Six Cut Kill

by David R Lewis

  “Lady,” she said, “if this happens, you are gonna work your ass off so I can look good.”

  “I got ass to spare, sweetie,” Satin replied. “Just slow down and take it easy. You hit hubby with too much at once, and he’ll get stubborn on ya.”

  “And you,” Charlene went on, turning to Crockett, “you started this ball rolling, you know.”

  “Aren’t I wonderful?” Crockett said.

  “Yes, you are. You and Satin together are marvelous. Hug?”

  Crockett smiled. “If you think you can stand it.”

  The hug was full of abandon and release. When Charlene let go, she had tears in her eyes.

  “Thank you two so much,” she said. “So much. Now I gotta get a goat. Damn!”

  The baby banana came into view as they motored off down the lane. Crockett reached for his cell phone.

  “Who you calling?” Satin asked.

  “Stitch,” Crockett replied, putting the device to his ear. “Hey, Banana,” he went on. “Do me a favor. Check out the terrain north of the house. There’s an old barn about a half-mile back from the stable. Scope it out, but don’t be obvious, okay? Just a feeling. Thanks. Later.”

  “You have a feeling?” Satin asked.

  “Of course I have feelings,” Crockett said. “If you prick me, do I not bleed?”

  “Your prick is bleeding?”

  “Smut,” Crockett said. “Pure smut.”

  “C’mon. What do you have a feeling about?”

  “I just want Stitch to look the place over. Something’s not right.”

  “Like what?

  “Like Jack Bryant. He may have sold off his businesses and cleaned up his act, but he’s dirty. Somehow, someway, he’s dirty.”

  “Oh shit, Crockett. What about Charlene?”

  “On the other hand,” Crockett said, “Charlene is a peach.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “How come you think Jack Bryant is dirty?” Satin asked, as Crockett came downstairs in his almost uniform.

  “Because he’s not nice,” Crockett said.

  “If that’s all it takes, two-thirds of the population is dirty.”

  “And, because Charlene is not his wife. She’s his commodity.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “She’s attractive, personable, and bright. Makes him look good. She likes horses, so he gets her a herd of the things. Probably over a half a million dollars worth of horses that she has no real interest in at all. She doesn’t ride’em, and two of ‘em are at a meet right now that she didn’t even attend. Her horse is Pokey. That’s because he’s damaged and she wants to fix him. She wanted to keep busy so she had the idea for Kid Country. Good for the community, nice for the young’uns, a boon for mom and dad. She wanted it to help kids. Jack financed it because of the publicity and public image. The party was for the employees because Charlene is the type that wants to do nice things. Jack said she did it for the kids, and he did it for her. No dogs on the place except for two she has in the house. He didn’t even know what kind they were. Hell, Satin, she’s on the national board of the A.S.P.C.A. or whatever. I’ll bet he can’t even spell it.”

  Satin was silent for a moment while Crockett put on his overshirt. “Charlene’s a kept woman,” she said.

  “In many ways, yes. But with no honesty.”

  “And she doesn’t even know it.”

  “I think she knows it,” Crockett said. “She just doesn’t have anyone she can admit it to. She didn’t take us up on the hill to show us her horses. She took us up there because she likes you and wanted to see what kind of person I am. That’s why it meant so much to her when I took an interest in that little dun gelding. And you blew her away. You’re probably the closest thing to a friend she’s had since she took up with Jack.”

  “That poor woman.”

  “Poor little rich girl. She’s gonna take your idea to Jack. He may stall her. If she had a business like that, she might be too independent. As far as he’s concerned, she has one main purpose. To make him look good. If she gets too independent and gets involved with something he might not be able to control, he may try to rein her in.”

  “How can I help her?”

  “You’re helping now. You’re showing her trust and affection. You came up with the idea for the horse park. You’re being honest, and you have nothing to gain unless she says okay. You’re her friend. She’s just beginning to realize that.”

  “She likes you a lot.”

  Crockett smiled. “Father shit. I’m the right age. You trust me, and she wants to trust you. I made friends with her horse, offered advice, and don’t want anything from her. Unusual for somebody like Charlene. Of course, she gravitates toward something like that. In her situation, almost anybody would.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Crockett shook his head. “I don’t know. Wait for divine inspiration?”

  “You?” Satin said.

  Crockett didn’t drive directly into town. Instead, he headed over to Sutton and drove by Whiskey River. He noticed Bison and a couple of guys in the sparse parking lot as he approached the driveway and turned in. When he got out of the truck, Bison saw him and ambled over, his massive black biker boots kicking up dust in the intensely hot afternoon.

  “What?” Bison said. “They don’t even give ya no real cop car?”

  “They save those for the real cops,” Crockett said.

  “At least ya didn’t ride over on that English piece a shit. C’mon inside. Too fuckin’ hot out here. Wanna beer or somethin’?”

  “A Coke would be good,” Crockett said, following the bearded mass across the porch and into the dark interior of the club. They took a seat at a four top near the rear of the room. Joker waved at him from the kitchen but stayed there, going in and out of the walk-in cooler.

  A forty-year-old, well-used blond woman in a halter-top, Levi shorts, and a roadmap of tattoos showed up, ignored Crockett, and looked at Bison. “Well?” she said.

  “Couple Cokes.”

  “Cokes?”

  “Yeah, Cokes. Crockett here is on duty. Cops ain’t supposed to drink on duty. Don’t you watch no TV?”

  The woman turned away toward the bar. Bison chuckled. “She doan like you,” he said.

  “Almost nobody does. Maybe I should change my deodorant and get my teeth capped. I’ve tried everything else.”

  “I damn near like ya,” Bison said. “But my standards are kinda low.”

  “How’s business?”

  “Not too bad, us just openin’ an’ all. Can’t complain. Next weekend, probably Saturday, we got a guy comin’ with one a them tow behind bar-b-que rigs. Hope to hell it ain’t as hot as it is today. That parkin’ lot is a oven.”

  The door opened and sunlight blazed through the room as two stalwarts in tank tops, blue jeans, and the ubiquitous boots clomped in. One of them reminded Crockett of Spud Cantral. That one looked him over.

  “Hell, Bison,” he said. “You lettin’ cops in here?”

  “I’m his long lost father,” Crockett said. “Haven’t seen him in twenty years. We’re celebrating. Buy you a beer?”

  “Shit,” came the reply, and the guy and his friend took seats across the room.

  “Guess he doan like you neither,” Bison said.

  “His loss. I’m a cheap date and a lot of fun at parties.”

  The waitress showed up and put down the Cokes. “There ya go, Officer,” she said, and went away.

  “She spoke to me,” Crockett said.

  “That’s her ex-old man you just tangled with. She likes you better’n she likes him, I guess.”

  Crockett stayed for another ten minutes or so, jawing with Bison before finishing his drink and stepping out into the sun and heat of the lot. Parked in front of the building was a ratty crew-cab Chevy pickup. Caged in the rear seat area of the truck, a large brindle Pit Bull with a white blaze on his face and a white chest, sat panting desperately behind the glass. When he saw Croc
kett, he pawed at the locked door. Spittle ran from his mouth in a continuing drool and was spattered all over the rolled up window. Crockett fired up his pack set.

  “Two to headquarters.”

  “Go ahead, two.”

  “Anybody in the Sutton area?”

  Dale Smoot’s voice came out of the radio. “I am, two. What can I do for ya?”

  “Drift over by Whiskey River, one. If you hear gunshots, come to my rescue.”

  “Ten-four. Two minutes or less.”

  Crockett returned to the bar. Bison was standing just inside the door. “Who owns that red Chevy truck,” he asked.

  “Spivey. That shit-head you just had words with.”

  Crockett turned away and walked to the table where Spivey and his friend sat.

  “That your dog in the red pickup out in the lot?” he asked.

  The man turned his face toward Crockett in slow motion. “What if it is?” he said.

  “He’s too hot. You left him in the truck with the windows rolled up, dumbass. Get out there, get him outa the truck, and find a hose to cool him down.”

  “My fucking dog. I’ll do what I want with him.”

  Crockett turned to the other man. “That dog know you?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you do it.”

  “I ain’t got no keys.”

  Crockett turned back to Spivey. “Give him your keys.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Wrong answer,” Crockett said, and kicked Spivey’s chair out from under him.

  As the man rolled and got to his hands and knees, Crockett stood on his right hand. Spivey wailed in pain. When Crockett got off the hand, Spivey lifted it upward from the floor. Crockett kicked the other hand out from under him and, as Spivey collapsed, knelt on his back, grabbed his hair, and pulled the man’s head backward up from the floor.

  “What pocket?” Crockett asked.

  “The right one!” Spivey nearly shrieked.

  From over Crockett’s shoulder Dale Smoot’s voice filled the room. “Stand easy, boys. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with anybody in here but those two.”

  Crockett turned to Spivey’s sidekick. “You,” he said, “get the keys and pull that dog outa the truck. Bison, hook up a hose or something.”

  “Got one out front,” Bison said, thumping toward the door.

  Spivey’s pal fished around under the fallen man for a moment, then produced the keys and headed out the front of the building.

  “Now then, youngster,” Crockett said, jerking Spivey to his feet, “you and me are going outside.” Still holding the man by the hair with his left hand, Crockett reached between Spivey’s legs from the rear and got a firm grip on the man’s crotch. Spivey raised to his tip toes and began to squeak.

  Chuckles and laughter rebounded around the room as Crockett walked Spivey to, and out, the door. The dog was lying on his side in the gravel in front of the porch. Bison was running cool water over him. Crockett hustled Spivey to the truck and tossed him through the open door. Spivey, clutching at his manhood, curled into a fetal position on the seat and looked at him.

  “Now you listen to me, you sonofabitch,” Crockett said. “You try to get out of that truck before your dog is on his feet, and I will fucking shoot you right in the ass. You believe me?”

  Spivey whimpered something and nodded.

  “You damn well better,” Crockett said, and slammed the door.

  Smoot sidled up next to him.

  “Hot in that truck,” he said.

  “Yep,” Crockett replied.

  “Get hotter with the doors all closed up like that.”

  “Damn right it will.”

  “You do know that this ain’t Tombstone, don’t you?”

  “Yes, it is,” Crockett said. “With these guys, in this parking lot, on this afternoon, that is exactly what it is.”

  Smoot cogitated for a moment. “Reckon you’re right, Wyatt,” he said. “Don’t figger any a these boys’ll mess with ya no more today. I’ll mosey on.”

  Crockett watched the big man walk away and controlled his grin.

  It took about ten minutes before the dog gained his feet and began to breathe normally. Crockett dragged Spivey out of the truck’s intense heat and let the man fall to the ground.

  “How do you like it?” he asked.

  Spivey moaned but didn’t move. He was drenched in sweat and nearly comatose.

  Crockett looked toward the porch. “Probably should hose him down, too, Bison,” he said. “Thanks for the Coke. You fellas have a nice evening.”

  From the porch, Bison watched Crockett walk to his truck and drive away. “Holy shit,” he whispered, and began to drag the hose toward Spivey.

  Crockett drove into Sutton and sat in front of the café for a minute or two until he finished shaking. Maybe some ice cream on the blueberry pie today.

  Crockett was halfway through his pie when Smoot walked in the door and sat down.

  “You with animal control now?” he asked.

  “He pissed me off,” Crockett said.

  Smoot smiled. “I got that impression.”

  “Sonofabitch left his dog closed up in his truck in this heat. Dog would have died, and he was ready to let it die just to challenge me. I won’t put up with that shit, Dale. I don’t give a damn if it’s some brain-fried Harley Rat or the fucking mayor of Whoville. I will not stand for it.”

  “Don’t blame ya,” Smoot said. “No excuse for treating an animal like that. You could have broken out a window or something and arrested him for animal cruelty. He probably would have given you a reason to tack on battery against an officer of the law.”

  “I could have,” Crockett said. “I thought about it for a second. Then, I decided to make a statement. Didn’t figure he’d bring charges against me. Not the way these boys do things.”

  “When in Rome,” Dale said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Probably should use the other route if you run up against the Mayor of Whoville.”

  “Be best,” Crockett said.

  A rumble through the window drew their attention outside to watch Bison pull in on an old dark blue panhead. He dismounted and clumped his way inside. Crockett toed a chair out for him.

  “Siddown,” he said. Bison eased his bulk onto the seat.

  “Dale,” Crockett went on, “this is Bison, the owner of Whiskey River. Bison, this is the High Sheriff of Hart County, Dale Smoot.”

  Bison nodded. “Sheriff,” he said.

  Dale nodded. “Bison,” he replied.

  Bison turned to Crockett. “Motherfucker,” he said, “you are one serious sonofabitch.”

  Crockett grinned. “Thank you. How’s your friend?”

  “He ain’t my friend. That shithead ain’t nobody’s friend. I had to pull him offa his ex-old lady one time after he threw a lit cigarette in her face and slapped her. She’s the one that’s the waitress that likes you better now than she used to.”

  “Lovely girl,” Crockett said.

  “I mighta let it go,” Bison said, “but the dumbass pulled a knife on her. I beat him against the wall a while and threw him outa his own house.”

  “Let me restate the question,” Crockett said. “How’s Spivey?”

  “Last time I saw him, he was settin’ in the dirt, leanin’ against the porch, throwin’ up in his lap. He was shiverin’ quite a bit, but he claimed he was hot.”

  Smoot chuckled. “He looked a little warm layin’ in the backseat of that truck,” he said.

  “You shoulda seen him when ol’ Crockett pulled him out. He hit the dirt like a sack a flour. I thought he was dead until he grunted. Guess he got a purty good idea how that dog felt. I bet he won’t be able to drive for a hour. Ain’t nobody helpin’ him, either. Cocksucker.”

  “Am I gonna have to worry about him?” Crockett asked.

  “He’s a coward,” Bison said.

  “That a yes?”

  “Maybe. Never know what a coward’ll do.
You scared the shit outa him, and I mean shit. He’s seriously fucked up. That might be enough. I’m thinkin’ about keepin’ that dog. He’s good natured and young. I kinda like them Pits. Maybe give the bar a mascot. Spivey’s got two or three more, at least he usta have. I doan even know where he lives now. Might never see him again, the way everbody was laughin’ at his ass. Could be he’ll never show his face in the place anymore. Small loss.”

  Smoot stood up. “Somebody’s gotta be a cop around here. See ya later, Crockett.”

  “Thanks for the backup, Dale.”

  “Bison,” Smoot said.

  “Sheriff,” Bison replied, and watched the big man walk out the door. “I’ll bet he’s a rough old cob,” Bison went on.

  “He’s a good man,” Crockett said.

  “You didn’t do yourself any harm today, either,” Bison replied. “I gotta go. Reckon I can wheelie halfway down the block?”

  “Oh, hell,” Crockett said.

  Bison grinned. “I’d just break a chain and fall down,” he said. “Doan wanna embarrass myself in front of no lawman. Don’t forget the bar-b-que next weekend. See ya.”

  Crockett watched him ride away and looked down at his pie. Damn. The ice cream was soup.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Crockett was sitting on the dock drinking his first coffee of the day around eight the next morning with Donk and Dundee, when Stitch rounded the cove’s point of land and glided up in his canoe.

  “Like, mornin’ an’ shit, man,” he said, clambering out of the craft and scratching both dogs on their backs.

  “Hey, Stitch. Coffee?”

  “You got some, dude?”

  “Sure,” Crockett replied, reaching under his chair for a thermos and cup. “I had a feeling you’d be by this morning.”

  “Far out. This is four-star service, man.” Stitch poured his drink and went on. “I didn’t see you and, like, Satin at the gig yesterday.”

  “No. Had to leave. We were on the way out when I called you.”

  “Yeah. I was busy, man. I bet I took ten or twelve trips with those cats. People that ain’t never been in a helo just love that shit, ya know?”