Behind the Badge Read online

  On a whim while driving home, he diverted to the Liberty Walmart. There, he found both black and gray ball caps without any type of logos. His self-styled quasi-uniform selection was complete.

  When he walked in the cabin, he found several boxes on the floor in front of the couch. Taped to the kitchen counter was a note from Satin stating that she had gone to the grocery, Clete’s shipment had come, and he should have fun. Grinning, he put his Cabelas swag in his chair and on the floor, dug out his new bucknife, and attacked the shipment from Clete. All of a sudden, his nervousness was gone.

  *****

  Clete sent even more than Crockett had bargained for. His practice ammunition supply was larger than he’d expected, the Mossberg Bullpup shotgun was in mint condition with a Nextorch Tactical light mounted below the barrel, and Clete had even included an eight-inch spring-loaded baton, or whipstick, that would extend to eighteen inches with the flick of the wrist. A white linen envelope revealed a note from Ivy that his new possessions were “on the house.”

  Crockett was setting up some targets down the slope a few yards when Satin arrived home.

  “Get your goodies?” she asked, lifting some groceries out of her jeep.

  Crockett hustled to help.

  “Yeah. Good stuff. I’ll show ya.”

  Satin grinned at him. “Boys and their toys,” she said.

  *****

  After an hour or so of scattering brass around the slope, remembering how hard it was to hit anything with a pistol, and reminding himself to get some earplugs, Crockett assembled his weapons and cleaning supplies on the front porch. Satin walked out as he was scrubbing the receiver on the Mossberg atop the deck’s railing.

  “You’re making a mess,” she said.

  “Don’t be such a girl,” Crockett replied.

  “You’ve got your empties scattered all over the yard out there.”

  “In time, they’ll all return to the earth. It’s nature’s way.”

  “And you’re very noisy. Dundee is still hiding in the mudroom.”

  “At least she’s not bitching at me about the mess,” he said, pulling a bore snake through the barrel of the shotgun.

  “I hung up your new clothes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why so much gray?”

  “My official almost uniform.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to wear a uniform.”

  “I’m not. It’s only almost a uniform.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “I couldn’t find my Wyatt Earp hat,” Crocket said, jacking the action on the Mossberg a couple of times.

  “Wyatt never lost his,” Satin said.

  Crockett turned to face her.

  “How come you’re picking at me?” he asked.

  “’Cause big ol’ men with big ol’ guns just do something for li’l ol’ me.”

  Crockett grinned. “And what would that be what, M’am?”

  “They make messes and scatter crap all over the yard. Jesus, weren’t you listening?”

  “I’m sorry,” Crockett said. “Did you speak?”

  “Supper in thirty minutes. Baked chicken and scalloped potatoes. Take a shower and after we eat, we’ll discuss what big ol’ men with big ol’ guns can do for me. I just wish you could have found that hat. Woof!”

  Crockett watched her go inside and smiled.

  *****

  The next morning, Crockett grabbed his new shotgun and drove to Morton’s garage. Jelly met him as he climbed out of Dale’s truck.

  “Mornin’ to ya, Crockett,” Jelly said, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “How’s everthang?”

  “As well as can be expected,” Crockett replied, his eyes drifting to the open bay door and the rear of his truck, poised about four feet off the ground minus tires and wheels.

  “We’re makin’ progress,” Jelly went on, leading the way inside the garage. “Got the wirin’ finished up. Yer police radio, yer phone, yer bull horn, yer sirens, yer cop lights, yer computer an’ yer camera is already ta go.”

  “My camera?”

  “Yow. There’s a little box on the top a the dash. Gotta camera an’ one a them digital recorders in it. Anytime you make a car stop or git inta somethin’ ya might need a record of, ya just flip that li’l ol’ switch on the backside a the thing. This little red light’ll come on an’ yer recordin’ everthang out the front winda.”

  Crockett held onto his grin. “Really?”

  “Yow. That way ya got yew a visual record a the incident, ya see.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “We got yer red an’ blue lights mounted behind yer grill, got yer headlights converted for the strobe thang I told ya about, there’s a switch on the dashboard fer that, got ya a light cage mounted on yer front bumper with two a them big-ass PIAA drivin’ lights in it. Got stone shields on them lights ‘cause a all the gravel roads and such.”

  Crockett walked to the front of the truck to see.

  “Jesus,” he said. “They’re huge!”

  “A feller never knows when he might need ta see a little bit,” Jelly commented. “We’ll git yer shocks, yer helper springs, and yer new tires on today, an’ git yer rear lights installed.”

  “My rear lights?”

  “Yow. A sixty watt halogen under each end a yer bumper. With stone guards. There’ll be a switch on yer dash for them, too. The tool boxes should be here this afternoon. We’ll git to them tomorrow.”

  “Tool boxes?”

  “Them lowsiders. One down each side a the bed. Carry a couple a blankets, a axe, big ol’ first aid kit, tow rope, a couple a them fire distinguishers, emergency stuff like that. Yer step rails’ll come in the same order.”

  “Step rails.”

  “One fer each side. Make it easier ta git in an’ out. Yer truck’ll be some taller that yer used to. Yer steerin’ geometry’ll be a little differn’t, too. You’ll git used ta that purty quick.”

  “Holy shit, Jelly. I feel like I drove in on a chimpanzee, and I’ll drive out on a gorilla.”

  Jelly grinned.

  “Well now,” he said, “that could be true. We been monkeyin’ around some with it.”

  “I’ve got something else for you to monkey around with,” Crockett said.

  Jelly followed him to Dale’s truck, and Crockett produced the Mossberg Bullpup.

  “Well, would you look at that,” Jelly said. “That’s a shotgun, ain’t it?”

  “That’s what it is,” Crockett replied, handing him the gun.

  Jelly turned it over a few times and hefted it.

  “Heavy,” he said. “An’ all covered up in rubber stuff. Barely legal long, ain’t it?”

  “Just barely.”

  “Now where would a feller git somethin’ like this. The Starship Enterprise?”

  “Actually, they were on the market two or three decades ago. Nobody’s made any of them in years.”

  “Got a brand new big ol’ light on it, too. Four, maybe five hunnert lumens I bet. That’ll throw a helluva beam. Whatcha want me to do with this thing?”

  “I want you to figure a way to mount it down low on the inside of the driver’s door.”

  “Hmmm,” Jelly commented, and walked off, Mossberg in hand, to look at the door in question.

  After a moment of study, he turned to Crockett. “I got some spring steel around here someplace,” he said. “I kin make a couple a kinda hooky thangs an’ screw ‘em in the steel at the bottom a the door. I got some rubbery plastic stuff I use ta dip tool handles an’ such in. I’ll dip them hooks. When I’m done, this thang’ll set right down agin yer door, won’t git nothin’ scratched up, won’t flop around, and when ya need it, all you’ll havta do it grab that li’l ol’ shotgun an’ give her a yank. She’ll come right up in yer hand. That okay?”

  Crockett grinned. “That is just fine, Jelly. Thank you.”

  “That there is on the house, if ya promise that sometime when that shotgun needs cleanin’, you’l
l come by an’ let me touch her off a time or two.”

  “You, my friend, have a deal.”

  Jelly grinned. “I doan care what some a them other cops say,” he said. “I doan think yer gonna be hard ta git along with at all.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sunday was a slow day. Mid-morning, Crockett unlimbered the Beretta .45 and put about two-hundred rounds through it, trying to sharpen his stagnant skill in such matters. He cleaned the pistol on the porch as it rained and went inside in time to watch Dundee as she crept out of the mudroom, checking to see if the coast was clear. Satin was slumped on the couch watching an NCIS re-run.

  “Any better?” she asked. “The other day you couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a bass fiddle.”

  “I think it’s your constant support and perpetual encouragement that most endear you to me,” Crockett said, flopping beside her.

  Satin smiled and patted him on the leg. “That’s what it is, huh?”

  Crockett matched her smile as he watched Jethro Gibbs slap Tony on the back of the head.

  “This is your last day off, Crockett. Tomorrow you go to work.”

  “Yeah. Weird.”

  “How weird?

  “Huh?”

  “How weird?”

  “Whatdaya mean, ‘how weird?’”

  “Weird because you gonna have to get off your ass and function in some sort of customary manner or weird because you are doing something you haven’t done in years and never thought you have to do again?”

  “Both. You’re trying to get me to talk about my feelings, aren’t ya?”

  “Can’t fool you.”

  “What about your feelings?”

  “That’s called deflection, Crockett.”

  “Aw, hell. Satin, let’s nott do this, okay? Look, I promise that if I need to unload a bunch a crap that I will do my best to let that happen. I love you and I trust you. I know that I can tell you anything.”

  “I’d just as soon not know about the time you went on tour with the Village People; but, other than that, you can and I hope you will.”

  “If it makes any difference, Ruby told me once that she believed I’d put down most of my baggage from the old days.”

  “It does,” Satin said, leaning into Crockett’s left side. “Ruby I’d trust. You? Not so much.”

  “Besides, I believe it’s tougher on a cop’s wife than it is on the cop.”

  “I’m not your wife.”

  “It’s not June yet, honey.”

  They vegged out for the rest of the day, munched on leftovers from the fridge for a late meal; and Satin, in the company of Elmore Leonard, hit the sack about ten. At two a.m. she padded downstairs to find Crockett snoring in his recliner in front of the TV as Red Buttons captured a bunch of monkeys with a rocket and a net. She switched off the set and kissed Crockett on the cheek.

  “You can do anything you need to do, David,” she whispered, “except pull away from me.”

  *****

  Crockett took a long shower the next morning, moisturized and powdered his stump, attached what he’d come to call his “off-road” leg, put on one of his new dark t-shirts, a pair of his new slacks, and the same footwear he’d used when training with Clete and Goody. After a Satin-built lunch of bacon and turkey sandwiches with broiled potato wedges, she helped him fine-tune the adjustments on his shoulder holster. The Beretta hung snugly in his left armpit, the grips to the front and the muzzle to the rear.

  “That’s kinda cool,” Satin said. “When you fuck up and it goes off accidentally, you’ll only shoot the innocent bystander behind you.”

  “It pays to have a plan,” Crockett replied and went upstairs.

  For the next hour or so, he rigged and re-rigged his Cargo pants, safari overshirt, and belt, until the placement of everything suited him. Big Beretta in the shoulder holster, little Beretta in a paddle holster just to the right of his center rear belt loop. Handcuffs, with one manacle inside his pants and the other outside, just to the left of that belt loop. On his right side, a double magazine pouch for the .45, just in front of it, a single magazine pouch for the .32. On his left side, the case for his Bucknife and the holder for the whip-stick baton.

  A dozen zip ties, or “flex-cuffs,” went in the right leg pouch of his slacks, his new flashlight into the left. Wallet into the left hip pocket, keys into the left front pocket, money clip into the right front pocket. He slipped his cell phone into the left sleeve pocket of the shirt, his cigarettes and lighter into the left front chest pocket. His badge and ID holder went into the right front chest pocket. A pen and small notebook slipped into the right lower pocket, his sunglasses in their case went into the left lower pocket, and his pepper spray fit nicely into one of two pen pockets on the right sleeve. He put on his new gray ball cap, grabbed his battered old briefcase, and went downstairs. Satin eyeballed him.

  “Damn!” she said. “Except for that skinny ponytail, you look official. Find room for everything?”

  “My right hip pocket is empty,” Crockett replied.

  “Wanna cookie for later?”

  *****

  Crockett arrived at Morton’s Garage a little before two. His truck was crouching out front. He parked Dale’s truck beside the building and walked over to look at the Ram. Jelly joined him.

  “Whatcha think?” he asked.

  “Holy shit, Jelly! Where’s the winch and the recoilless rifle?”

  “They ain’t comin’ in ‘til next week. Did do a couple a extra things, though.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yow. Ya got dual exhaust, now, with some a them low restriction shorty mufflers. Sounds real good. Couldn’t fine no headers for it on short notice. I put in a slick air induction add-on to help that motor get its breath better. Between that an’ them duals and shorties, ya ought git another twenty-five horsepower outa that hemi. Maybe thirty or thirty-five pounds a torque, too. Git your mileage up to around sixteen or seventeen on the highway if ya keep yer foot out of it.”

  “Seventeen. Is that good?”

  “Fer all the extra weight yer carryin’, it damn shore ain’t bad.”

  “How ‘bout in town?”

  “Awful. Takes a lot a juice ta git them big ol’ tires rollin’. Since we lifted it an’ all, I went ahead an’ put them Goodyear twelve-and-a-half thirty-sevens on it. Use yer GPS to check yer speed. Yer speedometer is gonna lie like hell. Them tires is five inches taller’n the ones we took off. Figurin’ with the lift, the helper springs, an’ them tires, that truck’s durn near eight inches taller’ it was. You got lotsa shock travel though. We went ahead an’ put eight new Nitros on it. The drive shafts’ll be fine. They’re new.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Them two little antennas on yer roof is for the police radio and yer car phone. Got all yer switches labeled and in a row on your dash panel. Dale’ll show ya how to use that computer an’ stuff. Got that shotgun hung. Works good.”

  “If there room for me in the truck?”

  “Dale said you usta be a cop a long time ago.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thangs has got a lot smaller. You’ll fit okay. So will somebody else right up there in front with ya.”

  “Jelly, you are an artist. I appreciate everything.”

  “You git any problems, even jest squeaks or rattles, bring ‘er back.”

  “It okay if I leave Dale’s truck here?”

  “Where ya parked it is fine.”

  Crockett retrieved his briefcase, and clambered up into his truck. Jesus! It was jammed with new equipment, but wonderfully done. No wires in the way, everything within easy reach. He put the briefcase on the passenger seat, opened it, took out a carton of Winchester PDX-12 shot shells, lifted the Mossberg Bullpup out of the door holder and loaded five rounds into the magazine, then pumped one into the chamber and added one more to the mag. He replaced the shotgun, put the balance of the shells in the center console, along with a box of Critical Defense .45’s and his sap gloves. He put
the brief case on the rear seat, started the truck, listened to the throaty exhaust for a moment, lit a Sherman MCD, put it in gear, and began his drive to work.

  *****

  As Crockett approached the small courthouse, he noticed Dale standing on the sidewalk with a white male, 50 to 55, slight build, florid complexion, with badly thinning salt and pepper hair, wearing dark blue slacks and a green windbreaker. He parked the truck and got out. Dale, now wearing county sheriff togs, waved him over.

  “Crockett, I’d like you to meet Mayor Underwood. Mister Mayor, this is the newest addition to our circle of law enforcement, David Crockett.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Crockett said, extending his hand. The handshake was dry and firm.

  “Dale says a lot of good things about you, Mister Crockett. He says we’re lucky to have you.”

  “You’re lucky to have him,” Crockett said.

  “Where’s your uniform?”

  “This is it, I guess. Since I’m working for both the county and the city, I thought this might be an acceptable compromise. My cape is in the laundry.”

  Underwood looked him over. “You look a little old for a rookie,” he said.

  Crockett smiled. “I’m a little old for a twenty-year veteran.”

  Underwood smiled back. “I notice you have a ponytail,” he said.

  “Yessir. It, and what you see on my face, are about all the hair I have left. Some people find it objectionable.”

  “Do they?”

  “They do, Mister Mayor. But I can’t take the responsibility for what people think. Only for what I think.”

  “And what do you think, sir?”

  “I think it would be a damn shame to waste a good dog ‘cause his hair was too long.”

  “Are we talking about dogs, Mister Crockett?”

  “I’m not. Let me clarify. I wasn’t looking for a job when I found this one.”