“We spooked ‘em,” Clete said. “Leoni’s nervous and Wook ain’t stupid. Won’t be no more revealing conversations from them two. Scared a bugs.”
“Yeah,” Crockett said. “I got pissed off yesterday and went too far.”
“That ever happen before?” Clete asked.
“I did a little research,” Irwin said. “A look at some Internal Revenue Service records revealed Mister Wook’s birth name, birth date, and social security numbers. He is Steven H. Hillman. He was arrested twice as a minor for auto theft, once on a concealed firearm and open liquor in a motor vehicle charge when he was twenty-two, for which he served fourteen months incarceration, and again about ten years ago on a manslaughter charge. It seems he was attacked by three other individuals in a bar. One of the men died of injuries at the scene. The other two were hospitalized. Mister Wook was treated and released into custody. The incident was ruled as self-defense and he was placed on eighteen months probation. He reported regularly and has not been in any trouble, except two traffic citations for speeding, since.”
Clete’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean that ol’ boy took on three, kilt one, and sent two more to the hospital?”
“Yessir.”
“They don’t call that hairy fucker Wook for nothin’.”
“Chewbacca the badass,” Crockett said.
Things were rather glum that evening. Around ten, Crockett phoned Satin and explained that he probably wouldn’t be coming by for a few days.
“What’s going on?”
“Our situation has changed a bit. I don’t want to take even the smallest chance that these people might learn about you or the cabin.”
“Are you in danger?”
“No, but on the off chance that things get dicey, I want some distance between us. Just being careful.”
“You got my kid, Crockett. What about her? For that matter, what about Whisper?”
“They’re surrounded by protection. Clete and Stitch are pretty formidable.”
“So are you.”
Crockett grinned. “You noticed?”
“You’ve told me often enough.”
“Spaced repetition can be a valuable asset, my dear.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Worry.”
“I’ll try.”
“Thanks, Satin. I love you.”
“You ain’t so dumb,” she replied, and disconnected.
Crockett slumped in his chair and stared at the phone.
Whisper walked behind where he sat, leaned over, and put her arms around his chest. “You okay?” she asked.
“No.”
“Nobody else is either,” she said. “A temporary condition. I’m going to bed. Would you like to join me?”
“Of course I would.”
“Sure. But, of course, you won’t.”
“Better not. But I do have my fantasies.”
Whisper kissed his cheek. “No point in screwin’ those up,” she said, and walked away.
Crockett looked around the empty room, sighed, leaned back, and levered up the recliner’s footrest.
Sunlight streaming through the glass front of the A-frame woke him up. He lurched out of the recliner and bolted for the bathroom. When he returned to the living area a few moments later, Clete was at the counter pouring a cup of coffee.
“There ya go, pard,” he said. “I was gonna wake ya up when it was ready, but you tore outa here like your hair was on fire. Prostate’s a bitch when ya git old, huh?”
Crockett ignored the comment and attempted to re-tie his ponytail. His efforts were less than successful.
Clete peered at him. “You look like shit,” he said.
“Thank you. What’s for breakfast?”
“Don’t make no difference. You ain’t eatin’ here anyway.”
“I’m not?”
“Nope. Miz Whisper was by ‘bout ten minutes before you woke up an’ asked me to inform you that you’re takin’ her out to breakfast this mornin’.
“I am?”
“Yep. On that old motorcycle a yours. Said she likes it. She also said to get with the program. She’d like to leave by nine.”
Crockett glanced at the clock. Shit. He grabbed the coffee and limped away toward his bedroom. Clete’s chuckle wafted in his wake.
Fifteen minutes later, un-showered but somewhat groomed, clad in leather, and carrying his helmet, Crockett returned. Whisper, also in leather, stood at the counter. She followed him to the garage and waited patiently as he went through the BSA’s starting ritual. Eventually the bike fired and Crockett feathered the throttle and choke until the engine settled into its customary throaty rumble.
“Get on,” he said.
Whisper stepped up on the footspud, swung a leg over, settled onto the seat, wrapped her arms around his waist, and nestled into his back.
“I thought you’d never ask,” she said.
Oh, hell.
The ride was wonderful. Crockett took two-lane county roads and threw the Goldstar through corners and switchbacks as fast as he dared with a passenger behind him. Whisper’s occasional yelps of joy added to the morning and, by the time they stopped playing and finally reached the Corner Restaurant in Liberty, he felt like a new man. Grinning, Whisper hung on his arm as they walked across the parking lot, Crockett’s hands and feet buzzing from residual BSA vibration.
The crowd was light and, as they took a seat at a table in the side room, Crockett watched a vintage black Harley Sportster pull into a parking space outside their window. Damn. He turned to Whisper.
“Go to the bathroom for a few minutes, then wait in the lobby. Wook’s here.”
Without a word, the girl picked up her helmet and left. Crockett leaned back in his chair and tried to look nonchalant. Christ. He wished he’d brought a gun.
Wook, wearing blue jeans, a ratty leather racing shirt, and carrying an old Buco shorty helmet, sauntered in, slid back the chair across from Crockett, and folded himself onto the seat. Just as he hooked the chinstrap of the helmet over the chair’s arm, a waitress arrived with coffee and menus.
“Just coffee,” he said.
She looked at Crockett.
“Same.”
She poured both of them coffee and went away.
Crockett stirred some cream in his and looked across the table. “Mister Hillman,” he said. “How may I be of service to you?”
A slight rise in Wook’s eyebrows confessed his surprise. Nothing else in his face changed. He left his gaze on Crockett for a moment before he spoke.
“Leoni’s an idiot,” he said.
“No argument here.”
“From what he says, you spanked him pretty good the other day.”
“Like you said, he’s an idiot.”
Wook let things float for a moment. “Even idiots can have contacts and money,” he said.
“And cover,” Crockett replied.
“And cover,” Wook said.
“Pretty good cover, actually,” Crockett went on. “Shipping product using bikes as mules isn’t bad if you’ve got friends in customs.”
“It’s the wrong product.”
“Yes, it is. We both know that.”
“So does he.”
Crockett smiled. “It’s also coming from suppliers that are in a very unstable environment.”
Wook nodded. “That third-world shithole could go belly up tomorrow. Things are okay in Italy and New York, but the first line of supply is about as stable as a fifty-year-old crack whore.”
“Well put.”
“Plus,” Wook said, “he should be in shipping, not receiving. The infrastructure is in place to do that.”
“Old habits sometimes die hard.”
Something shifted behind Wook’s eyes. “Dyin’ ain’t hard,” he said.
“Can you persuade him to take an alternate course?”
Wook’s teeth showed. Crockett assumed it was a smile. “That would be a yes?”
“He’s scared shitless of y
ou,” Wook said. “Scared you’ll shoot his ass and scared you’ll take your business somewhere else if you don’t shoot his ass.”
“His fears are not necessarily groundless, Wook.”
“He’s scared of me, too.”
It was Crockett’s turn to smile. “I don’t doubt that for a minute. You have then, I assume, a certain amount of influence over him?”
“Leverage might be a better word.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“Product,” Wook said.
“How much on the first order?”
“What’s the minimum?”
“Ten keys. Two hundred and fifty large. Same as what you tried.”
Wook blinked. “Reasonable price,” he said.
“My source of supply is direct. Take your time. I have things to organize.”
Wook stood up. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.
Crockett looked at him. “Call when you need to, Wook. Don’t follow me, don’t spy on me. I’m a long way from Leoni.”
“Ain’t we all,” Wook replied, and walked away.
Crockett leaned back and fought the nausea that had suddenly arrived in the pit of his stomach. Whisper appeared at the table. Behind her came Stitch. He grinned at Crockett’s surprise.
“Whathefuck?” he said, pulling out a chair for Whisper. “You think I’m gonna let you just take off without cover? Air-cav, motherfucker.”
On the way home, Crockett stopped by the Liberty Walmart and purchased a disposable cell phone. In the parking lot, he pulled a number from his wallet and phoned the Missouri State Police in Jefferson City.
“The DDCC please.”
“Just a moment sir,” the female operator replied.
“Thank you.”
Crockett watched a family that needed a parade permit file into Wally-World before another voice came on the line.
“Drug and Crime,” said a male voice.
“Hi. Sergeant Pelmore, please.”
“Can I say who’s calling?”
“Sure. Tell him an old friend from Sonic and the park.”
Another minute or so rolled by.
“Pellmore.”
“Hello, Sergeant. Know who this is?”
“You ladies back for more tater-tots?”
Crockett chuckled. “Sarge,” he went on, “would it interest you if I could deliver a couple of bad guys in possession of twenty-two pounds of cocaine?”
“Is a pig’s ass pork?”
“Just checking. Would Director Riley need to be involved in this venture?”
“Fuck him.”
“Music to my ears, Sergeant. I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait a min…”
Crockett disconnected and grinned at Stitch as he dropped the cell phone in a waste can.
“Now that,” he said, “was fun.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“You want what?” Clete said, gaping at Crockett across the breakfast bar.
“Nine more kilos of coke,” Crockett replied, slipping out of his leather jacket. From his position at the fridge, Stitch snickered.
“Is that all? Son, over the past few years I gotcha a Jeep, I gotcha a big ol’ bus, I gotcha a sniper rifle or two, I gotcha a goddam helicopter…hell! I even gotcha a freakin’ leg. Now you want nine kilos a cocaine?”
“Yes, please,” Crockett said, unzipping his chaps.
“Well, lemme go check my luggage. Oughta have it in there someplace.”
“Ninety-seven percent pure would be nice. Just like the kilo you brought.”
“Crockett, I don’t believe you. What the hell do ya’ll think I am, some kinda miracle worker? Somebody that kin jest reach up in the air an’ grab onto anythin’ ya’ll need? God almighty, son.”
Crockett grinned. “Texican,” he said, “you can never watch your wagon come home full if you don’t have the guts to send it out empty.”
“This here ain’t yer wagon. This here is my wagon! Ol’ Clete kin just snap his fingers an’ whatever anybody’s heart desires’ll just materialize. That it?”
While he and Crockett stared at each other, Whisper walked to the bar.
“Hey, Clete,” she said. “I missed breakfast. How ‘bout a bagel and some cream cheese?”
“Aw, hell!” Clete spat, and stomped from the room.
“What’d I say?” Whisper asked.
Crockett fixed flapjacks and corned-beef hash for a late breakfast. Whisper and Danni took off in the Mercedes to do some shopping, Irwin retired to his room, and Stitch perched on a stool as he chuckled from time to time. Clean-up had just been completed when Clete arrived back at the snack bar.
“Cletus Marshal, where have you been keeping yourself?”
“Eat my shorts, you one-legged ol’ fart.”
“And in such a good mood, too. Coffee? Tea? Scotch and soda?”
“Nice a you to offer,” Clete grunted, “but I gotta go.”
“Where you goin’?”
“Eagles Nest.”
“Eagles Nest?”
“Little ol’ place up in the hills outside a Taos a ways. Gonna meet a feller there an’ git yer cocaine for ya.”
“No kidding?”
“Ol’ boy is with the Boder Patrol. They’s fixin’ to burn a few hundred pounds a the shit next month. For a fifty grand donation to the Border Patrol’s scholarship fund and the guarantee that the dope’ll be back in the hands of the police and some cop killers’ll be in the pokey in a week or two, he’s gonna do the deal.”
“Clete, that’s terrific. Thanks a lot.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll tell you what. That is gonna be one goddam long drive back here with life in prison settin’ in the trunk.”
“Why don’t we go get the helo?” Stitch said. “Fly ya down there, pick up the shit, and fly back?”
Clete shook his head. “No point in havin’ two of our asses on the line if things go to hell. I wanna git on the road in about a half-hour. I’ll drive to Taos today, spend the night, pick the stuff up early tomorrow morning, and be back late tomorrow night.”
“You have all the I.D. you need in case you get stopped?” Crockett asked.
“Badge, commission, and Sig forty. I could use a sandwich for the road.”
When Cletus drove away in his Chrysler, on the passenger seat was a Thermos of black coffee, a small cooler containing three ham sandwiches, two bags of chips, two bottles of water, two bottles of iced tea, four chocolate cupcakes, a bag of cashews, and a thank you note from the one-legged old fart.
That evening after dinner, Stitch drifted away and Crockett called the rest of the group to attention. “Boy and girls,” he said, “this adventure is over. You have all made it much easier and more viable. I appreciate your efforts. Tomorrow you must go away. Things have come to a head rather quickly and you are not a part of that which must now be done. Irwin, your contribution to this enterprise is above value. After leaving me with copies of the incriminating portions of your recordings you are free to return to Denver. Whisper, you have been, and are, a delight. Tomorrow morning I will settle up with you, and you must also leave. Danni, you are free to go back to Satin’s apartment and resume your life working toward your future and that of your child. It means a lot to me to have been involved in all this with you, and that each of you would put your needs on hold to join in this effort. Ivolee Cabot and I thank you for your commitment. I suggest you all prepare. I need you out of here tomorrow morning by ten. In short, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
The three all stared at him for a moment, then left the room. Not one word was exchanged. Crockett leaned his elbows on the bar and felt like hell.
“Kind of a bitch, huh,” Stitch said.
The words snapped Crockett back to reality. He was still sitting at the bar and nearly an hour had passed.
“Yeah.”
“You been livin’ another life, dude,” Stitch went on. “A new one. This house, these people, this situation, the cars, t
he bikes, Leoni an’ them. All of that is a damn long way from Satin and your little crib in the woods, man. The new life is over, Crockett. When a life is over, there’s gotta be a death a some kind. That shit makes ya sad, ya know? An’ not just you, man. Everybody. Ol’ Danni is stepping on her lip. Irwin went through a lot a changes here. He’s not the same person that he was. Now he’s gotta deal with that. Whisper made some friends, man. Whisper ain’t the kinda chick that lives in a world where friendship is much of a factor. The gang has gotta break up now. Everybody needs for that to happen, but nobody wants it to happen. The play has ended. That kinda shit is tough on the cast, Crockett. It’s toughest on the director, dude. That would, like, be you, ya know?”
Crockett smiled. “Pretty smart for an old hippie.”
Stitch slapped Crockett on the shoulder. “I ain’t as dumb as I thought you were, man,” he said.
“Thanks, Blackbird.”
“Air Cav, motherfucker,” Stitch said, and walked from the room.
Crockett sat at the bar for a few more moments, then poured a scotch, lit a Sherman, and moved to the porch outside the front door. He sat, listening to the night sounds and thinking. He missed Satin and his deck with the swing and Nudge and Dundee and the woods and the first cup of morning coffee while verbally sparing with that wonderful woman. God or the universe or happenstance or dumb luck had delivered several outstanding women into his life during the past few years, but Satin was more. Above and beyond what had defined those past relationships, she was his pal. Empathetic without sympathy, loving without being needful, giving without condition, taking without guilt, she was the producer of his play. Sometimes the director, sometimes painting scenery, her dialogue was always brilliant, her delivery impeccable. As far as he was concerned, the curtain would never come down on that play until the curtain came down on him. Smiling, Crockett stubbed out the Sherman and reached for his cell phone. Satin answered on the third ring.
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