Fear of the Father
Published Titles by David R Lewis
Nosferati Series (2)
BLOODTRAIL
BLOODLINE
Crockett Series (8)
FEAR OF THE FATHER
GRAVE PROMISE
SITUATIONAL FLEXIBILITY
ABDUCTED
Trail Series (7)
DEER RUN TRAIL
NODAWAY TRAIL
CALICO TRAIL
PAYBACK TRAIL
OGALLALA TRAIL
KILLDEER TRAIL
Stand Alones:
COWBOYS AND INDIANS
ONCE UPON AGAIN
INCIDENTS AMONG THE SAVAGES
ENDLESS JOURNEY (nonfiction)
Sneak Peek of GRAVE PROMISE by David R Lewis at the end of this book!
What readers are saying about FEAR OF THE FATHER:
This book was fun! I was reluctant to try it because I thought it was just a crime novel, but my husband nagged me until I did. Everybody likes a damaged hero and Crockett fills the bill perfectly. It is a crime novel, but it is also a love story, two love stories actually, especially one between a straight man and a gay woman. The characters are really believable and seem like friends to me now. I hope Mister Lewis continues on with these wonderful people. Call Me Crockett is great!
S.B.
Denver, CO
I found this novel to be uncluttered, direct, and very enjoyable. The cast of characters is drawn with a fine pen and relate to each other and the reader in a refreshing manner. The plot is both unusual and plausible, the dialogue excellent, and the hero very engaging. Call me Crockett is an enjoyable read, and I will look for more in what I hope is a series. David Lewis dedicates his book to the late Robert B. Parker. I’m sure Mister Parker would be as pleased.
L. C. Reynolds
FEAR OF THE FATHER
(Call me Crockett)
By David R. Lewis
Copyright 2006
Published by Ironbear LLC at Smashwords.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally; and any resemblance to people, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
All Rights Reserved
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. No portion of this book may be reproduced without the consent of the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For the many happy hours he has given me over the years,
this book is fondly dedicated to a master storyteller, the late
Robert B. Parker
CHAPTER ONE
Rachael Get Your Gun
Doctor Ruby LaCost adjusted her glasses and looked at the young woman sitting across from her.
“You’re going to what?” she asked.
The young woman’s face was as immobile as porcelain. “I’m going to buy a gun.”
“Ah, Rachael, I’m not sure that’s your best possible course of action at this time.”
“You sound like a psychologist,” Rachael said, the hint of a smile teasing her glossed lips.
“You’re dealing with memories you’ve kept repressed for a great deal of your life. Now is not the time to get involved with a firearm!”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
Ruby noted Rachael’s rigid posture. “It’s your father, isn’t it?”
Rachael looked at her blankly.
Ruby forged ahead. “Every time you’re dealing with something about your father,” she said, “you go on emotional hold. You become neutral and separate. You tuck in behind your newsreader identity. It’s how you choose to protect yourself from him.”
“That’s why I want a gun,” Rachael said. “To protect myself from him.”
“You haven’t even seen the man in years. Why now?”
“He knows that if I’m going to a psychologist some things could turn up that would be dangerous to him.”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“Fifteen years or so. Ever since I went to live with Aunt Ivy.”
“Does your aunt have any connection to him?”
“None. She despises the man.”
“If you haven’t had any contact with him in that long, what makes you think he knows where you are or what you’re doing?”
Rachael plucked absently at the hem of her skirt. Her shoulders sagged and she lifted tear-filled eyes to look at Ruby.
“He knows,” she said. “He makes it his business to know. I’m a loose end. Daddy hates loose ends.”
“And you’ve decided to get a gun.”
Rachael nodded.
“Do you know anything about guns? Have you ever even shot a gun?”
“There are a couple of places that give lessons.”
Ruby fiddled with her pen as she stalled for time.
“Okay,” she said. “I know somebody who might be able to help. Will you give me a day or two?”
After Rachael left, Ruby reached for the phone to call an old friend. He answered on the third ring.
“Hey, Crockett,” Ruby said. “Gotta gun?”
“What?”
“A gun. You know, bang-bang, innocent bystanders lying in the street, blood in the gutter, that kinda stuff.”
Crockett lowered his voice into a stage whisper. “Ruby, if someone is forcing you to make this call, clear your throat.”
“I have a client.”
“One of your own? I told you that 900 number would work!”
Ruby grinned. “If you can drag yourself out of that quagmire of isolation and self-pity you laughingly refer to as your life,” she said, “meet me for lunch.”
“Gee, I don’t know. My calendar’s pretty full.”
“Bullshit.”
“Is this, like, a date?”
“Business,” Ruby said. “I’ll buy.”
“Must be serious.”
“Possibly. The Classic Cup, on the Plaza, one-thirty.”
She hung up quickly, knowing that the Classic Cup did not compliment Crockett’s self image, half expecting him to call back and bitch. He didn’t.
Crockett remained on the couch for a while, feeling like he’d come in during the middle of the movie, a common sensation when he dealt with Ruby. He realized that making him play catch-up was one of her ploys to keep him off balance, but today was different. Today was obviously not just fun and games. She wanted his cooperation. The fact that she needed his assistance for some reason didn’t mean that he had any sort of advantage. Ruby didn’t give advantages. Whatever was on her devious mind would be more than met the casual eye. Still, it was nice to be needed, even if he had no idea why. Sighing, he rose, compensated for the kink in his back, grimaced at the pain in his hip, and limped into his bathroom. He brushed his teeth in the shower, slipped into some faded jeans and a nearly clean flannel shirt, and prepared to venture out into the world.
Kansas City’s Country Club Plaza is one of the more celebrated up-scale shopping districts in the Midwest. Luxury cars adorn its curbs, jowly businessmen its bars, young lions its pubs, junior leaguers its shops, and pretension its restaurants. Ordinarily Crockett avoided the area at all costs. Ordinarily Ruby didn’t ask him if he had a gun.
Parking was a predictable hassle. He left Thumper on Ward Parkway and walked to the Classic Cup, wishing he’d brought his cane. Ruby was
waiting just inside the door when he arrived. As usual, her slow grin brought butterflies to his nether regions, and he gave her a peck on the cheek as they were approached by a waitperson who looked a great deal like Uma Thurman. Uma raised his eyebrows and looked at Crockett. Crockett raised his and looked back. They held their mutual pose for a couple of beats and Ruby snorted.
“Two,” she said. “A sidewalk table please. He smokes.”
Uma permitted one eyebrow to fall and curled his lip. “This way,” he oozed, and led them outside.
Crockett looked at Ruby as they walked to the table. She hadn’t changed much over the years. Still the thick mane of nearly black hair, still the oversized mouth and eyes, still the flawless olive complexion. At five-ten and about one-fifty he found her wonderfully substantial. In heels they stood nearly at eye level, with him on the short end. Ruby never went out in public without heels.
She smiled at him as they sat.
“You didn’t have to get dressed up just for me,” she said.
“Clothes do not make the man, Ms. LaCost.”
“No, but they evidently do make mistakes.”
“My underwear’s silk,” Crockett said. “Chinese. Raw.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“There’s still time.”
Ruby blew him a tiny kiss. “It is possible that I may require your assistance,” she said.
Crockett bumped his eyebrows. Ruby ignored him.
“I have a client who believes she needs to learn how to use a gun to protect herself,” she said. “I have attempted to dissuade her from that course of action.”
Crockett peered at her over the top of his menu. “Of course you have,” he said. Their waitress arrived.
Ruby ordered something with the oxymoronical title of Southwestern Pizza. Crockett had a turkey sandwich, hold the sprouts, hold the avocado, hold the cilantro, hold the orange-mustard sauce, add some mayo, tomato, and lettuce. The young woman looked at him askance. He lit a Sherman.
“My client needs to be handled with kid gloves,” Ruby went on. “I am concerned that she will purchase a firearm and cause herself injury, or patronize a less than scrupulous instructor, or find herself immersed in a situation with which she, as emotionally fragile as she is, will be unable to cope.”
“No shit?”
Ruby broke out in laughter, a rich contralto that was irresistible.
“Do you really talk like that to those poor unsuspecting victims of yours?” Crockett asked.
Ruby rested her chin in her hand and smiled. “None of this crap works on you, does it?”
“Probably not.”
“Crockett, no matter what I say, this woman is going to get involved with firearms. I want you to teach her how to handle a gun safely. I trust you. I believe she will, too.”
Crockett knew Ruby’s seemingly open declaration of purpose and need was not the whole story. She had other motives. Ruby always had other motives.
“I’m not qualified,” he said.
“You used to be a cop. You are a truly sensitive and honorable man. This woman is very vulnerable. You would never take advantage of that.”
“I wouldn’t?”
“I’ll discuss it with her. If she goes for it, I’ll set up a meeting for the two of you. Feel free to charge her something unreasonable for this service. She can afford it.”
“You’re being both civil and complimentary,” Crockett said. “I’m a little scared.”
“Of course you are.”
“Aroused, too.”
“Of course you are.”
“Dammit, Ruby, you know I don’t like guns.”
“Yes, but you need my approval so badly that you will most certainly do as I ask.”
He gave up. “Alright. I’ve got a recording session tomorrow morning. Tell her to call me after ten. I should be home by then. She can buy me lunch or something. I want to spend some time with her in a semi-social situation before I hand her a loaded gun. Nothing can screw up a brand new relationship like getting shot in the foot.”
Ruby grinned.
“No shit?” she said.
CHAPTER TWO
Born to Rust
Putting a sincere smile in his voice, Crockett said, “Bob Bailey Homes, Olathe, Shawnee, and Overland Park.”
“That’s it,” squeaked his headphones. He took them off and walked out of the booth to where Rob sat amid his recorders, processors, computers, and speakers. The little girl from the advertising agency, who thought she was a copywriter, a producer, and terribly sexy, beamed at him.
“Really great job, Mr. Crockett, really. It’s always really great to work with a professional.”
“It is, isn’t it? That Rob’s a helluva guy.”
She giggled in what she assumed was a fetching manner and crossed her legs. “We’ve got some other stuff coming up in a couple of weeks,” she said. “We’re gonna need kind of a hillbilly country voice, and a real nervous wimpy guy.”
“Those would be me,” Crockett said.
“Really great. We’ll be in touch. You’ll invoice us for today?”
“Count on it,” he said, easing out the door.
“That’ll be really great,” she said. “Really.”
Crockett left the truck in his drive, quietly opened the gate to the backyard, and was almost to the door when he heard the snarls and barking. Two giant schnauzers came bristling and roaring around the corner of the house.
“Sit!”
They slid to a halt on their butts about three feet from him, grinning and wagging their stubby tails. It was all part of the routine. Their owner, a mousy woman named Charlene, rented the second floor of his house, a big old stone monstrosity that Crockett bought for a song nearly 20 years before, when he first came to Kansas City. Over the years he replaced the plumbing, the wiring, the windows and the doors. He insulated and sealed, painted and peeled and, because of all that and the fact that the Valentine district had worked very hard to become respectable, the place was now worth nearly ten times what he paid for it. Because he didn’t need over four thousand square feet, Charlene had the second floor, he kept the ground floor and basement, and the third floor remained untouched. Charlene’s rent covered Crockett’s utilities and taxes, and her large toothy dogs covered his ass.
When Crockett opened his back door the hounds charged inside. Treat time. Charlene had named the canines Wolfgang and Hildegard. He called them Stupid and Shithead. Shithead was the one with the blue collar. They waited for him by the refrigerator. In the middle of the kitchen floor, carefully avoided by the dogs, ever hopeful of hanging a claw in a curious muzzle, sat over thirty pounds of one-eared, buff-colored, feline attitude. Nudge.
Crockett grabbed two turkey hot dogs and a small chunk of broiled chicken out of the fridge. The dogs inhaled the franks and whined at Nudge as he daintily consumed his treat, one tiny morsel at a time, often stopping to peer at the hounds as they circled him and begged, hoping one of them would come within reach. They both had. Once.
An hour later Crockett was sitting on the couch with Nudge purring on his lap, contemplating the possibility of lunch. The phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Mister Crockett?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Crockett, my name is Rachael Moore. Ruby LaCost suggested that I contact you. She said you are a man worthy of trust.”
“The fruit baskets are finally paying off.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, Miss Moore, just a feeble attempt at humor.”
“I see. Ruby suggested I buy you dinner.”
“Or lunch. Or a new truck. Your choice.”
“Lunch will be fine. Today?”
“Where and when?”
“Let’s say the Classic Cup on the Plaza, in thirty minutes?”
“My favorite.”
“How will I know you, Mr. Crockett?”
“I’ll have a white gardenia in my cleavage.”
“Excuse me?”
>
“I’ll be the worst dressed man there.”
“Very well. In thirty minutes then. Thank you, Mr. Crockett.”
She disconnected. Crockett called Ruby.
A client had cancelled and Ruby was contemplating what to do with the extra hour, when the phone rang.
“This could very easily be an obscene phone call,” Crockett said.
“Sorry. I have to wash my hair.”
“Tell me about Rachael.”
“I can’t tell you much.”
“Don’t violate your ethics.”
“My ethics are intact, Crockett.”
“Damn shame.”
“Rachel is a very closed person, frightened and fearful. Abused as a child, definitely suspicious of men. She needs the opportunity to relax a bit and open up to a non-threatening male.”
“A what?”
“A non-threatening male.”
“C’mon, LaCost. What are you getting me into? I’m not a therapist and I don’t want anything to do with guns. Besides, since I have you, why the hell do I need another crazy woman in my life?”
Enjoying Crockett’s obligatory complaining, knowing it was part of his process for dealing with the world, and glad to participate in his emotional ritual, Ruby replied, “I have every confidence you shall fare well.”
“I can’t win here, can I?”
“But you will win, Honey. You’ll get to go out in public, see new things, make new friends, and learn to work and play well with others. Just think, if we can get you socialized, the next time we go for a walk in the park, I can take your leash off and let you run loose. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“I don’t like the park,” Crockett said. “The geese scare me.”