“From the property warehouse of Chicago P.D., an’ that’s everthing you git to know.”
“Is this all of it?”
“Ain’t this enough?”
“I may actually have to sell some of this shit, Clete.”
“I know, I know. I got a supply line opened up we can use if necessary. Long as you don’t start dealin’ to the entire Midwest, I gotcha. This goes south, Lucy, we’re gonna have a lot of ‘splainin’ to do.”
Crockett looked at Stitch, who had his nose deeply inside one of the small bags of marijuana. As he inhaled, the bag compressed against his face. He relaxed, exhibiting a beatific smile, and looked at Clete and Crockett.
“Oh, wow.” he sighed. “Its great grandma was Asian, man. Likely from Thailand. Preemo smoke. Probably more head rush than body buzz.”
“Oh yeah?” Crockett said.
“Yeah. This some righteous reefer, dude. Damn site better’n Missouri ditch weed, ya know?”
“No, I don’t.”
“These buds are purple, man. An’ fuckin’ sticky.”
“That’s good?”
“C’mon, Crockett. You musta smoked dope sometime in your life.”
“I tried it a few times when I was a kid.”
Stitch grinned. “Did ya toke an’ choke when you were an officer of the law, man?”
“No.”
“Super trooper, huh?”
Crockett shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I knew lotsa dope smokers. I’ll tell you this. As a cop, I’d much rather have dealt with a room full of smokers than a room full of drinkers. I never had anybody high on smoke try to cut me with a broken bottle or hit me with a chair, Stitch. Not so with drunks.”
“You got that right.”
“And I’ll tell you something else. I never busted anybody with marijuana possession as the only charge, as long as it was a reasonable amount. Catch some stoner with three ounces of coke and a bag of dope, I’d have to charge him with the dope, too. Catch a kid and his girlfriend with a bag of dope, if he had his shit together, I’d probably just tell him to dump it out on the ground and let him go. If he was drunk, or tried me on, then I’d bust his ass. Most of the time, no harm, no foul. Some guy with ten pounds hidden in the floor of the van he was driving like an idiot, got a door clanked on him.”
“Sounds like you were one of the good ones, dude.”
“I like to think I was.”
“You never come across shit like this, man.”
“I didn’t?”
“Naw. Reefer has come a long way. Back in the day, three or four percent THC was okay dope. This shit in this bag could be eighteen to twenty percent. They’re growin’ some dope indoors and outside in National Forests in northern California and down in Florida that is freakin’ heavy.”
Crockett sighed. “I’m truly glad it appeals to your educated palate, Mister Winkler. I’d hate for you to be disappointed.”
“I am a little, man.”
“What’s wrong?”
Stitch smiled. “I don’t think I got any papers.”
At a little after seven the next morning Crockett was in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to drip when Clete, barefoot and wearing baggy jeans and a dress shirt with the tail out and the cuffs unbuttoned, walked in scratching his head and yawning. He appeared to be a little used. Crockett raised an eyebrow.
“You look relaxed,” he said.
“Nothin’ like a good night’s sweet an’ restful sleep to git the feathers outa your feet, son. Coffee?”
“On the way. You want it in a cup or in your hair?”
“A cup’ll be fine, Crockett.”
“I got some bagged biscuits in the oven. Thought I might fry up a little bacon to go with ‘em.”
Clete grimaced. “Ya know, my dear ol’ momma usta fix biscuits an’ bacon durn near ever mornin’. You got some mother instincts floatin’ to the surface, little feller?”
The coffee maker belched and Crockett turned away to pour two cups. He put them on the counter and retrieved a quart carton of Half and Half from the fridge. Clete wouldn’t let it go.
“Well,” he said, “have ya?”
“Have I what?”
“Got some mother instincts up and around this mornin’?”
“My instincts are my business, Texican.”
Clete smiled. “Mine are my business, too, pard,” he said. “So are hers.”
Crockett felt his ears get warm. “Oh, hell, Clete. I know it. Godammit! It’s just that…”
“It’s just,” Clete said, “that ol’ Crockett don’t want nobody to git no mud on their boots.”
Crockett smiled. “Not the way I might have put it, but yeah,” he said.
“Son, I ain’t no more’n another fly on Whisper’s screen door. Far as she’s concerned, flies on the screen is all men are. She appreciates kindness ‘cause she ain’t had a lot a that, but she damn sure don’t require it. A lot a needs that most folks have was wore offa that girl years ago, if she ever had ‘em at all. It’s like eatin’ candy out of a bowl for her. One piece ain’t no better’n another, and the whole damn bowl ain’t gonna give her any real nourishment. They ain’t no steak in her life, Crockett. Probably never will be. She wouldn’t recognize it if she saw it. But, Lord God, that young lady does love candy.”
“So what are you? An M&M?”
Clete shook his head. “Son,” he said, “I am one a them four foot tall solid chocolate Easter Bunnies with candy eyeballs. After last night though, I’m purty much melted.”
“Think some bacon might restore you?”
“Might help a little in the short term, but if I hang around here very long, I ain’t gonna be much mor’n a chocolate chip.”
Crockett chuckled and went to the fridge. When he returned with the bacon, he noticed Clete grinning at him.
“What?”
“Stitch is wrong,” Clete replied.
“Oh, hell. About what?”
“He said Whisper an’ me would git you bent outa shape ‘cause you’re a prude. You ain’t no prude.”
“I’m not?”
“Hell, no! You never coulda lived with Ruby the way ya did an’ been no prude.”
Crockett started putting bacon on the griddle. “What am I then?”
Clete laughed. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said. “You, pard, are a romantic with fuddy-duddy tendencies.”
“Fuddy-duddy?”
“Yessir.”
“I never imagined that fuddy-duddy was in your vocabulary, Texas.”
“Answer me one question, Crockett.”
“Okay.”
“You ever been with a woman you didn’t love a little bit, at least at the time?”
Crockett thought for a moment. “No,” he said.
“And, deep down, you think that’s the way it should be for everbody, don’t ya?”
“That makes me a romantic with fuddy-duddy tendencies, does it?”
Clete caught his eyes. “Yeah, it does, my friend. It also probably makes you the best of us.”
Crockett held Clete’s gaze for a moment before he spoke.
“You want some grape jam for your biscuits?”
Crockett was turning the bacon when Whisper, wearing a white terry robe, entered the room. She tapped Cletus on the shoulder as she rounded the counter, stood on her tiptoes, kissed Crockett on the cheek, and slipped her arm around his waist.
“Morning, Crockett,” she said.
“Hey kid,” Crockett replied, his attention primarily on the bacon. “How ya doin’?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“I’m okay.”
Whisper looked up at him. “Really?”
Smiling, Crockett abandoned the bacon for a moment and kissed her on top of the head. “Really,” he said.
“Good,” Whisper replied, rubbing his back between the shoulder blades. “It’s important to me that you’re okay.”
She moved to stand behind Clete, put one hand on the left side
of his neck and the other on the right side of his head above the ear.
“What are you doin’?” he asked.
“Look at your lap,” she said.
When Cletus looked down, the girl pushed her hands rather violently in opposing directions. The snaps emanating from Clete’s neck caused Crocket to flinch. The Texican shot to his feet clutching his head.
“What the hell was that?”
“The end of your headache,” Whisper said.
Clete looked at her and took half a step backwards. “What did you do?”
“I realigned your third and forth cervical vertebrae. Don’t be a little girl. Your headache will be gone in a few minutes.”
“How the hell you know I got a headache?”
“Oh, please,” Whisper said, heading for the coffee pot.
“Ya coulda warned me.”
“If I had warned you, you would have tried to resist.”
Crockett laughed. “Whisper, I don’t know how anybody could resist you,” he said.
The girl looked at him with big eyes. Her voice dropped into a monotone. “Resistance is few-tyle,” she said.
The bacon was done when Stitch ambled in. His hair was loose, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had a little toothpaste in his beard. Crockett looked at him and began to laugh. Stitch appeared offended.
“What?” he asked.
“Looks like you found some papers.”
“Oh. Ah, yeah, man. Shit. That’s some avalanche greenery, dude. I ain’t smoked nothin’ but my own homegrown for years, Crockett. That shit Clete brought is massive, man. Took about three tokes an’ it was morning, ya know? Fuck germ warfare. Blast a shitload a that across a battlefield and them guys that was tryin’ to kill one another would be giggling while they told each other about the meaning of life and was lookin’ for someplace to get Cheetos and Cherry Garcia ice cream.”
“You’re saying you approve?” Clete asked.
Stitch peered at him. “Sure.”
Clete cracked up.
“Want some biscuits and bacon?” Crockett asked.
“Got any jelly, man?”
“Yeah.”
“Peanut butter?”
“Yeah.”
“Gimme. Fuck the bacon.”
“You got some toothpaste or something in your beard.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“That’s probably what Danni was laughin’ at, man,” Stitch said, slathering peanut butter on a biscuit. “Chick was laughin’ at me when I fell out last night, an’ laughin’ at me when I came outa the john this mornin’, dude.”
“Heartless.”
“You got that right,” Stitch said, shoving half a biscuit in his mouth.
“Want some milk?” Crockett asked.
“Wahuh,” Stitch said.
It took three biscuits, nearly a quart of milk, and Danni’s arrival before Stitch seemed recovered. She grinned at him. “Man, were you ripped.”
“Me?”
“You were talkin’ about the Monitor and the Merrimack, for chrissakes!”
“I was?”
“Yeah. And cheesecake, and Starved Rock State Park, and why Dalmatian dogs can run all day, and a bunch of other shit.”
Stitch looked a little ruffled. “So?”
Danny smiled. “It was great. You were just cookin’. I loved it.”
“Cool,” Stitch said, standing up. “I’m gonna take a shower and truck on over to Leoni’s place to see if I can’t get this show on the road a little bit.” He looked at Clete. “You bring it?”
“I brought it.”
“Get it, willya?”
Clete was gone long enough for Crockett to pour Danni a cup of coffee and give her something to eat. When he returned, he slapped a box of ammo and an immense auto-loading pistol in a shoulder holster on the counter. The gun gleamed evil soft silver and dominated the entire area.
“Damn!” Danni said.
“There ya go,” Clete said. “Desert Eagle in fifty caliber Action Express. Brushed chrome, ten inch barrel, seven round capacity, effective range two hundred yards, and it weighs damn near five pounds. Don’t drop it on your foot.”
“Thanks, man. This’ll do just fine.”
“Jesus,” Crockett said. “That thing is huge! What the hell you want a Desert Eagle for?”
“I don’t, man. But, you want me to carry a gun, right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“An’ ya gave a pissant Glock nine, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck a bunch a poodle shooters, Crockett. If I gotta go strapped, here’s the deal. Go big or go home, man. When time comes to dance, screw the Funky Chicken. I wanna Tango.”
With that, he hefted the weapon in question and walked out of the room.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Crockett and Clete were sitting on the front deck about four in the afternoon when Stitch phoned.
“Hey, man. Clete’s car outa sight?”
“What?”
“Clete’s car, Crockett. Get it in the garage and buttoned up. Keep him inside, too, ya know?”
“Okay. Why?”
“Could be we’re gonna have zipperheads at the wire man. I’ll be there most rikki-tik. Blackbird out.”
Clete looked at Crockett and took a sip of tea. “Stitch?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s up?”
Crockett smiled. “Zipperheads, rikki-tik, and Blackbird,” he said.
“Oh. Well, hell.”
“Put your car in the garage and stay inside. We don’t want the bad guys to see our secret weapon.”
“Who, me? I’m a secret weapon?”
“You always have been, honey,” Crockett replied. “And you’re such good company, too.”
Clete stood up and headed into the house. He stopped in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. “Ya’ll think these jeans make my ass look big?” he asked.
Crockett chuckled. “Leave your shirttail out and keep your back to the wall. Your eyes are your best feature.”
Clete grinned and went inside.
They were sitting at the snack bar with the girls about fifteen minutes later when Stitch came walking in. He took a seat, removed his jacket, and clunked the big Desert Eagle on the counter. “Fucker’s heavy, man.”
“You want the Glock back? Crockett said.
Stitch ignored him. “I got some interest, man. Went to a early lunch with Wook. Twisted up a pinner and gave him a couple a hits. He, like, loves the dope, ya know? I let him think I was gassed and let it slip that there was a shitload more where that came from. Took him a couple a hours to get his act together to go back to work. I gave him a couple a buds and, just ‘cause we’re friends now, laid about a half a gram of the coke on his ass. We got back to the shop, he went into the office. When he came back out, he was definitely havin’ some pupil problems, ya know? Wipin’ his nose, too. I figure he an’ Leoni was, like, samplin’ our wares, so to speak.”
“Damn!” Clete said. “Ain’t you goin’ a little fast?”
“Call me Captain Cloud, motherfucker,” Stitch said. “Ol’ stoners can get away with shit some straight asshole like you can only dream about. I taught grandma how to suck eggs, man. Two dudes like me an’ the Wook just naturally attract one another. At least that’s what he thinks.”
“Uh-huh. How ‘bout his boss?”
“Leoni’s a little more on the cautious side. I think I was tailed back home, dude, an’ I think he’s the reason.”
“Damn.”
“It’s cool, man. This is, like, Smithville, dude. Shit that would only get this fucker by for two weeks in Detroit can last a lifetime here. This shithead has checked us out on his little laptop, ya know? But that’s all. He ain’t sent nobody to California, he ain’t looked for any common connections, he ain’t validated our history. He ain’t never had to do none a that shit before. Why the hell should he do it now? Fucker’s got his contacts, knows some people in Italy and New
York, got a friend or two in Afghanistan or someplace, probably just civilians workin’ for some private contractor. Maybe mercenaries. He thinks he’s big time, man. Had a guy or two killed, got some people on staff, got the power to snap his fingers and somebody follows me. He’s got ego an’ business all wrapped up together, motherfucker. Now he sees ol’ Crockett here as maybe a way to step up. You know, become the cat he knows he can be. Fuck him, Clete. Fuck him an’ the Guzzi he rode in on.”
The area was silent for a few beats in reaction to Stitch’s outburst. At length, Whisper spoke up. “I’ll take my car and go check things out,” she said. “Drive out the back way and circle around to see if anybody’s watching the place.”
“I don’t know,” Crockett said. “I really don’t want you getting too involved in this kinda thing.”
Whisper laid her ears back and stared at him. “You wanna speech from me, too?” she said. “I can give you one. I signed on, I’m taking your money, I do the work, okay?”
Crockett raised his hands. “Okay,” he said.
“Damn right, okay,” Whisper replied, and headed for the garage.
It took nearly thirty tense minutes for Whisper to return. When she pulled in the drive the sigh of relief was collective. As she entered the room she was smiling.
“One guy,” she said. “Red Corvette. Backed into that little turn-around place down the hill from the driveway. Got binoculars. Good view of the house and the road. Hard to sneak up on him unless you come in behind where he is through a big field they’re getting ready to sub-divide.”
Stitch grinned. “Force Recon, motherfucker,” he said. Whisper giggled.
“Now what?” Clete asked, looking at Crockett. “You fixin’ to Ghillie up an’ sneak around in the weeds?”
“Nah. I think the direct approach might be more appropriate,” Crockett said, turning to Stitch. “Can I borrow your Eagle?”
“Sure. Don’t hurt yourself.”
“What’s it loaded with?”
“Standard full metal jacket. Soft loads can fuck up the gas ports.”
“That’ll do,” Crockett said, standing up and lifting the pistol off the counter. God, the thing was immense.
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