Witness Rejection Page 5

  “Morning,” Crockett said to her greeting. “You serve biscuits and gravy?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Great. B and G and a couple of sausage patties’ll do me just fine.”

  “A full order of biscuits and gravy?” she asked as she poured coffee.

  “Probably should,” Crockett said. “Trying to get my anorexia turned around.”

  “Comin’ up,” she said, and scurried away.

  Crockett put two little containers of cream in the coffee, and leaned back. Nice place. Clean. Relaxed. Quick service. Definitely not Kansas City. He was less than halfway through his coffee when another waitress arrived with a platter of biscuits smothered in cream gravy that was riddled with big chunks of sausage, and two additional patties on a smaller plate. He thanked her, added a little pepper, and took a bite.

  Ambrosia! Without a shadow of a doubt, as good as any B and G he’d ever had. And the gravy was so inundated with sausage, the two patties on the side were superfluous. He wrapped one of them up in a napkin and slipped it in his coat pocket. Things were definitely looking up. Great B and G less than twenty minutes from home. He wondered if he’d ever even try anything else on the breakfast menu. Fifteen minutes later the pup welcomed her sausage treat as Crockett continued south on 169 to I-435 east, then took exit 49B onto 152 east and headed for Liberty to get the lay of the land among the northern tribes.

  Crockett had only been through Liberty once in his life. A closer examination on his current trip revealed a pleasant surprise. Steak & Shake. Thirsty from drinking nothing but coffee with his biscuits and gravy, he maneuvered the truck through conflicting lanes of traffic and made his way to the drive-through to get a Coke. Behind the Steak & Shake sprawled an immense parking lot that served a host of large retail establishments, including a Home Depot that squatted in do-it-yourself splendor on the hazy far horizon. No lover of endless automobile-oriented expanse, when he left Steak & Shake, Crockett foolishly made a bad decision in his effort to return to the highway, and was thrust into that concrete cacophony of aimless autos. His head on a swivel as he attempted to avoid the mindless meanderings of preoccupied motorists in search of the perfect parking place, while allowed to frolic unfettered by either lane or center stripe, Crockett zigged and zagged, executing desperate wifferdills as he attempted to avoid metal-to-metal contact with pre-occupied soccer moms frantic to do a day’s worth of errands in the next twenty minutes, while discussing the merits of the latest all rice cake diet with their sisters-in-law, as they held a cell phone in one hand, a tube of lipstick in the other, and attempted to discern if their butts looked too big in the rearview mirror. After surviving more near misses than the Red Baron, and dealing with ill-designed traffic flow that must have been orchestrated by Stevie Wonder, he made it out of the maelstrom and sat, nearly wheezing, in a left turn lane, missing the simplicity of Kansas City’s Southwest Trafficway at rush hour. The experience was not, however, without value. During the ordeal his bloodshot eyes did happen to notice not only the Home Depot, but also a PetSmart and a Schlotzky’s Deli. Not only that, but during his continued easterly trek on 152, he encountered the retail mecca of the masses, Walmart.

  A stop to stock up on groceries was followed by a return journey to PetsMart for vitamins, a new leash, several overpriced toys, a forty pound bag of dog food, and an Igloo dog house for Dundee. The halt at PetsMart was followed by a cruel lesson on the folly involved in leaving a pup unattended in the cab of a truck that also housed two bags of fresh groceries. On the way home, Crockett, after he short tied the dog to the steering wheel to keep her out of what was left of the provisions, visited the Big V Country Mart in Smithville for two more pounds of ground beef, a repeat pound of shaved honey-cured ham, and another box of vanilla wafer cookies. The visit to the Big V Country Mart was followed by his first encounter with a pile of fresh puppy vomit artfully gracing the driver’s seat of his truck. Suppressing his gag reflex, he tied the dog in the bed of the truck and returned to the store for a roll of paper towels, a package of small garbage bags, and carpet shampoo.

  When he finished cleaning up the mess and shampooing his seat, he took Dundee for a short walk, then returned her to the cab of the truck and continued his odyssey. Less than two blocks down the street, the pup was kind enough to deposit the remainder of her illicit fare on the passenger floorboard. By the time Crockett finished the trip he was sick to his stomach. As he approached his drive he noticed the No Trespassing signs he’d posted along the road had been ripped from the trees. He turned Dundee loose, staggered inside with only the foodstuffs that had to be refrigerated and, panting against his nausea, flopped on the couch, a nearly broken man. The day was not going well.

  By two in the afternoon Crockett felt well enough to put away the rest of the groceries, deposit flea and tick repellant on both Dundee and Nudge, clean the floorboard, and drag the pup’s new doghouse, complete with a custom fit doggie mattress, to the edge of the bus beside the screen room. Finishing that task, he armed himself with the staple gun and, Dundee gamboling at his side, began to walk the gravel road on the south side of his property, re-hanging his recently removed No Trespassing signs. Two-thirds of the way through that project an old blue Chevy pickup with two men in the cab came rattling down the dusty road. When the truck was even with where Crockett was replacing a sign, it stopped. Dundee moved to sit in front of Crockett between him and the truck. Strawhat looked out of the driver’s window and grinned.

  “Hey there!” he said.

  “Mister Boggs,” Crockett said. Strawhat gave a small start at the mention of his name. “Lovely afternoon. Hope you and your brother are doing well today.”

  Stawhat paused a beat and collected his thoughts. “You gotcha one ugly dog there,” he said, looking at the pup.

  Crockett smiled. “Rare breed. South African Shithead Hound. Looks like she’s taken an interest in you.”

  It took Strawhat a moment to realize he’d been insulted. “Why lookie there,” he said. “All yer signs has fell offa them trees.”

  “Must have been the wind. I should have used longer staples.”

  “Deers cain’t read noway,” Strawhat countered, grinning at his wit. “Mebbe you shouldn’t a put none of ‘em up at all.”

  “How ‘bout you, Boggs?”

  “Whut?”

  “How ‘bout you? Can you read?”

  “Hell yes, I can fuckin’ read!”

  “Just in case you can’t, let me make it clear enough that even a somnambulistic refugee from Neanderthalism like you can understand.” Crockett held up a sign. “This means that you and your brother are not welcome on this piece of property without an invitation. I hereby withdraw the invitation I offered you when we met the other day. You’re not welcome here at all. No trespassing, no hunting, no tearing the signs off the trees, nothing. I catch you on the place and I’ll sign a complaint and have you arrested. From what I hear, anybody that busts the two of you won’t be getting a pair of cherries anyway. Any questions?”

  “Yer about a smart-mouth ol’ motherfucker, ain’tcha?”

  Crockett smiled. “Never confuse age with ability, boy. Be on your way. I don’t want my property value driven down.” He turned his back on the truck and began to staple up the sign.

  Strawhat paused for a moment searching for a snappy retort. Failing that, he roared off, scattering dust and gravel in his wake.

  Dundee watched the truck leave. “Boof,” she said.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Crockett said.

  God, his mouth was dry.

  Crockett finished his labor a little after five and stood in the kitchen, peering into his larder thinking about dinner. Shit. What a day. He didn’t want to cook, he didn’t want to do dishes. Hell with it. He took a shower, put on some clean jeans, a well-worn flannel shirt, his light jacket, grabbed his cane and his dog, and headed for Hartrick.

  Arriving in front of Wager’s Café about dusk, he left both windows down around six inches, told
Dundee to stay put, and went inside. The place was a little over half full and conversation dropped a bit as his arrival was inspected. He took an empty booth, slipped off his jacket, and laid it beside him. The room was nicely warm and the texture of the place reminded him of his youth and the Chuck Wagon Diner in his hometown. As comfortable as an old shoe, the joint was populated by people who came there nearly every day for their morning coffee, three or four days a week for lunch, and two or three times a week for dinner, depending on the specials, continuing relationships that they’d been born to. A small town beanery utterly without pretension, populated by denizens who took it for granted and would have been as out of place in Kansas City’s upscale eateries as a hog on a surfboard. He sank into the cracked vinyl, lit a Sherman, and sighed as the tension of the day began to leak away. His waitress arrived. Those hazel eyes again.

  “Hi,” she said. “You were in here the other mornin’ with the Chief, weren’t ya?”

  Crockett smiled. “Nice of you to remember,” he said.

  “Out here we don’t get many strange faces.”

  “Oh. So you think I have a strange face.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “New faces. We don’t get a lot of new faces.”

  “That’s better. You almost hurt my feelings. Name’s Crockett.”

  “Hi, Crockett. I’m Satin.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Satin.”

  Crockett grinned at her and said nothing.

  “What?” Satin said, shifting her weight.

  “Just going over several responses. None of which I know you well enough to vocalize at this point.”

  Satin’s smile was wry. “I’ve heard ‘em all,” she said.

  “I don’t doubt that one little bit. Hell of a temptation though.”

  “Oh, go ahead. Be nice.”

  “Just remembering how wonderful satin feels against my skin.”

  She blushed. “If my old man had talked to me like that, I might not have run him off.”

  Crockett lowered his voice. “Are you, sweet Satin, advertising a vacancy?”

  “Not today. You want something to…uh…are you gonna order anything, or did you just come by to give me a hard time?” Her blush increased. “Oh shit.”

  Crockett laughed. “Actually, I’m on a mission for Chief Smoot.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Uh-huh. I just came by to see if that exhaust fan had been repaired. If this place went topless, the Chief made me promise to notify him right away.”

  Satin changed the subject. “You want some food?” she asked.

  Crockett looked up at her. “You got anything special for me tonight, Satin? On the menu, of course. Anything else would be sexual harassment, and we all know how painful that can be.”

  She held her composure. “Meat loaf, choice of potato, and corn or peas, or pinto bean soup with a salad and corn bread.”

  “Meatloaf, mashed, and peas, please,” Crockett said.

  “Coffee?”

  “God, I hope not.”

  “Water?”

  “With lemon.”

  Comin’ right up,” Satin said, walking away and swinging it a little more than was necessary in the all important search for a bigger tip.

  Crockett smiled. Why not? She’d earned it.

  The food was simple, unadorned, and good. Crockett left Satin a four-dollar tip on a six-dollar meal, caned his way to the counter, and paid his check. As he headed outside, he heard Dundee barking and snarling. The Boggs brothers were teasing her through the partially open passenger side window of his truck. Ballcap was returning her barks and snarls while Strawhat stood beside him and laughed. They didn’t notice Crockett as he moved up behind them.

  A short kick to the back of Ballcap’s knee sent him sprawling to the ground, and Crockett’s cane, pressed violently into the back of Strawhat’s neck, slammed his face into the rear seat passenger window. Crockett dropped the cane and grabbed Strawhat’s neck from behind, pressing his thumbs lightly into the man’s mastoids. Strawhat rose to his toes and began to squeak. Ballcap rolled over in the dirt and engine oil and struggled to get to his feet.

  “Right there!” Crockett snarled. “You stay right there you sonofabitch, or I’ll break your dumbass brother’s neck!”

  Ballcap, his eyes immense with surprise, relaxed to his elbows. Strawhat had frozen in Crockett’s grip, unable to move in fear of the searing pain below his ears. Dundee raged in the cab of the truck, clawing at the window glass to get out.

  Crockett’s voice was low and controlled, heavy with promise and purpose.

  “Now, here’s the deal. You two shitkickers fuck with my dog, my place, my truck, or me again, and I’ll finish what you started here tonight.” He looked at Ballcap. “You, get up and walk away.” Crockett increased the pressure of his thumbs for a beat. Strawhat squealed. His brother scrambled to his feet and backed up onto the sidewalk, out of reach.

  “And you,” Crockett said, easing up on the pressure to Strawhat’s mastoids a little. “I’m gonna let you go, now. Follow your brother. If you turn around, when you wake up in the morning, you’ll be on clean sheets for the first time in your life, with a needle in your arm.”

  “Or worse,” came a voice from behind Crockett. Chief Smoot sidled up beside him.

  Crockett released Strawhat and the man scurried off in pursuit of his brother. When they were well out of range, a string of threats and adjectives floated in their wake. Crockett picked his cane up off the street and leaned on it, panting slightly. Several patrons of the restaurant were peering out the windows at the scene of the action. Smoot relaxed and shifted his stance.

  “I was on the way over to say somethin’ to those boys when you came out of the Café. You’re a sudden sumbitch, aren’t you?”

  “Those assholes pissed me off once today already,” Crockett said. “Guess I got a little out of hand.”

  “Only a little. Can I buy you a cup of coffee while I conduct a police investigation into this incident?”

  “How ‘bout I buy you breakfast in the morning?” Crockett asked. “I need to keep moving right now or when the adrenalin shock hits, it’s gonna knock me on my ass.”

  “Bout eight-thirty?”

  “See ya then,” Crockett said, fumbling in his pocket for his keys.

  “Believe I’ll have a cup without you,” Smoot said, turning toward the café.

  “Not worth it,” Crockett went on. “Satin says they fixed the fan. Topless is out.”

  The Chief shrugged. “Hell,” he said, changing direction. “Might as well just go to the house.”

  The next morning Crockett and Dundee, after just missing being held up by another train, pulled into a parking space in front of Wagers Café about twenty after eight. Chief Dale Smoot came strolling up the sidewalk. It was a pretty morning, the cool and crisp air promising a temperate and balmy spring day. Smoot stopped by Crockett’s truck. When Crockett got out, the pup took her position in the driver’s seat and sat motionless, ears down, staring at the chief.

  “What kind of dog is that?” Smoot asked.

  “She’s a composite,” Crockett said, holding the door open so Smoot could see the pup. “Only had her a few days.”

  “She sure was ready to kick some ass when you had your little talk with the Boggs boys last evenin’.”

  Crockett grinned. “I guess she thinks she’s tough.”

  “She gets her growth, she might be. How old is she?”

  “Around six months. Got her out at Carter Kennels. She’s half Blue Heeler and half Australian Cattle Dog.”

  “Now that’s a helluva cross,” Smoot went on. “Both breeds are damn good dogs. I had an Aussie some years back up in Lincoln. My brother had a pair of Heelers. We argued over those dogs all the time.” He smiled at the memory and went on. “They got any more like her?”

  “Nope. The people that had this one returned her. They were moving to an apartment in the city and gave her up.”

  “She’ll
get better lookin’,” the chief said. “Her legs’ll even out by the middle of summer. She won’t look so much like a hyena. Got a glass eye, too. Nice pup.”

  “Thanks.”

  During the entire conversation, the dog had continued to watch Smoot. The chief grinned.

  “She don’t think much of me.”

  “Step back a ways,” Crockett said.

  As Smoot complied, he called the pup out of the truck. She jumped down and sat in front of him, continuing to stare at the chief.

  Smoot laughed. “She’s got the right attitude, ready to defend her little pack.”

  Crockett walked around the pup, stood beside the chief, and put his hand on the big man’s shoulder.

  “Her name’s Dundee,” he said. “Call her and say hello.”

  “Dundee,” Smoot said. The pup’s ears came up. “C’mere,” he went on, squatting down and extending a loose fist, palm toward the pavement. “You’re a pretty girl.”

  The pup walked to him and sniffed his hand. Slowly and carefully Smoot caressed the side of her face and one ear. The pup shot a sideways glance at Crockett.

  “Good girl,” Crockett said. “Sit, please.”

  The pup’s bottom hit the concrete and her stub of a tail began to wag.

  Smoot chuckled. “Do you shake?” he asked.

  Dundee raised her right paw. He took it gently in his hand and released it. “Now gimme the other one,” he said. The pup complied. Smoot laughed and roughed up her ears. Dundee grinned and accelerated her wag.

  “Damn nice pup, Crockett,” Smoot said, grunting his way to his feet. “She’s gonna make you a good dog.”

  Crockett patted the driver’s seat. Dundee jumped onto the truck’s floorboard and clambered her way up to sit behind the steering wheel. He shut the door and followed Smoot into the café. They took a booth near the back. Satin showed up thirty seconds later.

  “Oh, hell,” she said. “As if my day wasn’t bad enough, now I got the two of you to deal with.”