“Lovely,” he said. “Has Sports Illustrated called about the calendar shoot yet?”
“Morning, Shecky,” Satin replied. “How are the kids?”
“Shoulda been here a few minutes ago when I tossed in a handful of food. You sure you didn’t stock some piranhas while I was laid up with my heroic battle wound?”
“Gonna take me riding again tonight?”
“One more practice session, and you’re ready for the street, kiddo.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Then you can go to Whiskey River and hang with the other rats.”
“You mean it? I’m gonna graduate from the Crockett motorcycle school?”
“As soon as you learn how to start the thing.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You need to. You and that old Beezer get along really well. I can’t find a way to put an electric starter on it, so it’s up to you. The timing was advanced considerably. Stitch reset it down a few degrees. It starts easier than it did, and even idles now.”
“C’mon, Crockett. I don’t wanna be out there jumping up and down like some idiot. I’ll look stupid. That’s your job.”
“I find the mental image of your leather framed bottom bouncing above the seat rather, uh, uplifting.”
Satin controlled her smile. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Dammit, I don’t know which one of those thingies to push or what widget to pull and besides, you’re bigger and stronger than me. Kicking that kicky-thing is man’s work.”
“That’s a pretty chauvinistic attitude. Strength isn’t that important. Technique is. I can teach you the technique. Just think how impressive you’ll be when the Goldstar rumbles into life between your lovely thighs, vibrating your nether regions with the snarling push-rod power that you brought to life.”
Satin grinned. “You shithead,” she said.
“Put on some pants and get your helmet and stuff,” Crockett replied, standing up. “We’ll have a starting lesson and tips on how to travel on gravel before it gets too hot.”
“Oh, hell,” Satin muttered.
The training went well. Less than an hour and a half later, Satin was getting the old BSA to fire on the third kick or less. She could find the tickle buttons on the Amil Grand Prix carbs without having to look, she had a good feeling for when to close the compression release, and she knew how to ratchet the kickstarter to the best position for her size and weight. After her fourth trip of a mile or so up and down the gravel road, she announced she was going to ride over to Kid Country and back.
“Now?” Crockett asked.
“Yep, now,” Satin replied. “I’ve got my cell. See ya.”
Crockett watched her motor off down the drive and turn right. As she passed out of sight, he actually felt weak. He paced for three hours during the next forty-five minutes and resisted hustling outside when he heard her return.
“How was it?” he asked when she stomped into the kitchen.
“Fun,” Satin replied, fluffing her hair. “Several attractive guys waved at me, and two young men on those roadracer bikes rode with me for a couple of miles on the highway before they zoomed off. It would seem I have discovered a whole ‘nother avenue of appeal to the male of the species.”
“Terrific,” Crockett muttered.
“Yes, it is,” Satin agreed, finishing her fluff. “Well, shower time,” she went on. “I’m very warm. Is it the weather or just me, I wonder?”
Crockett watched her saunter up the stairs, swinging it considerably more than was necessary. Christ. He’d created a monster.
Stitch showed up while Satin was in the shower, and Crockett relayed to him the events of the morning. The hippie laughed.
“I suppose you want the Sportster back, huh?”
“Keep it for now. Be good for Satin to ride on her own for a while. She’ll learn faster than if she’s trying to please me. How goes it over at Whiskey River?”
“I was there last night, man. Ol’ Bison’s got that dog you saved hangin’ out in the club. He’s, like, the house dog, ya know. Real friendly an’ shit. Named his ass Rufus. He mooches fries and bites a burgers from everbody. Bet they don’t have to feed him nothing. Sure puts the standard, freaked-out, Pit Bullshit to shame. He’s a clown. Good dog.”
“Great. He was in bad shape the last time I saw him.”
“You made a impression, man. Two or three trucks in the place last night with Pit Bulls inside. Windows down three or four inches and dogs okay.”
“That many Pit Bulls?”
“Kinda part of the culture, dude. These cats see themselves as tough and mean. Gotta have a dog to uphold your image, ya know. Can’t hang around with a poodle or a cocker spaniel. Just wouldn’t look right. Got big-assed collars on ‘em, studs and shit stickin’ out all over the place. Hell, there was this white one that was wearin’ a head rag.”
“What?”
“Dressin’ up the doggies, man. Just like pretty little sweaters and frilly little bows, only different. Freaky.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Even if my dick isn’t bigger than your dick, I can get a dog badder than yours. Macho crap. I’m thinkin’ about getting one a them little bitty foo-foo dogs, namin’ that little fucker Harley, putting a leather jacket on his ass, and makin’ him my sidekick just to piss those shitheads off. I’d do it too, but I’m too young to die.”
“I haven’t been by there in quite a while. Maybe I’ll drift over today, just for fun.”
“Awful hot for a scooter, man.”
“I’ll take the truck. How’s the food?”
“Burgers are pretty freakin ’good, chicken fingers are frozen, chili ain’t bad.”
“Perhaps I should take luncheon at the club today.”
Stitch grinned. “Say hi to Rufus for me, dude.”
Crockett dressed in cargo blue jeans and a loose fitting white t-shirt. His shoulder holster for the Smith and Wesson went over the t-shirt and an old threadbare chambray shirt over that. The belt case for his whipstick went on the right side, cell phone on the left, handcuffs on the rear of his belt, one cuff inside and one cuff outside his jeans so nothing would rattle. He grabbed his keys and wallet and stuck his badge and commission case in a shirt pocket. Declining the use of a hat and putting on sunglasses, he got in the truck and pulled into Whiskey River’s parking lot a little before noon. The joint was about a third full when he walked in. Joker was behind the bar.
“Hey,” he said as Crockett took a stool, “you ain’t been in for a while. Everything okay?”
“I heard a vicious rumor about this place,” Crockett replied. “Thought I better stop by and see if it was true.”
Joker put a coaster in front of Crockett and placed a Coke on it. “Fuck. Now what?” he asked.
“An informant told me that he was in the place a while back, and you had good burgers. I consider it my duty to check something like that out.”
Joker grinned and nodded. “I confess,” he said. “Guilty as charged.”
“You expect me to just take your word for that? You’re a pretty seedy character. You got any evidence?”
“How do you like it?”
“On just the pink side of medium,” Crockett said. “Little sharp cheddar if you have it.”
“Fries?”
“What do you think?”
“Fries,” Joker nodded, and headed back to the kitchen.
Crockett was most of the way through the Coke when Joker returned. On an oversized plate was about a half-pound burger under a slice of golden cheese perched in a puffy egg bun. Beside it were red onion and tomato slices, and a leaf of romaine lettuce. The other side of the plate was graced by seasoned steak fries topped with three onion rings. Joker sat the plate on the bar with flatware, a heavy paper napkin, and a caddy containing catsup, mustard, horseradish, seasoned salt, and A-1.
“How’s your Coke?” he asked.
“Fine for now,” Crockett said. “Jesus, Joker. This is a fe
ast!”
Joker beamed. “Dig in,” he replied.
Crockett munched an onion ring as he prepared the burger. “Damn!” he said. “Helluva onion ring.”
“It’s the batter,” Joker said. “Tempura. Very light and fluffy. I add a little garlic salt.”
“It’s great!”
“The burger is grass-fed field-dressed beef. I know a guy who raises cattle and does his own butchering. He’s licensed and shit so there’s no trouble with the department of health. I add chopped Vidalia onion, a little Worcestershire sauce, a dash of Australian sea salt, a little white pepper, some dried dill, and a touch of honey.”
Crockett grinned. “Did Julia Childs have tattoos, too?” he asked.
“Settle down, motherfucker. We all got our sensitive sides. Just test ride the fuckin’ burger, okay?”
Crockett added the side veggies, but no condiments, and took a bite. “My God,” he said. “Ambrosia!”
Joker grinned. “Oh the house, Officer.”
“C’mon, Joker. This is terrific and I appreciate the offer, but I can’t accept free shit.”
“Too late, man. You already chewed on it. If you don’t eat it, I’ll just have to throw it away. Besides, now that I got ya hooked, you’ll keep comin’ back for more. You caught me, deputy. I’m a burger pusher. Wanna take me in?”
Crockett smiled. “You nuts? You think I’m gonna fuck with my supplier?”
Crockett was on the last half of the tremendous burger and his second Coke when the doors opened and sunlight battered the dark room. Clomping through the portal came Bison, followed by a large brindle Pit Bull with a white blaze on his face and a white chest. Joker looked toward the door.
“I got him,” he said. “He’s ours.”
Bison grinned. “Fed ya a burger, did he?”
“Calling this a burger is like calling the Mona Lisa a sketch.”
“Reckon I better have one,” Bison said. “Make sure Joker’s standards ain’t slippin’.”
Crockett felt something touch his foot and looked down. The dog, with a paw on Crockett’s right shoe, grinned up at him and wagged his tail.
“Oh, yeah?” Crockett said.
The dog pawed at him a bit.
“What do you want when you act like that, dog?
The dog quietly boofed at him and continued to grin and wag. Bison chuckled.
“Spoiled rotten,” he said. “Named him Rufus. That’s the dog you got out of Spivey’s truck.”
Crockett handed Rufus a fry. The dog took it gently and happily munched away.
“Ol’ Spivey come back the next day to git him, but I wouldn’t let him have the dog. He was pretty pissed. Finally said he didn’t need him. He had plenty more. He don’t have much use for you.”
“What a shame,” Crockett said. “I was counting on his vote for class president.”
“Said you tried to kill him. I told him if you tried to kill him, he’d be dead, and to settle the hell down. He hung around for a beer, bitchin’ about you mostly, claimin’ that sooner or later he’d git ya, and rode off. Rides a old purple, stripped ’74. The bike’s as big a piece a shit as he is.”
Crockett felt pressure on his foot again and gave the dog another fry.
“Rufus is persistent,” he said.
“Yeah. Another vicious, man-eatin’, baby-killin’ Pit Bull.”
“Spivey keep a lot of dogs?” Crockett asked.
“He’s always had a couple a Pits. I doan know how many he’s got now. Teases ‘em, tries to make ‘em mean. Said he had a new job. I asked him what he was doin’ but he wouldn’t say. Probably cleanin’ bus station toilets with his tongue. I’m just glad we got ol’ Rufus before Spivey ruined him.”
Crockett gave Rufus the last couple of bites of his burger, casually slipped a twenty under the plate, and stood up. “Tell Joker he’s an artist. Best burger I ever had. If he was a little better lookin’ I’d ask him to the prom.”
“I’ll do it,” Bison said.
Crockett slapped the massive man on the shoulder and headed out the door. Bison’s voice followed him outside.
“Doan be no stranger. Trade that English piece a crap off on some American iron an’ you can come back on two wheels like a real man!”
Crockett got home around one-thirty and parked beside a silver Mercedes SUV. He went inside to find Charlene Bryant, wearing blue jeans, sandals, a yellow silk shirt, and surrounded by dogs, sitting with Satin in his living room.
“Charlene!” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“I called Char to ask about the work schedule,” Satin said, advancing to Crockett and kissing him on the cheek, “and talked her into coming over for a while.”
“I love your place,” Charlene said. “All the trees and that lake. It’s just gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” Crockett said. “And, it would fit quite nicely in your living room. Except for the lake. That would spill out onto the patio a little.”
Charlene smiled. “That monster was Jack’s idea. It has seven bedrooms and nine baths. I could get along with one each just fine.”
“I’ve never managed to use more than one at a time myself,” Crockett said.
“Satin and I have been talking about her idea.”
“Have you spoken to your husband about it?”
“I did. He didn’t say no.”
“But he didn’t say yes?”
“Not yet. But this additional funding that Satin has found might bring him around.”
Crockett looked at Satin. She seemed to grow smaller. “What did you do?” he asked.
“Who, me?”
“You called Ivy, didn’t you?”
“Well, I might have mentioned something to her about the possibility of beginning to consider a little idea that Char and I were kicking around.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She seems to be interested.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Imagine that.”
“I know. Who’d a thunk it?”
“Who, I wonder,” Crockett said.
“It seems,” Satin continued, “that Ivy is affiliated with a group call the Triumph Trust. They provide money and support for not-for-profit projects to benefit disadvantaged and disabled children.”
“Ivy’s affiliated, huh?”
“More or less.”
“More than less, I suspect.”
“Possibly,” Satin said. “At any rate, Ivy wants us to draw up a plan, or prospectus, or something and send it to her.”
“A mere formality, I assume,” Crockett said.
“More or less,” Satin replied.
The two of them peered at each other for a moment before Crockett broke.
“Good work, champ,” he said.
Charlene laughed. “The two of you are a treat to watch,” she said.
“That’s because you get to walk away,” Crockett grunted. “We’re trapped in a loveless relationship. Disgusting.”
“Charlene’s trying to get Jack to lease the new company a square mile for the project.”
“You two have a company?”
“Not yet,” Charlene said, “but if Jack will agree to Triumph Trust’s terms, whatever they may be, we will have.”
“I suspect,” Crockett went on, “that the terms will be equitable.”
“Jack’s got almost five square miles. He hasn’t even seen a lot of it. It’s not like he’ll miss anything. Plus he’s concerned with his public image. Something like this could do wonders for it. I think he’ll go for the idea.”
“I hope he does,” Crockett said. “I think the whole concept is terrific.”
Charlene smiled. “We were discussing lunch when you arrived. Have you eaten?”
“I just ate the best hamburger I’ve ever had in my life.”
“Really?” Satin said. “Where?”
“Whiskey River.”
“That biker bar over by Sutton?”
“Yeah.”
Satin turned to Charlene. “Feeling adventurous, girlfriend?”
Charlene grinned. “Absolutely.”
“We’ll take my Jeep,” Satin said.
Five minutes later, Crockett watched the two of them drive off down the lane. He grabbed the phone and got Whiskey River’s number from information. Bison and Joker needed to be warned.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“It was a hoot,” Satin said, flopping onto the couch beside Charlene and grinning at Crockett. “Joker and Bison treated us like queens. Bison’s huge!”
“Big boy,” Crockett said.
“And the burgers were tremendous!” Charlene said. “Joker is an artist.”
“Bison said you called and told him we were coming,” Satin went on. “The place had about fifteen guys and a few women inside. Everybody was on their best behavior.”
Crockett smiled. “I imagine Bison leaned on the patrons a little. Let ‘em know the two of you were not fair game.”
“He told us that when he mentioned Crockett’s wife and a friend were going be over for a late lunch, everything settled down to a dull roar,” Charlene said. “They sure were curious about us.”
Crockett smiled. “You’re a little removed from their usual flavor of unaccompanied female types.”
“Bison told us to just relax. Nobody would screw around with Crockett’s lady.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“His words,” Satin said. “He almost said ‘fuck around,’ but caught himself just in time. It was really cute.”
“He told us about your encounter with the Pit Bull guy,” Charlene said. “How you stuffed him in that hot truck while the dog recovered. Good for you. We met the dog in question, too. Rufus, is it?”
“Yeah,” Crockett said.
“What a sweetheart. That was a good thing you did.”
“Ever the champion of the trodden-down,” Crockett said, preening a bit and patting his hair.
Six Cut Kill Page 14