UnderCover

by David R Lewis

  When morning did arrive, Crockett levered his BSA and booze abused body out of bed, grabbed his crutches, and stumped into the living area. There, wiping down the countertops of an immaculate kitchen, was Stitch.

  “Oh, wow! You look like shit, man. I seen roadkill in better shape than you. Want some coffee?”

  “Do flowers want rain?” Crockett said, flopping onto a stool and wincing as the concussion traveled up his spine. “You cleaned up the kitchen?”

  “Yeah. Trying to sharpen my skills in case I, like, turn gay or somethin’.”

  Crockett smiled. “You having a little problem I don’t know about?”

  “Well, I had this terrible urge to bake some croissants this morning, but I think I got it under control.”

  “How come you’re up so early?”

  “Ah, apparently ol’ Danni snores when she gets gassed on tequila.”

  “Really?”

  “Aw, man. I thought somebody was runnin’ a chain saw, dude. I usta sleep through rocket attacks, Crockett. She ran me outside the wire two hours ago. Chick has got some fuckin’ volume, ya know?” Stitch put a cup of coffee on the counter and slid an ashtray in reach. “What’s up, man?”

  Crockett pulled out a Sherman and flinched as his lighter flared. After he had a drag on the cigarette and a sip of coffee, he turned his attention to the other side of the counter. “Stitch, my man,” he said, “we’re going in the drug business.”

  “Far out. Viagra or Botox?”

  Crockett told Stitch about his conversation with Satin and his call to Clete.

  “Makes a lot of sense,” Stitch observed. “What’s Clete gonna get us?”

  “I told him to get anything he could.”

  “Smack’s a waste a time, dude. Pakistan, Afghanistan, and them other faroffistans got the poppy market all sewn up. They’re growin’ most of the opium in the world, man. They got so many flowers they might as well be shippin’ them fuckers by FTD. Ain’t no shortage a heroin.”

  “Okay.”

  “Pills are a pain in the ass, too. Unless you can get your gleeps on barrels a Percodan, Demerol, Hydrocodone, an’ shit, you’re small time. Ain’t worth the hassle to a rich businessman like you, dude.”

  “It’s not, huh?”

  “Naw. You’re in the wholesale end a things, Crockett. Let them other fuckers distribute. Meth’s no good. Can’t swing a cat without hittin’ a meth lab. Dangerous, too. Got six-toed ridgerunners an’ punk-assed homeboys blowin’ themselves up every other day. Serves ‘em right, makin’ that shit.”

  “What do we want?”

  “Same thing it’s been for years. Smoke an’ coke, dude. Dan Beckett’s company is outa California, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go for a walk on Venice beach, Crockett. The got booths up and down the sand, man, sellin’ legal shit to cats. Medical marijuana, man. Get a license to grow it, sell to a bunch a dudes with prescriptions to buy it, and you got your cover. Gonna be legal as hell in a few years. But now the market is huge. Next thing ya know, you’ve got your license, you’ve rented three houses with big basements and you’re in business. You find the one perfect female plant, man. Some girl with huge purple tops glistenin’ with THC crystals like you salted the bitch, dude. Take a dozen cuttings offa her, root ‘em out, and you got twelve more just like mom, right down to the DNA. Do it again in five months an’ you got a hundred and forty-four. Next time around, you got them three basements full and are lookin’ for more houses to rent, and you’re crankin’ out reefer as good as anything from Southeast Asia or Columbia. Preemo, custom cloned and grown shit that you sell in bulk, dude. Let somebody else break it down to quarters and lids and take it to the streets. Average dope is maybe fifteen hundred a pound around here. This shit’ll go for twenty-five hundred, maybe three grand. In big east coast metros, man, even a little more.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. California’s the key, Crockett. Smoke all over the place and Mexican connections to cocaine. Kilo a coke is worth maybe thirty grand in this neck a the woods. Buy it in Columbia for a thousand bucks or less. Bulk prices at the border run five to fifteen grand, depending on how much ya take and how hard it was to get the shit to ya. Street corner value after it gets stepped on five or six times as high as sixty or seventy grand. Maybe more.”

  “Good God.”

  “The point is, you don’t have to buy no Asian shit, no Temple ball, no China White, no Thai Stick. Get anything a wholesaler needs right from California.”

  “That’s handy.”

  “It is if ya know the right people. Leoni’s got more in them crates than just scooters, man. You don’t lock new stock up in a concrete vault and let in lay. He’s dirty. And you can bet ol’ Leoni knows that California’s the promised land. He just can’t drive to L.A., stop somebody, and ask where to buy some shit in bulk. His ears would be hanging from some Latino banger’s bedpost. He needs a contact, motherfucker. And when he gets you, you got him. Just one thing to remember.”

  “What?”

  “This fucker’ll pop a cap on your ass and not think twice. He’s done it before. It only gets easier.”

  “Then I suppose I should make an effort to appear to be very valuable to him.”

  Stitch grinned. “That would be the optimal course of action, he said.

  After his second cup of coffee, Crockett sat in the shower for an extended period attempting to flush the fog from his brain and the pain from his leg. Spanking clean but less than showroom new, he returned to the living area to find the girls at the snack bar. Whisper, wearing a tube top, short shorts, and impossibly tall sandals looked chipper. Danni, barefoot in oversized sweats and clinging to a mug of coffee, appeared to be dying.

  “Good morning, ladies!” he trilled.

  Danni laid her head on the counter and ignored him. Whisper rattled car keys and headed for the door.

  “See ya later, Crockett,” she beamed. “Great ride yesterday. Thanks.”

  He rounded the counter, poured another cup of coffee, and sat beside Danni. “Not doing well?”

  She rolled her head to the side far enough to see him with one eye. “Fuck you and your tequila,” she said.

  Crockett grinned. “Got a headache?”

  “I’m not even sure I have a head. Kill me now. Please.”

  Crockett secured two Acetaminophen tablets and four Ibuprofen capsules from a cabinet, poured a short glass of tomato juice, and returned to her side. “Take these,” he said.

  Danni lifted her head and stared numbly at him. “What are they?”

  “What do you care? You’re dying anyway.”

  She took the pills and asked for more tomato juice. Crockett refilled the glass and she drank it straight down. Smiling, he put his arm around her shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” Danni asked.

  “Shut up and lean back.”

  When she did, Crockett slipped his other arm under her knees and carried the girl to the couch. He laid her down, covered her with the throw he kept on the chair he used, and propped her head on a pillow. “You’ll feel better when you wake up,” he said.

  “I love you more than Stitch,” Danni said.

  “Zat right?”

  “Uh-huh. You’re taking care of me. He ran away on his motorcycle.”

  “Dirty coward.”

  “I know.”

  “Probably couldn’t stand the noise.”

  “Huh?”

  “Where’s Whisper?”

  “Gone to Kaycee.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “Okay.”

  Crockett tucked her in and returned to the kitchen for more coffee. By the time he filled his cup, Danni was in full snore. Jesus. He’d drink it on the deck.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Two hours later Danni was still serenading the living area and Crockett was still hiding on the deck. Stitch arrived on his Guzzi, schlepped up the steps, and flopped into a chair.

  “Where you been?” Crocke
tt asked.

  “Over at Leoni’s cementing my relationship with the staff.”

  “You carry a gun?”

  Stitch grimaced and scooted an inch lower in the chair. “No.”

  “Carry a gun.”

  “Aw, man. None a them cats over there are gonna shoot me or nothin’.”

  “Not the point. It’s part of your cover.”

  “Okay. Okay. Them bikes are gone, man.”

  “What?”

  “Them four scooters that came in and never made it to the showroom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “One of ‘em is on the floor. I guess ‘cause they sold the one you got me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. A Stelvio, dude. Enduro type. Way fuckin’ cool, ya know.”

  “What about the other three?”

  “Had that box bed truck out back when I showed up. I wandered out to say hey to the wrenches and they were loadin’ three crates. I hung around a while, shot the shit, then when the truck pulled out, I tailed it, man. Airport. Them bikes are leavin’ the country.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You shippin’ a scooter to Peoria or someplace like that, man, you use a fuckin’ truck. You do not use a airplane. Dig it.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Hell yes, I’m right. I may have been born yesterday, Crockett, but I been downtown all afternoon.”

  “So they ship four bikes directly here from Italy, bypassing the usual protocol for that kind of thing, don’t put three of the motorcycles on the floor and don’t sell ‘em. Then, a week or so later, they ship the things to where? Back to Italy?”

  “That’s what I figure.”

  “And your conclusion is?”

  “Them scooters ain’t bikes, man. They’re mules.”

  “Seems like it. But what about customs?”

  “Italians ain’t scarce in New York, man. You got contacts in Italy and New York, customs ain’t shit. Leoni was in Afghanistan too, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cat’s probably got all the palms he can grease, Crockett. Got smack comin’ in once or twice a month. Wonder what he’s got goin’ out?”

  “Got me.”

  “Maybe nothin’, man. We show him some shit from south of the border, could be he’s in the export business all of a sudden. Add some reefer for local distribution and he’s makin’ the kind of money he’d like to make. Greed is endless with these fuckers.”

  “So he winds up middle-man for heroin coming in and cocaine going out.”

  “Plus some smoke to peddle for a little, you know, walkin’ around money.”

  “Now we need for him to come to us. Too suspicious for us to go to him.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I’ll start getting’ a little loose around the shop, man. Take in a little smoke or somethin’. Hang around with Wook. Forget to keep my mouth shut and shit.”

  “You watch your ass, Stitch. I’d worry about Wook before I’d worry about Leoni. He’s dangerous.”

  Stitch grinned. “Maybe he’s ambitious, too. That could get intense. Speakin’ of intense, man, where’s Danni?”

  “Snoring on the couch. I gave her some headache pills and laid her down.”

  “Time to get her up. The cleanin’ crew’ll be here in a little while.”

  “Shit,” Crockett replied. “I’m goin’ for a ride.”

  He dropped by the cabin to surprise Satin, but she wasn’t there. Dundee and Nudge were glad to see him, and he hung around for a while getting re-acquainted with his animals. When Satin still didn’t show back up after an hour or so, he debated calling her cell, then blew it off and headed for Kaycee in a bit of a funk. Things were moving too slowly, and yet they had to move slowly to gain entry into Leoni’s club. Cheryl McGill was still struggling along, a widow with two small daughters and a ghost in her fishpond, waiting for him to produce some results. He was living in a house he disliked with two young women he could relate to only on a fairly superficial level, and now he’d been run out of there by a platoon of women with vacuum cleaners. And, he missed Satin. Shit.

  He rode all the way into Westport to D’Bronx on Bell for a late lunch at Kansas City’s best deli, parked the BSA on the sidewalk next to the building, and went inside. His order had just arrived when his cell phone went off.

  “Clete! What’s up?”

  “Me, son, and I have been for a while. Headin’ your way.”

  “Already?”

  “Doan no grass grow under my feet, Crockett. How do I git to your place?”

  Crockett smiled for the first time all day. “Don’t you have a satellite navigation system in whatever you’re driving?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t like them things. Somethin ‘bout a car tellin’ me where to go that gits my ruff up.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I just turned onto I-70 offa Thirteen.”

  “Head into Kaycee. Across from the sports complex is a Denny’s. Meetcha there.”

  “Guess it can’t be helped,” Cletus said, and disconnected.

  Crockett wolfed down half his sandwich, chugged the root beer, dropped a ten on the table and headed out the door. As the BSA rumbled into life, he realized he was grinning.

  Less than thirty minutes later, Crockett cruised Denny’s lot, then parked by the entrance drive and phoned Stitch to apprise him of the situation. As he disconnected from the call, a dark blue Chrysler 300 muscled in and pulled into a parking space. Cletus Marshal, looking more and more like Clint Eastwood as the years went by, peered at him over the top of the car.

  “Good God almighty,” he drawled. “A Heck’s Angel.”

  Crockett advanced on him. “Heck’s Angel?”

  “Yeah. Yer too old and your shit’s too weak to quality for the biggs anymore, son.”

  A manly hug and ritual back pounding ensued. When it ended, Crockett spoke up.

  “Follow me, Texican.”

  “Reckon not,” Clete replied, eyeballing the restaurant. “Piece a pie and a cup a coffee first.” He shifted his gaze to Crockett and grinned. “God, you’re lovely in leather.”

  It was late afternoon when Clete and Crockett arrived back at the house. Stitch met them at the garage and greeted Clete.

  “Good to see ya, man. Now maybe we can get this shit on the road, ya know? Got any luggage or anything?”

  Clete lifted a leather duffle out of the back seat. Stitch took it and headed for the door. “C’mon in,” he said, “and meet the girls.”

  “The girls” had obviously been prepared for Clete’s arrival. They, barefoot and wearing full makeup, hip hugger short-shorts, and midriff baring t-shirts, were posed succulently at the kitchen snack bar. Clete appeared to be a little stunned. Danni indicated a blender on the counter.

  “Margarita?”

  “Or something a little…stronger?” Whisper asked.

  “Merciful Georgia,” Clete said. “Ladies, my name is Cletus Marshal, but they ain’t no reason for us to stand on formality. I’d be tickled plumb to death if ya’ll git your drinks, join me on that big ol’ couch over there, and just think a me as your beloved rich uncle Clete.”

  Danni giggled.

  “Oh, my,” Whisper whispered.

  “Oh, yeah,” Stitch grunted.

  “Oh, hell,” Crockett said.

  Over the next two hours the blender of Margaritas was refreshed twice while Clete got acquainted with Danni and Whisper. Stitch vacated the area almost as soon as things started. Crockett puttered around for a few minutes until he wondered if he truly existed anymore, then went to the garage to clean up the Goldstar. About seven, he returned to the kitchen and began making some chicken salad for sandwiches. Stitch wandered back in and joined him at the snack bar. Crockett took two bottles of Guinness out of the fridge and passed one over.

  “How long you think this is gonna go on?” he asked.

  “Ah…Clete’s had a long drive, man. Needs a little time to relax, I guess.”

  Crockett snorted. “Lo
oks pretty relaxed to me.”

  Stitch smiled. “I bet any, like, residual tension’ll probably be gone in the morning, man. At least if ol’ Whisper’s gets her way. She’s been actin’ a little tense herself lately.”

  Crockett raised his voice and directed it at the room. “Sandwiches are ready!”

  The group on the couch seemed to notice him for the first time in quite a while.

  Stitch chuckled. “You really are kinda a prude, ain’tcha man?” he said.

  Crockett turned his back to get a bag of chips out of a cabinet.

  After dinner Whisper and Danni moved to the far side of the room to watch TV. Clete carried in a medium sized aluminum case and set it on the counter.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, opening the case, “I have brought you some supplies.”

  Nestled inside was a bag of white powder slightly smaller than a football, several tiny plastic bags of what appeared to be the same substance, a large plastic bag and two smaller ones of what could only be marijuana, and four sealed bottles of capsules.

  “A kilo of cocaine,” Clete said. “Ninety-seven per cent pure. About as good as it gets. Also a dozen gram bags as samples. One pound of devil weed, also supposedly very high quality, and two additional ounces for demonstration purposes. In each of the bottles are five hundred caps of pharmaceutical grade Demerol. Sauce for the goose.”

  “Your accent is almost gone, Texican,” Crockett commented.

  “Serious shit, Crockett. I was sweatin’ bullets all the way out here, carryin’ this crap.”

  “Where’d you get it?”