UnderCover

by David R Lewis

  “Oh,” Smoot said. “Those Boggs boys. Yeah. Charlie’s their uncle, I think.”

  “Shit. I needed to talk to him.”

  “That’s okay. I speck he’d have been pleased if that train had killed both of ‘em. Charlie’s pretty okay, I think. He busted those boys a time or two himself. What you wanna talk to Charlie about?”

  “About a killing out in the county a few years ago. A kid named Daryl Hansen.”

  “I wasn’t the town law back then, but I heard about it. What are you getting’ into now, Crockett?”

  “I’ll call you in a couple of days and we’ll go for a ride. I’ll tell you then.”

  “Okay by me. Meantime, I’ll get ahold a Charlie and see what I can do for you.”

  “Thanks, Dale.”

  “I really oughta get home,” Smoot said, rising to his feet. “Satin, thank your kid for me and tell her to put that piece of pie back in the case. That girl is as cute as a button. Has most a the men around here steppin’ on their tongues and tippin’ like millionaires.”

  As Smoot walked away, Crockett shifted back to his side of the booth and Danni arrived with the drinks and pie.

  “Where’d the Chief go?” she asked.

  “Had to leave,” Satin said.

  “Damn. He’s one of my biggest tippers.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Three mornings later, Crockett received a call from Dale Smoot to meet him and the ex-Hart county Sheriff at Wager’s Café for lunch. He found the two of them in the customary back booth and took a seat beside Smoot. On the other side sat a man who seemed older than his years and appeared worn and a bit fragile. From across the room, Danni looked at Crockett and raised an eyebrow. He waved her off.

  “Crockett,” Smoot said, “this here is Charlie Boggs. Charlie, Crockett.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sheriff,” Crockett said, extending his hand across the tabletop. Boggs took it. His grip was dry and a little tentative.

  “Doan gotta call me sheriff no more,” Boggs replied in a scratchy voice. “Them days is gone an’ good fer ‘em. I heered you had a little run-in with my two dumbshit nephews a whal back. That right?”

  “A little one. Nothing serious.”

  “Coulda been fair serious if’n they hadden got outa that there truck afore that train run over it. I allus said them trains needed to come through town a little bit faster than they does. Mighta solved the whole problem. Smoot says ya got a question or two. Whut canna I do fer ya?”

  “Daryl Hansen,” Crockett said. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “That there boy found dead a few years back? Not much. Lived wif his mamma, ‘bout twenny year old, worked part time at a motorcycle shop, done drugs. Somebody or other worked him over purty good, then shot the shit outa the back a his head with somthin’ big. Shotgun slug, prob’ly. Coroner said he had heroin in his system, mebbe morphine. The way I hear it, they ain’t much difference ‘tween the two.”

  “Not much,” Crockett said. “What else?”

  “Warn’t hardly anythin’ else. If’n I ‘member right, he’d been a-layin’ out fer three or four days. It’d rained a day or two an’ them bugs an’ coons an’ ‘yotes had been after him some. He was purty much a mess. No footprints or tire tracks left at the scene. All thet shit had worshed away.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I run off all the looky-loos that come to see everthang, an’ called in the state boys.”

  “Why?”

  “That kid hadden just been kilt. He’d been executed. Anybody gits done in like that, they pissed somebody off real bad. Somebody with the balls to tie ‘em up, drag ‘em out to the middle a nowhere, an’ damn near blow they haid clean off. I was good fer famb’ly fights, drunks, speeders, an’ run a the mill assholes. The shit that went on out there was a damn site deeper than anythin’ I wanted to step in.”

  Crockett smiled. “It is a wise man who knows his own limitations, Mister Boggs.”

  “Whatcha so interested in the Hansen boy fer?”

  “I’m not. I’m concerned about a young woman who was married to a State Police Officer that disappeared from this general area a few months after you brought the state boys into the investigation.”

  “A state cop?”

  “Yessir. Undercover.”

  “I heered somethin’ like thet. You figger the shit might a got too deep fer him, too?”

  “Might have.”

  “An’ now yer a-fixin’ to wade in it.”

  “If I have to.”

  Boggs stood up and looked down at Crockett.

  “You better have some damn tall boots, bub. I won’t say nothin’ to nobody. Good luck to ya.”

  Crockett watched him walk away then switched to the other side of the booth. Smoot grinned at him.

  “Wanna borrow my hip-waders?” he asked.

  “Think I’ll need ‘em?”

  “If I know you, Crockett, you’ll need them, a life raft, and a trollin’ motor.”

  “Your confidence is underwhelming, chief.”

  “What in the hell is goin’ on?”

  “A damn site more than I know anything about.”

  “Care to share any of that with your local law enforcement officer?”

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Crockett said.

  Crockett hung around town later than he’d expected. Dale was good company and, truth be told, even though it had been many years since Crockett carried the gun, packed the badge, and toted the stick, there was nostalgic comfort in the association with cops. Darkness was creeping up on the cabin when he pulled into the driveway. Parked next to the little trailer was a Chevy half-ton cargo van. Parked on the deck next to Satin was Martin Carroll Winkler. Dundee lay under the swing. Nudge supervised from his perch on the railing.

  “Stitch! How the hell are ya?”

  Stitch, dressed in Levis, a chambray shirt and heavy black boots, his long graying hair head-banded with a rolled up handkerchief, untangled himself from the porch swing and advanced.

  “Like, wow, man! How ya doin’, Crockett?”

  A manly hug ensued and the two old friends stood grinning at each other.

  “Thought I’d just show up and, like, surprise you cats, dude. Don’t wantcha to take me for granted and shit, ya know?”

  “Damn good to see you, Stitch. I didn’t expect you for another day or two.”

  “Things came together pretty quick, man. My scooter arrived from California two days ago, I got your sled from a dude with a restoration shop out in Des Plains the same day, and Clete came up with the van yesterday, complete with a magnetic Big Sur Imports logo on each side. Ol’ Clete can get some shit done, man. I’m supposed to tell you that all the resources from Big Sur Imports, also known as Ivolee Minerva Cabot, are, like, at your, ah, disposal and shit, dude.”

  Crockett grinned. “Ivy is something else.”

  “Only one a her, man. Me an’ the Satin Doll over there are suckin’ down some vino, man. Gitcha a glass?”

  “Sure.”

  “Far out. Be right back with a flagon, dude.”

  As Stitch went inside, Satin stood for a hug.

  “That man is one of a kind,” she said. “I didn’t realize how much I missed him until he showed up.”

  “Uh-huh,” Crockett replied, holding her at arm’s length. “And now I catch you in the swing with him, and no chaperone. Should I be jealous?”

  “You want the truth?”

  “Always.”

  Satin looked into his eyes. “Crockett,” she said, “I love you right down to the ground. But if there wasn’t you, there’d probably be Stitch.”

  Crockett smiled. “That may be the best compliment I ever had,” he said.

  Satin was clinging to him as Stitch returned to the deck with Crockett’s glass.

  “Whoa, dudes! I’d like tell you two to get a room an’ shit, but you got this whole fuckin’ crib. That trailer out there in the drive for me?”

  “Yep,” Crockett said. �
�We got it for you a couple of days ago.”

  “Wow,” Stitch went on, pouring Crockett a glass of merlot. “Privacy an’ shit. Far out.” He yielded his seat on the swing to Crockett, and took the folding chair that Danni was partial to. “You got a great place here. It was startin’ to get dark when I got here, so I didn’t get a real good look, man, but this is fuckin’ choice, ya know? All mountain man an’ shit. Cool.”

  “Wait a minute,” Crockett said, as things finally soaked in. “A bike for me? You got a bike for me?”

  “I was wonderin’ when you were gonna pick up on that, man. No shit. I gotcha a scooter, dude. A 1963 BSA A10 GoldStar Spitfire Scrambler.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah! Got the lightweight frame, the big brakes, the two and a half gallon tank, a chrome chain guard, and the optional lighting kit. Candy apple red with the big GoldStar badge on the side of the tank and gold pinstriping. The cat that restored took it out to twenty over, upped the compression to eleven-five to one, went four millimeters over on the carbs, and added turn signals to keep it street legal. You kick start that sumbitch, you better use the compression release or you could be in orbit, dude.”

  “Damn! I had a buddy about thirty years ago that rode a rebuilt 500 single Goldstar. Everybody loved it. I’ve never even seen the 650 twin.”

  “They came stock with straight pipes back in the day, man, but this one’s got shorty mufflers so you don’t, like, shatter anybody’s windows an’ shit, ya know?”

  “That would be good.”

  “Fuckin’ sled is, like, brand new, Crockett. Most any fireball built today with the same displacement would kick its ass if it was stock, but it is one cherry sumbitch, dude.”

  “What kinda bike do you have?”

  “Not as cool as yours, man. I got a ’74 Guzzi 850T. It’s been fairly well maintained for an old bike, but there are some problems. Got a shaft seal leakin’ a little, probably needs new head gaskets, brakes could use some work. Clete said this was a Moto Guzzi shop you were lookin’ at. Figured a Guzzi that needed help would be a good way to get in the door, ya know?”

  “Good thinking.”

  Stitch took a hit of his wine. “That’s me, dude,” he said. “Helluva brain pan.”

  The next morning Crockett, missing one leg and on crutches, was drinking coffee in the porch swing when Stitch materialized out of the early dawn darkness, ponytailing his hair as he climbed the steps to the deck.

  “Mornin’, Stitch. Coffee’s fresh.”

  “Far out,” came the reply and Stitch vanished into the cabin. When he returned a minute or two later, a bleary Satin, wearing her ratty terry robe and a disgruntled expression, staggered along behind him. Stitch was grinning.

  “Look what I found in the kitchen, dude,” he said. “Medusa.”

  Crockett laughed. “Be careful. Don’t wanna piss off the creature from the black lagoon until after feeding time. Otherwise it’ll get vicious.”

  “Bud and Lou,” Satin said, slopping a little coffee over the side of her cup and easing down onto the swing. “I though both of you were dead.”

  “An obscure reference to Abbot and Costello,” Crockett went on. “It’s a shame to see her get this old. Lives in the past, you know.”

  “It’s okay, honey,” Stitch said. “After your oatmeal, Harpo, Chico, and Groucho will be along to sit in the day room with you while you, like, nap in your chair.”

  Satin grimaced into her cup. “Why don’t you two comedians go for a nice long walk or something, and leave me the hell alone. The last thing I need this morning is abuse from you assholes.”

  Crockett looked at Stitch. “Biscuits and gravy in town?”

  Stitch glanced at Satin. “Might be safer,” he said.

  The breakfast herd was just beginning to thin out when the boys arrived at Wagers Café. The back booth was open, and they took a seat. Stitch watched Danni hustling from table to table for a moment.

  “Cute little chick, man.”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s a doll. Good kid, too.”

  “She married or anything, dude?”

  “No.”

  “Man, if I was ten years younger, Crockett…”

  “Ten?”

  “Okay. Twenty. That better?”

  Crockett grinned. “A little.”

  Conversation ceased as Danni approached the booth. “Mornin’, Crockett,” she said, turning her eyes to Stitch. “Who’s this?”

  “This is my friend, Stitch. Stitch, this is Danni.”

  Danni looked Stitch over for a minute, then smiled. “How was Woodstock?” she asked.

  “Didn’t go,” Stitch replied. “How was nursery school?”

  “Didn’t go,” Danni said.

  “Why not?”

  “Finger painting is too messy.”

  Stitch never missed a beat. “How ‘bout body painting?” he asked.

  “Depends on the artist.”

  “And the canvas.”

  Danni dimpled. “What can I get ya?”

  “Green and yellow, I think,” Stitch said. “Maybe a little, ah, silver glitter, too.”

  “Oh, wow, man,” Danni said. “Like, I was talkin’ about, like, uh, breakfast, ya know?”

  “Far out! Ah, B and G and two over easy, Danni darlin’. No hurry. I like to take my time.”

  Danni looked across the booth. “How ‘bout you, Crockett?”

  “Same.”

  “You in a hurry or do you like to take your time, too?”

  “Whenever it’s ready will be fine.”

  Danni looked at Stitch. “It’s a wise man that knows when it’s ready,” she said. “I’ll be back with coffee.”

  Stitch grinned at Danni’s retreating back. “Whatever works for ya,” he said, “is exactly what I want.”

  “What are you doing?” Crockett asked.

  “Bein’, you know, friendly.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That there is a helluva chick, man.”

  “For a minute I thought you were gonna grab her by the hair and drag her outa here.”

  “It definitely crossed my mind.”

  “Don’t you think you’re a little old for her?”

  “You’re only as old as your prostate, dude.”

  Crockett couldn’t help it. He laughed. “You lookin’ for a one night stand, Stitch?”

  “Hell no, man. Waste a time. That little gal is sharp. Good lookin’ too. Couple a years, minimum, if she was up for it. I’m not some kinda asshole, ya know.”

  “I know that, but I’ve got a little news for you. Danni is Satin’s daughter.”

  Stitch stared at him. “That’s Satin’s kid?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Stitch pondered this new information for a moment, then smiled.

  “Groovy,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Crockett and Stitch arrived back at the cabin to find Satin in a better mood, working in the small bedroom she’d chosen as an office. After brief greetings, they wandered outside to the van and unloaded the motorcycles.

  “God, it’s beautiful,” Crockett said, circling the BSA as it sat on the gravel drive. “This bike is a piece of motorcycle history, Stitch. When everything is over, I’m gonna hate to give it up.”

  “It’s yours, dude. A gift from Ivy.”

  “Aw. That’s too much.”

  “That old chick’s got more money than Sweden, man. She loves doin’ shit for people. She told me that after I get the Guzzi fixed up, to go ahead and get something I really like. Big Sur Imports’ll pick up the tab.”

  Crockett swung a leg over the BSA’s saddle and bounced the shocks a couple of times. He couldn’t keep the sappy grin off his face.

  “Vintage Koni six-way adjustable shocks and Gurling springs, man,” Stitch said. “Dunlop K-81’s too. The ignition’s relocated down on the right side of the fork head. Key’s in it. Fire the fucker up. Don’t forget the compression release.”

  Crockett found the key, turned it on
, reached under the frame below the seat to tickle the prime buttons on the twin Amil Gran Prix carburetors, opened the compression release, flipped the choke, toed the shifter into neutral, carefully ratcheted the kick starter arm to the top of its stroke, took a deep breath, grabbed a handful of clutch just in case, launched himself upward off the seat, and kicked the starter arm through to the bottom of its range. Low and behold, the BSA coughed into life. Quickly he feathered the twist-grip throttle, closed the compression release, adjusted the choke, and kept after it until the engine settled down from ragged sputtering into a deep and throaty burble, punctuated by racking explosions as Crockett rolled the throttle.

  “Damn!”

  Stitch grinned and shouted over the noise of the motor. “It won’t idle, dude. You gotta stay on the throttle. The timing is advanced about ten degrees!”

  Crockett nodded, snicked the shifter into first, eased out the clutch, and carefully rode away down the lane. He wasn’t gone long. The BSA’s sudden bursts of torque and gravel roads were less than compatible. When he returned, he found Stitch and Satin standing on the drive. He rolled the RPM’s up to about five thousand, turned off the key, and let the motor crackle to a stop.

  “Not so good on gravel, huh, man?”

  “Hard to keep the rear end where you want it and I’m outa practice,” Crockett said. “God, it’s great. This old Beezer has got some balls, Stitch.”

  “Well, yeah, Hotshoe. That scooter had balls before somebody tricked it out. Runs a lot better than when it was brand new.”

  “Hotshoe?” Satin said.

  “Yeah.” Stitch replied. “Old dirt track racers strapped a metal sole on the bottom of their left boot. That way, in the corners they could put that foot down and lean the scooters way over. The sole would get so hot from friction on the dirt it would throw sparks. Hotshoe. Dig?”

  Satin walked around the bike in careful inspection, then swung up on the seat behind Crockett. “Let’s go,” she said.

  “When we both have helmets, and leather, and after I get more used to this thing,” Crockett said. “I am not going to take any chances on falling down with you hanging onto my neck. Bad for my macho image.”