Witness Rejection

by David R Lewis

  “So you were in on the whole thing?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Crockett said. “And what’s your motivation?”

  “I like Carson a lot. And, as shitty as you are, you’re the best she can do right now.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  “And I love you, too, Crockett. Kinda like you love an old three-legged dog that shows up on your back porch on a rainy night, an’ just stays ‘cause you feed him. He ain’t much of a dog, but he’s a easy keeper. He barks at strangers, an’ he’s real grateful when ya let him come inside for a while.”

  Crockett chuckled. “And you said that I’m full of shit.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “One what?” Carson asked, yawning her way into the room. She was barefoot, wearing one of the big white terry robes that were standard issue in every guest bathroom.

  “Wonderful human being,” Satin said. “Mornin’.”

  “Good morning,” Carson sighed, her voice heavy with sleep. She crossed to stand behind Crockett, draped her arms over his shoulders and around his chest, and leaned into, and onto, him. “Good morning to you, too,” she said, her breath on his ear bringing goosebumps to the back of his neck.

  “Scooter-pie,” Crockett said, leaning back into her and enjoying the contact. They stayed that way for a moment, slowly swaying from side to side, and Clete walked back in the room.

  “Oh, hell,” he said. “If the two of you could possibly dispense with this here disgustin’ display, we might be able to git on with the bidness at hand.”

  “Just a second.” Carson gave Crockett a resounding and elongated kiss on the cheek that reverberated throughout the room. “There,” she said, turning away toward the coffee pot. “I’m done.”

  “Thank, God. Now then, Lickskillet Lodge is plumb at the end of Cotton Gulch Road. Cotton Gulch Road ain’t much mor’n a hog path that runs northeast a ways offa Deadwood Creek Road, just before Deadwood Creek Road dead ends out in the middle of nowhere. Deadwood Creek Road is outa Central City, South Dakota. It runs west-southwest along Highway 14A an’ 85 for a spell, then turns almost straight west about halfway between Central City an’ Lead.”

  “Lead?” Crockett said.

  “Yep. Lead’s northwest a Rapid City between Sturgis an’ the Wyomin’ state line. Closest thing to Lead of any size is Deadwood.”

  “Sturgis is where all the Harley Rats meet,” Crockett said.

  “Yessir.”

  “And Deadwood is Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane country.”

  “Right again,” Clete said. “’Bout forty-five hundred feet up in the Black Hills. Touristy place. Lotsa saloons, gambling halls, authentic western ambiance, an’ stuff like that. Folks come from all over the place to go to Deadwood. Big attraction.”

  “Who did you say owns Lickskillet Lodge?”

  “Beacon Properties.”

  “And who’s behind Beacon Properties?”

  “Workin’ on that. Lickskillet Lodge has been empty for three or four years. It was sold to the Beacon bunch about a year ago.”

  “Who sold it?”

  “I’ll see if I can find out. I ain’t no miracle worker, ya know. I cain’t even find a good map of that area. Gonna have to contact a satellite company an’ see what we can come up with. That place ain’t the end a the world, but I speck that, late at night, you can hear folks scream when they fall off the edge. Injuns an’ buffalo out that way. Coyotes, cougars, elk, mule deer, maybe even a bear now an’ then. Hell, there might even be wolves in that neck a the woods, I don’t know. Places like that are what made the Wild West, wild.”

  “Probably not a lot a guys with bent noses eatin’ eggplant Parmesan,” Crockett said.

  “No, but a shitload of gamblin’. I imagine the tribes got a big hand in that, but I ain’t never seen no place that had slots, poker and blackjack, that didn’t have pasta stuck to the wall somewhere.”

  “You’d think that Metzger would steer clear,” Crockett said.

  “Out in that country,” Clete went on, “you don’t have to be distant to be remote. A fella could hang around out there no more’n five miles from towns and major highways, and damn near be on the moon. I been through that area a time or two. Fella could git lost real easy.”

  “We need to get out there and look around, Texican.”

  I’ll talk to Stitch later today. He’s sleepin’ right now. Should be up in a hour or two. Then I’ll go to bed for a spell. I been up since three this mornin’.”

  “Anything we can do?” Carson asked.

  “Yeah,” Crockett said. “Tell me whatcha want for breakfast. Chez Crockett is open.”

  After corned beef hash, scrambled eggs, hash browns, sliced tomatoes, and Goody’s toasted homemade bread, Clete turned in, Satin mysteriously disappeared, and Crockett and Carson were left alone.

  “Tell me about him,” Crockett said.

  “About who?”

  “Metzger. Your ex.”

  “Do I have to?” Carson asked.

  “I’m not talking about your relationship with the guy. That’s over and it’s your business anyway. I’m looking for triggers, weaknesses, ways to get a handle on the man. You got any pictures of him?”

  “God, no.”

  “How old was he the last time you saw him?”

  “About forty.”

  “So he’d be in his early fifties now.”

  Carson smiled. “Yes,” she said. He’s thirty years older than I.”

  Crockett smiled. “We can’t start a relationship with lies, darling.”

  “He’s thirteen years older,” Carson said.

  “Describe him.”

  “Well, he’s about five-ten, nearly black hair, sort of blue-gray eyes. No obvious scars, definitely no tattoos. He hated tattoos. I mentioned I might get one once and he hit the ceiling. His hair was thick and very dark. He was just beginning to gray a bit at the temples when we parted ways. He used a rinse. He’s vain. He got a haircut or trim at least once a week, kept a tan all year long, regular manicures, teeth whitening, things like that. He went through several long sessions of electrolysis to get rid of excess body hair. That’s something else. He hates facial hair. He’d never wear a beard or anything. No piercings either. My ears were pierced when we met. I had to let them close up.”

  “That’s pretty strange,” Crockett said.

  “The thing is,” Carson went on, “he didn’t care if any other woman had piercings, but not me. Not Mary Lou. He also was careful about his diet, took supplements and herbs, tried to watch his weight, but had trouble with that. He’d probably get liposuction if he thought he needed it. Botox too, I imagine. Maybe even a face-lift or something similar.”

  Crockett considered the information for a moment. “He got any balls?”

  Carson raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

  Crockett grinned. “I mean,” he said, “does he…”

  “I know what you meant. He’s very brave when it comes to telling someone who works for him what to do. Or slapping a woman around. Or abusing somebody he has at a disadvantage. As long as he feels secure, he’s a tiger.”

  “And if that security evaporates?”

  “Like how?”

  “Oh, like if he felt his life was in eminent danger and his protection was gone.”

  “I don’t think he’d do well. All the time I knew him, he had security close by.”

  Crockett’s eyes shifted to cold. “There is no security,” he said. “Safety is the ultimate illusion.”

  Carson felt as if the air had been removed from the room. She looked at Crockett, but his gaze was fixed on something beyond her vision. Gooseflesh rose on the back of her arms and, for a few seconds, the man before her was someone she had not seen before. Crockett blinked, and continued.

  “How’d he dress?”

  “Ah, either very casual, or expensive suits. Almost nothing in between. He didn’t do sports. No golf, bowling, or anything. Ha
d a pool table, but I never saw him pick up a cue.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Alcohol, occasionally pills, sometimes coke on the weekends at parties. Uppers now and then. Probably Viagra by now.”

  “Oh?”

  “Phil liked to think of himself as a great lover. The fact that he had to hire most of his women didn’t seem to register.”

  “He bought hookers?”

  “He leased escorts. Sometimes he’d give a party for twenty or thirty people, and eight or ten women would show up together halfway through the bash. Nobody knew them when they arrived. By the time they left, they were quite well known. Always attractive and leggy. Stereotypical party girls. You know the kind I mean.”

  Crockett’s eyes became misty and distant. “Ah, if only I did,” he said.

  Carson slugged him on the arm.

  “Ow! Can I come to expect this type of abuse from you?”

  Carson bumped her eyebrows. “Only if you enjoy it,” she said.

  Crockett looked around the room and under the table. “Where the hell did I leave my Cat o’ Eight Tails?” he asked.

  Carson grinned. “Only eight?” she asked.

  “It used to have nine, but sometimes Cletus can be so rough!”

  “Stop it,” she said. They smiled at each other for a moment before Crockett continued.

  “These women, would he keep one or two around on a semi-permanent basis?”

  “Not unless he was married to one. He really didn’t like women. He enjoyed them, but he didn’t like them. I don’t recall seeing any of his rentals more than once or twice. Of course, in Miami, there is probably a larger variety from which to choose than in the wilds of South Dakota.”

  “So his biggest weakness would be…”

  “The need for power.”

  “And next would be…”

  “Vanity.”

  “And then women?”

  “And then women.”

  “He gamble?”

  “No.

  “So what we have here,” Crockett went on, “is a fifty-two year old man who wants his hair, teeth, nails, skin, clothing, and complexion to be as perfect as possible, doesn’t use a lot of drugs or alcohol, doesn’t play games, and pays women to tell him what a great lover he is. That about it?”

  “That’s about it,” Carson said. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “How ‘bout the weather?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Your room has really big windows and a balcony,” Crockett said. “Much better vantage point from which to view atmospheric conditions than in this stuffy old kitchen.”

  Carson stood up. “It feels like rain,” she said. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  Crockett watched her go and smiled.

  Smiled, hell. He laughed out loud.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Grandpa Bodine

  Crockett looked at Clete over morning coffee. “I need to go out there,” he said.

  In the two days that had passed, additional information on the possible location of Phillip Metzger had been acquired.

  Cletus got up, went into the pantry, secured a box of donuts, and returned to his seat. “I can go,” he said.

  “Nope. Gotta be me.”

  “Why?”

  “Just has to be.”

  “You ain’t got nothin’ to prove, Crockett.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Clete opened the box of donuts with a little more force than was necessary. “To who?”

  “Myself.”

  “Now that damn sure ain’t the smartest thing I ever heard you say. You ain’t seventeen years old, son, an’ gittin’ ready for the big game. Git a grip.”

  “I have to do this, Texican.”

  “You know what they call idiots that git all bent outa shape with revenge?”

  Crockett smiled. “What?”

  “Corpses, you dumb shit.”

  Crockett removed the slightly mangled box from Clete’s hands and extracted a severely bent donut. “You’re ruining these fine French pastries, you know,” he said.

  “Aw, hell.”

  “Look,” Crockett said, “I have no intention of going out there and biting somebody on the fucking ankle. It’s recon. It has to be done. I’m gonna do it.”

  “Now wait a minute. S’pose Metzger is out there. S’pose them two gorillas that came to your place, or Boster, are with him. S’pose you git spotted. Them boys know you, son. Anyone of ‘em would just as soon pop a cap on your ass as eat a ham sandwich.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Uh-huh. I seen you bein’ careful a time or two. Careful for you is making sure your shoelace is tied before ya walk up an’ kick a gorilla in the nuts.”

  Crockett couldn’t help it. He laughed.

  Clete grinned. “You like that one?”

  “Not bad.”

  “I meant it. You remember that park in L. A.? I’m out there followin’ them Columbian assholes at a distance. Keepin’ track of the bad guys like a good boy, an’ you pick a fight with two of ‘em. Six or seven more of ‘em around, an’ because one of ‘em threatened Ruby, you lay a little Rocky Balboa on their ass.”

  “I’ve mellowed since then,” Crockett said.

  “Bullshit. It’ll take a autopsy to mellow you out. Yours.”

  Crockett took a bite of donut and a sip of coffee. He looked across the table.

  “I have to go, Clete.”

  “Goddammit, I know ya do. Just promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “That it is only recon. Don’t start any shit until you got backup and a plan.”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay. When?”

  “As soon as I can get a pilot here with a Cessna or something to get me to Rapid City.”

  “I’ll make the call. Get you outa here in the morning. Anything else?”

  “Cash. Twenty or thirty grand. I may have to bribe some people or make some payoffs.”

  “You realize that if Metzger’s there and you go pokin’ around, he’s probably gonna get wind of it.”

  “Probably.”

  “And that, a course, is just what you want.”

  “Not necessarily, but if it happens, it happens,” Crockett said. “I got a little bit of a handle on this guy. He’s a coward. If he hears some Justice Department weenie is asking about him, it’ll scare his ass. He’ll be lookin’ over his shoulder.”

  “An’ that’ll keep him close to home where he believes he’s safe.”

  “He’s sure not gonna try for an airport if he thinks some feds are lurkin’ in the weeds.”

  “Makes sense. All right. I’ll make a call an’ git ya a plane an’ a pile of money.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clete reached across the table and put his hand on Crockett’s wrist. “There’s nothin’ you can do anymore to help Ruby, pard,” he said. “Be real good if you’d remember that.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Clete grunted as he stood up, then walked from the room.

  A little after eight the next morning, Crockett took two Dramamine, said his goodbyes as quickly as possible, and joined Virgil, the very same pilot who’d transported he and Ruby to meet Ivy and Cletus for the first time, back when he still had both legs and fewer friends. The flight took about three weeks. Crockett rented a Chevy Tahoe, took Virgil to a motel, grabbed a light early lunch at a Burger King, and headed for Deadwood.

  He took I-90 Northwest out of Rapid City through Black Hawk and Piedmont, up to Sturgis, enjoying the view and the countryside, while dodging campers and motorhomes. At Sturgis he took 14A west, and motored down Deadwood’s Main Street a little after one. Lord. Cadillac Jack’s, The Four Aces, Miss Kitty’s (complete with a Harley Davidson dealership), Hickok’s Hotel, Deadwood Gulch, Mustang Sally’s…the collection of tourist dedicated businesses was continuous, all spewed along Black Hills ridgelines that were the backbones of a town prospering on the fa
ntasies of strangers. The main drag was nearly a theme park. Smiling at the commercial commitment of it all, Crockett eventually wound his way to the comforting lure of a sign proclaiming Holiday Inn Express Hotel and Suites. He stopped. Ten minutes later he had rented three rooms and was ensconced in the middle one, safe emptiness on both sides, contemplating the joys of the pool, the whirlpool, the twenty-four hour gaming halls, genuine distilled spirits, slots, Blackjack, and poker, as he eagerly awaited the next morning’s succulent continental breakfast.

  He took a few minutes to change into his strap-on leg, some well-worn blue jeans, a gray t-shirt, and a light blue overshirt to hide the 686. The ensemble was tastefully accessorized with nicely used, short, hiking boots, and a dark blue ball cap that sported no insignia or advertising space whatsoever. Suitably attired, he exited the sanctuary of the Holiday Inn and plunged into the myth and legend of Deadwood.

  After an hour or so of aimless wandering with the tourists, he lost his sense of superiority as he found himself gawking at some of the very things they seemed to find interesting. Crockett departed the joys of sightseeing and turned down a narrow side street that was little more than an alley. Almost instantly sanity returned. Near the end of the block a sign hung over the sloped sidewalk proclaiming the establishment beneath it to be Ernie’s. The windows were painted black, there was no marquee or flashing lights, no signs advertising the Loosest Slots in Town, or the Friendliest Dealers in South Dakota. Relieved, Crockett went inside.

  The joint was cool, dark, narrow, long, and tall. The plank floor was uneven and roughly polished by decades of foot traffic. The bar ran the length of the left wall and was without chrome, flashing lights, or faux granite adornment. He eased onto a stool, placed his elbows on the dented and scarred oak surface, and waited. The conversation from the fifteen or twenty inhabitants of the dive halted the moment he walked in, then resumed its low murmur. A jukebox in the corner quietly relayed Dave Dudley’s opinion of having to spend six days on the road as the bartender sidled over. He was about six-three with long hair in black and gray, thinning at the top, and a full beard and ‘stash to match. He carried the obligatory bar towel and looked at Crockett.