UnderCover

by David R Lewis

  “Then let’s go shopping,” Satin said.

  He looked at her excited face and gave in. “Lemme grab my shades.”

  Stitch and Satin were both ensconced in the truck when he returned.

  The shopping went fairly well. Crockett and Satin settled on black leather jackets with several pockets and red piping on the trim, removable shoulder and elbow armor, zip out linings, and chest, back and arm zippered vents for warm weather. Matching chaps with thigh pockets completed the ensemble, Crockett being concerned with safety while Satin’s focus was more on style. Her short engineer boots were a matter of contention, their appearance being too clunky for the lady’s refined senses. Crockett prevailed. The helmet was another matter. No matter how hard Crockett lobbied for the “full face” variety, Satin steadfastly refused on the grounds that if she wanted to go deep sea diving, she’d rent a boat. Crockett, having fallen off a motorcycle or two in his riding days opted for a full face helmet in candy apple red. Satin chose the open face version of the same model. Gloves with padding on the knuckles and heels of the hands were an uncontested choice. As were two lightweight motorcycle covers. Stitch, who brought gear with him, grinned almost constantly through the entire selection process, with only one comment to Crockett while Satin was out of earshot.

  “Chicks, man. Fucking wow, ya know?”

  Back at the cabin by early afternoon, Satin dragged her plunder upstairs while Crockett retrieved sandwich stuff in the kitchen. As he was preparing turkey with tomatoes and lettuce, she clunked in, clad head to toe in all her new motorcycling accoutrements. Stitch commented.

  “Far out!”

  “I feel like I’m getting ready for a spacewalk,” Satin said.

  Crockett grinned. “Safety first, honey. Nothing like road rash to screw up your graduation picture.”

  “Isn’t all this crap gonna be a little hot?”

  “That’s why you remove the jacket lining and unzip the vents. There’s considerable air flow while riding a motorcycle, dearest.”

  “What happens when its ninety-five degrees out there?”

  “We take the truck. It’s air-conditioned. Believe me, Satin, you do not want to be sitting in traffic, in August, on a machine that’s generating enough heat to bake pizza. No fun.”

  “I feel like I got a bucket on my head.”

  “You’ll get used to it. No helmet, no rides. As much as I adore you, I do not want to spoon feed you oatmeal for the next thirty years while you try to remember your name.”

  “It’s not that. My hair’ll be trashed.”

  “We’ll getcha a ball cap to put on when you take the helmet off. You’ll wanna ponytail your hair anyway. Probably band it high and low. Nothing tangles hair like whipping in the wind.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “I used to ride a lot. Great way to get chicks.”

  “You make them all dress up like this?”

  “As I recall, the object was not to get them in more clothing, but to get them in less clothing.”

  “What an asshole.”

  “But, then again, I didn’t love them.”

  “You think that lets you off the hook?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, it does. I’m gonna go take this stuff off. A little extra mayo in my sandwich.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “That’s better,” Satin said, and thudded her way back upstairs.

  Stitch disappeared while the sandwich building was in progress, and Satin came back downstairs. The hippie returned at the end of the procedure bearing a small suitcase.

  “Whatcha got?” Crockett asked around a mouthful of chips.

  Stitch opened the case and began to withdraw items. “I have,” he said, “two vintage BSA t-shirts, one extra-large, one medium, two vintage BSA nylon windbreakers in the same, like, sizes, and two red vintage BSA ball caps, fully, you know, adjustable.”

  “Look at that.” Crockett said, handling one of the jackets. “This is great, Stitch. Thanks a lot.”

  “I also got California plates for both bikes and the van, California driver’s licenses for both of us, yours in the name of, like, Daniel Beckett, credit cards, a company checkbook, the whole ball a wax, dude. Your mystery identity is, like, fucking valid, ya know?”

  “Are these the real thing?” Satin interjected, holding up a T-shirt with BSA printed across the chest.

  “Straight from the 60’s,” Stitch affirmed. “Been a long time since I seen a good lookin’ woman hidin’ her boobs behind a BSA logo, man.”

  Satin smiled. “I bet you say that to all the girls,” she said.

  “All the ones in this room.”

  “Would the two of you like me to leave?” Crockett asked.

  “Permanently?” Satin said.

  Crockett’s cell phone went off upstairs. He headed up to answer it.

  “Met your kid,” Stitch said.

  “Crockett told me. He said you took a run at her.”

  Stitch smiled. “Just a, you know, little one. You got a problem with that?”

  Satin returned his smile. “Not me,” she said.

  “How ‘bout Crockett?”

  “Crockett loves you, and he loves Danni,” Satin said. “The age difference puts him off a little. In his way, Crockett is a bit of a prude.”

  “Yeah,” Stitch said. “Got that puritanical thing goin’ on. I, like, don’t wanna piss him off or nothin’, ya know?”

  “Not your problem, Stitch. You and Danni are both full grown. What you do is your business. I think a good man in Danni’s life right now could be wonderful for her. She hasn’t had it very easy for a long time.”

  “I just, like, wanted to make sure and shit. I didn’t think you’d care, but I didn’t wanna freak ol’ Crockett out.”

  “I’ll handle Crockett,” Satin said. “You and Danni do whatever it is you need to do.”

  Conversation ceased as the Crockett in question came down the stairs carrying his cell phone. “Got a call from Lyle Higgenbotham,” he said. “He’s got two places over near Smithville Lake for me to look at. Wants to meet in the bank parking lot in thirty minutes. You guys up for it?”

  “Naw,” Stitch said. I’m gonna take a shower and crash for a while. You two go, like, on, ya know.”

  Crocket and Satin arrived back at the cabin at dusk, Crockett carrying his copy of an open ended lease to Big Sur Imports on a massive truncated A-frame on two acres of lawn about a quarter mile from the lake.

  “Don’t see the van,” Crockett said. “Stitch musta gone somewhere.”

  “You hungry?” Satin asked, as she scratched a wiggling Dundee behind the ears.

  “Naw. Kinda tired. How ‘bout a Guinness or two on the deck, and then bed?”

  “Suits me,” Satin went on, opening the door and letting Dundee inside.

  They sat on the deck for over an hour, Satin primed to rebut any Stitch and Danni comments. Crockett never brought it up.

  The next morning, Crockett grinched his foggy way into the kitchen to find Danni, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, whipping up some eggs.

  “Good mornin’, kiddo. Didn’t expect to see you here. Day off?”

  “Morning, Crockett. Yeah. How’s blueberry syrup, French toast, and corned beef hash sound?”

  “Like heaven.”

  “Good. Coffee just finished dripping if you want some.”

  “Thanks,” Crockett replied, lighting a Sherman and peering around the area. “Seen Stitch this morning?”

  “He’s still asleep out in the trailer,” Danni said. “I just couldn’t lay there anymore. Had to get up and do something. That job at the café has ruined me for sleeping in.”

  Crockett passed behind her to get coffee. “So you and Stitch are, uh, sleeping together?”

  “Yep,” Danni replied, looking over her shoulder. “More than that, we’re fucking too, Crockett.”

  Crockett poured his coffee without comment.

  “Look at that,” Danni went on.
“Mom was right. Your ears do get red.”

  Crockett grinned. “Oh, shut up.” he said, taking a seat at the counter. Danni moved to stand in front of him.

  “Are we all right?” she asked.

  Thinking back to her days of hooking and living with Train, Crockett put a hand on her face. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he said. “We are just fine.”

  Her eyes full, Danni put her arms around his neck and leaned in, her lips near his ear. “That’s good,” she whispered. “Of all the people in the world, I want to be all right with you the most.”

  From her position on the stairs, Satin quietly eased back up to the bedroom to give the two of them a little more time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Breakfast was over when the door to the deck slid open and Nudge ambled in. He was followed, almost immediately, by Stitch. Danni grinned as she watched him shuffle into the room, his hair loose, his posture somewhat twisted and bent.

  “’Bout time you got here,” she said. “How ya doin’?”

  Stitch walked behind her getting to the coffee pot and rubbed her back as he passed by. “Damn, girl!” he said.

  Danni patted him on the butt as he poured his coffee. “Not my fault if you outlived your youth,” she said.

  “Be your fault if ya freakin’ kill my ass.”

  “You bragging or complaining?”

  “Ah, since your mother is in the room, I’m complaining.”

  “Want me to step out for a minute?” Satin asked.

  Stitch peered at her. “Wouldn’t help,” he said. “I don’t have the strength to brag right now, ya know?”

  Satin laughed, gathered up her coffee cup, and began clearing dishes. Crockett, a little off balance, moseyed out to the deck and sat in the swing. He had just leaned back when Stitch showed up.

  “You okay with all this, man?” he asked.

  “I will be. Gimme a little time to adjust.”

  Stitch smiled. “Just remember, Crockett. I’m a gentleman from the word no, dude.”

  “Never a doubt, Stitch.”

  “Far out. I don’t want you to go all Baptist on my ass or somethin’.”

  Crockett chuckled. “You are a piece of work, hippie.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, man,” Stitch went on. “I’m sure as hell not as young as I used to be. Holy shit!”

  “You bragging or complaining?”

  Stitch checked behind himself to make sure nobody else was in earshot.

  “I’m braggin’, dude. Ha!”

  Crockett’s reply was interrupted by the sound of Dundee’s barking. He peered around the side of the cabin in time to see Lyle Higgenbotham’s truck roll to a stop, and the old man dismount and walk toward the deck. Same gabardine suit, same Stetson stockman’s long oval tilted on his head. In a moment, a large brown envelope in hand, Lyle carefully climbed the steps to the planked floor of the porch. He smiled at Crockett.

  “Mornin’ boy, am I interruptin’ somethin’?”

  “Not a thing, Lyle. Good to see you.” Crockett made the introduction to Stitch, as Satin delivered Lyle a fresh cup of coffee and took a seat beside Crockett in the swing.

  “Thank ya, hon,” Lyle said, turning his attention to Stitch as he eased his way down into a folding chair. “Ya know,” he went on, “I sold this here land to Crockett, then I turned around and sold it to Miz Satin, then I sold it back to Crockett agin. Got to be right confusin’ fer a while.”

  “Anything that’s got Crockett around always gets confusin’, dude. It’s some kinda pretty out here, though.”

  “He said he wanted wild and cheap. He got it.”

  “Kinda fits ol’ Crockett, man,” Stitch said, attempting to finger comb the rats out of his hair. “Overgrown, unimproved, an’ not worth much.”

  Lyle removed his hat and ran his hand over his nearly bald pate. “I allus figured that hair an’ brains don’t mix, son,” he said, “but, by God, I believe you may be the exception to that rule.”

  Crockett’s protests were sidetracked by the arrival of Nudge on the deck. The cat sauntered halfway across the expanse, levitated to the railing, and sat.

  “Godamighty,” Lyle said. “I just cain’t git over that cat, Crockett. He drug down any deer?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Seein’ a cat that big has gotta be hard on my heart,” Lyle went on, reaching for a hip pocket. “Any a you folks care for a little sightin’ oil to sweeten yer coffee?”

  Crockett and Satin declined. Stitch held out his cup and accepted a tot.

  “Now lookit them settin’ there just as nice as ya please,” Lyle went on, nodding at Crockett and Satin. “They was a time when if ya had a porch like this here deck, ya had a swing, but not no more. Air conditionin’, television, an’ the damn internet has ruined the whole durn thing. Decline a western civilization, the way I figger it. An’ now, Crockett here has plum lost his mind. Got all this good livin’ around him, an’ here he comes rentin’ some seven thousand square foot glass an’ brick monstrosity so he can rub elbows with all them rich idiots waitin’ on Better Homes and Gardens to show up an’ tell ‘em how wonderful they are. Damn shame if ya ask me.”

  “Always was a social climber,” Satin said.

  “Standin’ on the backs of, ah, of all the, you know, little people, man,” Stitch said.

  Crockett bristled. “Is there a reason Higgenbotham Realty is on my deck, other than to fatmouth somebody who just forked over eleven thousand dollars for one month in that glass and brick monstrosity?”

  Lyle grinned. “Oops,” he said. “Guess my commission slipped my mind for a minute. Nice cat ya got there, Crockett.”

  When the chuckling settled down, Lyle went on. “I brung ya the rest a the papers on the place, the contract for the cleanin’ crew and the grounds service, the number for the alarm people, keys and such. Yer lease starts in six days, but I, as the official representative of the owners of that fine monstrosity, do hereby give ya permission to take possession of the property at your convenience, doncha see.”

  Crockett smiled. “That’s nice of you.”

  “Ain’t nothing, boy,” Lyle replied. “I just like throwin’ my weight around.”

  “There’s a cleaning crew and a grounds service?” Satin asked.

  “Yep. Cleanin’ bunch comes in durin’ the afternoon on Tuesday and Friday to clean the place up, do the laundry, an’ like that. The grounds bunch shows up ever Wednesday, if it ain’t rained, an’ does all the mowin’ and trimin’ and stuff. Trash pickup is early Monday mornin’. The cost is included in the rent.”

  “I’ll move in tomorrow.” Satin said.

  “You?” Crockett said.

  “Yes, me.”

  “You would do well to remember that she also serves who only stands and waits,” Crockett replied. “Of course we might need kitchen help.”

  “What kinda place did you guys get?” Stitch asked, sidetracking Satin’s snappy retort.

  “It’s one a them A-frames with the top cut off flat,” Lyle said. “Got a big ol’ livin area that’s open to the roof, a kitchen, pantry, three baths and two bedrooms on the ground floor, the master suite an’ exercise area on the second floor overlookin’ the livin’ room, and even one a them circular metal stairways from the second floor to a settin’ deck up on the roof, ‘bout thirty feet above ground level.”

  “No shit?”

  “That ain’t all. They’s a wing off each side. One has storage, two more bedrooms and baths, and the laundry and mudroom. The other side is a four car garage an’ a little apartment for live-in help.”

  “And this is all, like, on the lake?”

  “Nossir. “Bout a quarter-mile from the lake, but slip rental for a boat comes with the deal.”

  “Who owns this big-ass fucker?”

  “Couple a folks that run off to Europe for a year or so. It’s all furnished. Pots an’ pans, toaster and coffee maker, even dishes. TV’s an’ everthing. Only bills Crockett has got, ‘cept the rent, is utilities
and payments to one a them satellite companies for the televisions.”

  “Far out.”

  “Yessir, it shore is,” Lyle went on, draining his coffee cup. “Well, folks,” he went on, rising to his feet, I gotta hitch up the horses. Got a feller lookin’ for some pasture out around Lexington I need to git with. Thanks fer the coffee.”

  He stared to leave, then paused to peer at Nudge for a moment. “Godamighty,” the old man said, and disappeared down the steps.

  At that moment, Danni, carrying a plate smothered in scrambled eggs and corned-beef hash, came through the sliding doors and deposited her burden carefully in Stitch’s lap.

  “Jesus Christ, Crockett said. “Breakfast was almost two hours ago.”

  Danni leaned down and kissed Crockett on the cheek. “Gotta keep his strength up,” she said. “You old guys need special attention.”

  A couple of hours later, the girls, on the pretext of having to do some shopping, vacated the area. Stitch and Crockett affixed license plates to the bikes and took about a fifteen-minute ride. When they got back, Stitch wiped down the bikes while Crockett made tuna salad sandwiches. They tried eating on the deck, but the gnats were out in midday force, so they repaired to the kitchen.

  “So,” Stitch said as he ripped open a bag of bar-b-que chips, “what’s really goin’ on, man?”

  Crockett shook his head and chewed for a moment. “I wish to hell I knew. What I know for sure is next to nothing. What I think has a little more substance. I think Paul McGill was assigned as an undercover investigator to infiltrate the group at Leoni’s Cycles in an effort to find out more about the Hansen boy’s murder and about the business of the cycle shop. I think Paul McGill found out something he should not have found out, or was caught gumshoeing around the joint, or something else that got him killed and hidden. I think his wife, Cheryl, needs to know what happened to him, and I think her kids need the benefits due the family if it can be shown that he is dead and that his death was directly related to his employment as a trooper with the Missouri State Police.”