“No shit.”
“I won’t break it.”
“Didn’t think you would,” Crockett said. He turned back to Leoni.
“What can I do for you, Mister Beckett?” the man asked. His voice was half an octave higher than Crockett expected.
“You can sell me a motorcycle.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. The Norge GT you’ve got out front. In return, I’ll give you the bike my friend has here for repair, plus thirteen thousand dollars, less the eight hundred I’ve already given your parts man to get things started. You’ll take care of the tax, destination and set-up charges. I will pay you in cash. I’ll need the appropriate sale paperwork with registration information and the serial number today, so I can license and insure the thing through my company in California, and I need the bike ready to go by noon the day after tomorrow when my associate expects to pick up his old Guzzi. Deal?”
Leoni looked at him for a moment. “All right,” he said. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Time is one of the few things that cannot be manufactured, Mister Leoni. Your man will be back with my bike in a few moments. I’d like to be ready to leave by then.”
“Call me Mike,” Leoni said. “Let’s go to my office.”
The legalities took about fifteen minutes, and the two men moved to the showroom to await the return of Crockett’s BSA.
“You’re buying the bike for your friend?” Leoni asked.
“I’m buying the bike for my company. I’m letting an employee use it.”
Leoni looked at the business card Crockett had given him. “Big Sur Imports,” he mused. “What do you import?”
Crockett was non-committal. “Products from the Pacific Rim.”
“The Pacific rim?”
“Japan, China, South Korea. Oriental Countries. Importation and investment.”
“Pretty good opportunities over there?”
“There’s money to be made if you have the right contacts.”
Additional questioning was interrupted by the throaty grumble of the Goldstar as Wook appeared in the parking lot. He stopped in front of the door, let it out to about three grand, shut off the ignition, and listened as the engine racked its way down to zero RPM’s. He was nodding as Crockett walked outside.
“Sweet,” he said, handing Crockett the key and turning for the shop.
Crockett smiled. “A man of few words,” he said, and strapped his cane to the BSA’s seat.
“I noticed your limp,” Leoni said. “Car accident?”
“Afghanistan,” Crockett replied, pulling on his helmet.
Leoni’s eyebrows went up. “Afghanistan?”
“Yes.”
“You were in the service?”
Crockett opened the compression release. “No,” he said, and kicked the motor into life. The noise precluded further conversation.
When Crockett returned home, Stitch was getting a Guinness out of the fridge. The girls were nowhere to be seen.
“Where are the winners of the Nordic Combined?” Crockett asked.
Stitch smiled. “At the risk of sounding like 60’s Motown, man, up on the roof. Takin’ a little evenin’ sun, ya know? Where you been?”
“Went for a ride. Needed to get the feathers outa my feet. I hate this sneaking around shit. How’d things go for you over at the shop?”
“They got a parts guy, a shop foreman named Bennie, three wrenches, and a cleanup kid, man. And those are just the ones I know of. Had one old hog chopper in the back with a frozen top end to work on. That’s it. That ain’t enough, Crockett. Two new bikes and some beat-to-shit junk on the showroom floor don’t translate to that many people and that big a building, dude.”
“How’s the shop?”
“Three work stations with hydraulic lifts, a little office for the boss, a parts room, a storage room, and another room that’s got some kinda lock on the door that’s kinda freaky. No keypad or keyhole. Just some little screen thingie. That room is concrete block. Everything else is drywall.”
“Hmmm.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought, dude. A little after I got there a box bed truck with Leoni’s logo on it showed up and parked behind the place by a open overhead door. Leoni went to check it out. When he opened the back door of the truck, I saw four crates inside. Got Italian shit written all over ‘em. He looks ‘em over, shuts the truck up tight, comes back in, and closes the overhead door.”
“That’s suspicious?” Crockett asked.
“It’s a small shop, dude. They got three guys doin’ one job and brand new rides on the truck. Them wrenches should been tearin’ shit outa that truck, man. Doin’ set-ups on crated scooters can make ya good money if you’re fast. Plus, new bikes are new bikes, Crockett. Everybody likes to put ‘em together and test ride ‘em. Wouldn’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Not only that, but shops always got a lot a crate scrap layin’ around from bikes that been shipped in. I wandered around the side of the building and checked it out. Almost nothin’, dude. Shoulda been piles a shit. There wasn’t even low-grade crap to show where a pile might have been that was cleaned up. Two or three crates worth, that’s all. You gonna keep a place like that goin’, you gotta sell some sleds and turn some wrenches. It ain’t happenin’. And, it’s early summer, man. Should be the busiest time a the year, ya know?”
“Anybody looking sideways at you?”
“Not me, man. They think I’m pretty much a stoner, dude.”
“What would make them think that I wonder?”
Stitch smiled. “Ya got me, man,” he said. “I just kept walking around, singin’ Puff the Magic Dragon, dude. Them cats thought I was Captain Cloud, ya know. One wrench did spot my poodle shooter. Got a little excited. It’s okay, though. I’m cool.”
“Conclusions?”
“There’s a Italian in the woodpile, motherfucker.”
Crockett grinned. “Was that a racist comment?” he asked.
Stitch shook his head. “Naw, man. I‘ve jammed with a lot of Italians. Italian ain’t a race. It’s a fuckin’ commitment.”
Stitch drank half his Guinness, then wandered off outside. Crockett poured a cup of thick coffee, grimaced at the first sip, lit a Sherman, and flopped on the couch to think things over. He was resting his eyes when Danni and Whisper came in and jolted him into awareness.
Danni patted him on the head as she passed by. “Taking a nap?” she asked.
“Contemplating the infinite,” Crockett replied.
“Your infinite snores.”
“What are you guys up to?”
“The cleaning people come tomorrow?” Danni went on.
“Uh-huh.”
“Great. Me and Whisper are gonna fix dinner tonight.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Lasagna, French bread with Parmesan and garlic, roasted peppers and olive oil, the whole shot. We thought you might like some Italian.”
“Not the one I met today,” Crockett said.
While the girls prepared dinner, Crockett went to his room and phoned Satin.
“Why, David Crockett, as I live and breathe. Thought maybe you were too weak to pick up the phone. How’s Whisper?”
“Young, willing, amazing, and top-heavy. Know where I can get my trailer hitch re-chromed?”
Satin snorted. “You are such a jerk,” she said.
“Perhaps, but I make you laugh.”
“Yes, you do, old man. Sometimes you even make me chuckle.”
“How’s your sense of humor doing?”
“It needs work. I’m nearly grouchy.”
“Maybe I should drop by and cheer you up.”
“That would depend on the origin of your motives for the visit. Are you being totally selfless or have you been influenced in some way by your current companions?”
“You’re disgusting, you know that? Can I help it if hanging around Stitch makes me feel a little randy?”
“Little Ran
dy just left. C’mon over.”
Crockett laughed. “Your capacity is amazing,” he said.
“I love everybody,” Satin said. “You’re next.”
“I’ll be over after dinner.”
“Don’t overeat,” Satin replied, and disconnected.
Grinning, Crockett put his phone away and headed for the shower.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Satin, dressed in her usual threadbare old robe and worn fuzzy slippers, padded downstairs in Crockett’s cabin the next morning to find him sitting in her desk chair and poking at her computer. Dundee lay at his feet.
“Lunch in about an hour,” Crockett said. “Rest well?”
“Lose your abacus?” she asked, leaning over his shoulder and kissing him on the cheek.
Crockett peered at her. “We gotta get you some new lounging wear,” he said.
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Oh, something short and flimsy. Perhaps some spikey mules with a boa ruff. You know, classy. Maybe Kelly green to set off your graying auburn hair. Those bodice things are nice, too.”
Satin laid a condescending smile on him as she scratched her ribs. “That’s what you think, huh?”
Crockett winced. “Sometimes,” he said.
“Uh-huh. And just how much of this wardrobe fantasy, do you suppose, might have its origins in the character you are playing in that immense house with the two young ladies that currently cohabitate with you?”
“Ah, well…”
“Let me give you some advice, Crockett. Don’t lose yourself in the part.”
“How could I, when I so easily get lost in you?”
Satin stared at him for a beat. “You make me sick,” she grumbled and schlepped out of the room. Presently, her voice floated back from the kitchen. “What are you doing with my computer?”
“I’m looking for a major Moto Guzzi dealer. Found one outside Dallas. I checked out bike accessories and I’m gonna call ‘em for some information about the shipping procedure on their bikes in a day or two.”
Satin ambled back in, coffee in hand, and rubbed his shoulder. Crockett reached behind him and patted her left calf. “I need a favor,” he said.
“You used up a lot of favors last night. What now?”
“I need you to call Leoni’s cycles from the Big Sur cell phone Clete sent me and confirm the sale of a motorcycle Daniel Beckett bought yesterday.”
“You have an official business phone?”
“Three,” Crockett replied. “One for Stitch, one for me, and one with a blocked number. All three are registered to Big Sur.”
“What do I say?”
Crockett grinned. “You’ll think of something. You always do.”
“Lemme sit down,” Satin said.
Crockett moved out of the way and handed her one of Leoni’s business cards. She scribbled something on a piece of paper, opened the phone and punched in the numbers. “Marcie Gordon calling from Big Sur Imports on behalf of Daniel Beckett,” she said. “Daniel Beckett. He made a purchase from your company yesterday…that’s correct. I need to speak with someone in your sales or records department. Thank you so much.” Satin stuck her tongue out at Crockett as she waited.
“Ah. Mister Leoni. Good morning. I am Marcie Gordon calling from Big Sur Imports regarding a purchase made from your company yesterday…that’s correct. I need to give you a purchase order number from Big Sur Imports validating the monies spent for our records. Are you ready to copy...fine. That number is 5002913186. Would you read that back to me, sir...that’s it. Please include this number notated on any and all paperwork that accompanies the purchased item. I’ll get a copy to Mister Beckett. He’ll have it for you when he accepts the product. Thank you so much and have a nice day, sir. Bye now.”
Crockett grinned at her. “Perfect,” he said.
Satin preened. “I give good phone,” she replied.
“And great credibility. Marcie Gordon?”
“Went to high school with her. What a bitch.”
“Even better. As far as Leoni is concerned, this will make what he’s doubtless learned from the internet even more real.”
“Wait ‘til I forge you an official copy of the purchase order to give him. That’ll cinch the deal.” Satin’s brow furrowed. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You bought a motorcycle?”
“Yeah. A brand new Moto Guzzi road warrior go-fast. Beautiful.”
“What the hell are you gonna do with another motorcycle?”
“Give it to Stitch.”
“Stitch?”
“It’s a radical scooter, dude. Fucker’s choice, ya know? Bitchin’.”
“You bought Stitch a new bike.”
“Well, Big Sur Imports did.”
Smiling, Satin stood up and put her arms around his neck. “Davey,” she said, “you are such a champ.”
Two hours later, Crockett arrived back at the house to find a cleaning crew of about five women scurrying around. He climbed to the roof deck and joined Danni, Whisper, and Stitch as they sat under a slightly overcast sky drinking root beer and eating salsa and corn chips.
“I was gonna, like, build some lunch, ya know,” Stitch said, “but them chicks are runnin’ around down there like wild dogs! Must have eleven vacuum cleaners. Couldn’t work under those conditions. Where you been?”
“I spent the night over at the cabin.”
Danni piped up. “Couldn’t take it anymore, huh?”
“We a bad influence on you?” Whisper asked.
“You two are a bad influence on the planet. I’m gonna go change and drive over to the cycle shop. Anybody want to come along?”
“That’s what you pay us for,” Danni replied. “Dress up or down?”
“You’ve been there. You know what it’s like.”
At a little after two, Crockett pulled the T-bird to a stop in front of Leoni’s cycles. Danni was wearing a red tank top, white satin athletic shorts, and red tenni-runners, while Whisper had donned a black Rolling Stones t-shirt, an impossibly tight jean skirt that barely covered her butt, and black spike-heeled demi boots. The arm charms followed him inside. He nodded at Wook and began to inspect the wall of accessories. The ladies gravitated to the clothing racks. Michael Leoni appeared in about thirty seconds. He tried to focus on Crockett, but the girls made it nearly impossible.
“Mister Beckett,” he said.
“Yesterday I asked you to call me Dan,” Crockett replied. “It applies today.”
“Okay, Dan. What can I do for you?”
Crockett pulled Satin’s bogus purchase order copy out of a pocket and handed it to the man. “Here’s the paperwork we’d like you to retain. Marcie faxed it to me this morning.”
“I’ll file it.”
“Excellent. How’s the bike coming?”
“Had Bennie stay late last night. Oiled, gassed, test ridden, washed, waxed, and ready to go.”
“Fine. I went on line and found some things. I’d like you to equip it with a luggage rack and top box, a tank bag, and a gel seat. Do you stock those items?”
“I’m not sure if we have the seat. Let me go check.”
“I’ll come along if you don’t mind.”
“Please,” Leoni said.
Crockett followed him through the shop area. It was strangely empty. It seemed that the mechanics all had business at the front counter. The rear overhead door was open with no truck in sight. There were no visible Guzzi cycles and no packing crate refuse Crockett could see. In the parts room, Leoni scanned the shelves.
“Got everything you need accept the seat,” he said. “I can order one, take a week to ten days to get it here.”
“Fine. Oh, and a cover, too.”
“Have ‘em in stock. If you’d like to come to the office, I’ll order the seat now and work up a bill.”
“Not necessary,” Crockett replied, producing his money clip. “It won’t be over a thousand dollars, will it?”
“I’m sure it won’t.”
; “Very well. I’ll give you a thousand and we’ll call it square. The overage will compensate you for the late work last night and any overtime work required to have the bike ready to go tomorrow morning.” He presented his card to Leoni. “Phone me around nine AM and confirm. I’ll be expecting your call. This is out of pocket. No purchase order or paper trail will be necessary.”
“Thanks for your business, mister, uh, Dan.”
“My pleasure, Mike. I always enjoy doing business. By the way,” Crockett went on, “if you want to have a clandestine secure storage space, you should cover those reinforced block walls with sheet rock. The thumb-print lock is a dead giveaway, too.”
He turned away and headed toward the front of the building. Leoni stood still and watched Crockett leave.
Back in the showroom Crockett found three mechanics, a couple of civilians, and Wook.
“The girls?” he asked.
Wook inclined his head toward the rear of the room. “They took some stuff off the rack, asked to borrow my knife, and went into the john. We’re all waiting.”
Crockett stifled a grin and Michael Leoni joined the throng. At that moment, the ladies, now wearing matching black Moto Guzzi ball caps and red Moto Guzzi t-shirts, entered the room from a door at the far end. The t-shirts had been raggedly sawn off just below their respective breasts. Arm in arm they sauntered the length of the building, ignoring the entire showroom population. Every eye, including Crockett’s, followed their lazy stroll. As they passed the counter, Danni handed Wook his pocketknife and gave Crockett a small finger wave. The two exited the front door, walked lazily to the car, and took seats; Danni in the rear, Whisper in front. At that point, everybody in the showroom began to breathe again. Crockett looked at Wook.
“Two shirts, two caps?” he asked
“Yeah,” Wook replied.
Leoni spoke up. “On the house,” he said.
“Very kind of you,” Crockett replied, heading out the door. Leoni followed him to the parking lot. Crockett turned to face him. “Incidentally,” he went on, “my leg? Salerno. An F.O.B near the Pakistani border in Afghanistan. Thought you might be curious.”
UnderCover Page 21
