“How ya doin’, pal?”
“Bloof!” came the thunderous reply as the dog struggled to remain seated.
“Jesus,” Stitch said. “That fucker is as big a dog as Nudge is a cat, man.”
“He’s a lab and Malamute cross,” Crockett replied, struggling to his feet. “I got him for Zeb and Mazy a few months after Johnny April’s boys killed Maggie.”
“Fucker is huge,” Stitch went on, rubbing Munch behind the ears. The dog grinned and leaned into him.
A voice from behind them spoke up. “An’ thet buffalo’s been eatin’ us outa house an’ home ever since. I seen hippopotamuses shit less than he does!”
Crockett grinned and turned. “Zebulon Watkins,” he said. “You’re no better lookin’ than the last time I saw you.”
The old man stuck out a hand. “Cain’t improve on perfection, boy. You all right?”
Crockett took the offered hand. “I’m fine, Zeb. You remember Stitch?”
Zebulon offered his hand again. “Cain’t fergit a feller like that,” he said. “Glad ta see you ain’t perished in no hell-of-a-copter crash or nothin’.”
“Place looks good, man,” Stitch said. “Business okay?”
“We’re keepin’ our chins above the waterline,” Zeb said. “Mazy’s boy is home now an’ livin’ here with his new wife. They’re in South Dakota for a few days visitin’ her fambly before the season gits all revved up an’ they cain’t git away. You boys seen Mazy?”
“Yeah,” Crockett said. “She’s up in the motel fixing coffee. How’s she doin’, Zeb?”
“Purty good, boy. Got herself a gentleman caller comes up now an’ then from down by Republic. Ain’t a bad feller, I reckon.”
Crockett smiled. “That’s wonderful.”
Zeb returned the smile. “Yer fault. You done her a lotta good, Crockett. ‘Cause a you, she figgerd out she was a girl agin’.”
“She did me a lotta good, too, Zeb.”
“I speck thet coffee’s ready,” the old man went on, changing the subject.
“I could use some,” Stitch said, peering down through the railed hole in the dock and looking at the upturned mouths of dozens of immense, begging carp as they filled the space nearly completely. “Jesus,” he shuddered.
Zeb smiled. “You shoulda been here the day that blond showgirl fell over the rail. Crockett, here, just dove in, right through them fish. Musta been like hittin’ a bunch a hogs. Swam down to the bottom, near twenty feet deep, and drug her back up afore she give out. Saved her life, I figger. A bonnerfied hero.”
“That’s Crockett,” Stitch said. “Sometimes, when he’s asleep in his chair I, like, sneak over an’ touch the hem of his garment just to see if I can soak up a little a his mojo.”
“Privilege knowin’ the boy,” Zeb drawled.
“I wanna be just fuckin’ like him when I get big,” Stitch replied.
“Assholes,” Crockett said. “I’m surrounded by assholes. Only decent company on the damn dock is Munch.”
Hearing his name, Munch joined the conversation.
“Blarf!” he said.
CHAPTER TWO
Mazy had coffee ready when they arrived at the motel. Crockett sat at the kitchen table and accepted a cup. He took a sip and his eyebrows rose.
“Damn!” he said. “Good coffee.”
“Surprised?” Mazy asked.
“A little.”
“Dark roast Kenyan from my private stash. Everybody outside this room gets Folgers.”
Crockett grinned at her.
“Whatever you’re fixin’ to say, Crockett,” Mazy went on, “keep it to yourself.”
“Why Miz Mazy, whatever do you mean?”
“You know damn good an’ well what I mean, you ornery shit. And wipe that smile offa your face while you’re at it.”
“I hear you got yourself a feller,” Crockett said.
Mazy eyes flashed. “Zebulon Watkins, why don’t you tell everything you know?”
“Didn’t have time,” Zeb said. “Lots a daylight left though.”
“Good coffee and a good man can make a helluva difference in a woman, huh Mazy?” Crockett asked.
Mazy flushed to the hairline and Stitch spoke up. “Ah, like, ol’ Crockett’s got a lake an’ a wife. Looks to me like a bunch a water an’ a good woman can make a helluva difference in a man.”
It was Crockett’s turn to blush. He and Mazy looked at each other for a moment, then began to smile. Crockett stood up and Mazy came into his arms. He rested his chin on top of her head and they stood there, swaying a bit as they soaked each other up.
“I love you, Crockett,” Mazy murmured.
“I love you, too, champ,” Crockett said. “Always will.”
“Always will,” Mazy said.
When they separated she looked up at him. “You got married?”
“Couldn’t avoid it.”
“That Ruby woman?”
“No.”
Mazy grinned. “Your wife taller than me?”
Crockett returned her grin. “Hell, Mazy,” he said, “everybody is taller than you.”
They laughed together then and it was over, filed away but not forgotten.
“So,” Crockett said, “who got killed?”
Mazy sat and took a moment to collect herself. “A girl named Carol Ann Presley. Up until last summer her mother, Lula, worked for us during the season as a part-time housekeeper. Had for years. She lives in Clinton.”
“Carol Ann get killed locally?”
“No. Kansas City. In some kind of underground parking space. She worked at the Marriott Hotel. That’s where we stayed isn’t it?”
“Yeah. All kinds of underground parking in that area and Barney Allis plaza across the street. How’d she die?”
“I don’t really know. Her mother said she was all cut up. Stabbed a bunch of times.”
“She have a boyfriend?”
“I don’t know. Her mother wouldn’t know either. Lula is not the kind of woman a daughter could be honest with. She’s a frightened Baptist to the bone. Wrapped real tight. Her daughter was only twenty-three I think. Carol Ann worked here part-time a couple of summers when she was still in high school. Pretty girl, bright, nice personality. Her mother tried to keep her close. Afraid the world might get to her.”
“Evidently it did,” Crockett said. “What do the police say?”
“Lula says they don’t have anything.”
“When did this happen?”
“Nearly a month ago.”
“Why’d you call me?”
“’Cause I know you, Crockett. You’re a lost cause kinda guy. And because if Lula doesn’t get some kind of closure on this thing, she’s gonna lose her mind. She was a big help to me when my husband got killed. I owe her.”
“She know about me?”
“I told her I knew somebody who might be able to help.”
Crockett thought a moment. “No promises,” he said.
“None implied or expected.”
“I’ll need to talk with the mother.”
“How ‘bout tomorrow morning. I’ll take you in.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“I’m on a motorcycle. I didn’t come prepared to spend the night.”
Mazy smiled. “Got three of your shirts, a pair of jeans, and some other necessities you didn’t take with you when you left, stashed in the hall closet.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Also got steaks, potatoes, and Black Jack for the south pavilion fire pit this very evening. Supposed to rain tonight. You remember the pavilion on a dark and stormy night, doncha Crockett?”
“I’m good, dude,” Stitch said. “Got some a my shit in the bags on the Guzzi.”
“Your wife the jealous type?” Mazy asked.
“Carries a switchblade.”
“Want me to call her for ya?”
“Sure. I want a flaming case of hemorrhoids, too. Either way, all it takes is some out of control
asshole.”
“That would be a no?”
“Be back in a minute,” Crockett said, and walked outside.
“He feels happy,” Mazy said.
“He is,” Stitch said. “Got some acres out in the woods, put up a cabin, put in a twenty acre lake, married Satin. Works for the Hart County Sheriff’s Department as a special somethin’ or other when they need him, even built me a crib on forty acres on the north side of the lake.”
“So you live out there, too.”
“Tucked back in the trees offa gravel road.”
“You said his wife’s name is Satin?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty name.”
“She’s way cool. Threatened him with divorce when he told her he was comin’ down here, but said she couldn’t find an attorney that wasn’t in jail or rehab.”
Mazy laughed. “Sounds like a good match.”
“They fuss a lot. Cute as hell.”
“I’m happy for him, Stitch.”
“Know ya are. Knew ya would be. You’re a helluva chick, man. You an’ ol’ Crockett had a good thing for a while. He couldn’t stay…you couldn’t leave. Nobody’s fault. Just the way it was, ya know?”
“Yeah, I know. I’d like to meet his wife.”
Stitch smiled. “No, ya wouldn’t.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t serve no purpose,” Zebulon said, “cept to make everbody uncomfortable. Crockett may take this murder thing on, but don’t expect him to stay in touch much. The two of you don’t need to be around each other more’n necessary. For you it’d be like scratchin’ a scar. For him it’d be like pickin’ at a scab. An itch for you, blood for him. On average, wimmen heal faster’n men.”
The steaks and baked potatoes were excellent. Zeb and Stitch told lies to keep the group entertained. Munch kept in touch with everybody, especially Crockett. The storm arrived on schedule. Candle lanterns were lit, the red oak fire in the non-cooking end of the pit stoked, and all concerned wrapped in lightweight blankets and watched the fireworks, Crockett and Mazy sitting at opposite ends of the picnic table. It was nice. It was wrong. Even Black Jack couldn’t keep the gathering gathered. An hour or so after dark, Crockett excused himself to go to his room and not sleep. Mazy watched him leave, Munch at his side, and turned to Zeb.
“Bad idea,” she said.
“Knowed it was.”
“And you let me do it anyway.”
“Yup.”
“I don’t want anything from Crockett, Dad.”
“Ya never did. That was the problem. If ya don’t want nothin’, that there is usually whatcha git.”
Everybody sat quietly for a moment before Stitch spoke up.
“You dudes can, like, split if ya want to. I’ll hang out for a while.”
“You sure?” Mazy said.
Stitch grinned. “Yeah. I’ll take care of the fire and run the memories off for ya,” he said. “Too many of a those fuckers hangin’ out around here tonight, ya know?”
Lula Presley had instant coffee waiting when Crockett and Mazy arrived around ten the next morning, after a very quiet drive into Clinton. The Presley residence was a large old farmhouse, absorbed into the town by Clinton’s growth. Lula was older than her sixty-three years. She was a slightly overweight woman of medium height with a tightly curled skullcap of gray hair, rimless glasses, a cotton housedress nearly to her ankles, support hose, and sensible shoes. Her living room was occupied by elderly furniture, wallpaper, and throw rugs. It was obsessively immaculate and ordered. So was Lula. She served them coffee in china cups graced with hand painted flowers on double thick heavy paper napkins while they sat on uncomfortable chairs. No cream or sugar was offered. After introductions were made, she turned to Crockett, her hands clenching each other primly in her lap.
“Mazy says you might be able to help find out what happened with Carol Ann,” she said.
“Possibly,” Crockett replied.
“I don’t have much money, Mister Crockett.”
“Money is not a factor and please just call me Crockett.”
“What do you mean that money is not a factor?”
“Just that. I will do what I can, without promise or guarantee of success, and without payment.”
“Well, that’s not right.”
“Mazy is an old and dear friend. She said you needed help. I’m doing this for her as well as you, Miz Presley. I don’t want your money. With your permission, I will help if I can.”
The woman’s knuckles whitened as she came to the big question.
“Are you a Christian, Mister Crockett?”
“Born and raised an American Baptist.”
“Do you attend church?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Do you shower, or prefer to bathe in a tub, m’am?”
“What?”
“Do you shower or prefer to bathe?”
“I don’t see that’s any or your business!”
“It isn’t. I find personal questions a bit intrusive, don’t you?”
The woman couldn’t look at him. As she fidgeted, Crockett watched her and waited. She settled down after a moment or two and spoke.
“Well, at least you’re a Baptist.”
“I didn’t say that, m’am. I said I was born and raised a Baptist. Here’s the deal. Your daughter was killed by person or persons unknown. I am offering to look into the matter. Another human being, another of God’s children, is willing to do a deed of service without condition or expectation of reward. That seems quite Christian to me. The question that remains is simple. Are you Christian enough to allow that to happen? Ball’s in your court, lady. It’s up to you.”
The white knuckles were back. Crockett stared at her for a moment, then stood up. “C’mon, Mazy,” he said. “Time to go.”
“Wait,” the old woman said. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt anything if you did what you could.”
Crockett’s jaw tightened. He fought with it for a moment, then relaxed and walked to the door. “Okay,” he said. “Thank you for the opportunity. I’m very grateful.”
Mazy caught up with him before he reached her car. “I thought you were gonna tear into her for a minute there,” she said.
“Damn near did,” Crockett replied, getting into the car. “I might have if I thought it would have done any good. What a rigid old bat!”
Mazy started the engine. “She was a real help to me after Jeff died. You even gonna ask her any questions about anything?”
“Waste of time,” Crockett said. “She doesn’t know anything. Probably didn’t know her daughter after the girl hit second grade. Helluva thing when a kid spends most of their time just waiting to get old enough to leave. Her hands told the story. Grasping. Always grasping.”
They were quiet for most of the ride back to the lake until Mazy finally spoke up.
“Hey, Crockett,” she said. “You a Baptist?”
“Hey, Mazy,” Crockett said. “You a midget?”
CHAPTER THREE
Crockett and Stitch arrived home around three that afternoon. Satin heard the rumble of the Goldstar and stepped out onto the side porch as the boys rolled to a halt in the drive.
“Just in time,” she shouted. “Tacos and beans ready in about ten minutes.”
They schlepped inside, Crockett carrying a partially full garbage bag he’d bungee-corded to the rear of the seat for the trip. Satin looked them over from her position dicing tomatoes at the sink. “What’s in the bag?” she asked.
“Some clothes and things I’d left at the marina,” Crockett replied.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yep.”
“All of that, plus Mazy, and you still came back?”
Crockett grinned. “Stitch made me,” he said. “Said he was afraid to be alone with you.”
Smiling, Satin put the knife down, walked around the counter, put her arms around Crockett’s neck and kissed him. “Good to see you, David,” she
whispered.
“Good to be home,” Crockett said.
Stitch left after a late lunch and Crockett got on the phone to call the Missouri State Police Division of Drug and Crime Control. He was answered on the third ring.
“D.D.C.C. Davidson. May I help you?”
“I hope so. Is Sergeant Pelmore available?”
“He’s in house, sir. Shall I see if he’s free to accept your call?”
“Please. Tell him Crockett is on the phone.”
Pelmore came on in less than a minute.
“This a social call, or are you and the other ladies stirrin’ up more shit?”
“One two three four, I love the Marine Corps,” Crockett chanted.
“Oo-rah, motherfucker. You over getting’ shot by that dumbass cracker yet?”
“Bullets bounce off me because my heart is pure, Sarge.”
“Ain’t the way I heard it. I heard you fell down and bled a lot. Ain’t surprised, you white folks bein’ so frail an’ all.”
“Is that observation racist or anthropological in its accuracy?”
Pelmore laughed. “That be experience, whiteboy. What’s up?”
“I need a favor.”
“Shit. I was havin’ a good day, too. Ain’t I done you enough favors?”
“A couple. As I recall, you made a shitload of arrests, confiscated a shitload of drugs and money, and came out shining like a silver dollar.”
“What the fuck you need now?”
“State Police commission.”
“Why didn’t ya say so? I got nine or ten a them things in my pocket as we speak. Why don’t I just send one on over to ya by carrier pigeon. Oughta be there in a day or two.”
“Thanks. I’ll get a shotgun and wait for the bird.”
“You really need a commission?”
“Yeah, but no badge, just the paperwork to fit in an I.D. case.”
“I thought you already had a Justice Department commission.”
“I do, but it’s in an alias. I need something in my real name.”
“Shit. You even remember what your real name is?”
“David Allen Crockett. Two tees on Crockett. Allen is spelled like the wrench.”
Six Cut Kill Page 2
