Danielle had gone for a walk with Dundee and Nudge, and Crockett had just finished breakfast when Satin spoke up.
“Did I hear Danni say that Train had pimped her out?”
“Yep.”
“She was hooking?”
“For a short time,” Crockett said. “She worked for his escort service. That’s what eventually resulted in her running off.”
Satin sat hunched over and shook her head. “I didn’t know. She never told me.”
“Too embarrassed,” Crockett said.
Satin had tears in her eyes. “I would have understood.”
As Crockett prepared a reply, his phone rang. “That’d be Cletus,” he said.
“Give him my love,” Satin said, wiping her eyes. “I’m goin’ upstairs for a while.”
Crockett watched her go as he picked up the phone. “Whatcha got, Texican?”
“I got a idiot on the other end a this phone line, that’s for damn sure.”
Crockett chuckled. “Probably.”
“Why the hell can’t you stay outa trouble for a spell? They’s a woman behind this, ain’t they?”
“Yeah. Satin’s daughter.”
“Satin’s daughter?”
“Yessir.”
“You rescuin’ Satin’s kid now?”
“More or less.”
“Me an’ ol’ Stitch can git in the helo and be there in about three hours if ya need us. An’ from the looks a this ol’ boy yer askin’ about, we prob’ly oughta bring a few Marines. Godamighty.”
“Your accent is getting a little thick, podnuh.”
“Hell, yes! If this here is Satin’s kid, me an’ the hippie’ll come a runnin’.”
“Satin sends her love, by the way.”
“Well, by God, I deserve it.”
Crockett grinned. “Yeah, you do,” he said. “I think I can handle this, but if it gets out of hand, you’ll be my first call. Whatcha got on Mister Train?”
“First, I got is a juvenile record out in L.A. Auto theft, strong-arm robbery, burglary, little stuff. You know, slap the poor disadvantaged young boy’s hand and tell him to be good. Busted for rape when he was sixteen, but no juvenile conviction. Complainant disappeared before it went to court. Evidently he was pretty big on rape. Multiple occasions, the way I hear it. Sorta a avocation, doncha see. Scared the victims so bad, they’d keep their mouths shut.”
“Couldn’t find the victim he was busted for?”
“Not a trace anywhere. Prob’ly in the LaBrea tar pits or out among the cactus. Fucker spent some time runnin’ drugs for the Mexican shithead bangers in L.A., then moved up the ladder and become a enforcer for some sharks. Pinched for armed criminal action, no conviction. Got a little big for his britches and started skimmin’ some off the top. Some talent, an’ I bet there had to be a herd of ‘em, kicked the shit out of him an’ run him off. A year or so later he showed up in Vegas. Busted a couple a times with no convictions, then knocked the hell out of some hooker who refused to press charges. Cop signed a complaint on his ass and he did less than a year in the county hoosegow. Was damn near runnin’ the joint when they let him go.”
“Powerful personality,” Crockett said.
“Makin’ friends and influencin’ people. Spent some time dealin’ dope an’ shit, then got into the girl bidness, handlin’ ladies for one of the smaller casinos. Rumor has it that a couple of the sweet young things went into bidness for theyselves on the side. Big no-no. Train goes to express his concern for their indiscretion, things go a little too far, and he beats both of ‘em to death. The ladies in question wind up in the desert fertilizin’ sagebrush, and Train departs the area. Rumor also has it that he still does a little work for Vegas, and maybe Reno, but does not do bidness in either a those places. Don’t surprise me none he showed up in Kansas City. Ties between Kaycee and Vegas have always been strong because a the mob. Stronger now that Kaycee’s got all them casinos a their own. The unions ran financing for Vegas through Kaycee in the first place. Only fair that Vegas should return the favor. Money all goes into the same pockets, anyway. Rumor also has it that Train ain’t got permission from the pockets to git talent from Nevada. They doan like it, but he’s small time enough that he ain’t makin’ a big enough dent in their hides for them to take action.”
“What’s your assessment of the man?”
“Sumbitch is big time dangerous, Crockett. Sadistic and figgers he’s pretty much bulletproof. He dusts your tired ol’ ass, an’ yer just another notch on the handle of his walkin’ stick. What’s his connection with Satin’s kid?”
“She used to work for him. Now she doesn’t. He wants her back. She and her mom are hiding out at my place.”
“The main guy I talked to said Train has committed seven or eight murders that they know of, prob’ly more. Maybe a lot more. Just can’t git enough on the guy to clank a door. Fucker ain’t a train, Crockett. He’s a avalanche. You be real damn careful. You need anything?”
“I was watching TV the other night, and this guy had a couple of cell phones with some C-4 or something strapped to each one. Call the cell phone’s number and the C-4 goes boom. Pretty cool. How ‘bout a bomb? Preferably thermonuclear. Train is pretty large. About the size of Dallas-Fort Worth.”
“Hell, son, I’ll box that right up. Fifty megaton sound about right?”
“Perfect.”
“Great. Don’t forget to wear a lead apron. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Okay. You need backup, call. Give my love to Satin, willya?”
“Count on it.”
“Keep yer cinch tight, Crockett. That first jump outa the chute could be a real bitch. See ya.”
At a little after four that afternoon, Crockett, wearing his best suit and tie, pulled his truck into a space on the side of Heels, away from the front door. He got out, saw Train’s big baby blue Mark V at the rear of the sparsely populated lot, and went inside. The small entrance area was empty, save for a woman behind the low counter. Around forty, she looked fifty. A dancer, now too old for the stage, probably earning a buck or two in one of the hospitality cubicles from time to time. She looked at him through tired eyes.
“Ten bucks cover charge,” she said, checking out his suit.
Crockett laid a twenty on the counter and told her to keep the change.
“Thanks,” she said, mustering up some energy. “My name’s Heather. You want anything special, you ask for me.”
Crockett smiled. “You seem like a very special person,” he said.
Heather brightened even more and licked her lips. “I can be. Don’t forget me, honey. If I’m not out here, just ask for Heather.”
“How could I not?” Crockett said, and entered the club.
The room was relatively large with dim lighting under a twelve-foot ceiling. Across from the entrance a low stage, about ten by twenty feet, faced the room. Near the right side of the stage a brass pole reached from floor to ceiling. The wall behind the left side was mirrored. In the center, a runway about six feet wide and ten feet long protruded into the seating area. Horseshoe-shaped, vinyl upholstered booths, facing the room, ran most of the way around the perimeter to a bar with stools and a brass rail. The center of the room was full of very small tables and cheap, restaurant-style chairs. There was a blond woman on stage, dancing to Joe Cocker’s version of You Can Keep Your Hat On. Only fifteen or twenty men were in the room, most at the tiny tables. One was enjoying a lap dance from a young black woman; one other, on the far side of the room, was attempting to appear innocent as he masturbated under the table. Crockett took a booth near the right side of the stage.
In thirty seconds, he was approached by a young woman of dusky complexion with outstanding eyes. She was wearing a white T-shirt raggedly hacked off just below her breasts, a black G-string, and dangerously tall high heels in red with thick soles of clear Lucite. With every step, scarlet LED lights blinked from inside the transparent plastic. She moved around the sma
ll table to stand next to him, allowing the outside of her thigh to softy brush his shoulder. She leaned over the table a bit, looked back at him, and smiled.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said. “What would you like?”
Crockett forced the short list that began to scroll on his eyelids back where it belonged. “Tequila shot, lime, salt, and a water back,” he said. “And an ashtray, please.”
The girl straightened up and turned to face him, her breasts nearly breaking the plane of his forehead, and rested one knee on the seat beside him. He looked up at her.
“Law doesn’t approve of smoking in here,” she said.
“Probably a lot of stuff the law doesn’t approve of in here,” Crockett replied.
She put both feet on the floor, rotated so he could get an intimate view of her bottom, and looked at him over her shoulder.
“Tequila shot, lime, salt and an ashtray. Don’t go ‘way, darlin’.”
Crockett watched her walk toward the bar with a certain level of appreciation and increased testosterone production. “Steady, son,” he whispered, smiling at his self-examination. In less than two minutes the waitress returned.
“Haven’t seen you in here before,” she said, placing his order on the table.
“I don’t get out much. The hog farm keeps me pretty busy.”
“I bet it does,” she said, moving again to stand beside him, this time with her hand lightly caressing his shoulder. “That’ll be six dollars. For ten bucks, it can be a body shot,” she went on, lifting her T-shirt slightly to expose a breast. “Interested?”
Crockett dropped a ten on the table. “There’s the ten,” he said. “It’s yours. No body shot required.”
“Really?”
“Really.
“My name’s Spanky,” she went on. “I’ll be dancing in fifteen minutes or so. If you want some extra entertainment, lap dances are twenty bucks for about five minutes, but I can make it a little longer, if I want. I can make other things longer, too. Keep me in mind.”
“Always and forever,” Crockett said, and watched her walk away as he dealt with the fact that he was in a committed relationship, and Spanky was damn near young enough to be his granddaughter.
A few minutes after she left, Crockett surreptitiously squeezed his lime slice into his water, took two deep swallows, and poured in the shot of tequila. In a few more minutes, Spanky, now clad in a black see-through skirt and a short black top with long puffy sleeves, stopped by the table with another shot and lime.
“On the house,” she said, then took to the stage and began to dance to Carly Simon singing You’re So Vain. About halfway through the first verse, a black, on black, in black, man-mountain appeared at the back of the room. He was bigger than Crockett’s first car.
Crockett watched him move through the space as he looked everybody over. He noticed Crockett, and his gaze lingered a while. Crockett ignored him. Several more men appeared in the doorway, laughing and raising hell. When they saw Train, they quieted down instantly and took three tables together near the end of the runway. Train laid some serious mojo on them from across the room, then exited toward the vestibule. With a sigh, Crockett shook a handful of salt onto his left palm, closed his fist and, before he lost his nerve, headed out in search of Devon Washington.
The search was not exhaustive. He found Train standing alone by the counter in the small anteroom. The man nearly overwhelmed the space.
“As I live and breathe,” Crockett said, “Devon Washington. I thought you’d still be peddlin’ dope, running girls, and killing women in L.A. or Vegas. How ya doin’?”
Train looked down at Crockett for a moment. His voice nearly vibrated the walls.
“Ah doan know you,” Train rumbled. “How da fuck you know me?”
Crockett smiled. “I don’t,” he said, “but I do know a lot about you. That, however, is not important. I’m just here to deliver a message.”
“Why doan you deliver yo’ass out the goddam door, ol’ man. Ah doan know you, an’ you doan wanna know me.”
“And the message is,” Crockett said, “get out of Kansas City. Try Detroit or Cleveland. They’re both beautiful this time of the year.”
“Detroit?”
“Or Cleveland.”
Train shook his head. “Who da fuck you think you are, granpa?”
“I’m a friend of somebody who you’re treating badly, and that has to stop. Now.”
Train swelled up a bit. “How ‘bout I kick your muthafuckin’ ass, shithead?”
Crockett ignored the threat. “So here’s the deal. “Danielle Connelly doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
The giant’s forehead furrowed. “Who?”
“Danni, you dumb shit.”
Recognition crossed Train’s face. “Danni belong to me, muthafuckah,” he said.
“No. That kinda thing went out of fashion when Lincoln freed your people.”
“You pissin’ me off, grandad.”
Crockett smiled. “See? Now that is exactly what I’m talking about. That’s the very attitude that makes me think you can’t hang around Kansas City anymore. Danni would never feel safe. That’s why it would be much better for her piece of mind if you just went away. I was kidding about Detroit and Cleveland. You can go anywhere you want to, as long as it isn’t here. Although, if I were you, I probably wouldn’t go back to Vegas. They don’t like you there.”
Train looked down at Crockett as he attempted to digest what had just been said.
Crockett sighed. “In the words of Strother Martin, what we got here is a failure to communicate. Let me clarify it for you. Get your oversized ass outa town, you dumb fuck. If you don’t, they’ll pick you up out of your own shit before they carry you to the fucking morgue. Leave while you can, Train. Screw with me, and the county will bury you here.”
“Ah ain’t goin’ no muthafuckin’ where, muthafuckah!” Train replied, poking Crockett in the chest with an index finger the size of a bratwurst.
Crockett’s left hand, traveling slightly upward toward Train’s extended right wrist, released its burden of salt into the big man’s eyes, then grasped Train’s wrist and pushed the arm to Crockett’s right. At the same time, he grabbed Train’s right index finger that had been jabbing his sternum with his right hand, and bent it violently in the direction opposite to the movement of the big man’s arm. A sharp snap was expelled as the finger broke, followed instantly by a dull pop as the digit in question dislocated from the bottom knuckle.
Train’s bellow reverberated in the small space, and Crockett released the hand so Train could clutch at his eyes and their burden of salt. As Train clawed at his face, his damaged finger flopping without control, Crockett took a step back and kicked the injured man squarely in the crotch. Again Train bellowed, this time dropping to his knees. Crockett kicked him between the legs a second time, and the immense man toppled to his side on the gritty floor. Crockett knelt beside him and bent over to whisper in his ear.
“It is over, Devon,” he said. “Hang around, and I’ll get serious. Hassle Danni again and I’ll kill you. Leave town.”
Crockett stood up and looked down at the writhing man. He kicked him again, this time in the back of the neck, and walked out toward his truck. Halfway there, he leaned over and vomited onto the tarmac.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Crockett, suddenly realizing he should have phoned Satin on the way home, pulled into his drive at around six PM. Dundee bounced ahead of him until he parked the truck, then got in the way as he attempted to leave the vehicle. Grinning, he roughed her up for a moment before the dog skittered off toward the front porch. Satin launched off the swing and met him with a hug. Even Danni got to her feet and approached.
“I’m sorry,” Crockett said. “I should have called when I started back. I just never thought of it until a minute ago.”
Satin was groping him all over, assuring herself that he was in one piece. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Great. We got
any ice cream?”
“Ice cream?”
“Or cookies or something.”
Satin looked confused. “Cookies or something?”
“Yes, please,” Crockett said, realizing that Satin’s mind was a long way from the moment. “I need some sugar and carbs. I’m a little low on energy right now. Adrenalin and all that.”
Satin peered at him, still not comprehending as Danni vanished inside. Crockett had just taken a seat in the swing when the girl reappeared with a banana and a Coke.
“How’s that?” she said.
Crockett grinned at her. “It ain’t a big slab of German chocolate cake, but it’ll damn sure do. Thanks, sweetie.”
Danni dimpled. “You’re welcome,” she said, and retreated to her folding chair by the railing.
Satin took a seat next to him and peered at Crockett as if she were inspecting his paint job. “You’re okay?” she said. “You’re not hurt or anything?”
“Nope,” Crockett replied, enjoying the moment and peeling his banana.
“Well, what happened?”
“About what?” Crockett asked, taking a bite.
Satin leaned away and glared at him. “You may not have gotten your ass kicked in the city this afternoon, pal, but it can still happen. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Eek,” Crocket said, and took another bite.
Danielle giggled. “You two are just cute,” she said.
Crockett shifted the banana bite to his left cheek. “And you, my dear, seem to be a bit more, ah, human.”
Danni blushed. “Mom and me have been talking,” she said.
“Women, talking? My God, does the earth still turn? Do the tides still flow?”
“You’re not gonna tell us anything, are ya?” Satin said.
“After I finish my banana and Coke, when I have two fingers of single malt in one hand and a Sherman in the other, then shall I speak of the events of this day.”
“Oh, hell,” Satin said. She left the swing and headed inside.
Crockett looked at Danielle. She was smiling at him. “Your mother usually plays me like a banjo,” he said. “Once in a great while, like now, I get the upper hand. I intend to enjoy it. The trick is not to push her too far. I’m afraid she’ll hurt me.”
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