Behind the Badge

by David R Lewis

  “Good,” Crockett said, lifting his kit to the top of the coffee table and opening it. “Satin,” he said, fishing out the tapes of prints he’d lifted, “please do your computer magic and send these to Clete. I’ll call him in a minute.”

  “On the way in five,” Satin said.

  “I’ve got some DNA too, but I don’t think we’ll need it. Put the prints and this vial in a desk drawer and lock it.”

  “Gotcha,” Satin replied, and headed for her office.

  “Now,” Crockett went on, pecking at his cell phone, “you’ll need to meet Deputy Winkler,” he said.

  “Yeah, dude?” Stitch answered.

  “The group has a new member. C’mon over.”

  “Far out. Be right there, man.”

  When Stitch disconnected, Crockett phoned Cletus.

  “Hey Texican.”

  “Crockett! Stitch get his lamp-cam?”

  “It arrived today. Another favor.”

  “Go ahead on, son.”

  “Satin is sending you some prints I lifted. They belong to a woman using the name Stacy Porter. Run ‘em through, willya? Anything you can get.”

  “You got it. Anything else?”

  “You familiar with a drug called Opana?”

  “Top of the line, Crockett.”

  “I need to know the street price for hits and bulk.”

  “I’ll find out. You need some?”

  “I don’t want to sell any. I may want to buy some locally. Not sure yet. I also need you to check out a woman named Shelia Graham. I have no other info on her. Around forty, maybe lately from Dallas/Fort Worth area. She’s the floor eyes and ears at the club.”

  “I’m on it,” Clete said. “Letcha know what I can as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks, Clete.”

  “How’s ol’ Stitch like his place?”

  Crockett grinned. “Far out, dude,” he said.

  Clete laughed. “I’ll git out that way one a these days an’ check the homestead out.”

  “He’s got a canoe, Clete.”

  “Oh no. I ain’t gittin’ in no canoe. Not after last time. See ya.”

  Crockett disconnected.

  “Damn,” Shelly said.

  “What?”

  “What are you, Crockett?”

  “Who me?”

  “You got prints on the way someplace, you got DNA on Stacy.”

  “Yeah. We need to know who she is.”

  “You got a source for that kind of thing and a source for drugs?”

  “And weapons, and backup if we need it.”

  Shelly sat down. “Jesus,” she said. “You start a bust on a drug ring that goes clear to Italy, you find what’s left of a trooper four years dead, and now this. You damn sure aren’t just a bumfuck county deputy.”

  “I can show you ID for the Department of Justice.”

  “You’re with Justice?”

  “No. But I can produce viable ID in another name that will stand up to anything you or Pelmore could find out.”

  “Who’d you just talk to on the phone?”

  “Another member of the company. Logistics and supply. Kickass backup, too. We’ve even got our own air corps.”

  “What?”

  “Insertion, deployment, and retrieval. Hop ‘em and drop ‘em. In and out, never a doubt. Ooo-rah.”

  The door opened and Stitch stepped in.

  “And here he is now,” Crockett went on.

  Stitch looked at Shelly. “Hey, girlfriend,” he said. “Like, good to see ya in the daylight, ya know?”

  “You!”

  “Pretty much,” Stitch said.

  Mouth open, Shelly had nothing else to say.

  Satin returned. “Everything is on the way,” she said.

  “Thank you, dear,” Crockett replied. “Clete’s expecting it.”

  Shelly was still staring at Stitch. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You’re part of this?”

  Stitch grinned. “Part of what?”

  “Part of whatever this is.”

  “Yeah, whatever it is, I’m, like, part of it, ya know?”

  “I thought you were just this guy that…oh, hell.”

  “Don’t freak out, baby sister,” Stitch went on.

  Shelly seemed a little disassociated. Satin got her a short coffee, and Crockett sat down across from her. She took a sip or two and appeared to focus.

  “What can you tell me about Stacy?” Crockett asked.

  “Uh, she came in with Shelia. Doesn’t work very hard. Doesn’t talk to any of us much. You think she’s dirty?”

  “We know she’s dirty. She deals. Stitch is working a con on her. With luck, she’s gonna try to sell to him. Then I’ll bust her.”

  “But that’ll blow his cover.”

  “Not if we work it right. You just keep doing what you’re doing. Eyes and ears. We’ll do our best to have somebody close to you all the time. Either in the club, or nearby. Just be careful. Nobody here is a hero.”

  “Yeah, well you be careful, too. Stacy carries a knife in her boot.”

  Crockett smiled. “Good to know, he said. “It’s getting late. Get out of here. Go home, grab some of your stuff, go to work, and come out here tonight. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Stitch’ll be in the club this evening. I’ll stop by for a walk around and coffee like always.”

  “Okay.”

  “Business as usual, kiddo.”

  “Thanks for bringing me in on this, Crockett.”

  “Like I had a choice.”

  Shelly got to her feet and walked to the door. On the way out she looked at Stitch again.

  “You,” she said.

  Stitch grinned at her. “Welcome to the real Justice League,” he said.

  *****

  Satin was preparing lunch the next day, with Crockett and Shelly sitting at the bar, when Clete called.

  “Hey, Texican. What’s up?”

  “Got your girl, son. Sendin’ ya a email on her, but thought I’d call, too. Her real name is Katlyn Coonts. Current address unknown. She’s thirty-three years old, busted about fifteen years ago for solicitation in Fort Worth, again a couple a years later along with possession of a controlled substance. She’s worked as an escort, a waitress an’ and dancer in clubs around the area. Last known workplace was a country and western dance hall and bar outside Dallas a little way called The Showdown. She got busted for possession with intent to sell about three months ago, jumped bail, and disappeared herself. At the time of the arrest, she was holding over five grand in pills. Drug dog on his way to work in baggage got her at a airport.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I bet she was pissed, huh?”

  “Speaking of drugs…”

  “Yeah. Opana is most commonly a eight-sided little pill. Twenties are pale green, thirties are brown, forties are pale yella. They can go on the street for as much as a buck a milligram for a single pill, but usually a little less. In small batches, less than that. Like one thirty milligram for twenty-five bucks. Five of ‘em for a hundred an’ ten.”

  “What size is most common?”

  “Purty even between the twenties, thirties, an’ forties.”

  The door opened and Stitch walked in.

  “I’m on the phone with Clete,” Crockett said.

  “Far out,” Stitch replied, handing him a piece of paper. “Stacy’s plate number.”

  Crockett read it to Cletus.

  “I’ll call ya when I git it, Pard. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Thanks, Clete. I don’t wanna run any of this stuff locally.”

  “Doan blame ya.”

  “You get anything on the other gal?”

  “Shelia Graham is evidently her real name. She’s forty-two. First trace I got on her was in Seattle. Busted once for prostitution nearly twenty years ago. Was an exotic dancer in her youth, then moved into managing other dancers and escorts around Seattle. She made it to Dallas about ten years ago. Got a job managing a small waterhole. Ran a few girls. Moved
up. Until a month or so ago, she was an assistant manager at a club outside Fort Worth called The Showdown. Sound familiar?”

  “A little.”

  “She had a concealed carry permit when she left Texas.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  “Watch were ya step, big dog. If yer fat gits in the fire, yell. I’ll come a-runnin’.”

  Crocket grinned. “I know it.”

  “Give my best to yer mom n’ them,” Clete chuckled, and disconnected.

  Crocket turned to Stitch. “Shelia Graham’s name is Shelia Graham. Started in exotic dancing and prostitution in Seattle. Moved into management. Arrived in Dallas ten years ago. Last employment was a club called The Showdown. Stacy’s name is Katlyn Coonts. She’s outa the Dallas/Fort Worth area. Been busted for prostitution and drugs. Worked as a dancer and waitress. Last known employment was at The Showdown club outside Dallas. There’s paper on her for possession with intent to sell.”

  Stitch grinned. “Sell what?” he asked.

  Crockett smiled. “Drugs, dummy,” he said.

  “Oh. I got confused,” Stitch confessed. “She’s fuckin’ givin’ everything away right now, man.” He tossed a tiny plastic bag on the counter. Inside were four little brown pills. “She left about a half a hour ago, dude. Lookin’ forward to, like, seein’ me tonight an’ shit. Ain’t love grand?”

  “She spent the night at your place?” Shelly asked.

  “Tokin’, jokin’, smokin’, and pokin’, dude. This undercover shit is a bitch.”

  “Jesus,” Shelly replied, and stalked off toward the bathroom.

  “Ya think I mighta offended her, like, sensibilities, man?” Stitch asked.

  Crockett grinned. “Could be.”

  “Far out,” Stitch said.

  *****

  Satin’s lunch of buttermilk chicken fingers with honey mustard sauce and broiled potato wedges changed both the subject and the timbre of the meeting. After the meal, Crockett got back to the business at hand.

  “What’s Stacy drive, Stitch?”

  “Ah, a Mustang, dude. Nothin’ special. Medium blue.”

  “Okay. You two discuss a drug purchase?”

  “Yeah. I asked her if she could, like, get more of the Opana, an’ she said somethin’ like how much, when, and where, man. I told her I just wanted a small order now, like a thousand hits of the thirties. Said she needed a couple a days and ten grand up front. I said that was bullshit, man. I’d give her a grand for her trouble, and fifteen large when I got the shit. She went for it. Said she gets off at ten on Friday night, man. She’ll be out after work with the dope. I told her that I’d be by the club for a little while to check in an’ make sure things were, like, copacetic.”

  “Great.” Crockett said. “Shelly’ll be there and watch her, too. When you get to the club, park close to her car. When you go out to leave, take that little ball-peen hammer and bust out a hole in the bottom of her right rear taillight. I’ll stop her two or three miles away from the club. Leave those pills you have with me.”

  “What for, man?”

  “Probable cause,” Crockett said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Crockett headed into work early, stopping by the bank in Smithville on the way. A little ahead of schedule, he arrived at the diner before Dale did, and ordered a piece of coconut cream pie. Half way through the rather soggy disappointment, he gave up. Dale arrived.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, noticing the grimace on Crockett’s face.

  “Bad pie.”

  Smoot picked up another fork and took charge of what was left. “I’m easier to please than you are,” he said.

  “You want my coffee, too?”

  “That’s okay. If a waitress ever shows up, I’ll get some milk.”

  “I heard that,” announced a voice from out of sight in the kitchen. A glass of milk appeared on the serving counter. Dale walked over, picked it up, and returned.

  “Anything special tonight?”

  “Yeah,” Crockett said. “We need to stop by the office I never use in the city cop shop.”

  “How come?”

  “Tell ya when we get there.”

  “This some secret police shit?”

  “Indeed it is.”

  “Hell,” Dale grunted, “I’m not sure I’m authorized to know anything.”

  Crockett grinned. “I’ll authorize you,” he said.

  “You better. I don’t feel like I’ve had control of much since you begged me for the job anyway.”

  “You’re the high sheriff,” Crockett said.

  “So far that’s got me half a piece of bad pie. I wonder what joys are ahead?”

  “C’mon,” Crockett said. “I’ll fill you in.”

  *****

  When they entered Crockett’s unused office, Dale noticed the Kevlar vest still hanging on the back of the desk chair.

  “I see you’re getting’ a lot a use outa that bulletproof garment,” he said.

  “I like it there,” Crockett replied, digging around in a leg pocket of his cargo slacks.

  “Satin’ll cut my nuts off if you get shot, ya know.”

  “Not my problem,” Crockett said, putting a pile of cash on the desk.

  “Jesus!” Smoot said. “What the hell is that?”

  “That is two-hundred one-hundred dollar bills,” Crockett said. “Fire up the copy machine. I want a photocopy of every one of these. We can get quite a few on each page if we adjust ‘em so the serial numbers show. I also want you as a witness to the fact that we’re using my money. I may want it back some day.”

  “You’re gonna buy drugs aren’t ya?”

  “Maybe. If I’m lucky, I might just rent some for a while.”

  “What the fuck is goin’ on?”

  “I’ll keep it short. Buckles and Bows has a couple of women working there that are dirty. One is a floor manager, ex-hooker, ex-stripper, ex-madam for all I know. Another is a waitress that’s currently got paper out on her in Texas for possession with intent. Tomorrow night she believes she is going to deliver an amount of pills to Stitch. I’m gonna interfere with that delivery. There is also another waitress at the club named Shelly. A cutie that is also a cop.”

  “No shit.”

  “Nope. She’s with the state D.D.C.C. She is now assigned to me.”

  “How’d you work that?”

  “I’m not sure. The point is, I’d bet that pile of cash that Buckles and Bows has a lot more money goin’ out the door than they can legally account for coming in the door. If that’s the case, their top investor is probably dirty too.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Jack Cantral.”

  Smoot smiled. “You just can’t leave those poor Cantral boys alone, can you?”

  “Not so far. You got your little-bitty recorder with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lemme borrow it, willya?”

  Dale handed it over. “Try not to lose it. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “You’re sweet,” Crockett said. “That’s all, I think.”

  “Well, let’s get this done. We’ll make two copies. One for me and one for the judge. Hurry up. Good TV tonight.”

  *****

  Things were pretty slow on patrol. Crockett went home early and sat in the swing with Satin and a Guinness, listening to the crickets.

  “Kinda muggy tonight,” Satin said.

  “I been thinking about that,” Crockett replied. “Maybe we should get a couple of those outdoor misting ceiling fans installed out here. They claim they’ll cut the temperature by fifteen to twenty degrees.”

  “Can you get ‘em put in tonight?”

  Crockett thought a moment. “Probably not,” he said. “You have an alternative?”

  “Dry and cool inside. I just put clean sheets on the bed.”

  “You had me at muggy,” Crockett said.

  *****

  Shelly showed up in the kitchen a little befor
e ten the next morning, looking rumpled. Crockett grinned and poured her a cup.

  “Ooo-rah,” she said, and toasted him with the coffee.

  “Oh, God!” he moaned. “Tell me you weren’t in the corps.”

  “A-gile, mo-bile, and ha-style,” she replied. “I drink kerosene and piss napalm, motherfucker.”

  Crockett cracked up.

  Satin walked in from her office and peered at him. “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s not funny,” Crockett said. “It’s tragic. This cute little shit is a jarhead!”

  Satin gaped. “You were a Marine?”

  “I am a Marine,” Shelly said. “Once a Marine, always a Marine.” Her eyes traveled to Satin’s hands. “Ooh. I love that nail polish. Where’d you get it?”

  “Aw, Christ,” Crockett said. He grabbed his coffee and schlepped out to the deck. Stitch was walking up the slope toward the cabin.

  “Hey, man,” he said, climbing the steps. “Finally got rid of that chick. The deal’s on, dude. I got conformation last night. I also fronted her a grand. Got the whole thing recorded on the, like, lamp, ya know?”

  “Good,” Crockett said. “I’m set to go. Got some bad news, though.”

  “What?”

  “Shelly was a Marine.”

  “No shit?”

  “Nope.

  “Ha! I dealt with a lot a them fuckers in the ‘Nam, ya know? Never saw one as cute as she is. If I hadda, I mighta been a lifer, dude.”

  The sliding door opened and Satin and Shelly came out. Stitch zeroed in.

  “I heard a vicious rumor about you,” he said.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. I heard that you was a whore in the corps, man. That right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Far out, dude! Ooo-rah, motherfucker! Another bitch in the ditch! Semper Fi!”

  She and Stitch high-fived and grinned at each other.

  “Air-Cav, Jarhead. I hopped and dropped a lot a you mudpuppies back in the day, dude. Elephant grass up the ass an’ shit. Were ya in-country?”

  “Afghanistan,” Shelly said.