Six Cut Kill

by David R Lewis

  After a short breakfast of poached eggs on toast, Crockett ambled down to the lake, an ultra-light spincast rod and reel in one hand, and a small tackle box in the other. Twenty minutes of casting a balsa crankbait along the edge of some cover across the cove brought two bass, both over a pound. He motored back to the dock, refitted the line with a small barbless hook six inches below a split shot sinker, and a red and white bobber four feet above the hook. He turned over a rotting log on the shoreline and came up with a couple of red wigglers. He put one on the hook and cast the bait and bobber about forty feet down the shoreline in six or eight feet of water. Within ten minutes, while reusing the same battered worm, he caught and released five of the hybrid bluegills, none smaller than his hand and one heavier than any of the bass. Satin was fussing in the fridge when he entered the kitchen.

  “How’d you do?” she asked.

  “There should be no shortage of fish for the fry. Bass are getting big and the bluegill are fat and sassy. What are you up to?”

  “I gotta clean out the fridge. You leave rings on the shelves. It’s a mess. That does not mean, however, that you are without value.”

  “Thank goodness,” Crockett said. “I was feeling pretty low there for a minute.”

  “Wipe off the maple syrup container before you put it back, please. That stuff sets up like mortar.”

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  “And cover anything you heat in the microcave. It’s got tomato soup splatters all over the inside.”

  “Leave it alone. I’ll clean it out after you finish the refrigerator.”

  “I’ll get it. Why don’t you do manly stuff. Take out the trash. Spray some weeds. Spit on something. You work today?”

  “No.”

  “Me, either.”

  “You wanna go do anything?”

  “I’m letting the house get ahead of me,” Satin said. “I’ve got plenty to do around here.”

  “All right,” Crockett said. “Ah, I think I’ll go check on Stitch. Haven’t seen him in a few days.”

  “Give him my love,” Satin replied, headfirst in the fridge.

  “I’ll take out the trash and spit on the weeds as I go by.”

  “Okay,” came the muffled reply.

  When he got to Stitch’s place, Crockett looked in the hippie’s fridge and microcave. Messed up shelves in one, shrapnel in the other. It didn’t make him feel any better.

  “Like, whatthefuck are you doin’, dude?”

  “Seeking redemption,” Crockett said.

  “How’s that workin’ for ya?”

  “You have sticky rings on your refrigerator shelves and spatters in your microwave.”

  “You with the neat police now?”

  “Just trying to see if it’s a guy thing.”

  “It is if ya ain’t gay. Satin jump your shit, man?”

  “Sorta. Ran me off so she could clean.”

  “What kinda crap are you up to?”

  “Huh?”

  “She’s a little scared about something. You’re getting’ into something new, ain’t ya?”

  “Not personally. Just looking for some information.”

  “Uh-huh. You remember how ol’ Ruby would get freaked out and jump your ass big time, doncha?”

  “I seem to, yes.”

  “Same thing, only ol’ Satin handles it a lot better. Girl shit, man. Pain in the ass, ya know?”

  “Yes, I do, Stitch.”

  “So what is it?”

  “The new stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Got any iced tea?”

  “Got root beer in my dirty fridge.”

  “That’ll do.”

  “Far out,” Stitch replied, dragging out two bottles. “Cheer the fuck up. Give ol’ Satin a day an’ she’ll deal with it. She don’t take things as personal as Ruby did. What’s up?”

  “Charlene’s husband might be dirty.”

  Stitch grinned and took a seat. “I’m, like, shocked, man,” he said. “Tell me more.”

  Ten minutes later Crockett took a hit of the root beer and leaned back. “So I called Clete this morning.”

  “Cool. Ol’ Clete’ll dig around for ya. You goin’ after the cat if he’s, ah, doin’ some bad shit?”

  “Hell, Stitch. If he’s involved in something, it’s gotta be too deep for my boots. We’re talkin’ about international shit. Chinese or Russian international shit.”

  “Scary, huh?”

  “You got that right.”

  Stitch grinned. “Kinda explains Satin’s reaction, huh?”

  “Ya think?”

  “You need some cheerin’ up, man. It’s almost lunchtime. If you think we can be seen together, the burgers at Whiskey River are on me.”

  “I feel better already,” Crockett said.

  Rufus met them at the door of the bar and followed them to a table. Crockett took a seat and grinned at the dog.

  “I don’t have any food yet, you mooch,” he said.

  Rufus grinned and put his chin on Crockett’s knee for a pat. Crockett laughed and complied. The dog moved to Stitch and got the same treatment.

  “Good dog,” Stitch said. “Kinda makes me want a canine of my, like, own, ya know?”

  “Ah, yes. The pitter-patter of little feet welcoming you home after a hard day of doing very little.”

  “A woman costs a lot more to feed,” Stitch said.

  Further conversation was stifled by the arrival of Bison. “You two know each other?” he asked.

  Stitch picked up the ball. “This cat is considerin’ buyin’ my Sportster,” he said. “His ol’ lady took his Beezer away from him.”

  Bison turned to Crockett. “That true?”

  Crockett hung his head. “It was brutal,” he said. “She wouldn’t let me watch Lavern and Shirley reruns until I gave in. What kind of woman withholds television?”

  “You got a gun doncha?” Bison asked.

  “Not any more. That went so I could still watch Gunsmoke on the Western Channel.”

  Bison grinned. “She didn’t seem that bad when she was in here with her friend. Nice lookin’ pair a ladies. Aroused considerable interest sittin’ at the bar. Everbody behaved themselves.”

  “Mean as a wolverine,” Crockett said. “Woulda been a blood bath. She scares me to death.”

  Bison looked at Stitch. “What are you gonna do without a sled?” he asked.

  “Got another one.”

  “What kind?”

  “I’m kinda afraid to tell ya. A big Guzzi. Dressed out.”

  Bison thought it over for a moment. “Nice scooters, but you didn’t hear that from me,” he said. “Lunch?”

  “Sure.”

  “Burgers an’ shit?”

  “Sure.”

  “Beers?”

  “Draft for me,” Stitch said. “Crockett’s a snob. Only drinks fuckin’ Guinness, man. Bring him a Coke.”

  “No balls. No wonder his ol’ lady took that BSA away from him,” Bison said, and thumped off toward the bar. “I’ll wake Joker up.”

  Stitch grinned at Crockett. “Looks like the truth is out, dude,” he said. “Now you’ll get all the respect you deserve. Bummer.”

  “You motorcyclists are mean,” Crockett said.

  It took about fifteen minutes for Joker to work his epicurean magic. During that time, a few more worthies showed up at the bar. Rufus greeted everyone impartially. Two or three of the new arrivals nodded at Stitch or Crockett or both.

  “Not that I’ve spent a lot of time in biker bars,” Crockett said, “ and I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth, but this place actually seems a little tamer than I would have expected.”

  “It’s the middle of the day, man. Most a the hard-core assholes are either workin’ or sleepin’ off the excesses of last night. You don’t get in here much after dark, do ya?”

  “I’ve never been in here after dark.”

  “That’s ‘cause Bison an’ ol’ Joker do your job for ya. Shit goes down in
here, they deal with it. Fights mostly. Been one knifing when I’ve been here. I heard about some cat showing up with a gun to straighten out another cat that was jammin’ his ol’ lady. He woke up in the weeds out back a day or so later. Bison broke his jaw and his wrist, threw him out the back door, and left him there.”

  “Jesus,” Crockett said.

  “Jesus? Man, you’ve shot a shitload of people that I know of! Clete told me about them two Columbian cats you crushed with the grill of your truck. You’re one nasty sumbitch an’ you think Bison is harsh? Fuck. These cats ain’t got shit on you, dude.”

  “Well, yeah,” Crockett agreed, “but I don’t wear colors and ride around looking for trouble.”

  Stitch laughed. “The hell you don’t. It’s what the county pays you to do!”

  Crockett stared at Stitch for a beat. “Shit,” he said. “I never thought of it like that.”

  “The only difference is that some piece of paper made official by other members of your gang, says you got a right to do what they pay you to do ‘cause they got a right to pay you to do it. In here, Bison and Joker are the cops, the judge, and the jury ‘cause that right has been bestowed on their asses by the cats that hang here. They don’t want trouble from your gang, so they take care of their gang’s shit.”

  “You are screwing with my perspective, hippie.”

  “You fit right in, dude,” Stitch said. “When Spud Cantral came at you, you decked the motherfucker. When his brother shot your ass, you killed the cocksucker. When you saved ol’ Rufus from that hot truck, dude, you did it their way. You didn’t arrest that dumbass Spivey. You did to him what he did to the dog. These cats respect that kinda thing. They ain’t big on the law, but they understand justice. So do you. So do most people that ain’t cowards.”

  A plate thumped down on the table in front of Crockett, another in front of Stitch, and Bison eased his mass into a chair. “An’ Spivey’s a coward,” he said.

  The tattooed waitress brought Stitch another beer, and Bison went on. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard what Stitch said about Spivey and he’s right. Nobody in this joint got any use for cops, but most of ‘em ain’t gonna give you much shit ‘cause of the way you do things. You eat here. Your wife ate here, without you. You ride. You had the decency to drop by before we opened and talk things over with me an’ Joker. You showed respect. Most times if ya give respect, you get some. That bit with Spivey was just pretty. He’s a asshole. You fucked him up. That means you probably ain’t a asshole.”

  “That might look good on my tombstone,” Crockett said. “Here lies Crockett. He wasn’t an asshole.”

  “Hey Joker!” Bison yelled.

  Joker’s head popped up in the kitchen pass-through window. “What?”

  “You think Crockett’s a asshole?”

  “I think you’re both assholes!” Joker said. Laughter sprouted here and there around the room.

  Bison grinned at Crockett. “Glad we got that settled, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Crockett sad. “Now I can relax.”

  “It ain’t all settled. Watch out for Spivey. Motherfucker is a snake in the grass an’ he’s got a hard-on for your ass. Might not have the balls to do anything but, like I said, he’s a coward. Cowards can git brave now an’ then. He was in here last night. Saw Rufus an’ started bitching on how you done him wrong an’ shit. He ran his mouth for three beers an’ left. Gonna git your ass an’ the rest a that kinda bullshit. I wouldn’t put nothin’ past that sonofabitch.”

  “Do me something,” Crockett said. “Next time he’s in here getting drunk, drop a dime. I’ll deal with his ass legally. See how he likes that shit. He wants to fuck with me, I’ll fuck with him. He’ll either get the message or get even more stupid. Either way, maybe we’ll get this mess over with sooner rather than later. I don’t like looking over my shoulder. Hurts my neck.”

  “I doan know,” Bison said. “You’re askin’ me to break the official Harley Rat code.”

  Crockett smiled. “I’m asking you to clean a little dirt out from under my fingernails.”

  “Oh. Well that’s different,” Bison said. “In that case, the manicure is on me, Officer.”

  As usual, the burgers were magnificent. Before they left, Crockett prevailed upon Joker for the recipe for his onion ring batter to use for the bluegill fish fry. Driving back in the big Ford F350, Stitch grinned and spoke up.

  “History repeats itself, man,” he said, “but in a good way, ya know?”

  “What?”

  “Just thinkin’ back, dude.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Usta be, you be getting’ ready to maybe do some shit an’ ol’ Ruby would freak out and land on you, and everybody around ya, like a buzzard on a shit wagon. Then you’d get all pumped up and go get your ass in the breeze lookin’ for trouble. Now, Satin gets a little scared an’ reminds you that your sense of domesticity ain’t as girly as hers, an’ you set things up to deal with a small time asshole. You know what they call that shit, Crockett?”

  “What?” Crockett grunted.

  Stitch’s smile was beatific. “Progress, motherfucker,” he said.

  They’d just arrived at Stitch’s place when Crockett’s cell phone went off. It was Dale Smoot.

  “What’s up, boss?” Crockett said.

  “I know you’re not working tonight or tomorrow and there’s no reason for you to come in, but there’s something you might need to know.”

  “What?”

  “Had a break-in just north of Liberty last night.”

  “That’s not even our county.”

  “At the Humane Society,” Smoot went on.

  “The Humane Society?”

  “Yep. They got a chain-link outdoor compound up there, roofed and everything, where they let twenty or thirty cats run around in whatcha might call a communal setting. Even got a raccoon that took up residence a couple a years ago and won’t leave. Three squares a day and lots of company. The compound has a about a three foot door that goes into an interior room. The cats and the ‘coon come and go as they please. Pretty good set-up actually. Folks came in this morning and found the chain-link fencing cut, four or five cats and one ‘coon left, and six dogs missing from their kennels. All mongrels, and all about the size of a beagle or something.”

  “No shit.”

  “Nossir. About half of the cats were hanging around and have been recovered. No sign of any of the dogs.”

  “You think this is tied to the two dog thefts we had in the spring?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Smoot said. “Been a while since that, and they were taken from yards. This could be some wacko that don’t like seeing dogs and cats caged up. Who the fuck knows? Animal goes in someplace like that, unless they get adopted pretty quick, they get put down. Harsh reality. Somebody could have figured they were saving lives or something.”

  “Just mongrels you said?” Crockett asked.

  “Composites.”

  “Damn, Dale. They’re not worth anything. If it was a do-gooder, the question remains why just six? Why not the whole place?”

  “Steel fire door. The six dogs were newcomers in kennels stashed in a small office off the cat room. They hadn’t been vetted out to be put with the regular population yet. A locked fire door keeps the area separated from the rest of the building. Probably afraid of setting off an alarm or something.”

  “Is there an alarm?”

  “There will be today,” Smoot said. “You see any kind of connection?”

  “Probably not,” Crockett replied. “You say a lot of the cats came back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But none of the dogs.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Maybe they weren’t just turned loose. Maybe somebody took ‘em.”

  “Back to the original question,” Smoot said. “Why? They’re not worth anything. Plus, they’d just got there. Maybe the dogs didn’t identify the place with food and shelter yet. A lot of the cats had been there for quite a
while. Hell, the ‘coon had been there for a couple of years.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Crockett said.

  “Anyway, I just thought you might like to know.”

  “Thanks, Dale,” Crockett said, and disconnected.

  “What’s going on?” Stitch asked.

  “Maybe nothing,” Crockett said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next morning, Crockett took a shovel out in the woods and began turning over leaf litter. Donk helped, joining in with furious digging wherever Crockett cleared a spot, then grinning with satisfaction at his assistance. In a matter of moments Crockett had a couple dozen nightcrawlers in the peanut butter jar he’d carried along. He tossed in some grass and litter and left it on the deck railing when he went inside. Satin was up, yawning at the counter as she peered expectantly at the coffee maker.

  “Light of my life, my great tawny animal,” Crockett said. “I have worms.”

  Satin shook her head and smiled. “Thanks for the set-up, Shecky. We’ll try a heavy laxative. If that doesn’t work, sugar and turpentine.”

  “Your concern for my health is staggering,” Crockett said, kissing her on the cheek and getting two cups out of the cabinet.

  “How come you have worms?”

  “Going fishing. Catch and release of the elusive bluegill. Speaking of bluegill, when you and Charlene had your burgers at Whiskey River, did you get onion rings on your fries?”

  “Yeah. They were really good.”

  “In my possession is Joker’s recipe for the batter. I thought it might go nicely at our fish fry.”

  “Great idea. I heard from Ivy while you and Stitch were out screwing around yesterday.”

  “How’s Ivy?”

  “Sounded fine. Everything’s in place for most of the funding for our project. I talked to Charlene. She says she’ll be able to handle a lot of the cost for the physical facilities after the rest of her horses sell. She’s sold three already.”

  “What facilities?”

  “The land she wants is about two miles from the house. A new barn, indoor and outdoor arenas, a paddock or two, additional fencing, trails dozed out, plus what she’ll need for the dogs.”