CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Crockett spent the rest of the day slowly accumulating the things he’d need to make the move. On one pass through the kitchen area he stopped to refill his coffee in time to see Stitch hang up the phone.
“Who was that?”
“Ah, I was just givin, ol’ Clete the, like, go-ahead, man.”
“The go-ahead?”
“Yeah.”
“For what?”
“To ship the cars.”
“The cars?”
“Yeah. I, like, got the address from the paperwork that ol’ dude in the hat had.”
“The cars.”
“Yeah. But ya can’t keep ‘em, Crockett. They’re, like, rented or somethin’, dude.”
“What cars?”
“They’ll deliver ‘em day after tomorrow, man. Somebody’ll, like, havta be there, ya know?”
“Stitch, what cars?”
“The ones Clete’s sendin’, man.”
Crockett’s frustration surfaced. “Jesus Christ, Stitch. What fucking cars?”
“Oh wow, man! You don’t know, do ya?”
“It would seem that I do not.”
“The Ford and the Mercedes, dude.”
“The Ford and the Mercedes.”
“Yeah. The ones you said you needed.”
“What?”
“You said you might need some transportation to, like, impress these assholes, man. Clete’s sendin’ ya a Ford and a Mercedes. Where you been, dude?”
To keep from tearing out what little hair he had left, Crockett quietly sat down and lit a Sherman. He looked at Stitch.
“Tell me about the Ford,” he said.
“Aw, it’s cherry, man. Really beautiful, ya know?”
“A Ford.”
“Yeah! A 1964 T-Bird rag-top, dude. Fire engine red with a white interior. Completely restored to, you know, like, new. Even got them skinny whitewalls, man. 390, four-barrel, swing away steering wheel, white top, carpet, and leather. Way cool, dude. Out-fucking-standing, ya know?”
“Wow.”
“No shit, wow. Ha!” Stitch said, and began to walk away.
“Wait a minute. What about the Mercedes?”
“Oh, yeah. Clete’s sendin’ ya one a them, too.”
Crockett rubbed his forehead and stared at the countertop for a moment.
“Stitch,” he said, “what kind of Mercedes is Clete sending me?”
“Ah, it’s a M-class, man.”
“An M-class.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know what that is, Stitch. Perhaps you should explain.”
“Sure, dude. It’s, like, a SUV, man. Six speed auto tranny, electronic all-wheel drive, ah, all tricked out an’ a pretty good off-roader. Gotcha the big gas motor, too, Slick. 6.3 liter V8. Five hundred and three horse power. That fucker’ll crank, ya know?”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah! About ninety grand, man.”
“Ninety thousand dollars?”
“Yeah. It’s fairly cheap. The T-bird’s worth well over a hundred thou, dude.”
“What?”
“Yeah. “The Mercedes is nice, Crockett, but it wasn’t my pick.”
“It wasn’t?”
“Nah. I wanted to get ya the Mercedes SLR McLaren Roadster, man, but it was pretty costly, ya know?”
“How costly?”
“Ah, its base price is almost a half a mil, dude.”
“Five hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yeah. So Clete got ya the M-class.”
“I see.”
“He got a Ford, too, man. A ’64 red convertible T-Bird, dude. 390, four-barrel, white interior…”
“Stitch?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you taking your medication?”
“My what?”
Crockett stared at him for a moment. Stitch grinned.
“Gotcha, dude,” he said, and walked away.
The girls returned in the late afternoon. Crockett and Stitch unloaded the truck while they sat in the kitchen drinking iced tea. After the groceries were put away, there were still several bags left.
“What else did you two spendthrifts bring home,” Crockett asked.
“Mostly things for you,” Satin said, kissing him on the cheek.
“Me?”
“Sure. A nice pair of Italian loafers, a pair of hand-sewn buffalo suede chukka boots, three pairs of designer jeans, five safari-style Egyptian cotton shirts, a couple of lightweight alpaca sweaters, two pairs of cargo slacks, some socks that are not white, and other stuff. A couple of windbreakers, belts, a Seiko chronograph with an alligator band, some good sunglasses. The best The Plaza had to offer.”
“I got clothes upstairs,” Crockett grumbled.
“You have Crockett clothes. You did not have rich-guy clothes. Now you do.”
“Aw, Jesus. How much did all that cost?”
“Including Danni’s stuff, the Levi jacket we got for Stitch, and your…”
“You guys got me a new Levi jacket?” Stitch said.
Satin smiled. “Sorta,” she said, as Danni handed him a bag.
Stitch pulled out a Levi-style jacket in medium brown goat-skin, as pliable as linen, as durable as cowhide, and as light as denim.
“Oh, wow, man! This is, like, just fuckin’ right, ya know? Far out!”
Stitch got to his feet and kissed both ladies on the cheek.
“So,” Satin went on, “Danni’s stuff, your stuff, Stitch’s jacket, and a couple of little things for me, all came to around six thousand dollars. Maybe seven. I haven’t added up all the receipts yet.”
“Holy shit!”
“Live a little, you grouch,” Satin went on. “You needed this stuff to be who you’re supposed to be. These are nice clothes, Crockett. You’ll like ‘em.”
“Who’s gonna iron the shirts?”
“A dry cleaner, you cave man. And the slacks, and the jeans. Give up. You’re not gonna win this one.”
Crockett glared at her for a moment. Satin laid a shit-eating grin on him and blew him a kiss.
“Oh, hell,” Crockett muttered.
“There’s a good boy,” Satin said. “What a sweetie.”
“All right, all right. Figure up how much all this cost and I’ll write you a check.”
“Big Sur Imports’ll write her the check, man,” Stitch said. “Daniel Beckett will sign it.”
“Just once I’d like to know what it’s like not to be out numbered.”
Danni smiled at him. “Fat chance,” she said.
An hour or so after a late supper, Stitch and Danni headed for the trailer and Satin pulled out clothes for Crockett to try on. It went better than she thought it would.
“This is really nice stuff.”
“There’s more reason than just the label to account for the cost,” Satin said.
“The jeans and pants fit great, I love these shirts, and I don’t wear sweaters,” Crockett went on. “But I’ll wear these. The loafers won’t cut it though.”
“They won’t?”
“Sorry. Slip-on type shoes aren’t secure enough for my fake foot. They can come off too easily. I need something more substantial.”
“Are the chukkas okay?”
“Oh yeah. They’re fine.”
“I’ll take the loafers back and get another pair of the boots. They have them in oxblood, too.”
“Great. All bullshit aside, Sweetheart. It was very thoughtful of you to do this.”
“Naw,” Satin replied, rooting around in a bag and retrieving a black jeweler’s box. “It was necessary. You’d have just screwed it up. This is thoughtful.”
Crockett took the box from her hand and opened it. Inside was a massive I.D. bracelet on a heavyweight chain. Engraved on the panel was one word. “Beckett.” The tag read 22-carat gold.
“Damn,” Crockett breathed, turning the bracelet over in his hands.
“The jeweler assured me it would be no problem to buff off the engraving and replace it with another name,” Satin said. “When all this is over, we might consider that.”
Crockett smiled. “I think we might.”
“And the bracelet does not go on the list,” Satin went on. “It is from me.”
As Crockett lifted his head to look at her, he felt a tear slide down the left side of his face.
“Aw,” Satin said. “What a softy.”