UnderCover

by David R Lewis

  “Rascal said she knew this guy who was in town for a while that needed a little eye candy and would pay cash for it. Didn’t know a lot more about him except that it was for appearances only and she and her mother trusted him.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Whisper dropped her tea bag into the hot water. “This is not just a ‘go for show’ dinner date and you’re not gay,” she said.

  Crockett grinned. “You’re not as dumb as I look.”

  “Fuckin’ is not part of the deal either,” Whisper said. “In my world, when fuckin’ is not part of the deal, something is hinky.”

  “Your world, huh?”

  “Yep. That doesn’t mean I’m freaked out or I wanna quit or anything. Ten grand to take a vacation is as good as it gets. I live in an insecure world, anyway. I’m used to looking over my shoulder. That’s why I’m back from L.A. I need some down time.”

  “What do you do in Los Angeles?”

  “I’m in the industry.”

  “What industry?”

  “Porn. I’m Marcie McCall.”

  “Marcie McCall?”

  “You’ve never heard of me, huh?”

  “Sorry. No.”

  “Movies, videos, DVD’s, the internet. You don’t watch a lot of porn do ya?”

  “Rarely more than four or five hours a day.”

  Whisper sipped her tea and smiled. “I’m well known by people who follow the industry. A couple a more years, and I’ll be able to retire if I want to.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Not really. I’m an exhibitionist. I like it. I like sex. I like money. I don’t use hard drugs. I don’t drink much. I’m very careful, and I take care of myself.”

  “And yet you’re willing to go to bed with me as part of the deal.”

  “I’m willing to go to bed with you if it isn’t part of the deal.”

  Crockett felt his ears get warm. “Oh, yeah?” he asked.

  “Sure. I told you I like sex. I’m very good at it.”

  “Well, everybody needs to be good at something. Marcie McCall, huh?”

  “That’s my stage name. My real name is Whisper.”

  “C’mon.”

  “Honest. Whisper. My mom was kinda strange.”

  “Was she in the, ah, industry?”

  “Yep. She was my bad example. She died when I was seventeen. Drunk, high, HIV positive, and in a car wreck. That’s when I started in the business.”

  “Aw, geeze. Seventeen?”

  “Why not? I’d been fuckin’ and shit since I was twelve. By the time I was fourteen, Mom and I were doing doubles just for fun. By the time I was fifteen, I had my specialties. Wanna know what they are?”

  Crockett looked at her for a moment. “No,” he said.

  “Really? Most guys love for me to tell ‘em.”

  “I prefer to see you as the sweet and virginal young woman that sits before me. Please don’t tarnish the pristine image I hold so deeply in my heart.”

  Whisper peered into her cup for a moment, then raised her eyes. “You’re okay,” she said.

  “Maybe,” Crockett said.

  “No. You are. I can read people. You’re old, but you don’t give a shit. Most guys I know that are your age work way too hard at being younger. That’s phony. You are what you are. I like that. I like you.”

  “But if we slept together…”

  Whisper smiled. “I probably wouldn’t like you as much,” she said.

  “I probably wouldn’t like me as much either,” Crockett replied.

  The girl twinkled. “But, it could be fun,” she said.

  Crockett grinned. “In my case, it could be fatal.”

  Whisper laughed. “So, my man, Dan,” she said, “you gonna tell me what’s really going on here?”

  “Can you keep your mouth shut?”

  Whisper batted her eyelashes. “My,” she said, “what an unusual request.”

  Crockett felt his ears click up another few degrees. “Can you?” he asked.

  “If I must. Did you know you’re blushing, Danny?”

  Crockett rubbed his chin to stall for time as he thought for a moment. “Call me Crockett,” he said.

  About thirty minutes later, Stitch and Danni returned to the kitchen.

  “Got the sled cleaned up,” Stitch said. “Thought I might go over to the, ah, shop and see if they got time to look at that shaft seal and shit. Maybe hang out for a while. Can you come pick me up if I call ya?”

  “Relax,” Crockett said. “Whisper knows the whole sad story. She’s in. You gonna wear a jacket, Stitch?”

  “I don’t ride without leather, man. Thought I might try out the goatskin Levi jacket Satin and Danni got for me. Might as well profile in style, ya know?”

  “While you get your coat, I’ll get your gun.”

  “My gun?”

  Crockett smiled. “Yeah.”

  “What the hell I need a gun for?”

  “Appearances. I don’t particularly want you to shoot anybody.”

  “Well, that’s, like, a relief.”

  “I just want them to know we’re serious people. Somebody’ll notice you’re strapped. Gotcha a nine millimeter and a shoulder holster.”

  “A nine?”

  Crockett’s smile broadened. “Yeah, a nine.”

  “Far fuckin’ out! That way if I get attacked by a pissed off poodle, if he’s not very big, I can defend myself.”

  Crockett’s smile escalated into a grin. “A Glock.”

  “A Glock? A freakin’ Glock?”

  “Compact, light, easy to carry.”

  “Oh, fine. A fuckin’ plastic poodle-shooter. Why doncha just send me off with a freakin’ water pistol, dude?”

  “I thought about it, but they leak. Dead giveaway. Besides I don’t want you to mess up you’re new jacket.”

  “Maybe I can carry some fuckin’ rocks in my pockets. Jesus.”

  “Armed and dangerous, Stitch.”

  Ten minutes later, still bitching about plastic poodle-shooters and water pistols, Stitch fired up his old Guzzi and motored off down the drive. Crockett turned to the girls.

  “Ladies,” he said, “later this afternoon I will go pick Stitch up. The two of you will accompany me on that errand. Perhaps you should consider appropriate wardrobe for the occasion.”

  They looked at each other, advanced on him, and assumed positions on each side. Danni slipped her arm around his waist.

  “Daddy Dan,” she cooed, “what would you like us to wear?”

  Whisper lightly rubbed his chest. “You might want to remember that no matter what we wear,” she said, “underneath all those clothes, we’ll both be naked.”

  “Oh, hell,” Crockett said.

  The girls leaned in from opposite sides and kissed his cheeks. Giggling, they locked arms and sashayed away, putting significantly more swing into the thing than was necessary. Loving it, Crockett chuckled as he watched them leave.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Crockett, ordinarily a man sporting a summer wardrobe consisting primarily of ratty blue jeans and threadbare cotton shirts, spent some time considering his new persona and what he’d come to think of as his “rich-guy clothes.” It took a few moments to fit one of the buffalo chukka boots and dark blue men’s hosiery (he hated the term) to his artificial foot. That task completed, he chose cargo slacks in medium blue, an Egyptian cotton safari shirt in a lighter blue, and, to almost conceal his 686 Smith and Wesson, an ultra-light silk and cotton windbreaker in medium gray. The devastatingly handsome ensemble was finished out with his new Seiko chronograph, the gold I.D. bracelet Satin had given him, a black Gor-tex ball cap minus emblem or trim, and his cane. He brushed out his ponytail and looked in the mirror. Jesus.

  When the girls fluttered into the living area about an hour later it was reasonably evident that the opportunity to dress up in clothes they didn’t have to pay for while engaging in a certain amount of theatrics for which they were being well compensated app
ealed to both of them. They wore nearly identical sundresses, pale yellow for Danni and light green for Whisper. The frocks were somewhat more abbreviated than members of the Junior League might have chosen. With spaghetti strapped bodices and plunging necklines, ruffled skirts that ended at mid-thigh, and matching panties designed to be flashed, the ladies, wearing scarf-tied pony tails and carrying clutch bags the same color and fabric as the dresses, reminded Crockett of birds of paradise on high-heeled sandals. Their make-up was perfect, their clothing delightful, and he clutched at his heart as he fell back on the couch.

  The girls took seats side by side on the large teak coffee table in front of him and, with what was probably well-rehearsed choreography, adjusted their shoulder straps, smoothed their skirts, slowly crossed their legs, and smiled.

  “Hi, Crockett,” Danny growled. “Do we look okay?” She held the tip of her tongue between her front teeth and waited for his answer.

  “I’m sorry,” Crockett replied. “I didn’t quite get what you said. I have this roaring in my ears.”

  “Poor baby,” Whisper said. “Probably not enough blood left in your brain, huh?”

  They stared at one another for a beat or two, then Danni, unable to help herself, began to giggle. Everybody joined in and the moment, as it was supposed to, flitted away.

  “You two look, ah, terrific,” Crockett went on. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”

  Danni grinned. “You almost did,” she said, eyeballing his new duds. “Pretty sharp for an old guy.”

  “Yeah,” Whisper said. “You sure you don’t wanna re-think our agreement?”

  Crockett was formulating a snappy retort when his phone went off. “That’ll be Stitch,” he said. “Let’s take the T-Bird.”

  Leoni’s Cycles was a beige metal structure with dark brown trim sitting toward the rear of about an acre of gravel parking lot on a low rise off of 96th street just south of Smithville. The three thousand square foot shop area was fronted by a brick and glass showroom addition about twenty by sixty feet. Crockett, with Danni beside him and Whisper draped fetchingly on the back seat, found himself a bit irritated by the potential of dust as he motored the top-down Thunderbird up the shallow hill and stopped at the front of the building. Two canyon cruisers leaned drunkenly on their stands out front beside a red Chevy Corvette. Near the door was an older black and chrome Harley Sportster with short ape-hangers and a tear drop tank graced by a nicely painted flaming skull with ruby eyes. He left the ladies in the car, grabbed his cane, and limped inside. In the showroom, a couple of youngsters in expensive leathers were nearly pressing their faces against the windows to peer at the new arrivals. Several racks of t-shirts, jackets, chaps and associated bike wear stood around. The walls were splashed with Moto Guzzi posters and propaganda, augmented by copious spans of pegboard graced with aftermarket parts, helmets, and shiny additions no self-respecting Guzzi should be without. Behind a sales counter stood Chewbacca in a Moto Guzzi t-shirt.

  Over six and a half feet tall, the man sported a thick leonine mane of reddish-brown hair that began mid-forehead and disappeared over his shoulders and down his back. That, combined with a full beard that came nearly to his eyes, gave Crockett a view of less than twenty per cent of his face. His teeth and nose were prominent, his ears were invisible, he was thin, and he sported flaming skull tattoos on the inside of his forearms from wrist to elbow.

  “Nice bird,” he said. His voice was dry and neutral. His eyes stayed on the parking lot.

  “Thanks,” Crockett replied.

  “Sixty-five?”

  “Sixty-four.”

  “Cherry.”

  “And then some.”

  “Help ya?”

  “I’m here to pick somebody up. He brought his bike in to be worked on.”

  “Old hippie?”

  “That’s him.”

  The guy tore his eyes away from the windows and looked down at Crockett. “I’ll tell him his ride is here,” he said, and disappeared into the rear of the building.

  Crockett moved behind the two Ricky-Roadracer types as they continued to stare outside, ambled past a few used choppers, and stopped where two new bikes stood on the showroom floor. One of them was the slickest road cruiser he’d ever seen. Sure enough, it was the bike Stitch was in love with. The Moto Guzzi Norge GT 8V. In candy-apple red with understated chrome, it gleamed purpose, power, and personality. Crockett could well understand why Stitch had been so impressed. He was going over the thing carefully when Stitch appeared at his elbow.

  “Cream-filled and sugar-frosted, huh, man?” Stitch said.

  “Beautiful,” was all Crockett could say.

  “No shit, dude. Over a hundred horsepower and, like, a hundred and ten pounds-feet of torque at fifty-eight hundred RPM. That’s some serious go-fast, man. Six speed, stainless exhaust, even got special vents in the fairing to keep the fucker cool. This sumbitch is a helluva scooter, Crockett. Cats that designed this sled did not miss one fuckin’ trick. Around fifteen grand. Wow, ya know?”

  Crockett turned his attention from the bike to his friend. “Everything go okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. I was jammin’ with the dudes in back when Wook told me you were here, dude.”

  “Who?”

  “Wook. That big tall fucker. He’s the parts guy.”

  Crockett smiled. “Wonder why they call him that?” he asked.

  “Got me, man. He’s outside right now, lookin’ at your ride or the chicks. So’s them two little baby roadracers an’ a couple a the wrenches.”

  Crockett turned to see Whisper sitting on the hood of the T-Bird and Danni draped against the grill, as five men clustered around them and the car. The women seemed overly unimpressed. He chuckled.

  “Yeah,” Stitch said. “All aloof an’ shit. This ain’t hurtin’ you’re reputation one bit, man. Gotta know it takes some bucks to buy showroom new shit like that. And I ain’t talking about the Ford, man. Damn. Bet them women took a little a that out on you back at the house, huh?”

  “A little,” Crockett said.

  “Ol’ Satin’s gonna love the fallout from all this. Ha!”

  “You could mind your own business, you know.”

  Stitch smiled. “Ya think? Where the fuck’s the fun in that?” he asked. “You got any money?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m gonna need a couple hundred to leave with these guys so they’ll drag out parts and start work.”

  “You get an estimate?”

  “Eight hundred to a grand.”

  “Okay,” Crockett said, walking toward the door. “Let’s go rescue the ladies.”

  Most of the group of admirers pulled back when Crockett approached the car. He had to stifle a smile at the bored and indolent faces of the women. They were much too well paid and well-seasoned to be even remotely impressed by the testosterone-impregnated worshipers who had surrounded them and the car. He turned to the Wookie and lifted his money clip out of a front pocket.

  “He says eight hundred to a grand,” Crockett said. “That right?”

  “Probably. Won’t know ‘til it’s done.”

  Crockett began peeling bills. “Here’s eight,” he said. “Balance when he picks it up.”

  “Okay.”

  “When?”

  “Couple a days. Got his number.”

  Crockett got in behind the wheel, Stitch clambered into the back seat, and the ladies, still horribly bored and not wanting to sit too close to the hired help, both squeezed into the front seat. Whisper perched on the center console, her knees nearly as high as her head, and smiled.

  “I bet you could see my panties if you looked,” she said, resting her chin on Crockett’s shoulder.

  Stitch cracked up.

  Back at the house an hour later, out of character and in cut-offs and t-shirts, the girls lounged in the living room with Stitch, watching Sly Stallone slink through the jungle. Crockett, doing some slinking of his own, left the rear of the house, leather jacket and helme
t in hand. In the garage he bungeed his cane to the seat, put on the jacket and headgear, and fired up the Goldstar, on his way to Smithville and Leoni’s Cycles.

  He really enjoyed the ride, letting the old BSA out to ninety or so a time or two, soaring in and out of turns, remembering just when to brake and when to power out to keep the rear tire from losing traction. He was swatting youthful memories away like gnats when he coasted up the slope to the shop and brought the bike to a stop. By the time he’d shut the thing down, removed his helmet, and retrieved his cane, Wook was standing beside him. He seemed interested.

  “Goldstar, huh?”

  “Yeah. A 1963 six-fifty A-10 Spitfire Scrambler.”

  “Heard of ‘em. Ain’t never seen one before. Stock?”

  “Not quite.”

  Wook nodded. “I always liked English,” he said, squatting down for a closer look. “My dad rode a Bonneville.”

  “The owner around?” Crockett asked.

  “Inside.”

  “I need to see him.”

  Not wanting to leave the bike, Wook stood up. “Okay,” he said, walking toward the door.

  Michael Leoni was a few inches shorter than Crockett, squat of body and nearly devoid of neck. His dark hair had the faintest beginning of gray at the temples, and his pockmarked face testified to a youth plagued by acne. He was possibly thirty-five years old, was out of style with three or four gold neck chains, wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms, a three or four thousand dollar Rolex, and had evidently heard about the women and the car. They shook hands. His grip was overly firm from short stubby fingers. Crockett spoke to Wook who was walking away.

  “Hey,” he said.

  The tall man turned to look at him. Crockett tossed the key to the BSA in his general direction. Wook caught it without shifting his gaze.

  “You said you liked British,” Crockett said. “Take it for a ride.”

  Wook’s smile was more grimace than grin. “No shit?”