.D. under the table when the waiter arrived and ordered a double scotch on the rocks. He had the same. After the waiter left, she handed the case back.

  “What do I know?” she said. “Looks official to me.”

  “It is. Please, call Washington if you like.”

  “Nah. You got nice eyes. Hard, but nice. What does the Justice Department want with Leona?”