By seven the oven was loaded with biscuits, the ham was sizzling gently in the only iron skillet she owned, a pat of butter was melting in a fry pan for the hash browns, and she was looking in a cabinet, finally finding the flour that she knew she had someplace. She put the container on the counter as noise from Crockett’s side of the townhouse caught her attention. Nervously she wiped her hands, patted her hair, took off her glasses, and stepped into Crockett’s doorway. Clete was coming down the stairs with a bag in each hand.
“Morning,” Ruby said.
“Mornin’, Miz Ruby,” Clete replied, falling back onto West Texas for a little security. “Ain’t you prettier’n a speckled pup under a red wagon.”
Ruby smiled. “Leaving?”
“’Fraid so. Gotta git to the line shack. That fence out past the south ridge ain’t gonna fix itself.”
“Long ride,” Ruby said. “Cookhouse is open.”
Clete looked at her. Ruby was tired. She’d probably gotten even less sleep than he had. There was no belligerence in her stance, no confrontation in her attitude. She stood there barefoot, arms at her sides, waiting for him to make the next move, resigned to whatever that might be.
“I could eat,” he said.
“Ham steak, hash browns, biscuits, and coffee with chicory,” Ruby said, backing her way into her living room and through to the kitchen, afraid to turn away and lose the contact she’d established.
Clete followed her to the coffee pot and watched her pour a cup. He accepted it, their fingers briefly touching, and sipped.
“Damn, Ruby,” he said. “That tastes like home.”
Seeing the skepticism in his eyes change to satisfaction, Ruby jumped in. “Clete, I am really screwed up. I spent all day yesterday and last night trying to get a handle on things, and all I could come up with was that I need help.”
Clete smiled across the counter. “Wow,” he said. “If that big a confession comes with the coffee, what the hell is gonna happen when we get to the ham?”
Ruby’s eyes filled and she began to laugh.
“Damn you, Marshal,” she said. “I just don’t want…”
“I won’t,” Clete said.
“I mean that, right now, especially right now, I need…”
“I know,” he said. “I’ll hang around. Hate to waste all this honesty.”
Ruby quieted down and looked at him for a moment, her shoulders sagging and her lower lip in her teeth. “Can I have a hug?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Gonna be any gravy with that ham?”
“I found the flour, but gravy has never been my specialty.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, m’am,” Clete went on. “I can make gravy outa chalk dust and turpentine. Come git yer hug.”
Ruby rounded the counter and slipped cautiously into his arms. They stood there, swaying slightly for a moment before they separated, both a little self-conscious.
“Chalk dust and turpentine?”
“Yeah,” Clete said. “Tastes like hell, though.”
“You any better with milk and flour?”
“Knock your socks off.”
“Really?”
Clete smiled.
“Yes, m’am,” he said. “A feller’s gotta start someplace.”
Crockett left Mazy sleeping a little after seven and headed into the kitchen to make coffee, silently repeating “acceptance, not expectation.” He had bacon thawing in the microcave and was getting out eggs to scramble, when Stitch ambled in, his hair loose to his shoulders. Crocket gave a start.
“You’re not a carpenter from Nazareth, are ya?”
“Naw,” Stitch replied. “Too fuckin’ many rules and regulations on that gig, dude. Where’s Mazy?”
“Sleeping, I guess,” Crocket said, turning away toward the bacon so he wouldn’t have to look Stitch in the eye.
“Gonna go to Kaycee today?”
“Think so. Probably around noon. I figure a rapid response is the best course of action.”
“Yeah. Don’t wanna let these fuckers think they’re getting’ away with something. Need anything to take with ya?”
“I don’t think so,” Crockett said, and checked to see how the bacon was doing. Mazy walked out of his bedroom.
“Dude!” Stitch said.
“Morning, Stitch,” Mazy said, went straight to Crockett, put her arms around his neck, and kissed his lips. When they separated she smiled up at him. “Morning, Davey.”
“Sleep well?” Crockett asked, his ears glowing with heat.
“Better than I have in years,” Mazy replied, looking around the kitchen. “All that and bacon and eggs, too?”
“Uh…”
Mazy turned to Stitch. “You cook?”
Stitch grinned. “I can damn sure cook bacon and eggs,” he said.
Mazy returned his grin. “Good,” she said, taking Crockett’s hand and leading him toward the bedroom. “No hurry. Take your time.”
Stitch looked at the closed door and stroked his beard.
“Go for it, man,” he said.
When Crockett and Mazy came out of the bedroom about an hour later, Stitch was gone. There was a note on the counter beside two bowls and a box of corn flakes, explaining that Stitch had abandoned his post and put the bacon and eggs back in the fridge. He went on to explain that they could eat cold cereal if they were hungry and, should they decide to come up for air, he’ be down at the dock in case any business showed up.
Mazy grinned. “Looks like Stitch got tired of waiting,” she said.
“Need coffee,” Crockett grunted, leaning back against a cabinet and staring bleakly at nothing.
Mazy bumped him with a hip as she rounded the counter. “That all you need?”
“And vitamins,” Crockett said. “Great big ones. Lots.”
“Go sit down,” Mazy said, leaning into him. “You’re in the way.”
“Can’t walk. Too bruised and battered.”
“Hell of an afterglow ya got there, Davey. I may swoon.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Crockett said, lurching to a stool. “First she tries to kill me, now she calls me Davey. Death where is thy sting?”
Mazy put cups of coffee in front of them and took the opposite seat. “You weren’t bitching like that last night,” she said.
Crockett sipped his coffee and smiled. “Last night was great,” he said. “So are you.”
Mazy toyed with her spoon for a moment then shifted in her seat. “Can I tell you something, Crockett?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“You’re only the second man I’ve ever been to bed with.”
“No kidding?”
“Un-huh. There have been plenty of good ol’ boys around here that have tried. A couple of ‘em even came close. But really there’s been just you and my husband. This is kinda embarrassing.”
“Shouldn’t be. You were young when you got married and you were a faithful wife.”
“No, not that. I haven’t had a lot of experience. Jeff wasn’t uh, very creative.”
“Ah.”
“But you…”
“Go on,” Crockett said, bumping his eyebrows.
Mazy stirred her coffee some more. “Let me just say this. Last night was really different for me. I mean, you didn’t just make love, you made fun, Crockett. I had the best time I ever had.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Aw, geeze,” Crockett said, moving around to her side of the counter. From behind her stool he wrapped his arms around Mazy and kissed her neck. “Look, lady, as much as my masculine self would like to take a bow right now, that’s bullshit. You had a good time because you were ready to have a good time. You deserved it, I deserved it, and it happened. Thank you is very nice and very unnecessary. Besides, next time we get the trampoline and the unicycle. Woof!”
“Oh my,” Mazy said, smiling through gentle tears, “you city boys is somethin’ else.”
Mazy on
his mind, Crockett took I-435 north around the east side of Kansas City to Route 210 and the Zanzibar Casino, arriving in the parking lot a little after three in the afternoon. He got out of the H2, retrieved the jacket to the only suit he had with him, grabbed his cane, adjusted his tie, and headed for the entrance, allowing himself to limp a little more than was necessary. He paused in the doorway and put Mazy away. Jesus, the place was huge.
The main concourse was lined with restaurants, snack shops, and overbuilt and overvalued souvenir shops. Ceiling displays pushed at the senses, the sound of slot machines filled the air, and neon and laser light was everywhere. He walked slowly, attempting to find some sort of emotional balance, until he encountered a glorified food court promising cuisine from ten different countries for only fourteen ninety-five. He took the plunge. The food was excellent, the service impeccable, and the dessert bar only slightly smaller than a tennis court. Even the coffee was good. He lingered until nearly six, then set off to the casino proper. At a blackjack table he asked for the pit boss and was directed to a rather beefy forty-year-old man with thick black hair and immense hands with heavy knuckles. He was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt open at the collar. His name was Benson.
“Yessir. How may I be of service?”
“You can direct me to the floor boss,” Crockett said.
“Of course, sir. What is the nature of your business with the floor boss, if I may ask?”
Crockett smiled. “My business isn’t with the floor boss. It’s with the general manager. I’m just trying to adhere to the chain of command.”
Benson returned his smile. “Of course, sir,” he said. “If you’ll wait here?”
“Absolutely,” Crockett replied.
In a moment or two he was approached by a sixty-year-old man in a grey sharkskin suit. His hair was thinning badly and his dark eyes never stopped moving. He seemed aware of everything in the room. His ever-roaming glance encompassed Crockett briefly and made him feel as if he’d just had his picture taken. In his left ear was an earbud with a tiny microphone.
“Yessir?” he said.
“My name is Crockett. I need to see your general manager, or someone in the most responsible position of command. Preferably Mister Pescatelli.”
“May I assume you have no appointment?”
“You may.”
“What is the nature of your need?”
“I have a complaint about one of your employees.”
“Do you know the individual’s name, sir?”
“Johnny April.”
The man paused for a beat. “Johnny April?”
“That’s correct.”
“Very well. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to give me a moment?”
“Of course,” Crockett said, and watched him walk away.
For the next few minutes Crockett was nearly mesmerized by the banks of garish slot machines, fed mostly by women forcing coins or plastic down their throats at feverish rates. Food money, rent money, insurance money, savings, all were fed down the gaping and unrelenting maws of the machines. Infrequently, but just often enough to keep the desperate hope in the room alive, there was a minor jackpot. Christ. A license to steal from willing victims who hung their need on the next nickel, quarter, dollar, or more. All of them existing in a universe saturated with gaudy sight and sound, and not one clock anywhere to been seen. Time meant nothing in this place. It was all about the fantasy of winning and the certainty of loss. His reverie was interrupted by a blond-headed young man with a ready smile and large teeth.
“Mister Crockett?”
“That’s correct.”
“If you’ll come with me, sir, I’ll escort you to Mister Pescatelli’s office.”
The elevator was entirely upholstered in dark maroon leather. The carpet in the hallway was so plush, he had to balance against the nap. The young man opened a set of double oak doors that led to a luxurious anteroom festooned with leather armchairs, crystal ashtrays, and a very attractive brunette woman. A retired showgirl at age fifty. She smiled at Crockett.
“Please have a seat,” she said. “Mister Pescatelli will be with you in a moment.”
Crockett hadn’t been in his chair for ten seconds when a chime sounded. The receptionist motioned Crockett toward a leather-covered door on the opposite wall. As he approached it, the door opened, then closed behind him after he passed through.
The office was small, much smaller than Crockett expected. A medium sized walnut desk sat at the rear of the room, fronted by two armchairs. Behind the desk stood a thin older man. His hair was white, his face lined, his collar too large. He was wearing a black suit with a pale blue shirt and a carelessly knotted black tie. He looked at Crockett with eyes devoid of expression.
“Mister Crockett,” he said, holding his position behind the desk. “If you can walk without it, please leave your cane beside the door if you will, then come and sit. I’m Ben Pescatelli.”
Crockett stood his cane by the doorframe and took a seat. The old man made no effort to shake hands.
“May I offer you a drink?”
“Scotch on the rocks would be good,” Crockett replied.
“The loss of your leg,” the old man said, “military?”
Crockett hesitated in surprise for a moment.
“Ah…no. Auto accident. How did…”
“My elevator has certain capabilities,” Pescatelli said.
“And that’s why you wanted me to leave my cane by the door.”
“Correct, sir. My elevator could not figure it out. Better safe than sorry.”
“And that is also why, unless I miss my guess, there is some sort of weapon under your desk that is trained on this chair. That would be why the chair is bolted to the floor.”
The old man shrugged, and the office door opened. The receptionist entered with Crockett’s drink and placed it on a small table by his right hand.
“Thank you, Marcia,” Pescatelli said to her departing back. His eyes fell on Crockett. “You have a complaint about Johnny April.”
“I do. A friend of mine has a broken nose and some cracked ribs because of Mister April. My friend is seventy-five years old. Those are significant injuries to a man of that age.”
“That is unfortunate. Why would Johnny be involved in this matter?”
“My friend and his daughter-in-law own a motel and marina on Truman Lake. Mister April approached them about purchasing their property. They declined to sell. He attempted to convince them that it would be in their best interest to comply. They refused him. My friend then had a steering failure in his truck that resulted in an accident. The truck was in perfect working order prior to that event. Mister April, or one of his stooges, Paul or Dom, tampered with that vehicle. This is unacceptable behavior, sir. It must stop.”
The old man looked at Crockett for a moment. At some point, he seemed to reach a decision and nodded.
“Johnny has, of course, found some loophole that would allow gaming on the lake?”
“I find the term gaming inappropriate,” Crockett said. “What I saw while waiting to see you was a lot of things, but it was definitely not a game.”
The old man smiled. “I make no excuses, Mister Crockett. We pander to the weaknesses of people. It’s a living.”
Crockett sipped his drink. “Good scotch,” he said. “Yes. He wants to acquire the property for a hotel and casino. The owners will not sell to him.”
“And if he makes other efforts to change their minds?”
Crockett leaned forward. “Believe me,” he said, “that would not be in his best interest.”
Pescatelli smiled. “You seem to be a man of determination.”
“I am.”
“And resource?”
“And resource.”
“Johnny April is also a man of determination, although I suspect his motive is more base than your own. I had no idea he was pursuing the course of action you describe. The people who I work for have expressed no interest in such dealings, nor d
oes he have any license to act on anyone’s behalf. I find this embarrassing, sir, but I admit this is not the first time Mister April has been a source of embarrassment. What would you have me do?”
“Stop him,” Crockett said.
“Of course. Let me say this. He will know that you have come to me. That cannot be avoided. The fact that you have may spur him on to further conflict with you or those you represent. Please understand that Johnny was, in some ways, born fifty years too late, if you get my drift. I may be able to dissuade him. I may not. I will do my best.”
Crockett finished his drink.
“That’s all I can ask,” he said.
“Also understand that he has no support in this matter. None. Nor do I have any interest in the outcome of what has, or has yet, to transpire. I can only wish you good fortune and stress that, regardless of what takes place, you and I need not engage in any sort of hostilities.”
Crockett smiled and stood up.
“Thank you, sir. I have enjoyed meeting you, and I appreciate your candor.”
“May I inquire as to what type of vehicle you are driving and where it might be parked?”
“It’s a dark blue Hummer H2. I got lucky and found a space about halfway down from the entrance in the third or forth row.”
“Very well,” Pescatelli said. “Will you accept some chips with which to wile away a few moments? It would be a wise thing to do.”
“I don’t gamble.”
“Neither do I,” the old man said, “but, in this case, I would recommend blackjack at table four.”
“Thank you,” Crockett said. “I believe I will.”
“Bona fortuna,” the old man said, and returned his attention to his desk. The office door swung open.
In the anteroom, Marcia handed Crockett a pile of chips. In the elevator he counted out five hundred dollars.
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