Six Cut Kill

by David R Lewis

  Satin looked at him. “If I wanted a pistol, what would you recommend?”

  “What caliber you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Uh…a forty, maybe a forty-five.”

  “You have a forty-five, right?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But I’m a lot smaller than you are. Shouldn’t I have a .25 or a .32?”

  “No. You need something that’ll do the job. A gun doesn’t care how big you are.”

  “Neither does a motorcycle, Crockett. Besides, a Sportster’s seat is lower than the BSA.”

  “So what?”

  “So I’m shorter than you are.”

  “Your legs aren’t. You girls are just built funny.”

  Satin put a hand on his arm. “I can withhold sex, you know.”

  Crockett grinned. “Okay,” he said. “You got me. If we can’t get an electric starter on the Beezer, the Sportster is yours.”

  Satin patted his wrist. “How’s that gonna be for your manly ego, Davy?” she went on. “You gonna be able to handle it if I ride a bigger bike than you?”

  “Are you accusing me of cubic displacement envy?”

  “I just don’t want anything to damage your delicate masculinity.”

  “Guess you’ll just have to keep it reinforced.”

  “I can do that.”

  Crockett bumped his eyebrows. “You sure a Sportster’s big enough?” he asked. “How ‘bout a full dress hog. Or a road grader?”

  “Found your scooter,” Stitch said, striding back into the room.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yep. A ’79 Sportster XLS. Original black and gray paint job with gold striping. That trick Siamese exhaust. All restored to factory specs or better, new cables and high tech chain. All new gaskets and seals. New brakes, double disc on front, single on back, and a new master cylinder. All new contemporary starting system, electrical harness, and halogen headlight. Less than fifteen thousand original miles. A thousand cc’s and the engine is isolated by top of the line Kevlar bushings. Brand new Dunlop rubber. Four grand. I looked at about two-dozen pictures of the sled, man. Fucker is perfect. Called the guy outside of Denver. He, like, spent almost two years restoring the scooter, man. I’ll go change and head out around midnight to pick it up tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow morning? So soon?”

  “You don’t want somebody else to get this stove, Crockett. It’s, like, better than brand new, dude. You wanna come with me?”

  “Tonight?”

  “I’ve got tomorrow off,” Satin said. “I’ll go.”

  “Far out. It’s gonna probably be your bike anyway. I’ll slide home, clean up, and get my shit together. Be back in about an hour.”

  “Great. Road trip. I’ll be ready.”

  Stitch left and Satin headed upstairs. Crockett sat at the snack bar and, as usual, wondered what had just happened.

  When he heard the shower start, Crockett fired up the coffee maker and loaded it with almost twice the recommended amount of a Brazilian blend he’d been drinking lately. He dragged out a two-quart thermos and filled it with hot water to warm it up. He followed that with a pint thermos of cold water that he put in the freezer. He found some ham salad in the fridge and made four sourdough sandwiches adding tomato slices on top of the ham, put the sandwiches and four cans of cold root beer in a small collapsible cooler with two cold packs and added that to the fridge. Half a bag of chocolate chip cookies, a fresh bag of bar-b-que chips, and two bananas went in a canvas grocery bag on the counter.

  An hour later, when Satin, freshly washed, changed, and amazingly presentable, came back downstairs carrying her big purse, he replaced the nearly frozen ice water in the small thermos with Half & Half and put it in the cooler, poured the very strong coffee in a glass pitcher, microblasted it to the boiling point, and replaced the hot water in the thermos with the dangerously dark liquid. Two insulated driving cups went in with the chips and bananas, then he lifted the baggage to the counter. Satin smiled at him.

  “You are a peach,” she said.

  “Frighteningly strong coffee, sandwiches, munchies, cold drinks, cream, and cups,” he replied. “Anything else you can think of?”

  “Chinese mustard, perhaps?”

  Crockett chuckled. “That was fun, wasn’t it? You have money?”

  “A wad of cash,” Satin replied. “Don’t forget about the party Sunday.”

  “What party?”

  “Shit. I didn’t tell you, did I?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Out at the Bryant place. Charlene and Jack are having a cookout bash for all the employees of Kid Country and their families before the place opens on Tuesday. We have to go.”

  “I have to work on Sunday.”

  “It starts at noon. You’ll have plenty of time.”

  The dogs announced the arrival of Stitch’s truck, and a moment later the hippie appeared in the kitchen.

  “Far out,” he said. “Munchies.”

  “You’re going to Denver?” Crockett asked.

  “Naw. Little town this side of Denver called Stratton. Take seven or eight hours to get there. Dark is the only time of day to drive across Kansas. Bleak, man. We should be home by five tomorrow afternoon. Satin’ll call ya if we’re gonna be late.”

  “Okay. Drive careful.”

  “Sure,” Stitch said, grabbing the bags. “C’mon, girlfriend. Let’s boogie.”

  Satin kissed Crockett goodbye and followed Stitch out the door.

  Crockett listened to the truck roll down the drive into the dark and flopped into his recliner. On the counter, Nudge yawned and looked at things that Crockett couldn’t see.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The following afternoon, as Crockett prepared to go to work, Satin phoned to announce they’d probably be there by seven. He headed for town around six, dropped by the cop shop to see if Dale had left any info for him, jawed with Margie at the dispatch desk a while, and headed back out. After a cruise around the county, he drove to the cabin and arrived just in time to help Stitch roll the new Sportster down out of his truck.

  “Fucker is some kinda cherry,” Stitch said, beaming at the bike.

  Crockett walked around it, admiring the handsome ugliness. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

  Satin swung a leg over the beast and settled into the saddle. She took the grips in both hands and grinned at Crockett. “Vroom, vroom!” she growled.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Crockett grunted.

  The radio in his truck went off.

  “Headquarters to Hart five.”

  “Hart five. Go HQ.”

  “Unknown caller from over in Sutton complains that gangs of motorcycles are roaring through town.”

  “Ten-four, headquarters. Ten minutes or so away and en route.”

  “Ten-four.

  Crockett walked to his truck and pick up the mic. “Hart two to Hart five.”

  “Hey, two. Go ahead.”

  “Take it easy, Charlie. Unless you see raping and pillaging in progress, lay back. Do not go out to the new club alone. I’m on my way.”

  “Ten-four, two. Taking it easy.”

  Crockett turned back to Satin. “I’ll check the bike out tomorrow,” he said. “Gotta go save a whole town from the wild bunch. Take it out if you want to, Stitch. See ya.”

  When Crockett got to the tracks in Sutton, he saw Charlie sitting by the side of the road. He clicked his mic and turned left, heading for the café. Charlie fell in behind him. When he got out of the truck, Charlie pulled up and rolled down his passenger window. “What are we doing?” he asked.

  “Coffee and pie,” Crockett replied. “On me.”

  Charlie parked and followed him inside. Cigarette smoke hung in the air and four or five older patrons sat at two tables. They took a booth by the front window. Almost immediately the waitress was on hand with coffee.

  “Hello again,” she said.

  “Hi,” Crockett said. “We’ve already met. This stalwart on th
e other side of the booth is Charlie. Your name is Ellen, I believe.”

  “Yes, it is,” she replied. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”

  “My pleasure, m’am.”

  “What can I get you two?”

  “Blueberry pie and coffee for me,” Crockett said. “Unless I miss my guess, Charlie here is an apple pie sorta guy.”

  Charlie grinned and nodded. “I am,” he said. “With milk, please.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  “Seen any bikers tearing up the town this evening?” Crockett asked.

  “Heard a bunch of ‘em cross the tracks and head south, but nobody has been by here.”

  “We had a complaint that gangs of bikers were riding around town.”

  “None that I’ve noticed,” Ellen said, “and this street is the town. Somebody gonna ride around Sutton, they have to ride around here. Folks are a little jumpy, I guess. Most of ‘em remember what went on before.”

  “Sure. Not much I can do about a bunch riding across the tracks on the way to the club. County public road and all. We’ll have our pie and hang around the area.”

  “You gonna go out to the club?”

  “Not for customers just crossing the tracks, I’m not. I don’t want to get anybody pissed off at the town. These are delicate and sensitive individuals. You can tell by the way they dress.”

  Ellen smiled. “You’re not exactly normal, are you?” she said.

  “I’m normal enough to know that it doesn’t make any sense to climb the fence and spit in a bull’s eye just ‘cause his pasture is close to the house. These fellas break the law, we’ll deal with them. Until then, what’s legal for everybody else is legal for them, too.”

  “I’ll spread the word,” Ellen said. “You boys want ice cream on your pie?”

  Crockett drifted by Whiskey River several times during the evening. A dozen or so bikes in the lot, a few four-wheeled vehicles and only one incident. A little after midnight, as he approached the place from the south, two worthies on what one might call choppers exited the drive onto County road C and headed north. After they crossed the tracks, a drag race of sorts ensued. Crockett hit the red and blues and set off in pursuit. They stopped. He walked to where they sat eyeballing him with a certain amount of challenge.

  “Shut ‘em down,” he shouted over the rumble of the engines.

  They did, and one of them, with exaggerated slowness and near contempt, reached for the chain of his biker’s wallet.

  “Not necessary,” Crockett said. “I don’t care who you are. I’ll remember your face and your sled anyway. This is what you might call a friendly encounter. I know you’ve been drinking and possibly using a controlled substance or two. A lot of people do that on Saturday night. I also know that the two of you were traveling in excess of seventy miles an hour in a thirty mile per hour speed zone. In spite of the fact that there is no other traffic and the fact that you did what you did with a certain amount of safety, stop it. I don’t want to shake you down. I don’t wanna safety check your bikes and maybe have to lock ‘em up someplace, I don’t want to have to bust your asses and clank a door on you. I do want you to behave. This little town is scared of you guys and the new club. They remember what it was like a few years ago around here. They are overly sensitive because of that. You guys are overly sensitive because of the lifestyle you’ve chosen. I am overly sensitive because if any trouble starts, I’m gonna have to be in the middle of it.

  “I had a beer with Bison and Joker the other day. We got along fine. People who get stupid will hurt their business. They won’t like that. I don’t blame them. So here’s the deal. Don’t get stupid. Be good. That’s all it takes. You behave yourselves around here, and Whiskey River stays open. The town learns to live with it, I don’t have to hassle anyone, and everybody wins. Simple, huh?”

  The two looked at him blankly. Crockett repeated himself.

  “Simple, huh?”

  One answered in the affirmative, and the other nodded.

  “Good,” Crockett went on. “I’m glad you agree. A lot of love out here on the street tonight, doncha think?”

  The one closest to Crockett grinned.

  “Okay,” Crockett said. “I’m glad we had this little chat. Now ride mysteriously off into the dark and try not to fall down.”

  The pair started their bikes, and the Harleys grumbled away. Crockett turned back to the truck and Hart nine, Arkie Bennett, pulled up beside him and looked out the window.

  “I thought it was customary to call in a 10-38,” he said.

  “Just a chat,” Crockett replied. “Nice of you to drop by, though.”

  Arkie grinned. “Can’t let you have all the fun.”

  “’Bout time to hang it up for the night, isn’t it?”

  “Yep,” Arkie said. “I gotta go home and polish my bullet. I think I smudged it when I put it in my gun. See ya.”

  Crockett smiled as he watched nine motor away. Things could be a helluva lot worse.

  Crockett got up a little late the following morning. Satin was tired from her trip with Stitch and snored softly in bed. He took a shower, got dressed, made coffee, lighted his first Sherman of the day, and, forgoing his usual walk to the lake, went out to the garage to look over the Sportster. He’d just finished the coffee and was admiring the iron-clad retro basic beauty of the machine when Satin leaned into his back and wrapped her arms around him.

  “How long you been up?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled by his shirt.

  “An hour or so. You rested?”

  “I don’t know. Long round trip. Stitch drove the whole way. He didn’t even get tired. I hate him.”

  Crockett smiled. “Me too,” he said. “That old hippie has got some depth.”

  “We weren’t halfway across Kansas before he’d eaten almost everything you packed for us. He did stand-up the whole way ‘til we stopped to pick up the motorcycle. I laughed so much I hurt. It was fun, Crockett, but I wouldn’t wanna do it very often.”

  “How was the trip back?”

  “Philosophical. He twisted one up and hit it from time to time, while he made observations on the nature of things. Jesus. It felt like I left with Robin Williams and came back with Carl Sagan.”

  Crockett chuckled and turned around, taking her in his arms. “I don’t know if I can compete with that,” he said.

  “You don’t have to,” Satin said. “You’re the one with the new bike.”

  “Then why don’t we fire the stove up and go for a ride?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’ve got a party to attend.”

  “Oh, shit. You’re really gonna make me go to that thing?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “But I wanna ride my new bike,” Crockett whined.

  “You can ride your new bike later,” Satin said. “If you’re good, I’ll even get you a Snickers or something after the party.”

  “Can I have an Almond Joy?”

  “All right. If you behave.”

  “What time do we have to be there?”

  “Around noon.”

  “That doesn’t give us much time. It’ll take a while to drive over.”

  “Relax. Go put on you’re rich guy clothes so I won’t be embarrassed. I’ll change, and we’ll go to Stitch’s place.”

  “He’s going with us?”

  “We’re going with him. In the helicopter.”

  “What?”

  “We’re flying.”

  “Aw, geeze!”

  “The Dramamine is on the counter.”

  Crockett thought for a moment. “Better not,” he said.

  “Better not? Why?”

  “Stitch and I don’t go out in public together much. I’m reasonably sure that most people don’t associate the two of us. That’s not a bad thing. You and I show up with him in the helo and people will notice.”

  “So what?”

  “So…I like things the way they are. At least, for now.”


  “It’s just a party, Crockett.”

  “Probably.”

  Satin peered at him for a moment. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll call him and let him know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Have you always been this suspicious?”

  “Why?” Crockett asked. “What have you heard?”

  They arrived at the Bryant Estate around twelve-thirty. Satin eyeballed the place as they drove up the lane between the white fencing.

  “Jesus,” she said. “This joint makes an impression.”

  “That would be the object of the exercise,” Crockett replied. “One who had not spent time at Ivy’s might be agog. It’s only the small summer house, but we do love it so.”

  They parked in the cobbled circle in the company of around ten or twelve other vehicles and walked to the door where they were met by Bryant’s personal aide.

  “Good afternoon, Mister Crockett,” the man said with an abbreviated nod as he opened the door.

  “Joseph, isn’t it?” Crockett said.

  “Yes it is, sir. Nice of you to remember. Just follow the walkway to the rear. The guests are on the patio. Do you recall the way?”

  “I do indeed. Thank you.”

  “Enjoy yourself, sir.”

  As Crockett escorted Satin through the house, she spoke up. “A butler?”

  “More of a majordomo, I should think,” Crockett replied.

  “That would be as opposed to a minordomo?” Satin asked.

  “That’s true.”

  “Well,” Satin went on, “if I had a domo I’d certainly want a major one. Maybe even a colonel.”

  Crockett grinned. “You’re kinda wound up today, huh cutie?” he said.

  “Must be the sight of you in your rich guy clothes. You know how rich guys affect me. How much is Jack Bryant worth, do ya think?”

  “It’s not nice to paw the host, Fifi. Show a little control.”

  Satin patted his butt as they exited the rear portal to find two or three dozen people scattered around the patio and pool. Jack Bryant labored over a massive stainless steel propane grill at poolside. He was flanked by two tables containing coolers of drinks and low-sided stainless tubs full of ice that held various salads, finger foods, and assorted munchies. Soft music gently flooded the area from speakers designed to look like rocks, and a spray fountain in the pool gently distributed a mist that was carried toward the house on a light breeze and battled the growing heat. A couple of cloth pavilions containing folding chairs graced the scene for those who wanted to sit in shade. Moments after their arrival, he and Satin caught the attention of a striking woman. She was in her mid-thirties, tall and slender, wearing a gauzy white wrap over a white two-piece bathing suit and white high-heeled sandals. She carried a nice tan, had dark hair cut in a pixie, immense gray eyes, and wore enough jewelry to feed Indiana for a month. She was lovely. She walked toward them with a model’s confident and poised stride and a three hundred watt smile.