“’Sposed to open tonight, but we’re gonna wait ‘til Saturday. Still got chairs that haven’t come, the walk-in’s acting up, and two of the taps ain’t workin’ right. Plus the goddam county inspector can’t come out today.”
“I bet that makes the owner happy.”
“I’m overjoyed,” Joker said.
“You’re the owner?”
“Yeah. I got a shitload a money from KBR after one a their pickup trucks ran me over in Kandahar five years ago. Hung onto it until Bison thought about openin’ this place back up. We both usta come here when it was The Waterhole before it got all fucked up by a bunch a shitheads. His daddy died an’ left him some insurance so we throwed in together. Now we’re the pissed-off owners of Whiskey River.”
“What went wrong with the place the first time?”
“Asshole Hells-Angel wannabees. We’re bikers. No apology for any of that shit. But we don’t want no killin’ or knifin’, no goddam sellin’ meth an’ pills in the place. We cater to a rough bunch, and what they do someplace else ain’t none of our business. Somebody wants to tear off a piece in the john, I don’t give a shit. Somebody wants to do coke in the parking lot, I could care less. Couple a guys need to kick the shit outa each other, they can go outside. None a my business. But they get outa hand in here, it is my business ‘cause it is my business. I gotta bust a few heads and introduce a few faces to the gravel in the parkin’ lot. Life’s a bitch, ya know?”
Crockett took a deep hit of his beer and smiled. “Glad to hear you say that, Joker.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep.” Crockett reached into his shirt pocket, took out his badge and commission case, and tossed it on the table.
Joker picked it up and examined it. “You’re that Crockett,” he said.
“Can’t be helped,” Crockett replied.
“You gonna give us a bunch a shit?”
“Hope not. You seem to have the right idea. Quid pro quo. You don’t give me shit; I don’t give you shit.”
Bison spoke up. “You’re the guy that put Spud an’ Jack Cantral in prison and killed their brother Shorty!”
“It’s hard to be humble,” Crockett said.
“You done a bunch a other shit, too. Jesus. An ol’ Earl was fixin’ to square away on your ass out in the parkin’ lot!”
Earl looked a little pale and took a swig of his draft.
“That might notta worked out real well for him, huh?” Bison went on.
“It could have been a disaster,” Crockett said. “When Earl kicked my ass, he would have pissed off my wife. The woman is a mongoose on two pots of coffee. He wouldn’t have stood a chance against her. When you grabbed him, you saved both of us.”
As the laughter rolled around the table, Crockett finished his beer, stood up, and dropped a twenty on the table.
“Thanks fellas,” he went on. “I’ll get that poor old Beezer outa the lot before I hurt your image. As I see it, unless you call the inside belongs to your gang and the outside belongs to my gang. Just remember that the Cantral brothers gave me shit. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” Joker said. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I don’t think I could be stranger than this place,” Crockett said, and headed for the door.
Jesus. Whiskey River was all he needed.
After Crockett crossed the railroad tracks on his way back through Sutton, he turned right and let the old Beezer grumble its way down the bleak main street of town. Halfway through the second and last block of the trip, he noticed a low and narrow white building on the south side of the street. A peeling sign painted on the front window read “Café.” He parked the bike between a rusty Chevy pickup and a fairly new Japanese SUV and wandered inside.
The four or five individuals who sat in the small dining area regarded him rather coolly as he took a seat at a two-spot near the front window and hung his helmet from the back of the second chair. He had just unzipped his jacket and pulled his ponytail out of the collar when a heavyset woman in her forties, possibly the cook, cashier, and waitress all rolled into one, approached him.
“Want coffee?” she asked.
“Sure. With cream, please.”
“Menu’s on the wall behind you.”
“Got any pie?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind?”
“On the wall.”
“But you can see the wall,” Crockett said. “I can’t unless I turn around. Why don’t you just tell me?”
The woman sighed. “We got cherry, apple, blueberry, apple crunch, and blackberry.”
“Blueberry any good?”
“I made it.”
“You talented in such matters?”
“Why don’t you just tell me what you want, mister. Then you can eat and be on your way.”
“How come you’re so pissed off at me? What’d I do?”
“You’re from that new joint south of town, aren’t ya?”
“I just left there, yes. They were a damn site nicer to me than you are. This how you build your business?”
“I just don’t want no trouble from you people. I remember how it was when that place was open before. We don’t need your kind around here.”
Crockett smiled. “Have a seat,” he said. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” she said. “I ain’t givin’ you no food for nothin’. I ain’t payin’ your bunch so I don’t have no accidents around the place again, either. You fuck with me or my business, mister, an’ I’ll call the law on ya! Things is some different in this county now than they used to be. Why don’t you just leave me alone? Like I said, we don’t need you or your kind around here.”
“I hope you’re right, m’am,” Crockett said, reaching inside his jacket. “I hope you don’t need me or my kind. But if you do, we’ll come running.”
He laid his badge and ID on the table. The woman picked it up and studied it for a moment. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “Don’t I feel like a fool.”
“Feeling like one is a lot better than being one,” Crockett said. “Sounds to me like you don’t intend to take any crap from the patrons of the new establishment. Good. I don’t either. We’ll keep a car in the area. You need anything, pick up the phone.”
Blushing, she handed his badge and ID back to him. “You’re that Crockett, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Afraid so”.
The woman scurried away.
The coffee was fresh, the cream was real, the blueberry pie was good and heated, the ice cream was loaded with bits of actual vanilla, and the check read “no charge.”
Crockett left a ten-dollar bill on the table, and the old BSA started on the second kick. Thank God. If he’d had to jump up and down on the thing ten or fifteen times, it would have blown his image.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Smoot was standing on the porch of the office when Crockett pulled up. He walked down the steps and shook his head.
“What the hell,” the big man said. “Now we got a motorcycle division?”
“Just for parades and funerals,” Crockett replied. “We’ll use the horse patrol for visiting heads of state.”
“Uh-huh. You been over to that club?”
Crockett pulled off his helmet. “Yeah. Had a beer with Bison, Earl, and Joker. Earl rides a knucklehead. Bison and Joker own the joint.”
“They seem reasonable?”
“Joker said they don’t want the trouble the old place had. They’ll take care of the inside or call if they can’t. We take care of the outside. They don’t give us shit; we don’t give them shit.”
“Sounds almost okay.”
“I added an addendum to the agreement.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Their gang fucks up, our gang lands on ‘em. Hard.”
“They take that seriously?”
“They knew about me and the Cantral brothers. That two in prison and one in the ground thing seemed to impress ‘em.”
“We need to keep somebod
y in that general area after they open for a while.” Smoot said.
“Oh, yeah. Maybe two somebody’s.”
“That would be good.”
“You give one of the guys a little overtime so we can keep two cars in the area on the weekends plus me, and I’ll give ya eight or nine to midnight or one Tuesday through Fridays, and take the weekend as usual. That’ll give us two cars during the week and three on Saturday and Sunday in that part of the county.”
“Charlie five and Arkie nine okay with you?”
“Good kids.”
“For the first few weeks, I’ll be out late from time to time, also.”
Crockett grinned. “You? The High Sheriff?”
“Why not? I haven’t had the shit kicked outa me in a while.”
“I stopped by the café in Sutton on the way back. Gal there didn’t want nothin’ to do with any bikers. Basically told me the county had changed some since the place was open before. No more free food, no more extortion would be paid, no more trouble, and hit the road.”
Smoot grinned. “That’d be Ellen Harris. Tough.”
“I revealed my secret identity and chatted with her a little. She got all embarrassed and tried to give me my pie and coffee. She’ll be on the phone if things get outa hand. I figure we really don’t wanna lean on these guys too much. Give ‘em room, cut ‘em a little slack just like with any other waterhole, and see what happens. If they fuck up, nail ‘em. We let them bring on the heat, and they won’t have a valid bitch if we have to draw a line in the sand. Sound okay to you?”
“Sure. I’ll talk it over with the guys. Also let ‘em know that trouble with one or two of these assholes don’t mean trouble with the whole joint. Person by person, case by case, don’t overreact, don’t take the shit personally. You know how young bucks on either side of the badge can get. I don’t want any vendettas from them or us.”
“Good enough,” Crockett said.
“And that means you, too,” Smoot went on.
“Me? Cool Hand Crockett?”
“Just makin’ sure we don’t have a failure to communicate,” Smoot said.
Crockett got home around six and was contemplating if it was worth it to go to the trouble to prepare his signature lasagna for evening repast when Satin came through the door, carrying an immense bag labeled Peking Palace.
“Hey sweetie,” she said, dropping the bag on the counter and kissing him on the mouth.
“Hey yourself,” Crockett replied, opening the bag as she headed upstairs. “You got Chinese!”
Her voice echoed down from the bedroom. “Beef fried rice, egg rolls, egg drop soup, chicken in lobster sauce for me, sweet and sour chicken for you, beef in garlic sauce, three or four packets of that ridiculous hot mustard you like, and almond cookies for dessert. Should all still be warm, at least.”
Crockett got out plates, bowls, napkins, and chopsticks. He put the soup in the microcave to get it really hot and set out the goodies on the snack bar. Barefooted, Satin came back downstairs in a t-shirt and cutoffs as he got out spoons and a small ladle.
“We need another plate and bowl and such,” Satin said, eyeballing the counter. “I called Stitch. He should be here any minute.”
“Good. We need to spend a little more time with him. I hate to see the hippie just hangin’ out all by himself.”
“He’ll be working soon. They poured a pad for him today. Charlene went for it. Kid Country will offer helicopter rides.”
“No shit.”
“Nope. Next weekend, Stitch will be employed.”
At that moment, the sliding glass door slid open and Stitch, leaving Donk and Dundee on the deck, entered the area.
“Chink grits,” he said. “Far out.”
There wasn’t a lot of conversation over dinner until Stitch attacked the end of an egg roll he had thoughtlessly slathered in Crockett’s hot mustard. With watering eyes, he managed to get the bite down as he headed for the sink and water. A quart or so of water later, he ladled two spoonfuls of Crockett’s sweet sauce into his maw and sat fidgeting as tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. Satin turned away in compassion. Crockett was not so generous.
“The sweet sauce’ll help,” he said.
Stitch nodded agreement.
“Satin tells me you got the gig at the kid place.”
Again Stitch nodded, breathing rather violently through his nose as the hairs that lurked there curled and smoked.
“Great. You just gonna work weekends?”
Stitch nodded again, then wiped his eyes with a napkin as he snorted while trying to breathe.
“That’ll be good. Give you a chance to mingle with your fellow man and use the skills of a lifetime. Think it’ll be successful?”
Stitch shrugged and began to weep openly, tears overflowing his bloodshot eyes.
“How’s your mouth?” Crockett asked.
With a squeak of agony, Stitch launched from his stool and bolted for the sliding glass door. He cast the portal aside, lurched out onto the deck, and spewed the contents of his mouth over the railing. “Motherfucker!” he shrieked, and began bouncing on his toes.
Satin tore into action, grabbing some sugared iced tea from the fridge and running to the stricken man’s aid. Grinning, Crockett had another bite of chicken.
It took about five minutes before Stitch could approach the table. Crockett peered at him.
“That Chinese mustard is pretty hot,” he said.
“I didn’t notice,” Stitch said, gingerly chewing a piece of garlic beef.
“I think you need another motorcycle,” Crockett went on.
“What?”
“Another scooter. A Harley.”
“What the fuck I want a Hardly-Ableson for?”
“A little undercover work at Whiskey River.”
“Whiskey River? That new hog house?”
“Yeah.”
“How much is, like, a little undercover work?”
“Two or three hours a week. Just stop by a couple of times for a beer and look the place over. Who knows? You might find the woman of your dreams.”
“Yeah. An’ the STD’s of my nightmares, man. My big chance to get that case of herpes I always wanted. Dig it.”
“Just a thought,” Crockett said. “Up to you.”
Stitch chewed a bite of fried rice for a moment. “I damn sure couldn’t ride my Guzzi,” he said. “Get my ass kicked big time. I’d like to help, man, but what am I gonna do with another bike?”
“You could always sell the Harley at a later date,” Crockett said.
“So could you,” Stitch went on.
“Me?”
“Sure.”
“What am I gonna do with another bike?”
“When Stitch is done with it, ride the thing,” Satin said.
“And just park the BSA?”
“I’ll ride one of them.”
“You?”
“Sure. We can ride together. It’s not very comfortable with the two of us on your BSA. With two bikes, no problem.”
“Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?”
“By myself?”
“Yes, by yourself.”
“No, but you could teach me.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m not helpless, Crockett.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just never thought that you’d, uh…you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Crockett grinned. “I’ve always kinda wanted another Sportster. We can’t get it around here, though. St. Louis or Chicago or somewhere out of the area. We don’t want to get a bike somebody at the club might recognize.”
“You wanna Sportster, dude?” Stitch asked.
“I guess so.”
“Old and cherry?”
“Why not?”
“Far out. You trust me?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll find ya one. Thirty years old and showroom new, dude.”
“Ah…okay. Do your thing.”
“Just one,
like question, ya know?”
“What?”
“You want mustard with that pork?”
Crockett and Satin cleaned up the kitchen as Stitch labored on Satin’s computer. Crockett was still trying to adjust to what was happening.
“You really want to learn to ride?” he asked.
“I think it would be fun.”
Crockett looked at her for a moment and said nothing.
“You seem less than enthusiastic,” Satin said.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just uh…”
“Motorcycles are dangerous.”
“Well, yeah. They are.”
“And it’s okay for you to do dangerous stuff, but not me.”
“Exactly! I’m so glad you understand, honey. Now you don’t have to worry your pretty little head about it anymore.”
Satin grinned. “Asshole. I ride behind you, don’t I?”
“Yes, you do. But that’s different.”
“Because you’re a big strong man and you already know how to ride, right?”
“As I said before, I’m glad you understand. It’s a relief to have this all settled.”
“You think it’s settled? Silly boy.”
“You really want to do this?”
“Yes, I do,” Satin said. “When do we start lessons?”
“Oh, hell. About anytime. We’ll spend an hour or two here with you sitting on the bike, understanding its weight and balance, the controls, using your hands and feet in a different way than you ever have. When you actually start riding, we’ll do that at night. We’ll find a big parking lot to get you started, like up by Home Depot or someplace. I don’t want you on the street, and I damn sure don’t want you on gravel.”
“Will the new bike have electric start?”
“Probably.”
“That’s the one I want. I’ve seen you slamming up and down on the BSA. I don’t want to do that.”
“Why not? Makes you look tough and accomplished.”
“It’ll make me look silly. That’s your thing.”
“How ‘bout if I find somebody to install electric start on the Beezer?”
“That’ll be okay. Otherwise, I want the Harley.”
“That Sportster is gonna weigh over five hundred pounds. You sure you don’t want something smaller? Maybe more your size?”
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