Witness Rejection

by David R Lewis

  Now able to attempt to gasp for breath, Crockett saw a knee settle to the floor in front of his face and a hand come into view. A distantly familiar click reached his ears, and the hand sprouted a slim shiny blade.

  “Say goodbye, asshole,” the voice whispered. There was something almost friendly in the tone. “Say goodbye to everything, pal.”

  The blade never arrived. Instead, Crockett heard the restroom door open and slam against the wall, and several pairs of expensive athletic shoes thundered into his floor-level view, accompanied by the loud and raucous conversation of young men. He gasped, and air flowed deeply into his lungs for a moment before his diaphragm shut down again. With the oxygen came more clarity. The knife disappeared as Boster stood up.

  “Heart attack here, guys!” he shouted. “Stay with him while I get the paramedics!”

  Crockett managed another, even deeper gasp, as he watched the Italian loafers run from the room. The kids were silent, frozen in place and watching him. It was a moment before one kneeled beside him.

  “You okay, mister?”

  Crockett gasped again, and again, his diaphragm finally beginning to function. The kid pulled away from his spasms.

  “Heart fine,” Crockett croaked. “Help me up.”

  “You better stay right there ‘til the paramedics get here. They’re on the way.”

  Crockett rolled to his elbows and knees. “I’m a fuckin’ cop, goddammit,” he croaked. “Help me up!”

  After a short pause, Crockett was lifted to his feet from under both arms and leaned against the wall. The extension of his body aided in breathing and he staggered out onto the concourse, huffing violently, and wheezed his way toward the doors. Diane saw him coming and rushed to his side, taking his arm and guiding him toward a chair. As he struggled to communicate with her, one of her crew came running up to them, blurting out a story.

  “Got a guy down at the next entrance says he was putting his wife’s luggage in the trunk of his rental car, when some other guy in an airport coverall jumped in the car and took off!”

  “Fuck!” Crockett spat. “Aw fuck!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Aftermath

  Twenty minutes later Crockett sat in the security office as Diane Foster finished wrapping his ribs with an Ace bandage.

  Diane regarded him gravely. “You really should go to a hospital and get checked out,” she said. “Judging by the way the bruise is developing, I think that kick missed your xiphoidal process…”

  “My what?” Crockett grunted, slowly rotating his torso from side to side.

  “Your xiphoidal process. It’s a little hangy-down bone from the bottom of your sternum. If he’d have nailed that, it could have been driven into a lung or something. As it is, the compression from the kick may have cracked some ribs.”

  “Hospitals ask questions,” Crockett said. “The only answer I have for all this is that I’m stupid and slow.”

  “You took a bad blow to the bicep, too,” Diane went on. “Lot of blood pooling in the muscle there. You really should see a doctor.”

  “He won’t do it,” Cletus said from his seat on the edge of the desk. “Brain damage. No blood in there at all. A course, that was a pre-existin’ condition.”

  The door to the room opened and one of Diane’s staff entered carrying a lightweight wool sport jacket in a tweedy tan.

  “Found this inside the trash can in the men’s restroom where the assault happened,” he said.

  Cletus donned a pair of rubber gloves from the med kit, grabbed the coat carefully by the edge of the collar and began an intensive search of the garment.

  “Also,” the kid went on, “they found the stolen car abandoned in the long term parking lot. Been eight or ten cars outa there in the past fifteen minutes. Got plate numbers on all of them. One of them has to be the guy. Want me to notify the cops?”

  “No,” Crockett said, accepting Diane’s help in easing into his shirt. “The police’ll just slow things down. Besides, Boster is a pro. He’s gone, and he won’t leave any tracks. People like him don’t make many mistakes.”

  “But they do make one now and then,” Clete said, peering into one of the coat’s side pockets. “Diane, you got a evidence collection kit?”

  “Sure.”

  “I need a tweezers, some sterile Q-tips, and a couple of small plastic bags.”

  She opened a cabinet and began rifling through an aluminum case.

  “No labels in the jacket,” Clete went on. “Nothing to give us any information on maker, origin, or even size. Got some epithelials around the cuffs though, and a toothpick in the lower right hand pocket. Looks like it’s been chewed on. DNA anyone?”

  Diane handed Cletus the supplies he needed, then turned her attention to Crockett as he grunted his way to a standing position.

  “You need a sling for that arm.” she said.

  “A what?”

  “You heard me. All that damaged tissue doesn’t need to be waving around.”

  She began digging through another cabinet. Crockett was in full bitch when she extracted a hospital-style sling and began fiddling with the straps.

  “Oh, hell!”

  “Now be a good boy,” Diane said, moving behind him and placing the sling over his head. “Keep this on for the next couple of days. When you get back to your hotel or whatever, hot and cold packs in twenty-minute intervals for at least four hours on your tummy and that arm. We don’t want any more swelling or clots to form. You are gonna be really sore, Dan.”

  She adjusted the sling as Crockett bit his lip and fought with the pain. Clete finished scraping skin cells off the cuffs of the coat and sealed his second plastic bag.

  “I need something to put this jacket in,” he said.

  “Got some bags in supply,” Diane said, and left the room.

  Clete grinned at Crockett. “How ya doin’, pard?” he asked.

  “Man,” Crockett said, “I am gonna be so screwed tomorrow.”

  “Third day’ll be the worst. Always is. That ol’ boy was good to take you like he did, then skate without pursuit. Talent, son.”

  “He’s got a flaw,” Crockett said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yep. Ego. If he hadn’t stopped to tell me how easy I was, how little trouble he had in handling me, he would have finished the job and I’d be dead. But he did stop. That slowed him down enough for those kids to come in. His need to show off is what saved my ass, Texican. Without that, I’d be in a drawer with a tag on my toe.”

  “You may still be if you don’t go to the hospital.”

  “Would you?”

  “Would I what?”

  “Would you go to the hospital if you were in my condition?”

  Clete grinned. “We ain’t talkin’ about me,” he said. “Besides, I’d git my butt to a hospital if I was in the shape you were in before you got your ass kicked.”

  Crockett chuckled, gasped, and leaned rigidly back as breath whistled through his teeth.

  “Only hurts when ya laugh, huh?” Clete said.

  “Jesus,” Crockett said.

  “That’s what I thought. We gotta git you back to the bunkhouse, son, an’ git you stretched out with a scotch in your hand. I recommend copious amounts of alcohol and minimal amounts of movement. You are gonna be a mess in the mornin’.”

  Crockett did not sleep well. About eight AM Cletus helped him on with his leg and assisted him into the living area and onto his recliner. Clete put coffee, Crockett’s phone, Shermans, and an ashtray within reach. He picked up a couple of packages and, advising Crockett he needed to get some errands taken care of, excused himself. Crockett watched him go, lit a Sherman, took a sip of coffee, and picked up his phone to return the cabin company’s call. Two hours later, after contacting the cabin people, the storage company where he kept his furniture and appliances, and Lyle Higgenbotham, he was dozing in his chair when Cletus returned. He jerked into wakefulness and grunted with discomfort.

  Clete grinned a
nd put a bag of groceries on the counter. “How ya doin’?” he asked.

  “Spiffy. We gotta get outa here, Texican.”

  “Yup.”

  “Boster, or whatever his name is, is a very serious guy. He won’t give up.”

  “Nope.”

  “So we have to get us and the ladies someplace safe, like Ivy’s.”

  “Yup.”

  “You doing a Gary Cooper impression?”

  Clete grinned. “Nope. Just bein’ succinct.”

  “I made some calls while you were gone. The cabin people changed their schedule. They’ll be here next week to put up my house. I got hold of my realtor. He’s gonna handle everything. Now all I have to do is get Satin to visit the bank to get some money…”

  “Nope.” Clete said. “I used a landline while I was in town and phoned my contact with the F, B, and I. The right people know that Boster’s gone Dixie. They been watchin’ him for a spell anyway, tryin’ to get enough on his ass to send him up. Your funds and stuff’ll be released in the next day or two. You’re solvent again, pard.”

  “No kidding? Thanks.”

  “Nothin’ to it. I also sent off that toothpick, the epithelials, and the jacket. Be a few days before the lab gets to ‘em. Unofficial request and all. We know who it was that done ya dirt, but it’s nice to have proof on paper. I called Ivy, too. She’s lookin’ forward to seein’ us. Be glad to put the gals up for as long as it takes. You know Ivy.”

  Crockett smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I know Ivy.”

  “So it looks like we’re on our way.”

  “Got a guy coming to unhook the bus and stuff tomorrow. We can take off the next day.”

  “That’s about what I figured,” Clete said. “I already warned Satin. Saw her at the restaurant. She said they’d be ready when we were. Told her you was hurt some. She got a little shook up, but settled down pretty quick.”

  “Oh, shit. You had to tell her, huh?”

  “Blabbermouth. That’s me. I also brought back some ham salad, potato salad, deviled eggs an’ stuff. Didn’t figure you’d wanna cook much. Didn’t think you be real fond a drivin’ into town to eat neither, you being so pitiful painful an’ all.”

  Crockett glared at him. “You having a good time?”

  “Oh yeah. More fun than shootin’ frogs out at the strip mines.”

  “Speaking of shooting,” Crockett said, “that sonofabitch took my 686.”

  “Good. Now we can move you into the current decade and git ya a decent pistol instead of all that old fashioned wheel gun.”

  “I like revolvers.”

  “Ya need a Sig or an H&K or somethin’. Forty caliber, maybe a forty-five. Small, light, modern.”

  “I especially like the 686 Smith. Good balance, .357’s a nice load. I wish I’d have had the two and a half inch barrel though. That four-inch was a little hard to hide.”

  “Why the hell doncha just use a bow and arrow, ya backward ol’ fart. It’s the twenty-first century.”

  Crockett grinned. “You just come back to yell at me? I really hate it when you yell at me, Cletus. It makes me feel unloved. Besides, David killed Goliath with just a sling.”

  “Yeah, but not the kinda sling you’re wearin’. Besides, that Giant was playin’ for Philadelphia. That ain’t even in our league. You need some firepower.”

  “I need some Demerol.”

  “How ‘bout scotch? We got scotch.”

  “Join me?”

  “A little early for me.”

  “Aw c’mon, Texican. The sun’s over the yardarm someplace.”

  “What the hell. Scotch for two comin’ up.”

  And that’s how Satin, concerned for Crockett’s welfare, found them an hour or so later. Crashed in the living area, reasonably drunk, participating in male-bonding arguments about firearms. She took one look at the mess she’d walked into, scratched Nudge as he head-bumped her leg, kissed Crockett on the cheek, poured herself three fingers, and flopped in the dinette. Clete eyeballed her.

  “No offense meant, m’am,” he drawled, “but I’d be remiss in my duties as a male if’n I didn’t mention that you are one handsome woman.”

  Satin saluted him with her glass and took the three fingers as a shooter. She shook her head rather violently, coughed, and peered back at him.

  “Keep drinkin’, Texas,” she said. “We all get prettier at last call.”

  Crockett struggled not to laugh. It hurt too damn much.

  After a late lunch, Satin made Crockett take off his shirt so she could examine his damage.

  “Jesus!” she blurted, her eyes flickering between his bicep and the pit of his stomach. “You should have been putting hot and cold packs on this mess. You haven’t been doin’ a thing about that, have you?”

  Crockett peered at Clete. “How come when you get hurt,” he said, “every woman you know suddenly becomes a doctor?”

  “Florence Nightingale Syndrome,” Clete said. “They can’t help it. It comes with the ability to lactate and the G-spot. Standard equipment.”

  Satin stopped peeking at Crocket and shot a glance Clete’s way. “That’s a goddamn chauvinistic comment if I ever heard one,” she said.

  “No m’am,” Cletus said, grinning at her. “That was a comment of admiration and appreciation. I have always admired Ol’ Flo, I owe my life to momma’s milk, an’ I have appreciated the G-spot more ever year since I was sixteen.”

  Satin snorted and turned her attention back to Crockett, poking him lightly in the upper stomach. He winced. “Crockett,” she said, “you ain’t worth much more than half a boomerang. I’m gonna rub some liniment on you, let you air out a little, and then wrap you back up. Make sure your blood is circulatin’ well.”

  “As I recall,” Crockett said, “keeping my blood circulating was never a problem for you.”

  Satin grinned and blew him a kiss. “Everbody’s good at somethin’,” she said, producing a small bottle of Absorbine Junior from her purse. “We might wanna lean you back in your recliner for this,” Satin went on. “I’m gonna put a lot on, and it drips. We wouldn’t want it runnin’ anywhere private, if you get my drift.”

  Clete chuckled. “Flo,” he said. “How ya been?”

  After Crockett was anointed, rewrapped, and supine in his recliner with a bag of ice resting on his stomach and light snoring emanating from his slightly open mouth, Satin poured two more shots of scotch, placed one in front of Clete, and sat across from him in the dinette.

  “You said we were leavin’ town?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where we goin’ again?”

  “Not too far from Chicago, outside a town called Barrington Hills. Lady I work for has a place up there. Ivolee Minerva Cabot. You’ll like her. Ivy’s a great old gal.”

  “Crockett’s told me a little about her,” Satin said. “Who else’ll be there?”

  “Goody lives there now. He’s an old fella that helped me an’ Crockett out quite a bit a while back. Then there’s Stitch. Vietnam vintage helo flyboy. A real piece of work.”

  “Crockett’s spoken of him and Goody, too,” Satin said. “And then there’s Ruby.”

  “And then there’s Ruby.”

  “He’s told me a lot about Ruby,” Satin said, stiffening slightly. “She’s Carson’s friend. Carson’s talked about her, too.”

  Clete grinned. “Unless I miss my guess, you think a lot a ol’ Crockett, doncha?”

  “A helluvalot.”

  “An’ unless I miss another guess, Carson figures he just about hung the moon, too, huh?”

  “They aren’t involved,” Satin said, “but I’d guess that’s just because she’s been hidden away at my place and she and Crockett have been out of contact. Any woman with half a brain would know Crockett for what he is. A good man.”

  Clete chuckled. “No argument from me.”

  Satin looked at him. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “I was just thinkin’ about how them bruises and such Crockett’
s got right now, may be little or nothin’ compared to what he may have comin’ up.”

  “Whadaya mean?”

  “All you women an’ him under one roof. Ivy wants to mother him, you wanna protect him, Carson wants, uh, well…Carson’s got all this gratitude stored up, an’ Ruby wants whatever the hell Ruby wants. Things could get a little intense. Ya know?”

  Satin’s smile was cold. “I got no problem with Ivy,” she said. “Carson can have whatever she wants. Crockett and me are mostly past all that. If there’s a problem between me and Ruby, it’ll be because there’s a problem between Ruby and Crockett. She gives Crockett grief, I guarantee you, unless the woman is six feet six and has a butcher knife between her teeth, I’ll kick her to the curb.”

  “And if she is six-six with a butcher knife?”.

  “Then I’ll just pick up an equalizer.”

  “Mercy,” Clete said, flopping back in his seat, his hand over his heart. “Miz Satin, have I ever told you how much I admire a good lookin’ woman that ain’t afraid to git down and root in the mud?”

  Satin laughed. “Settle down, Texas,” she said. “I need you like an ostrich needs a bicycle.”

  Chuckling, Clete poured them two more shots.

  “M’am,” he said, his drawl thicker than usual, “I have come across a fair amount a ostriches in my time. Not one of ‘em I ever knowed was smart enough to even try a tricycle. You seem to me to be a site brighter than yer standard issue ostrich. Besides, I bet you say that to all the boys.”

  Satin took a sip of her drink. “You’re gonna be trouble, aren’t ya?”

  “Aw, Satin,” Clete said, “don’t think of me as trouble. Consider me more like a opportunity.”

  When Crockett woke up the ice pack was gone and Cletus was fussing in the kitchen. He grunted as he righted the recliner a few degrees and peered foggily at Clete.

  “Whatcha doin?”

  “Securing breakables for our upcoming trip,” Clete said. “I’m all domestic and shit.”

  Crockett grunted. “Where’s Satin?”