CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

 

“This is the transmitter,” Bergman said, holding up a black circular device about twice the thickness and half the diameter of a poker chip.

The breakfast dishes were cleared away and the group was still clustered around the snack bar. In front of Irwin was what appeared to be nothing more sinister that a Plano tackle box.

“This tiny wire you see protruding from the side is not a wire at all. In fact, it is the microphone.”

“It’s so small,” Danni said.

“Actually,” Bergman went on, “there are smaller ones. Much smaller. But from what Mister Marshal told me, I decided that level of technology would not be necessary for such a rudimentary event as this.”

Crockett grinned. “Rudimentary, huh?”

“Perhaps I should have said uncomplicated. At any rate, this particular device has the power to send a signal eight hundred meters or so for several days. Perhaps even two weeks. I assume that is all that you might require?”

“That’ll be fine,” Crockett said. “How do we install this thing?”

Bergman handed the transmitter to Crockett. “You will notice,” he said, “a circular fabric patch on one side? Simply remove it to expose the adhesive below and stick the device to a smooth flat surface.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. The removal of the patch activates the battery and the device will begin to function.”

“How much area will it cover?”

“It should be adequate for a room fifteen feet on a side with a ceiling height of eight to ten feet.”

“There could be a problem,” Crockett went on. “This is a motorcycle shop. Engines are run from time to time. Even in Leoni’s office, the sound can get pretty pervasive.”

“In telephony,” Bergman said, “the useable voice frequency band ranges from about three hundred hertz to thirty-four hundred hertz, in spite of the fact that the typical male voice has a fundamental frequency between eighty-five and one hundred fifty-five hertz. And yet, that voice can still be heard. Why, you may ask? Because enough of the harmonic series will be present for the missing fundamental to create the impression of hearing the fundamental tone. The same is true for this device, plus we shall not require the same quality as a telephone and can limit the frequency range a bit more, allowing some flexibility in sensitivity and therefore overcome a great deal of the ambient noise one might expect to interfere with effective transmission of the desired range.”

“Ah, does that mean we’re okay?”

“I should think so. Plus, I can wash and adjust frequencies somewhat with the computer.”

“So all I have to do is put that thing in Leoni’s office and we’re in business?”

“After I’m set up at the motel, yes. Mister Marshal has rented a room on the second floor under the name of Clint Marsh. The balcony will serve well as an obstruction free area to place the receiver.”

Clete bristled. “How the hell do you know so much about the motel?”

Bergman looked at him and smiled.

“Never mind,” Clete said.

“Mister Marshal and I will depart for the set-up later this morning. You’ll be free to place the device two hours after that.”

“So you’ll monitor it from here?” Crockett asked.

“I could, but I find the less complicated the project the better the chance for avoiding Murphey’s Law. I’ll visit the motel each day and see what the computer has to say. Anything vital I’ll store for later retrieval and, of course, tell you what was said when I return.”

“Word for word, I suppose.”

“As I stated at about nine fourteen last evening, I can’t forget anything.”

 

Clete phoned from the motel a little before noon. “Crockett,” he said “we got a black box on the balcony, a computer an’ a bunch a other stuff on the table, wires runnin’ everywhere, and we’re good to go. I’m on the way to pick up some lunch. We’re stayin’ at the motel until you’re set up. You got the widget?”

“I have two widgets, thank you. Bergman says redundancy is desirable.”

Clete laughed. “Son, that kid is good. He called the desk and told them that nobody was to come in the room if a knock wasn’t answered. The motel folks argued with him about housecleaning schedules and such. The boy digs around in his stuff for a while an’ comes up with this silver box, pops a couple a batteries in it, an’ sticks it on the inside of the door to the card key lock with a magnet. Then he drags out his own key card, looks at me and giggles. Now nobody in the whole place can get through their own damn door unless he lets ‘em. Ol’ Bergman is a mess!”

“He even talked to Whisper a little this morning,” Crockett said. “We may have a hard time getting rid of him.”

“Whisper gits done with him, we may just have to dispose a the body. Anyways, when ya figure on goin’ to the shop?”

“Around one thirty or so. I’ll call you when we’re on the way.”

“You carryin’?”

“I’ll take the Smith.”

“Smarter’n you look, Crockett. Watch yer ass. I’d hate ta hafta console Miz Satin.”

 

Leoni was standing in the empty showroom when Crockett and Stitch entered the shop. Very deliberately, Stitch eased his left hand under the right side of his jacket and leaned against a wall. Wook shifted his stance and let his hands fall below the top of the parts counter. Stitch grinned. His voice was low and firm.

“Don’t get stupid, Chewbacca,” he said, slowly withdrawing his hand. In it he held a grenade. He pulled the pin.

Wook’s face paled instantly. His hands thumped as he slapped them down on the top of the parts counter. Leoni gasped and took a step backwards.

“Walk out here and go sit on a bike where I can see you,” Stitch said.

Carefully, Wook complied.

“Smart,” Stitch said, putting the pin back in the grenade and replacing it under his jacket. “The Eagle fifty is here too,” he said. “You feel like fuckin’ with that?”

“No,” Wook said.

Stitch looked at Leoni. “Lock the front door, shithead.”

Leoni skittered to the doorway. His hands were trembling as he turned the lock.

“I believe we’re all set here, Mister Beckett,” Stitch said.

“Thank you. Mike, why don’t we go to your office?”

 

Leoni hit the chair behind his desk like he hadn’t sat down in a week. Crockett stared at him.

“Relax. You’re okay. Everybody’s still breathing. No blood, no foul.”

“I, ah…Jesus, Mister Beckett. I’m really sorry that…I mean, I think I owe you an apology.”

“All right,” Crockett said. “Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Go ahead and apologize.”

“Ah… I…ah…”

Crockett grimaced. “Oh, shut the hell up. I’m kidding, for chrissakes.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you, Mister Beckett.”

“Call me Dan. You look a little pale. You got any water or something in here?”

“Out front.”

“Go get some, come back, and settle down. We’ve got business to discuss.”

“Yessir,” Leoni replied, and left the room.

Quickly Crockett stuck one bug under the front right overhang of Leoni’s metal desk and another on the bottom of his desk chair. He lifted a gram bag of cocaine and a quarter ounce bag of marijuana out of his jacket pocket, dropped them on the desk, and sat down just as Leoni returned, clutching a water bottle. He gave Leoni time to take a seat before he spoke.

“Tell me, Mike, has it crossed your mind that you may be a little out of your league here?”

“Yes, it has.”

“Good. I want you to think about that. I also want you to think about how much better your little import business might be if you had something to ship back to Italy in addition to motorcycles. I’ve left you some samples. You test ride my product. In a couple of days, when you’ve got your balls out of your throat and your dick outa your ass, I’ll drop by and we’ll have our chat. There’s just one thing I’d like for you to do for me.”

“Yessir?”

“Settle Wook down. If you don’t, he won’t be here anymore.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Good. Now go unlock the door.”

 

As Crockett crossed through the showroom behind Leoni, Stitch turned his back on Wook and followed them to the door. The two men didn’t speak until they were back in the Mercedes.

“A grenade?” Crockett said. “A fuckin’ hand grenade? What are you, stupid?”

Stitch went south.

“Oh fine. Yuk it up, laughing boy. Jesus Christ, Stitch! What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Settle down, motherfucker,” Stitch laughed. “It’s a fuckin’ dummy. My ol’ man brought it back from basic training with the jarheads, dude. He was always gonna have it made into a cigarette lighter.”

“A dummy?”

“Yeah. I ain’t gonna fuck around with no ancient piece a World War Two ordinance, man. That shit is way too old to be reliable.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were gonna pull that thing out?”

“An’, like, spoil the surprise, man? I had to sell it, Crockett.”

“Jesus.”

“Did you check out Wook, man? That fucker was gonna do somethin’ really dumb. I don’t know what he had behind that counter, dude, but I bet that asshole was fixin’ to start a gunfight. I had to stop him. Now he thinks I don’t give a shit if we all die. In his head that makes me more dangerous to him than he is to me. See?”

“Yeah. I guess so. But Jesus, Stitch. I about soiled myself.”

“Didn’t show, man. I guess that’s what they mean when they say somebody kept his shit together, huh?”

 

Cletus and Bergman arrived back at the house late in the afternoon. Stitch and Crockett were waiting.

“Son,” Clete said, “them old boys is as guilty as Judas.”

“No shit?”

“None at all,” Irwin replied. “They spoke quite freely, although communication lagged a bit after they inhaled some of the samples you left with them.”

Stitch chuckled. “Ya think?” he said.

Irwin looked at Crockett. “Mister Leoni was quite adamant with Mister Wook about his conduct toward you,” he replied. “‘You stupid shit. You goddammed nearly got us all blown to hell,’ were his exact words I believe. They discussed Stitch at some length. It would seem they consider him to be, to a large degree, irrational.”

Crockett grinned. “I’ve never doubted it.”

“Musta been the grenade,” Stitch said.

Clete took the floor and related the rest of what they’d overheard, including that both men were surprised at the quality of Crockett’s goods and how Leoni’s contacts in Italy would likely handle all the cocaine that could be shipped. The two men agreed that the marijuana could easily be sold locally.

“Dumbasses,” Stitch said. “Man, ya don’t fuckin’ shit where ya eat. They probably think they’re gonna bag up some a the reefer and sell it themselves. Whatdaya bet them assholes been cuttin’ some smack and sellin’ it on the street, too. Jesus! No fuckin’ wonder they had some undercover slick on their ass.”

“Now what?” Clete asked.

“Now we go out to dinner,” Crockett said.

“Dinner?”

“Yeah. Italian. On me. Bravo over in Zona Rosa. You’ll love it.”

“I ain’t worried about no dinner, son. I wanna know whatcha got your mind.”

“Mamma’s lasagna and the house salad,” Crockett replied, grabbing the T-Bird’s keys. “You guys go on ahead. I’ll pick up Satin and meetcha there.”

Clete looked at his friend’s retreating back. “Goddammit,” he muttered. “I hate it when he does shit like this.”

“Italian grits,” Stitch said, slapping Cletus on the arm. “Ol’ Crockett can’t think on a empty stomach.”

“Must be how he got that way,” Clete said. “Thinkin’ too much.”

 

Crockett didn’t make it back to the lake house until about ten the next morning. Stitch, Danni, and Clete were sitting at the snack bar, each showing some of the effects of a really good Pino Noir from the evening before.

“’Bout time,” Clete said.

“Good morning, children!” Crockett said. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

Clete’s eyes flickered to the drizzle-spattered windows. “Lovely,” he said.

“Where’s Irwin?” Crockett asked.

“He’s all excited about the bugs an’ shit,” Stitch replied. “Went over to the motel about a hour ago.”

“Whisper went with him,” Danni said. “Said she didn’t want him to be bored over there all by himself.”

Crockett grinned. “Shame to waste a perfectly good motel room.”

“He was stewed last night,” Danni went on. “Said the only wine he’d ever had was Manischewitz, and then just for the holidays. The pino we had wasn’t as sweet as he liked, but it was pretty good.”

“I bet that before this day is over he’s gonna have somethin’ pretty good that ain’t got nothing to fuckin’ do with the holidays,” Stitch said. “Ol’ Bergman is gonna leave here a changed man.”

“And crippled,” Clete added. “What are we up to now, Crockett?”

“I think we’ll let Leoni stew for a day of two, then discover that person or persons unknown have bugged his office.”

Clete smiled. “That oughta blow his dress up.”

“Exactly. If he gets scared, he might open up a little. I wonder if Irwin can fix me up with a wire?”

“I watched him set up the room,” Clete said. “That guy could wire your underwear.”

“I don’t think that extreme will be necessary, Texican.”

“Should I warn Mom?” Danni said.