Six Cut Kill

by David R Lewis

  “I think you’ll get through it. She’ll train ya.”

  “Joy,” Crockett said.

  “You got your pooch with you again tonight?”

  “Yeah. Ol’ Donk is getting to be a helluva dog. He thinks riding with me is his job. Doesn’t miss a thing. I never had a dog that likes to work as much as he does. Back to Lucy again. Whenever she comes over, if she’s outside, that dog is with her, watching her, looking out for her. She gets too close to the lake, he’ll get between her and the water and herd her away. Pisses her off a little, but he won’t quit. Last time they were over, she wanted to go out on the dock. He wouldn’t let her. She yelled at him and punched him in the side. He just grinned and shouldered her up the bank.”

  “Let that be an example for ya,” Smoot said, finishing his coffee. “You might keep the Dew Drop Inn over in Clayville in mind a little tonight. Got a call from the bartender, fella named Manley, this afternoon. Had three or four guys in there last night he’d never seen before. Loud, kinda pushy. Said he thought one of ‘em might have been carrying a gun. Nobody got outta hand, but it was close. Got in an argument with one of the regulars over a game of pool. By the time he decided to call, they left. Said they’d see him again tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “I left a note for Charlie. He’ll be your main backup if you need some.”

  “Charlie’s young but dependable. He’s come a long way.”

  “Might be the best option to replace me next year,” Smoot went on.

  “You’ll always be irreplaceable in my heart, sweetie,” Crockett replied.

  “Shit,” Smoot said and headed out the door.

  Most of the evening was slow. Crockett stopped by Whiskey River early in his shift to check on things and jaw a little with Bison and Joker. All quiet on the biker front. On the way out of Sutton, he dropped in at the café for a piece of Ellen’s blueberry pie and to let everybody see the law was around. A little after nine, Arkie Bennett had a DUI stop that turned out to be a medication reaction. He hustled the driver to the Smithville hospital in the cruiser in time to avert anything really serious. Shortly before eleven, Crockett’s radio crackled to life and Margie’s dulcet tones wafted over the airwaves.

  “Headquarters to Hart two.”

  “Go, HQ.”

  “Hart two, Clayville. The Dew Drop Inn. Three subjects there who won’t leave the parking lot after being denied service in the bar. Bartender advises to use caution.”

  “Ten-four, Headquarters. Five or six miles out. En route.”

  “Backup, Hart five?”

  “Hart five, ten-four. Clayville and the Dew Drop.”

  “Hart two to Hart five.”

  “Go, two.”

  “If you get there before I do, come in quiet and nice, Charlie. No point in fanning the flames.”

  “Ten-four, two. I’m over by Sutton. Be a while.”

  “Okay, Five. I’ve got my bullet if necessary,” Crockett said. “Two out.” He let the Ram run. Feeling the acceleration, Donk stood up in the rear seat and looked out the windshield.

  When Crockett pulled up the slope of the gravel drive and into the Dew Drop Inn parking lot, he noticed three men standing next to a Chevy pickup under the glow of a pole light near the front of the building. He picked up the mic.

  “Two, HQ.”

  “Two, go.”

  “I’m at the Dew Drop. Three subjects on foot in the lot.”

  “Ten-four. Five 10-20?”

  “Six or seven miles out, HQ.”

  “Ten-four. Copy Two?”

  “Two copy. Buster Charlie, but quietly. I’m out.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Crockett de-trucked and looked over the seat back at Donk. “Stay,” he said. The dog sat and watched him. Crockett left the driver’s door ajar, slipped on his sap gloves, palmed his whipstick in his left hand, and began the fifty foot walk to where the three men were standing.

  “Hey, fellas,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  The smallest of the men, about five-eight with a nearly shaven head and large shoulders, responded.

  “Who wants to know?” he said.

  Crockett smiled. “Just me. I’m a cop, guys. Got somebody who called in about you. Afraid you were fixin’ to start world war three or something. You know how people are. Some folks just don’t want other folks to have a good time, I guess.”

  “You’re a cop, huh?”

  “Yeah. Couldn’t find a steady job.”

  “So am I.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “Platte County Deputy.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well that’s fine,” Crockett said. “We don’t have a problem, then. Why don’t you and your friends just go on about your business? I’ll take your word that you’re sober enough to drive, and you guys can be on your way back to Platte County.”

  “Fucker won’t give us no beer,” the guy said.

  “Says you were in last night and nearly started trouble with one of the regulars. His prerogative to serve you or not.”

  The deputy looked him up and down and sneered. “You’re kinda old to be a cop.” His friends spread out a little and smiled at each other.

  “People tell me that now and then,” Crockett answered. “Some of ‘em from behind bars. There’s no need for this to get serious. You’re not wanted here. Just be on your way, and it’s done. No charges. No harm.”

  “What are you gonna do if we don’t leave? Arrest us?”

  “Rather not,” Crockett said.

  “Rather not,” Platte County mimicked.

  “You don’t have a lot of respect for the badge, do ya Deputy?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “No point in me explaining it to you,” Crockett said. “If you don’t know, you wouldn’t understand. You armed?”

  “What if I am?”

  “You’re not commissioned in this county. Unless you have a Missouri concealed carry permit, that’s just another charge against you. Now pay attention. I’m trying real hard not to arrest your ass, son. I’m going out of my way to give you and these two, who have me surrounded, a break. But, I’m about done. You have a choice to make. Go away or go to jail. That could cost you your job. Up to you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “The magic words,” Crockett said. “You are under arrest.”

  “The hell I am,” Platte County replied and took a step forward.

  Crockett flipped out the whipstick and raised it over his head. When Platte County looked up at the weapon, Crockett kicked him squarely in the crotch. As the man fell, Crockett dropped to one knee beside him and braced himself just as guy two came at him from the left. The man’s momentum carried him over Crockett’s back, and he sprawled in the gravel. Crockett’s Beretta was out as he heard guy three scream. The origin of his angst was Donk, attached to the back of his left ankle. He jerked away from the dog and threw himself into the bed of the Chevy truck to escape. Donk followed him into the truck then back out onto the parking lot where the man ran toward the street, Donk biting at his legs with every step. Charlie’s arrival in the drive stopped the attempted escape, and Crockett’s shout stopped the avenging canine. He turned his attention back to Platte County and removed a Glock nine from the man’s waist holster. Number two was sitting in the gravel to his right, glaring at him, his face pocked marked with spots of blood and small imbedded stones.

  “You make one move toward me,” Crockett said, “and I will shoot you with your friend’s gun. Are we clear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Lay face down and spread your arms and legs wide.”

  The man did as he was told. Crockett flipped Platte County onto his belly, cuffed his hands behind his back, and shook him down just as Charlie arrived with number three in hand. The man’s jeans were ripped in several places below the knees, and he was bleeding. Donk stood to one side and watched.

  “Cuff that other shithead a
nd check him for weapons, Charlie,” Crockett panted. He left Charlie with the three and walked to the truck, Donk on his heels. He put Donk in the truck after telling him what a good boy he was, then picked up the mic.

  “Two to headquarters.”

  “Go ahead, two.”

  “Need another car here, HQ. Three under arrest. Two with minor injuries need to go to the ER for attention.”

  “Ten-four, two. Hart Six?”

  “Six,” Gordon Mills answered. “I’m on the scene.”

  “Ten four, Six. HQ out.”

  Crockett watched Mills pull into the lot, park by the three suspects, get out of his car, and grin. Several patrons from the bar, who had come out to watch the excitement, broke into light applause. Crockett walked over.

  “Mills,” he said, “you and Charlie take the two bloody ones to Smithville and get ‘em fixed up at the ER. I’ll take the deputy to the head shed and get started. See if the bartender can break loose and come to HQ for a complaint and statement, will ya Charlie?”

  “Sure. The deputy you said?”

  “The one with the vomit on his shirt claims he’s a Platte County Deputy. He was carryin’.”

  “No shit?”

  “Nope.”

  “How come he’s got vomit all over him?”

  Crockett grinned. “I kicked him in the nuts.”

  Mills laughed. “The legend grows,” he said.

  Back at the station, Crockett let his prisoner wash up a little while he went through the man’s ID. Platte County Special Deputy Sheriff. Commissioned for emergency service, but not to carry a weapon. Cop wannabee. Hot for the badge and less useful than a minimum wage security guard. Jesus. He left the man in the compound to sober up and went upstairs. A bleary Dale Smoot stood in the office.

  “You bust a deputy?” Smoot asked.

  “Platte County Special Deputy with a concealed Glock nine he was not licensed to carry.”

  “Oh shit. An imitation cop. Okay. I’ll deal with it.”

  “Thanks. By the way, I need another county commission, retroactive if possible.”

  Smoot looked a little pained. “For who?” he asked.

  “New deputy. Donk B. Heeler.”

  “Donk? Your dog?”

  “Made his first arrest tonight. His mother is going to be so proud.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Kept one of these shitheads offa me. Heeled his ass. Bit him seven or eight times.”

  “Oh Christ. He had his shots?”

  “The guy?”

  “The dog, goddammit!”

  “Malaria, Mad Cow, and the swine flu,” Crockett said.

  Smoot showed Crockett his back and stomped off. Margie leaned out of the radio cubicle.

  “Perfect,” she said. “Just perfect.”

  When Crockett arrived at the café the following afternoon, sitting in the customary booth he usually shared with Dale Smoot was Judge J.R. McPherson.

  “Judge!” Crockett said. “To what do I owe this honor, Your Honor?”

  “Afternoon, Deputy. Please excise my blatant intrusion on your customary time with our illustrious sheriff, but I find it necessary to relate some information that might possibly be of value to you.”

  “Really?” Crockett replied, sitting down and nodding at a waitress.

  “Indeed, sir. Into my courtroom this morning on the occasion of their arraignment came three young men with whom, I believe, you came in contact late last evening.”

  “From the Dew Drop Inn over in Clayville?”

  “They would be the individuals of which I speak.”

  “LeRoy Tate, Michael Goings, and Bobby Martin.”

  “Mister Tate, I believe, is a supplementary deputy sheriff in Platte County. He feels that he and the other two upstanding members of his group have been grievously wronged by you and our young stalwarts who conspired with you to so abuse your authority and so on and so forth, you see.”

  Crockett grimaced. “Uh-huh,” he replied.

  “His sheriff arrived in defense of Mister Tate, claiming him to be of superb character and such, and suggested that, with your personal history here in Hart County, perhaps you should be the individual in question. He came dangerously close to impugning the motives and methodology of the court.”

  Crockett couldn’t help himself. He smiled. “No!”

  “I’m afraid so. The possibility of civil action against you and your dog, ah, Donk, I believe?”

  “Donk.”

  “Civil action against the two of you was mentioned if charges against the three individuals in question were to be pursued. I assured the sheriff that I was certain he was not attempting to intimidate my court by threat of action as that would be a grave mistake and could result in very serious charges being leveled at him; and I, of course, knew him to be too intelligent to behave in such an ignorant manner. I also advised him that any civil suit against you would be adjudicated in Hart County and that the possibility of the complainant successfully completing such action was extremely slim. In the interest of harmony between our two counties, I did offer to release all three miscreants and hold the charges against them in abeyance for the next eighteen months. If, during that time, these gentlemen were to return to Hart County and misbehave in any manner whatsoever, they would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law for those transgressions as well as the ones I was holding from the last night’s incident.”

  Crockett’s smile had become a grin. “And?” he asked.

  “After a significant ruffling of feathers, a certain amount of posturing, and carefully spoken objections, he agreed to the conditions and escorted the three innocents from the prospect of immediate durance vile. I hear, however, that he was significantly upset at finding a ticket on his county cruiser from Sheriff Smoot for parking partially in a loading zone across the street from the courthouse.”

  Crockett laughed.

  “Deputy,” McPherson went on, “should any of these individuals violate my terms within the next year and a half, throw the proverbial bound volume at them. That is a direct order from the senior officer of the court in the county in which you reside and so ably serve. Am I clear?”

  “You are clear, Judge.”

  “Very well,” McPherson replied, getting to his feet. “Give my regards to your lovely bride. Good day, sir.”

  Crockett watched the man walk away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  When Crockett got home that evening a little after midnight, Satin was already in bed. He slipped out of his official police encumbrances, poured a cup of some likely Peruvian he’d been hording, and retired to the deck with the dogs to contemplate the infinite and smoke his last Sherman of the day. He’d just lighted the cigarette when his cell phone detonated. Cletus.

  “Texican! How are ya?”

  “You at work or home, son?”

  “I’m home. What’s up?”

  “Ivy passed, pard. That grand ol’ dame has left the building.”

  Crockett’s diaphragm stopped working. Clete was patient through the few seconds of silence.

  “Oh, my. When?”

  “In her sleep last night. I been up to my neck in lawyers all day, an’ I didn’t wanna call ya at work. Sorry I didn’t git to ya right away.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Her maid found her this morning and came and got me. Just looked like she was still sleepin’. Musta been peaceful. Bed covers weren’t all torn up like she’d been strugglin’ or some such.”

  “Damn, Clete. I hate it.”

  “Me too, son.

  “How’s Goody?”

  “He stayed in his room most of the day. Came down around seven tonight, went in the kitchen for a spell, and showed up with some blueberry scones. Made ‘em himself, ya know.”

  Crockett smiled. “Sir Thoroughgood Henley-Wahls,” he said.

  “Only one a him,” Clete replied.

  “Jesus. Okay. When’s the funeral?”

  “Ain’t one. Ivy’s body has gone s
traight to her kidney research facility for study. Long time ago she made me promise that there’d be no fuss. Said she couldn’t abide screwing up all the traffic and such for everybody with Presidential motorcades and political bigwigs just for one old woman. Didn’t wanna be a nuisance.”

  “That’s Ivy,” Crockett said. “How are you?”

  “Aw, hell. She’s got more lawyers than Parliament! I been wadin’ through them and a bunch a bean counters all day. Ivy ain’t got no kin. Her personal estate’ll be divided up between a bunch a charities, most a her remainin’ businesses’ll be sold off in the next few years and those monies distributed to worthwhile causes. You know how she was. Several funds’ll be maintained. Yours, Stitch’s, the dog an’ pony show, things like that. Goody is set up for whatever he wants, including care and staff if it comes to that, anywhere he’d like to go. The house folks are all well-funded for more than comfortable retirement. You know how generous she was.”

  “And you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hell, Crockett. She left me more than I know what to do with. I’m thinkin’ about buyin’ one a them Virgin Islands for when the weather gits cold!”

  “Ivolee Minerva Cabot,” Crockett said.

  “Son, I am now the Triumph Trust. Tell your bride to be nice to me. I control the money, an’ it’s a damn site more than what the contract calls for. She or her kid ever need a raise, I can take care of that outside the dog an’ pony show. Now would be a good time for them to give ol’ uncle Cletus a little respect. I doan figger it’ll make any difference, but it’s nice to dream.”

  “So, what are you gonna do?”

  “I already gave most a my gotta-do crap to the lawyers an’ them. They’ll handle it and check with me from time to time. Thought I might come down your way for a while, if ya’ll can stand it. Maybe talk a little more about your offer a land and lake.”

  “We’d love to have you here, Clete.”

  “Ol’ Stitch can git me back an’ forth now an’ then ‘til all this gits settled. Take a few months probably.”