UnderCover

by David R Lewis

  Crockett checked out the parking lot as Whisper put her helmet and windbreaker in a side bag. Eight or ten bikes were parked in front, only two or three of them Guzzies. They were augmented by a couple of cars and pickup trucks, and the black flaming-skull Sportster beside the door. Several men stood jawing outside, their conversation interrupted by Whisper’s arrival. He turned to her. Now in the cutoff t-shirt and wearing her cap, she grinned.

  “Let’s go get me a jacket and stuff, Daddy,” she said, and started toward the door.

  Behind her, Crockett noticed a tramp stamp on her low back and an inch or two of black thong panties above the waistband of her leather jeans. A whale tail.

  Oh, Lord.

  One of the wrenches stood behind the counter. The patch on his shirt read “Bennie.” He nodded at Crockett.

  “Morning,” Crockett said. “Wook around?”

  “Day off. Help ya?”

  “The top box is loose on my scooter. If you’re shorthanded, I can fix it. Just need a socket.”

  “Back door’s open. Take it inside. Bump’s back there. He can wrench it for ya.”

  “Thanks,” Crockett said, turning away.

  Whisper was browsing through a rack of leathers as eight or ten stalwarts struggled to appear to have a reason to be in the showroom other than her. Crockett held onto his grin. “I’ll be in the back,” he said.

  “Anything I want?” Whisper asked, cocking her head to the side and biting her lower lip.

  “As always.”

  “Cool,” she said, and went back to her shopping.

  When Crockett rolled through the rear door there was no one in sight except for one young man pushing a broom near Leoni’s office on the far side of the room. The kid looked to be in his early twenties, had fair hair, a muscular build, and short arms. He was wearing a torn and greasy Guzzi t-shirt and a Ratty Bass Pro ball cap slightly off center. He carried his head down and turned to one side and his eyes, constantly scanning, did not look directly at Crockett as he crossed the fifty feet between them.

  “Got no mechanics today,” he said. His voice was low and tentative.

  “That’s okay. Is there somebody here named Bump?”

  The lad’s jerky nod was a little too strong. “That’s what they call me,” he said.

  “What’s your real name?”

  Bump seemed embarrassed. “Johnny Bubowski,” he replied.

  Crockett stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, John. My name’s Dan.”

  John’s grip was soft and fleeting. He touched Crockett’s hand for only a brief moment, his eyes on the floor. “You’re that guy, aren’t ya?” he asked.

  Crockett smiled. “What guy, John?”

  “That guy that just got this bike, and has that cool red car, and those pretty girls.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Everybody’s talkin’ about you.”

  “They are, huh?”

  John nodded again.

  “What are they saying?”

  “They wanna know who you are, and how you got so much money, and stuff.”

  “What do you think?”

  John shrugged. “I think you must be nice or you wouldn’t have those pretty girls with you.”

  “You like pretty girls, John?”

  The lad flushed to his hairline as the exaggerated the nod came back.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Crockett said. “How long have you worked for Mister Leoni?”

  “Long time. Since we were at the other place.”

  “You like working here, John?”

  “It’s okay, I guess. I never worked nowhere else. I give the money to Mom.”

  “That’s nice of you. Do you live with your mom?”

  John’s nod jerked a bit. He seemed to be getting restless.

  “Well,” Crockett went on, “I don’t want to keep you too long. The top box on my luggage rack is loose. Do you suppose you could tighten it for me?”

  “Ten millimeter bolts,” John replied. “Bet they forgot those lock washers.”

  He scurried to a bench, grabbed a socket and wrench, searched through a parts bin for a moment, and attacked the top box with speed and assurance. Five minutes later the job was done.

  “It won’t come loose now,” he said, a touch of pride creeping into his voice.

  Crockett smiled. “You did a fine job,” he said. “Thank you.”

  John smiled. “They don’t let me work on stuff much, but I pay attention. Mom says I need to pay attention.”

  “I appreciate the effort, John. The box is perfect.”

  The young man looked at his feet. “Can I ask you a question?” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “Everybody calls me Bump. How come you call me John?”

  “Because that’s your name,” Crockett replied. Smiling, John continued to look at his feet. “Can you keep a secret?” Crockett asked.

  John lifted his head and nodded. Crockett took a twenty out of his pocket and handed it to the young man.

  “That’s for the good work you did,” he said. “And it’s just between us. Our secret, okay?”

  The lad looked at Crockett from the corner of his eye for a moment. “Our secret, Dan,” he said, and returned to his broom.

  As Crockett pulled up in front of the building with his newly secure top box, Whisper, clad in a yellow leather racing shirt graced by white slashes trimmed in red piping, matching chaps, and carrying a yellow and white full-face helmet, walked out to greet him. Two-dozen eyes watched her departure through the showroom windows.

  “You pay for all that?” Crockett asked, watching her drop her cap in the side bag.

  “Silly boy,” she replied, sliding into her helmet. “You’re running a tab.”

  “Yellow and white,” Crockett went on as she climbed up behind him. “You don’t match the bike.”

  Whisper hooked her thumbs in his belt and snuggled in. “Wrong, Danny-boy,” she purred. “The bike doesn’t match me.”

  Chuckling, Crockett started the motor and eased down the slope in front of the shop. As he turned onto the street he noticed a couple of Ricky-Roadracers rolling out behind him. Okay. Let the games begin. He rolled the throttle back and let the Guzzi eat.

  It was fun. For the next fifteen minutes or so the two canyon cruisers played with him. He was no match for bikes designed for road racing, especially with two up, but he did his best, pushing the Guzzi as hard as he dared, Whisper’s occasional yelps of joy reaching his ears over the rasp of the engine. The hotshoes, on a Honda and a Yamaha, stayed just out of reach, now and then allowing him to catch up and soar through turns three abreast. When the red lights appeared behind them, the cruisers blasted off. Crockett, cursing his luck, pulled over, grabbed the necessary papers out of the fairing’s glove box, dismounted, and met the deputy halfway.

  “License and registration,” the young man said, all business. Crockett handed him the paperwork and dug out Dan Beckett’s driver’s license.

  “Where’s your plate?” the deputy asked.

  “If you’ll check the forms, Officer,” Crockett said, “You’ll see my company just purchased the motorcycle a couple of days ago. My old bike died so I traded it in and got this one. My new plate should arrive from the office in a few days.”

  The deputy studied things for a moment then accepted the driver’s license.

  “You from California?”

  “Yessir.”

  “What are you doin’ here?”

  “Getting stopped by a county deputy for speeding.”

  The man didn’t have an excessive sense of humor. “Why are you here, sir?” he asked.

  “On vacation. Just going for a ride.”

  “How ‘bout them other two that were with you?”

  “They weren’t with me. They just showed up. We were playing.”

  “They ran. How come you didn’t?”

  “Usta be a cop. I have more respect for the badge than that.”

  “Well, Mister Bec
kett, you were doing eighty-six miles an hour in a forty mile per hour zone. I’m gonna have to…”

  The deputy’s voice trailed off and his attention wandered as Whisper, now helmetless and with an unzipped jacket, approached the two.

  “What’s going on, Dad?” she asked.

  “The officer here is going to issue me a citation for speeding, honey,” Crockett replied.

  “Oh, no!” Whisper said, turning both her attention and chest to the deputy. “Please don’t! It was my fault. Those other two bikes came along and I kept asking Daddy to go faster and faster. I made him do it! He didn’t want to. It was all me.”

  “Ah…” said the deputy.

  “Please?” Whisper went on, a few tears sliding down her pretty face. “I know what I did was wrong, but I got excited by all that speed and wind. My father just wanted to make me happy. Since Mom died, we’re all each other have. You should write me the ticket. It was all my fault!”

  “Oh…ah, I couldn’t do that, Miss.”

  “Really?” Whisper gushed, bouncing on her toes and taking Crockett by the arm. “See, Dad? He’s not gonna write a ticket. He understands. Thank you, Officer. You’re a wonderful man. I promise I’ll be good. No more speeding.”

  The deputy was lost. With no place to run or hide, he handed Crockett the paperwork and license, growled something about slowing down, and returned to his car. As he drove away, Whisper bounced up and down some more and waved goodbye. Crockett leaned on the bike and laughed.

  “Lovely,” he chuckled. “Just lovely. The poor bastard never stood a chance.”

  Whisper tucked her chest away and zipped up the jacket. “Do you think I was objectified?” she asked.

  “Possibly,” Crockett replied. “The tears sold it.”

  Whisper smiled. “Sometimes boobs and a little lubrication are enough,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The weekend was rainy and blustery. Satin came over on Sunday to spend the day, but went shopping with Whisper for a few hours instead of giving Crockett the attention he thought he deserved. During the dinner he prepared, the women seemed to take pleasure in discussing what they considered to be his shortcomings. A good time was had by two.

  “Jesus Christ,” Crockett said. “I’m sure as hell glad this isn’t a regular event. My self-esteem has suffered enough!”

  “We just do it because we love you,” Whisper said.

  “Or not,” Satin said.

  “If the two of you’d extend some of that creative energy into the overall situation that has cast us together, some progress might be forthcoming. Instead, you fatmouth me. Don’t you realize how truly fragile I am?”

  “Drugs,” Satin replied.

  “What?”

  “Drugs. Mind altering substances. Cocaine, marijuana, speed, heroin, stuff like that.”

  “There ya go,” Crockett complained. “Spend one afternoon with the bountiful blonde over there and you’re corrupted. I should have seen it coming.” Whisper stuck her tongue out at him. Satin continued.

  “You said that motorcycle shop could not possibly be supporting itself on sales and service, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “They’ve gotta be making money somehow. I know you, Crockett. You’ve been thinking about it.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  Satin batted her eyes and smiled at him. “Anything you’d care to share?”

  Crockett looked at the counter for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Leoni’s Italian,” he said. “So are the bikes he imports. One way or another, he has an Italian connection. Leoni also spent some time in Afghanistan. Afghanistan’s main crop is opium poppies. More opium is available there than anywhere else in the world. Opium is merely heroin in diapers. Italy is a lot closer to Afghanistan than Missouri is. Moto Guzzi motorcycles are customarily imported into the land of the free and the home of the brave from Italy through a warehousing system in Georgia. The crates Stitch saw at Leoni’s Cycles had U.S. Customs stickers on them from New York. Plus, the four bikes that came in, even though they have been on site for several days and are surrounded by mechanics, are still not on the showroom floor. If one sells motorcycles for a living, that, my dear, is bad business.”

  Satin’s eyebrows shot up. “Creative thought. Who would have suspected?”

  “You’re smarter than you dress,” Whisper added.

  “So now what?” Satin said.

  “Now I phone Cletus and see if we can’t offer Michael Leoni the opportunity to expand his product base.”

  “Call him tomorrow,” Satin said.

  “Okay. Why?”

  “’Cause I’m gonna leave in an hour or two and I don’t have anything to do until then. You know how I hate being bored.”

  “Ah,” Crockett replied.

  Grinning, Whisper hugged Satin and kissed Crockett on the cheek. “Danni was right,” she said, walking away. “You guys are cute.”

  As they watched her go, Satin patted Crockett on the knee. “That’s a good kid,” she said.

  “Almost,” Crockett said.

  At seven-thirty the next morning, Crockett sat at the snack bar, landline in hand. Cletus Marshal answered on the third ring.

  “Oh, hell,” he drawled. “If ya’ll are callin’ me at damn near daybreak it can only mean yer fixin’ to ask me to do somethin’ that’s agin the law, ain’tcha?”

  “Accent’s pretty thick this morning, Texican.”

  “Fuck my accent. What the hell you want?”

  “Controlled substances.”

  “I can git ya some gunpowder. How ‘bout that?”

  “No thanks. I was thinking more along the line of things that can be taken internally.”

  “You mean injected, ingested, or inhaled?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesus Christ. Like I ain’t broke enough laws for you already in our brief association.”

  “In for a penny, in for a pound, Clete. I need to impress this guy. I may even need to sell him some shit. If I can gain his confidence, I can get his money. If I can get his money, I can get him. You know how it goes.”

  Cletus sighed. “Yeah, I do. Whatcha need?”

  “I don’t really know. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re nuts. Callin’ the grocery store an’ just tellin’ ‘em to send ya some food ain’t no way to control your diet, son.”

  “Whatever a California company that deals with the Pacific Rim might be able to acquire, I guess. I’m way outa the loop. I don’t even know what’s on the menu these days.”

  “Christ. Now I’m gonna be a drug-runner. How could Mamma Marshal’s baby boy have sunk so low?”

  Crockett smiled. “I guess you associate with the wrong crowd,” he said.

  “I damn shore may have to if’n I’m gonna gitcha whatcha need.”

  “Accent’s getting thick again, Cletus.”

  “If my accent was as thick as your head, wouldn’t nobody be able to understand me. How soon you need the stuff?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Oh, hell yes.” Clete replied, and disconnected.

  Chuckling, Crockett poured his second cup of coffee and lit his first Sherman of the morning.

  For the next few hours Crockett rattled around the place doing one of his least favorite things. Waiting. While he was expert at doing nothing when there was nothing to do, the addition of anticipation turned the killing of time into an ordeal. The weather had cleared up overnight and late morning found him sitting on the deck under a blue sky punctuated by small fluffy clouds, drinking iced tea and fidgeting. Whisper appeared, wearing blue jeans under her yellow and white chaps, a t-shirt, and carrying her new jacket and helmet.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” she said.

  Crockett grinned. They took the BSA.

  Even though the technology was primitive compared to Stitch’s new Guzzi, Crockett was actually more comfortable on the old Gold Star. The grumble of the push-rod driven engine rumbling through shorty muffle
rs, the heavy snap of the shifter, the unforgiving acceleration, the feel of the motor transmitted into the frame and seat all made riding the BSA an intimate experience. The Moto Guzzi was a magnificent bike, no doubt about that. But it was also much more of a two-wheeled platform from which to view the passing landscape as the rider was protected from discomfort in a hundred ways. The old Gold Star was sudden, uncultivated, direct, and even brutal. He loved it.

  Two-lane roads were the order of the day. They took 169 north to a westbound county road, motored through Ridgely and Camden Point to 371, turned south to Tracy, then back east skirting the Platte Falls Conservation area, picked up 92 east at Hoover, and eventually found their way back to 169 and rode south into Liberty for a late lunch.

  When Crockett dismounted at the Corner Café, he felt the old familiar tingle in his hands and feet that comes from riding a bike with an unsuspended engine. He grinned at Whisper as she stretched and swiveled her torso. The Gold Star had no sissy bar. They walked inside the restaurant, shaking out the balance of the kinks and grinches during the short trek. Whisper departed for the restroom as Crockett was delivered to a table. He was studying the menu when she clunked her jacket and helmet on an empty chair and sat beside him.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” the girl replied.

  “Old English bikes aren’t nearly as comfortable as the new scooters, huh?”

  “I liked it, Crockett.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re tougher than I thought.”

  “I’m not that tough,” Whisper said. “I had motivation.”

  “Motivation?”

  “Your bike does something that Stitch’s doesn’t.”

  “What?”

  Whisper smiled and shifted in her seat. “It vibrates,” she said.

  Danni and Stitch arrived back at the house a little before seven that evening. Crockett prepared a reunion meal of burritos, refried beans, and sesame rice, and the group gorged around Danni, who was glad to have seen her daughter, and sorry to have left her. Evidently Stitch was as big a hit with Danni’s Aunt Velvet as Satin had thought he would be. Hilarity abounded and Crockett broke out salt, limes, and a bottle of Sello de Garantia tequila to finish off the evening. When the gathering broke up at nearly two in the morning, he turned his back on the ravaged kitchen and lurched into bed, sorry Satin was not there and relieved he wouldn’t have to put up with her abuse in the morning.