Witness Rejection

by David R Lewis

  “Howdy,” he said. His voice was non-committal.

  “You Ernie?”

  “More or less. Ernie is my dad. I’m Ernie Jr.”

  “Where’s Ernie senior?”

  “Florida. Said he didn’t want to never see no snow again, and lit a shuck. That was two winters ago. Ever since then, I’ve been responsible for all of the Ernie duties. How am I doin?”

  “Pretty good, I guess,” Crockett said. “Of course, now that Ernie number one is gone, I have nothing to compare you to. Maybe you suck. I got no way to know.”

  “That’s the best part of the job. It’s a lot easier when you’re the only Ernie in the place. Whatcha need?”

  “How’s your house scotch?”

  “Fair.”

  “Straight. Water back.”

  Ernie set the drink in front of Crockett and studied him for a moment. “You ain’t no tourist,” he said.

  Crockett smiled. “I’m not?”

  “Nope. No Reebok’s, no golf shirt, an’ ya ain’t got no sign on your hat. Plus, we don’t git many tourist types in here. I ain’t authentic enough. Don’t serve appletinis. Got no slot machines.”

  “You’re right, Ernie. I’m more of a visitor than a tourist. Actually, a friend of mine stayed out this way several years ago and did some hunting. Recommended a place west of here. Lickskillet Lodge?”

  “You’re too late. Philo sold out two or three years after Milo died.”

  “Who?”

  “Philo and Milo Bodine. They owned the lodge, but Milo got t-boned by a Winnebago, an’ Philo sold out. Got him a little place here in Deadwood.”

  “Who owns the lodge now?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. It ain’t a lodge no more, anyways.”

  Crockett threw down his scotch and slid the glass toward Ernie Jr. “Again,” he said. “You know this Philo guy?”

  “Some.”

  “I’d like to talk to him. Any chance a that?”

  Ernie nodded. “Could be,” he said, pouring Crockett another double.

  Crockett grinned, playing the game. “Maybe you know where I could find him?”

  “Most likely.”

  Crockett paused the scintillating conversation long enough to light a Sherman, then plunged back in. “Perhaps I could even meet with him.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Ernie agreed.

  “Is that something that someone, you for instance, you might be able to arrange?”

  “I maybe could do that. When you wanna talk to him?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Well, lemme see,” Ernie said, his gaze traveling over Crockett’s right shoulder. “Hey, Philo. Fella here wants to jaw with ya. That okay?”

  Philo Bodine was in his late sixties and of average build and height. He wore blue jeans and a chambray shirt. His hair was short, thick, and gray. The two other residents of Philo’s table excused themselves and Crockett sat down. From across the table he was instantly measured by the ice blue slits that were Bodine’s quick and appraising eyes.

  “You the law?” Philo asked. He voice was softer than Crockett would have guessed.

  “United States Department of Justice,” Crockett said, sliding his ID case across the table. “Dan Beckett.”

  Philo studied the case for a moment, then pushed it back. “That don’t tell me a thing,” he said. “Could be phony.”

  “Could be,” Crockett said. “That’s why I always encourage people to call the justice department and confirm it. They’ll tell you anything you need to know.”

  “Anybody ever take you up on that?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Reckon I’ll hold off until I find out whatcha want.”

  “Who’d you sell your lodge to?”

  “Outfit called Beacon somethin’ or other.”

  “Where they from?”

  “I don’t know. The check come out a one a them Pacific islands someplace. It was good.”

  “It still a lodge?”

  “Nope. Some rich guy lives out there with four or five other guys. Bodyguards or somethin’ like that.”

  “You know his name?”

  “Not me.”

  “Know anybody that does?”

  “Maybe. What do you wanna know for?”

  Crockett smiled and sipped about half his scotch. “If the man that is living out there is who I think he is, he is a very dangerous and very ruthless person. He has already been responsible for bombing my vehicle, killing a retired FBI agent, and shooting to death a woman who was my best friend for nearly twenty years. His newest goal is to kill his ex-wife and anyone who stands in his way. I stand in his way. I’m a good guy, Philo. So are you if you help me.”

  “You may be here from the government, but you ain’t here for the government, are ya?” the old man said.

  “Not much.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Check my ID,” Crockett said. “It says ‘Department of Justice, not Department of Bail Jumping and Trial by a Jury of His Peers.”

  Philo smiled. “Sometimes she’s over in the casino at Cadillac Jack’s in the afternoon an’ evenin’, if she ain’t booked up.” he said. “Workin’ girl. Calls herself Puma. Got a tattoo of a mountain lion just above her left ankle. You might could ketch her there. ‘Bout twenty years old, medium height, long dark hair, blue eyes. Part Sioux. Her grandma was a half-breed. She’ll know a damn sight mor’n me. Tell her I sent ya.”

  “Puma,” Crockett said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Thank you, Mister Bodine,” Crockett said, getting to his feet.

  “I know the land out on Cotton Gulch Road purty well. Ernie usually knows where I am if I ain’t here.”

  “If I were fly over that area, is there anything that’d make the place stand out?”

  “The roof of the lodge is in two different colored sections. Gray and green.”

  Crockett dropped a twenty on the table. “Thanks,” he said. “Drinks are on me.”

  In the doorway, he stopped and turned back toward Philo. “This working girl,” he said, “she trust you well enough to talk to me?”

  Philo smiled. “She damn well better,” he said. “She’s my granddaughter.”

  Back in his room, Crockett took a nap, then showered, dressed in new blue jeans, a white silk shirt with French cuffs, and the jacket to his light brown suit. He left the shirt collar open, grabbed his cane and the 686, and, about dinnertime, headed out onto the street for the relatively short walk to Cadillac Jack’s. In the main room he hit a few slot machines and ordered water with ice and lime, in a tall glass. The place was not heavily crowded. Fifteen or twenty of the slots were filled, one poker table was busy, and two blackjack tables each sported three or four victims. At the far end of a slot row, three young women, all dressed to appeal, kibitzed around one of the quarter machines. Crockett ambled to the Blackjack table closest to the women, bought a thousand dollars worth of chips, and sat down between a slightly drunk man in a western cut suit and a three hundred dollar Resistol hat, and an overweight lady in green Capri pants and a pink top.

  His first hand, he stood on seventeen and the house busted. A hundred bucks up. His second hand, he stood on nineteen, beating the house at eighteen. Two hundred bucks up. His third hand, he bet twenty and busted. So it went for thirty minutes or so, Crockett steadily gaining ground and showing a net profit of nearly seven hundred dollars. Not wanting to push his luck, he gathered his chips and turned around. Behind him stood a young woman wearing short western boots in black leather with spike heels, hip-hugger blue jean shorts cut off high on the thigh, a black leather belt studded with chrome conchos and short dangling chains, and an extremely tight, very abbreviated, black leather Harley Davidson vest that she filled wonderfully. She had long dark hair, moderate makeup, immense hoop earrings, ice blue eyes, and she smiled at him. Crockett smiled back.

  “If you have a cougar tattooed on your left leg and your name is Puma,” he said, “you’re the r
eason I’m here.”

  She blinked and took half a step back. “Do we know each other?”

  “Nope.”

  “We can fix that,” she said.

  “You on the clock right now?” Crockett asked.

  Her smile broadened and she stepped to within a foot of him. “That’s up to you. My time can be your time. Just the two of us.”

  “Good. I want this to be uninterrupted and profitable for you. You and I need to talk.”

  Puma fingered the lapel of Crockett’s jacket. “Talk?”

  “Talk.”

  “I don’t get paid to talk,” she said.

  “Sure you do,” Crockett said. “All us guys love to talk. And talk is all I want, Puma. An exchange of conversation, and it doesn’t even have to be dirty. It does, however, have to be private.”

  “I have a room here,” she said, shifting her weight from foot to foot, still trying to sell it.

  “No. I’m at the Holiday Inn. 218.” He pressed ten hundred dollar chips into her hand. “Twenty minutes, Puma. Philo sent me.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Puma said.

  When Crockett opened the door to her knock, Puma remained in the hall, posturing erotically for maximum impact. He did his best not to gape.

  “What’s this all about?” she asked.

  “It’s about another thousand in addition to the thousand you already have,” Crockett said. “It’s about some information I need, and it’s about the fact that you are free to leave anytime you like. But get out of the hall. You and I should not be seen together.”

  Shrugging, Puma sauntered into the room, dropped her immense black purse on the bed, and flopped casually and seductively into a chair, slowly crossing her legs. She gave him a languid smile.

  “Another grand,” she said. “That kinda money could get you some great memories.”

  “I have memories.”

  “Not with me, you don’t.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Puma looked slightly insulted. “Philo sent you, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Philo doesn’t send me clients,” she went on. “How do you know him?”

  “I met him this afternoon at Ernie’s. We chatted. He thought you and I might be of mutual benefit.”

  Puma uncrossed her legs. “Is that right?”

  Crockett let his eyes travel slowly over her. “You are a lovely young woman. You are sensual, sultry, and extremely appealing. My libido soars. Now, knock it off. I’m easily old enough to be your father, and I spent time with your grandfather today. Yes, I find you attractive. You have nothing to prove.”

  Puma wrinkled her brow. “You’re not gay. I can tell.”

  “Correct.”

  “You haven’t got short eyes either.”

  “Short eyes?”

  “Yeah. You’re not a kid freak. You know, a peddle file.”

  “No, I’m not a pedophile,” Crocket said. “I haven’t been on a bicycle in years.”

  Puma smiled. “You really want to just talk? That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  She gave him a lopsided grin. “Got some performance problems, Honey?”

  “None that you can fix.”

  The girl’s posture softened, her chest receded somewhat, and she eased farther into the chair. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “First things first,” Crockett said. “Do you drink?”

  “No. I don’t drink, I don’t use drugs of any kind. You can if you want to. I have some X and little blue pills in my purse with my condom collection if you need some help.”

  Crockett ignored her. “Do you eat?”

  “Yeah, I eat.”

  “Great.” He picked up the phone, contacted room service, and ordered turkey clubs, fries and iced tea. Puma watched him carefully.

  “You still waiting for the other shoe to drop?” Crockett said.

  “Sure.”

  He reached into his pocket, peeled ten one hundred dollar bills off his money clip, and tossed them on the table beside her. “That puts you two grand ahead for the night. You wanna leave, leave. You wanna stay, relax.”

  She looked at him carefully for a moment, ignoring the money on the table. “I’ll stay,” she said. “You’ve more than bought my time.”

  “Good. Now you need to get comfortable. Why don’t you go into the john, take off those ridiculous boots and anything else that’s too confining and tight, and slip into that big terrycloth robe that’s hanging on the back of the door. You will feel much better, and I won’t have to constantly battle the urge to leer at your feminine charms.”

  Puma giggled. “You are a strange man.”

  “Wait ‘til I unpack my gorilla suit and the golf balls,” Crockett said, and watched her grab her purse and stroll indolently into the bathroom.

  Jesus.

  Sweet bird of youth.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Conversation with the Cougar

  Crockett was putting sandwiches and fries on the table when Puma re-entered the room. She was barefoot and four inches shorter, wrapped from chin to heels in terrycloth. Gone was the makeup, the false eyelashes, the jewelry, and most of the attitude. She looked about fourteen years old.

  “And just who are you?” Crockett asked.

  “I’m the stripped down model,” she said.

  Crockett smiled. “So to speak. What’s your name?”

  “My name?”

  “Yeah. You’re way too young and pretty for me to call you Puma.”

  “Teresa. Call me Terri. What’s yours?”

  “Beckett,” Crockett said. “Call me Dan. You hungry?”

  “Yeah, but I usually don’t eat if I’m working. Fucks with my enthusiasm.”

  “You’re not doing that kind of work tonight. I’ve gotcha ‘til tomorrow morning, whatever that’s worth.”

  “Hell, you’ve got me for a week at these rates.”

  “Until tomorrow is fine,” Crocket said, removing his jacket. “I’m old and tired.”

  Puma smiled. “You ain’t that old, and I can fix tired.”

  “Eat.”

  “You’re wearing a gun,” she said, her eyes fixed on his waist.

  “It goes with my badge,” Crockett said, slipping off the 686 in its holster and tossing on the bed.

  “Your badge?”

  He took a seat across from her at the table. “Yeah. We’ll talk about all that after we pig out.”

  Terri attacked the defenseless turkey with such gusto that Crockett called room service for two pieces of banana cream pie. Thank God it arrived before she finished the bird and fries, or she may have started on the pillows. After the meal, Crockett leaned back in his chair and fired up a Sherman. Terri looked at him.

  “What’s that,” she asked.

  “That, you culturally deprived child, is a Sherman MCD. I am a tobacco and coffee snob.”

  “Gimme one.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t use drugs.”

  “It’s a cigarette or crystal meth. Your choice.”

  “Would you like a Sherman?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Terri said, accepting the cigarette and a light. She inhaled deeply and returned her attention to Crockett. “Okay,” she said. “We’re done eating. What’s with the gun?”

  Crockett produced his ID. “I’m after a man we believe is hiding in this area, perhaps at Philo’s old lodge. His name is Phillip Metzger, although he’s probably using an alias.”

  Terri’s body posture shifted into protection mode. “What do you want him for?” she asked.

  Crockett spent the next few minutes telling her. When he finished, she studied the floor for a moment.

  “I know him,” she said. “Calls himself Mister Phillips. Lives in Philo’s old place. Him and some other guys. Bodyguards, errand boys, things like that.”

  “How many?”

  “Four or five stay there all the time, I think. Then there’s Hammer and the skinny guy. They come and go.
”

  “Tell me about Hammer.”

  “He’s older and big. Heavy hands, thick neck, shaves his head. He’s pretty nice, though. Doesn’t give any of us any shit or nothing.”

  “Us?” Crockett asked.

  “Yeah. The girls that get called out there. Sometimes I work for Sunset Escort Service. Sunset is out of Rapid City, but has an office here in Deadwood that handles Deadwood, Lead, Central City and stuff. I go where I’m called. Around here even Sturgis. I did a weekend gig in Spearfish once. Might as well have gone to Fargo. It sucked. Girls go out to the lodge a couple of times a week. I’ve been called out there three or four times in the last seven or eight months. Recreation for Mister Phillips and whatever guys are there. We go out two or three at a time to party. Sometimes more of us.”

  “You say there’s a skinny guy with Hammer?”

  “Yeah. I think they call him Slick, or Flick or something. Got a bad complexion and long hair. He and Hammer are, like, more than just good friends, you know? Couple a fudgepackers. They don’t mess with any of us.”

  “How ‘bout Phillips?”

  “Big stud. Likes lotsa variety. Sometimes two or three at a time. Doesn’t like me, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Doesn’t like the tattoo on my leg. Called me and Shelly in together once, noticed my tat’ after a while, and sent me back out into the other room. I’ve danced for him a couple of times, but that’s it. He’s an asshole. The girls say he wants them to worship him. Tell him how wonderful he is, what a great lover he is, how big his dick is, how they get wet just lookin’ at him and shit. They also say he has trouble getting it up. I don’t know. Usually, I’m with Boomer or Razor. Sometimes both. They like me. They’re two of the bodyguard types.”

  “You know their real names?”

  “Nope. Nobody uses nothing but nicknames. They talk like they’re in the army or something. Boomer and Razor are okay, I guess. I mean, I’ve had a lot worse. Razor gets pretty rough sometimes, and Boomer’s into booty duty.”

  “Booty duty?”

  “Ass fucking.”

  “Ah.”

  “They double up on me now and then. Who gives a shit? The money’s good enough that I can take a week off if I have to. I heal quick. Hell, this guy beat me up once down in Lead, and he was a fuckin’ preacher! Told the cops he was tryin’ to drive the devil outa me. He came all over himself while he was knocking me around with this big ass bible, for chrissakes. After somethin’ like that, a three-way with Boomer and Razor doin’ me is a fucking treat.”