Six Cut Kill Read online

  “That’s fine,” Crockett replied, reaching for his wallet.

  “You’ll wanna get him to the vet in a week or two for his second series of shots and consider having him neutered pretty soon.”

  “Quiet,” Crockett said. “He’ll hear you.”

  Sharon grinned. “Just say please,” she said.

  Crockett handed over the money. “Had a couple of dogs go missing out in Stonebrook Estates a night or two ago,” he said. “Both the owners believe they were stolen.”

  “What kinda dogs?”

  “Springer Spaniel and a Golden Retriever.”

  “They show dogs? Big money dogs?”

  “Nobody said so.”

  “They’d have mentioned it if they were. Taken from yards?”

  “Yeah. Fenced.”

  “Popular breeds. Fairly expensive with papers, registration, and all. Stolen, though, they got no papers. Maybe somebody just wanted a new dog.”

  “Yeah, but two somebody’s?”

  “A little strange,” Sharon said. “There used to be a pretty fair market for research animals at labs, but that’s fallen off. I don’t know of any place around here that would do that kind of work, anyway.”

  “Any other reason you can think of?”

  “Bait dogs maybe, but I don’t think that kind of thing goes on around here, either.”

  “Bait dogs?”

  “Yep. Dogs used as victims to bait dogs some dirty bastard is trying to bully and beat into becoming a fighting dog. Pits, Rotties, and breeds like that. People like that should be fed to the dogs they ruin.”

  Crockett’s memory flashed back a few years to Rachael’s death, the loss of his leg, and the child abuse ring he’d dealt with.

  “Sometimes they are,” he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  To get the dogs used to riding together and to make Dundee understand that when two dogs were in the truck, they rode in the back seat, Crockett took the long way home, detouring through Smithville. He pulled into McDonalds and ordered a Big Mac and fries. When the meal came, he fed each dog a few of the fries and the patties from the sandwich, a bite at a time. After putting the leftovers back in the bag, he petted both dogs and confessed they were the two best canines in the whole truck. The new dog was happy for the attention and returned it with licks and wiggles. He got a little too rowdy at one point and, before Crockett could settle him down, Dundee took care of the matter with a low growl and a toothy punch to the male’s neck. It seemed obvious to Crockett that she had assumed the role of administrator in the relationship. Good. The new pup deferred to her without complaint. He was a handsome dog, blue-gray in color with a white and blue mottled tail that was thick and heavy for a dog his size. One side of his face was blue, there was a snip of a white blaze on his forehead, and the other side of his face was black. The empty eye socket, grown closed, was on the black side and hardly noticeable.

  When they reached the cabin, the pup clambered out of the truck, skidding on his chin in the drive before bouncing to his feet and beginning to explore. Dundee followed him as he sniffed around the yard and house. When he climbed the steps to the deck, Nudge levitated to the railing from his position on the swing and, with slitted eyes and lashing tail, hissed at the newcomer and began a low throaty moan that didn’t seem to require breath intake. The pup retreated from the deck and gamboled off toward the lake, ignoring the cat completely. Dundee trailed after him. Grinning, Crockett opened the sliding door to go inside, but Nudge beat him, issuing a hiss in Crockett’s direction before going upstairs to hide under the bed. Crockett grabbed some cold fried chicken out of the fridge, a bag of chips from the cabinet by the sink, and returned to the deck to sit in the swing and snack. Ten minutes later the pup, still being trailed by a watchful Dundee, appeared on the shore of the lake, galloped up onto the deck, and came over to Crockett to say hello. Crockett scratched his ears, patted Dundee, and gave both hounds a chip. Dundee wolfed hers immediately, but the new dog lay down, dropped the chip between his front legs, and began to happily wag his tail as he bit off tiny pieces and daintily chewed each one. When Crockett finished his chicken, he took the dogs inside and kicked back in his recliner for a nap. Dundee crashed on the couch. The new dog flopped on the floor by the glass door.

  “Not a house dog, pup?” Crockett said.

  The pup thumped his tail and remained where he was.

  Crockett’s snooze was shattered by barking and snarling from the new dog raging at the sliding door. On the other side of the glass stood Satin, hands on her hips, as she peered into the living area. Grinning, Crockett lurched to his feet and limped to the door.

  “Quit it!” he barked, and the pup settled down and backed away, his eyes constantly on the intruder. Crockett eased the door open enough that he could exit onto the deck. Satin peered at him.

  “There seems to be an additional dog in our living room,” she said.

  “Got him this afternoon. I didn’t expect you for another hour or two.”

  “Got off early. We have two dogs now?”

  “Dundee needed a friend. Nudge is getting too slow to keep up with her. I went back to Carter’s Kennels and got another reject.”

  “Reject?”

  “Yeah. He’s only got one eye. Sharon said she’d keep him if she needed another stud. She likes him.”

  “He doesn’t seem to care much for me.”

  “To know you is to love you, darling. The two of you just need to get acquainted.”

  “And how might that happen without the loss of blood?”

  “Just follow me inside and sit down. Don’t look at him, don’t talk to him, and don’t touch him. He’ll sniff you. When he comes to you quietly and with respect, then pet him. Those are the rules. He knows ‘em. He likes a light back massage.”

  “So do I,” Satin said. “It’s the respect I have a problem with.”

  “And the quiet,” Crockett countered, and went inside.

  Following the instructions, Satin entered and sat on the couch as if the new dog didn’t exist. He watched her for a few moments, then approached where she sat and sniffed her from ankles to knees while Dundee stood beside Satin and kept an eye on him. Presently the pup, satisfied with the newcomer, retreated to beside Crockett’s chair and sat down.

  “Well done,” Crockett said. “Now call him to you. If he comes quietly, tail down and head low, then pet him.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s all for now.”

  “I just call him?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Crockett pondered the question for a moment. “Well,” he said, “we have Dundee. Maybe we need Donk.”

  Satin smiled and looked at the pup. “C’mere, Donk,” she said.

  He did.

  Donk settled in nicely over the next few days, and Nudge accepted the interloper with his usual feline grace. The pup’s first contact with the pontoon boat was a little dicey, but he soon got his sea legs. His first contact with Stitch was a little dicey also but, after a thorough sniffing of the stranger, including his beard, Donk seemed satisfied and Stitch passed with flying colors.

  “Dundee and Donk, huh?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You gonna change your name to Wally?”

  “Probably not.”

  “You ain’t gonna be stockin’ the lake with no crocodiles are ya?”

  Crockett grinned. “Not this year.”

  “Good,” Stitch went on. “If you decide to go walkabout, leave me the keys to the Beezer.”

  By Thursday Satin was well acquainted with her new job and duties and seemed to be enjoying herself. After she left to go to Kid Country, Crockett loaded up the pooches and headed into Hartrick for lunch. No cars were parked at the Sheriff Office, so he motored to the café shortly after lunch rush and settled into the back booth. His open-faced turkey sandwich had just arrived when Dale Smoot wandered back and sat down. The big man peered at him.

&nb
sp; “Two dogs?” he asked.

  “Yep. Dundee and Donk.”

  Smoot shook his head. “What’s next?” he asked. “You gonna get a boomerang?”

  “Naw. Got guns.”

  “New club is open over on County C south of the tracks just outside the Sutton town limits.”

  “Oh yeah? I don’t think I’ve ever had a call over there. Not even in the low-income housing. Pretty quiet.”

  “Didn’t used to be. Then The Waterhole shut down.”

  “The Waterhole?”

  “Yeah. Rough joint. Lotsa bikers, shifters, drifters and grifters. Couple of fights every weekend. Occasional knifing, girl fights, lowlife shit like that. Pills and meth. Big assholes in leather jackets on hogs. Trade outa Kaycee, North Kaycee, Smithville, Liberty, some even from clear over in Saint Joe. Now the place is open again. I didn’t know a thing about it until a couple of days ago. I had a chat with the county fathers about issuing a goddam liquor license without even telling me.”

  “No shit?”

  “I drove by there this morning. Half a dozen chunks of two-wheeled iron and a couple of pickups in the parking lot and a new sign over the ratty-assed front door.”

  “Gonna be trouble?”

  “They named the joint Whiskey River. What do you think?”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Yup.”

  Crockett chewed a bite of mashed potatoes thoughtfully for a moment, then spoke up. “Maybe I’ll drift by there this afternoon,” he said. “Check it out. Omnipresence of the police and stuff like that.”

  “Uh-huh. You’re not fixin’ to start trouble are ya?”

  “Gosh, no, Sheriff. That would be foolish.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Just might be good to let everybody know that the local law is a little different than it was last time the joint was open.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I’ll take both dogs.”

  “Shit,” Smoot said.

  Crockett let the dogs run around when they got back to the cabin while he changed clothes. He put on his shoulder holster with the 686-plus Smith and Wesson and covered it with his leather jacket. Pepper spray went in the left front pocket, his whip-stick in the right front pocket, and the little Beretta .32 in his right rear hip pocket. He scrounged around in a box in the shed until he came up with the black Buco shorty helmet he used a thousand years ago, locked the dogs in the house and, after ten or twelve kicks, got the BSA Goldstar running. Twenty-five minutes later, he bumped across the tracks in Sutton.

  Whiskey River was about a half-mile south on the west side of the road. It looked to be a vintage metal World War II Quonset hut, perhaps forty-by-sixty, with the half-circular roofline typical to the species that sloped all the way to the ground. It was covered by a new coat of dark green paint and brown trim, and sported a sign above a double front door that stood open to the dark interior. A Budweiser delivery truck sat to one side in the dusty parking area and sitting at the front of the lot were several large motorcycles. Crockett noticed a couple of dresser hogs, a panhead chopper, a knucklehead chopper complete with the most ridiculous ape hanger bars he’d ever seen, a Sportster or two, a metal flake blue Harley Trike, and two or three pickup trucks. As he was getting off the bike and hanging his helmet on the clutch lever, two denizens from the interior of the building appeared on the porch. One was nearly a head taller and seventy-five pounds heavier than Crockett and had a scraggly black beard that tangled halfway down his chest over a stained and sleeveless t-shirt under a brown leather vest. His belly sagged mercilessly over a highly stressed black studded belt. The other was skinny and shirtless, wearing a black leather vest that had “Ride or Die” embroidered above a front pocket. Both men stopped to peer at him and the bike.

  “What the hell is that?” Belly asked.

  “That,” Crockett replied, taking off his shades and walking toward the porch, “is a 1963 BSA A-10 Goldstar Spitfire Scrambler.”

  “Sumbitch looks cherry.”

  “More than just cherry,” Crockett replied. “This one’s even had the pits removed.”

  “That’s British, ain’t it?” Skinny asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I ain’t got much use for Brit shit.”

  “Ever owned one?” Crockett asked.

  “Hell no.”

  “That explains it.”

  Belly chuckled, and Skinny flared a bit. “That knuckhead with the hangers over there is what I ride.”

  “Had one just like it,” Crockett said. “Had to sell it, though.”

  Sensing something coming, Belly jumped in. “Had to sell it, huh?” he asked.

  Crockett grinned. “Yep,” he said.

  “How come did ya have to sell it?” Belly went on, setting Crockett up.

  “Couldn’t afford the oil,” Crockett said.

  Belly went a little south. Crockett stayed the course.

  “Polluted the groundwater in an entire subdivision,” he said. “The EPA came out and threatened me with environmental terrorism charges, so I sold it. Took all the money, had two beers and bought a new belt buckle. Pretty good deal, actually.”

  Belly continued his southward journey. Skinny missed the humor.

  “You about a smartassed ol’ sumbitch, ain’t cha?” he said.

  “Take it easy, youngster,” Crockett said. “I’m just fuckin’ with you. You fat mouthed an entire breed of bikes. I just took a shot at one, and it wasn’t even yours. What are you so upset about?”

  “I ride a Harley, goddammit!”

  “Again,” Crockett said, “that explains it.”

  Belly, who was regaining some control, whooped and headed back south.

  Skinny hopped down off the porch and took a step in Crockett’s direction. “I had all a you I want!” he said.

  “Golly, sir,” Crockett replied, “no need to get all upset. I was just joking with you. That’s a fine looking sled. Second best knucklehead I’ve seen all day.”

  “Second best?” Skinny asked, glancing around the lot. “Where’s the first?”

  Crockett smiled. “I’m looking at him,” he said.

  Skinny started to take another step but came up short as Belly reached down from the porch and grabbed him by the neck of the vest.

  “Knock it off, Earl,” he said, pulling Skinny backwards. “You started it. This ol’ boy’s just too smart for ya. Settle down an’ shut the fuck up.”

  “Motherfucker,” Skinny grumbled, and stepped back. Belly stepped down between him and Crockett.

  “You always ride English?” he asked.

  “Used to have a Norton,” Crockett replied. “Also had a Sportster and a ’58 FLH Duo-Glide.”

  “No shit, a FLH?”

  “Yeah. With white leather saddlebags and hangy-down fringe. The fringe on the left side was shorter than on the right, though.”

  Belly grinned. “’Cause you liked turning to the left more, huh?”

  Crockett chuckled. “You got me,” he said, holding out his hand. “Call me Crockett.”

  “Anybody looking?” Belly asked.

  “Don’t think so,” Crockett said.

  Belly engulfed his hand. “Gotta be careful,” he said, “you ridin’ British an’ all. Call me Bison.”

  “This place open for business yet?”

  “It is if I say it is.”

  “Great. Think Earl’s thirsty?”

  “Earl’s always thirsty.”

  “If you don’t think it’ll be bad for your image, the beer’s on me.”

  “That’s okay,” Bison said. “We can talk about your Glide.”

  A twenty-foot bar extended into the rear of the room from the right side, backed by what might be called a kitchen. The rest of the rear was consumed with restrooms, a storage area and an office. The left side of the space contained a shuffleboard table, a pool table, and two traditional pin-ball machines. The balance of the area was populated by around fifteen four-spot tables with chairs at about half of them
. Two or three worthies were hanging fluorescent beer signs and banners. Posters of attractive young women posed seductively on outrageous motorcycles were taped to the walls. A few scruffy individuals occupied chairs on the perimeter of the space. Bison walked to a table near the center of the room and sat down. Crockett and Earl joined him. In just a moment, they were approached by a broad male individual about five and a half feet tall with solid tattoos up both arms until they disappeared under the sleeves of his Harley Davidson t-shirt. He wore heavy engineer boots, black jeans, black leather wrist bands, had two rings in his left eyebrow, a liberal smattering of freckles on a ruddy complexion, and not a trace of hair on his head. His arms and shoulders were massive. He looked down at everybody.

  “What the hell you assholes want?” His voice was dry and scratchy.

  “Beers, you ungrateful bastard,” Bison growled.

  “I ain’t open for business yet.”

  “You ain’t been knocked down today yet either, have ya?”

  “Twice,” the bald man said, “but I’m plucky.”

  Bison grinned. “This here’s Crockett. He’s buyin’.”

  “For you too, if you wanna have a seat,” Crockett said.

  “You might wanna be careful who you associate with,” Bison went on. “He rides English.”

  The eyebrow rings shot upward. “English?”

  “That’s what I said. An old Goldstar Spitfire. Mint.”

  “If he’s spending money, I don’t give a shit if he’s ridin’ a fuckin’ pony. I’ll get the beer.”

  He returned to the table in a moment with a pitcher and four mugs, sat, and looked at Crockett as he extended a fist. “Joker,” he said.

  “Crockett,” Crockett replied and bumped knuckles with him.

  Joker poured beers all around and turned to Crockett. “What brings you out this way,” he asked.

  “Just heard about the place opening up this afternoon. Fired up the stove and came out to see what was going on. You’re not officially open?”