Читать книгу The Devil's Right Hand - J.D. Rhoades - Страница 5

CHAPTER ONE

“She ain’t no damn lesbian,” the stocky man said.

“Sure she is,” the skinny one said. “Didn’t you see that MTV show? Man, Madonna had her tongue right down that girl’s throat.”

They were sitting in the front seat of a dented pickup truck, pulled back into the woods. From there they could see the trailer the timber company used as an office. It was 5:30 in the morning, and the sky was brightening. A few stray wisps of fog hugged the grass, flowing sluggishly in the humid air. Rusting log trucks loomed in field behind the trailer, looking like ancient behemoths in the mist.

They had been in place since 4:00. Boredom had finally trumped the need for stealth so they had turned the radio on low. Britney Spears was moaning that she had done it again.

“Man, you got to be crazy,” the big one said. “She was goin’ with that guy from the who is it, the Backseat Boys. She gave up her cherry for him.”

“Well, there y’are, then,” the skinny one said triumphantly. “Ever’one knows those guys is all faggots. It was all a cover, man. Like that Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford. All them Hollywood homos cover for one another.”

“An’ you believe that shit?” the stocky one said. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair. He had kept it trimmed short in prison, thinking it gave him a more menacing appearance. Now it was growing back out, and it was taking some getting used to.

There was a brief flash of headlights through the trees. He reached down and snapped the radio off. “You sure about this now, cuz?” He asked for what seemed like the fiftieth time.

“Sure I’m sure,” the skinny man replied. He recited the facts again, with the patience of a special-ed teacher repeating a lesson for a slow pupil. He didn’t get irritated; it made him feel good to be the one who knew something for a change. All his life, his older cousin had gotten to do everything first. Drink beer, get laid, get arrested. Now it was DeWayne’s turn to lead.

“The old man don’t hire nobody but Mexicans to do his cuttin’and haulin’. They don’t work for nothin’ but cash money. They don’t pay no taxes that way, see, and neither does the old man. I seen him in the bank the last few Thursdays, gettin’ out a big bag of cash. He brings it back here, puts it in the safe for payday Friday.”

“I still think we oughta just break in and take the safe out,” the stocky one said. “We can find somebody to get it open.”

“You wanta bring a stranger in on this?” the skinny one demanded. “Id’nt that how you got caught last time? We can trust each other, Leonard, ‘cause we’re family. But anyone else’ll sell you out in a hot second.”

“You don’t know, DeWayne,” Leonard said. “You ain’t never done nothin’ like this before. Armed robbery is serious shit compared to B and E, man. This D.A.’s got a real serious hard-on for armed robbers. ‘Sides, you think that old dude don’t have a gun, carryin’ around that much cash?” He shook his head and looked out the window, his face glum. “This shit is dangerous.”

“You wanna back out, cuz,” DeWayne said, “You better do it now. Here he comes.” Another pickup, this one at least thirty years old, pulled up in front of the trailer/office. An old man in coveralls got out. He looked to be at least seventy, but his step was sure and confident. He went up the steps of the trailer. He paused a moment on the narrow porch that ran across the front of the trailer. He rummaged through a ring of keys until he found the correct one. He opened the door and disappeared inside.

“When he comes out,” said DeWayne, “he’ll have the bag. He takes it out to the job site so he can pay the Mexicans off at the end of the day.” Sure enough, in a few minutes the old man came out and walked to the truck. He was carrying a large canvas bag.

The two men got out of their truck. DeWayne let Leonard take the lead. Even though he had let most of his muscle go to fat in his last stay in the joint, Leonard’s size still made him intimidating.

“Mornin’, sir,” Leonard said.

The old man stopped and turned towards them. His eyes were pale green, and made a startling contrast to his skin, which was a light caramel color. “Hep you fellows?” he said in the flat nasal accent of the Lumbee Indian.

Leonard pulled his gun. He was carrying a long-barreled .44, Dewayne a snub-nosed .38. “Let’s do this easy, old man, and no one has to get hurt,” DeWayne said.

“Just put the bag down on the ground, and step away real slow,” Leonard said.

The old man didn’t move. He looked first at DeWayne, then at Leonard.

“Shit,” was all he said.

“What are you talkin’ about, man?” DeWayne’s voice was high, almost cracking with the strain of adrenaline. He felt the familiar dizzy sensation of things slipping out of his control.

Both of them saw the old man’s hand go into the bag. “Don’t do it, man…” Leonard shouted as the hand came out holding a small automatic. Both Leonard’s and DeWayne’s guns barked at once, the sharp cracks muffled by the soggy air. One shot went wide and struck the side of the truck. The other hammered the old man back against the door. The only change in his expression was a grimace of pain, then blankness. The automatic slid from his fingers as he slumped to the ground.

“God DAMN it!’ Leonard shouted at the old man. “The FUCK’d you do that for?” The man didn’t answer.

DeWayne rushed forward and grabbed the bag, kicking the automatic further away with his foot as he did so. He needn’t have bothered. The man looked straight ahead, not noticing the bag, the gun, or the rising sun in his eyes. He was dead.

The young paratrooper was full of piss and vinegar, pumped up on the Airborne mystique, and stumbling drunk, as well. He looked like he was ready to make an issue out of Keller talking so long to the redhead. Keller didn’t see what claim the kid had on the girl, other than the fact she had been recently been grinding her crotch on the kid’s lap, but he didn’t have time to argue. He showed the kid a peek of the 9mm hanging in a shoulder rig beneath his coat. It was enough to make even a drunk kid realize that attitude and training don’t make anyone bulletproof. The young soldier did a quick fade into the crowd and Keller turned back to the dancer who called herself Misty.

A lot of people would find it difficult to concentrate on an interview when the interviewee is a redhead wearing only a transparent silk teddy. Keller kept reminding himself he had a job to do and not a lot of time to do it in. Misty helped take his mind off prurient interests by the way she cracked her bubble gum and looked bored. She was no more aware of her clothes, or lack of them, than if she had been in uniform behind the counter at Mickey D’s.

“Crystal worked here for a while,” she said. It was Saturday night, and the strip club was crowded and noisy. Misty had to shout into Keller’s ear to be heard. “She was cute, had a nice figure,” she went on “but her heart wasn’t really in it, you know? It was like she was half-asleep most of the time. Customers want you to be, like, into it. So she left. I don’t know where she went.”

Keller could see a big guy in a black tuxedo vest and bowtie working his way through the crowd. He wondered for a second how anyone with no visible neck could wear a bowtie. He figured someone had tipped the bouncer off that he was carrying.

Keller had all the right permits, but he didn’t expect that to cut any ice with the neckless wonder. He flipped Misty a business card. “If you hear anything,” he said, “Call me on my cell-phone number.” He had to shout the last phrase, since the music was increasing from the merely deafening to the truly painful. It was time for the next show.

She looked at the card blankly and blew a bubble. “You a bail bondsman?” she said.

“I work for one,” he said. He sidled through the crowd towards the door.

Keller stepped out into the humid night and lit a cigarette. A summer thunderstorm had recently blown through, leaving the parking lot scattered with puddles of oily water that reflected back the red and blue neon lights of the club. The sudden cooling brought by the storm had caused the waterlogged air to turn to light fog. Keller blew out a long stream of smoke and watched the Friday night traffic sigh past on Bragg Boulevard. A Ford minivan pulled up and a group of young men in sport shirts and khakis piled out. Keller noticed that one of them appeared much drunker than the others, who gathered around him to prop him up. They were whooping and laughing. Bachelor party, Keller thought. There was an edge to their laughter, almosthysteria. “We’re having fun,” the laughter said. “Really. We promise.”

There was the sound of footsteps behind Keller. He turned and saw Bowtie advancing on him. He squared off to face the big man. Bowtie stopped, his red face within a few inches of Keller’s. The bouncer squinted, trying to make his small eyes look hard. Keller looked back without expression. Finally, Bowtie spoke.

“You been asking a lot of questions about one of the ladies,” he said.

“Yeah,” Keller said. Bowtie began to look uncertain. He was obviously used to being placated at this stage of the game. He looked Keller up and down, obviously measuring his broad six feet against Keller’s lankier six-two. His jaw worked for a minute, then he said, “You a cop?”

Keller shook his head. “Bail Enforcement.”

The term obviously threw Bowtie, and the uncertainty was making him angry. His face got even redder and his neck and shoulders seemed to inflate slightly. He was building up his rage for the next stage of the game. Keller interrupted the process. “I’m going to reach into my pocket and get my business card,” he said. He did so without waiting for permission. He handed the card to Bowtie, who squinted at it.

“H & H Bail Bonds,” he said finally. “What, Crystal in some kind of trouble?”

Keller shook his head. “Her cousin,” he said. “Name of DeWayne. They grew up together. He didn’t show on a B & E down in Brunswick County. I figured his family might know where he is.”

Bowtie stepped back a few inches and deflated his neck and shoulders. “She don’t work here no more.”

“So I hear. She quit?”

“Naw. I fired her ass. She was, ah, doing private shows after hours. Know what I mean?”

Keller tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it out with his boot. “She was hooking.”

Bowtie nodded. “I don’t need that kind of shit.”

Meaning, Keller thought, that she wasn’t cutting you in on the profits. Or letting you sample the merchandise.

“Plus,” Bowtie went on, “She was wasted half the time.” He tapped the side of his nose and tried to look knowing. It didn’t work. “Know what I mean?” he said again.

“Yeah. Any idea where she went?”

Bowtie shrugged. “Escort service’d be my guess.”

Keller sighed. There were at least fifty of those in the Yellow Pages alone. “Don’t guess her cousin ever came around.” Bowtie shook his head. “No,” he said, “she never said nothin’ about having a family.”

“Okay,” Keller said. “Thanks.”

“Hey, don’t mention it,” Bowtie said. “And, ah, sorry about gettin’ in your face like that. I gotta look out for the ladies.”

“Yeah,” Keller said. “You’re a real knight in shining armor.”

“What?” Bowtie said, but Keller was already walking away.

He walked over to his car and opened the door. The car was a former police cruiser, a late-model Crown Victoria. He had had it repainted to remove the police markings, but it still had a rack in the front seat in which a 12-gauge shotgun rested upright. A cell phone nestled in a hands-free system rose from the floor next to the rack. Keller leaned over and hit the speed dial.

“H & H Bail Bonds,” a female voice said after a few rings. It filled the car, directed through the stereo speakers by the handsfree system.

“What are you wearing?” Keller said.

She chuckled softly. “Keller,” she said.

As always, her voice saying his name caused a tightening in his throat. “Any luck?” she said.

“I think the cousin’s going to be a dead end,” he said. You got anything on the other one, Crystal’s brother? They were allraised together. Find one, the other’s probably not far away.”

“No,” she said. “Leonard Puryear missed his last two appointments with his probation officer. The P.O. went out to his house, but the place was empty. They’re about ready to violate him. What happened to the sister?”

“I traced her as far as a strip club on Bragg Boulevard, but she’s not there. No one knows where she went, but she’s probably hooking. Escort service, probably.”

“I suppose you could work your way through all of those,” she said. “Poor Keller. You always get the tough jobs.”

He laughed. “Might be a little hard on the cash flow,” he said.

“Among other things,” she said. He heard the insectile clicking of computer keys. “Hold on a minute,” she said. “If she’s hooking, she probably has some kind of record.”

He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He saw her in his mind, bent over the keyboard, biting her lower lip like she did when she was concentrating, brushing the long ash-blondhair back from her forehead.

“Got it,” she said. “Crystal Leigh Puryear. Known aliases Amber Dawn.” She paused. “Jesus,” she said. “Amber Dawn? sounds like a feminine hygiene spray.” Keller laughed. “Picked up on a solicitation charge 2 February. Pleaded to disorderly conduct. Last known address--.got a pen?”

Keller fished one out of the glove box. “Shoot.” She gave him the address. “Best bet’s to catch her in the daytime,” she suggested. “Saturday night, date night, you know.”

“Yeah,” Keller said. “Speaking of dating, you thought any about what we were discussing?”

There was a long pause. “Yeah, Keller, I thought about it,” she finally said. “I like you, you know that, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to date someone who works for me.”

Keller thought for a moment. “I quit,” he said.

She laughed. “Nice try,” she said. “But I don’t date unemployed guys, either.”

“Looks like I can’t win,” Keller said.

“Sure you can,” she said. “Just not with me.” Her voice softened. “Get some sleep, Keller,” she said. “And not in the car. Check in somewhere and put it on the company card. Check out the girl tomorrow and find DeWayne Puryear, preferably by his court date next Thursday.”

“Yass, boss,” Keller said.

“Pleasant dreams, cowboy,” she said and hung up.

Keller leaned back and blew a long breath out through his teeth. He shook his head as if to clear it and started the car.

He considered her advice about getting some rest. He was bone-weary, but he knew from experience that sleep wouldn’t come easily. He decided to at least check out the address Angela had given him. Even if no one was there, he could reconnoiter the layout. He had been in this city a number of times before. He had a good idea of where he was headed.

The street was a dead end, lined with small brick houses that had once probably been marketed to young couples in the postwar years as “starter homes.” There were no streetlights. Only a few dim porch lights provided illumination. There was a flickering blue glow of television screens behind the shaded front windows of one or two houses, but most were dark. Keller couldn’t read most of the house numbers from the street. He snapped the headlights off and slowed to a crawl, giving his eyes a chance to get accustomed to the darkness. Finally, he located Crystal Puryear’s address. He parked across the street and rolled down the window.

The house at the end of the street was wooden and looked older than the others, with a more spacious yard and an attached two car garage. A yellow bulb cast a wan glow over the driveway in front of the closed doors of the garage. A picket fence ran between the street and the overgrown yard, ending at the driveway entrance. There was no other light and no sound other than the tick and pop of the cooling engine and the monotonous buzzing of crickets.

Keller sat and looked at the house. One part of his mind automatically mapped out possible approach and escape routes. The other thought about Angela.

She had been right, he mused. Not in her surface excuse about not dating an employee. He could see the real reason when she gently turned him aside from his pursuit of her. She always did so with a soft laugh or a self-deprecating joke about being too old, but the sadness in her eyes told the real story. Too much baggage, her eyes seemed to say. Too much mileage over too many rough roads. And she was right, he thought. For both of them. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Gravel crunched under his boots as he walked away from the looming bulk of the Bradley fighting vehicle. He had always thought of deserts as soft places, cushioned by sand. This place seemed to be mostly crushed rock and tiny pebbles that always managed to work themselves into your boots. All the sand seemed to come to rest in any mechanical or electronic gear. He looked back and cursed the dead GPS receiver inside the Bradley. He had no idea where they were.

“Shit,” he said under his breath. His squad was in the vehicle, most of them asleep. He had to figure out some way to get them home. He unzipped his pants and took a piss on the desert. It summed up his attitude about this place as no other words could.

When he was zipping himself back up, he registered the noise of the rotor blades for the first time. It had to be a Coalition aircraft; the raghead air force had been swept out of the sky weeks ago. He turned towards the sound, waving his arms above his head. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey…”

There was a ripping sound, like the sky being torn open. A bright white bolt like a lance of flame leaped from out of the darkness and struck the Bradley. The boxy metal shape seemed to bulge outward for a split second before erupting in flame from every opening. The concussion knocked him flat on his back. He lay there for a second, staring stupidly at the sky. He saw metal hatch cover cross his field of vision, whirling across the sky like a UFO. Then he heard the screams. They were burning, but he couldn’t get up. His limbs refused to respond to any command that didn’t involve curling up into a ball. He could hear himself screaming as well. There was another white flash…

He jerked upright in the seat, panting like a distance runner. He flinched as a white tree of lightning arced across the sky, followed by a sharp detonation of thunder. It had started raining again. Keller put both hands on the wheel and waited for his heart to stop pounding. He started the car and drove away.

There was a crowd at the graveside, listening to the preacher’s words with the pinched, stoic expressions of people that had been expecting bad news and soon expected to hear worse. The cemetery was well-tended, bordered by woods on two sides and the small white church on another.

Everyone gave a wide berth to the big man in the brown suit. He stared down into the open grave in silence as the preacher intoned the last few words of the service. A few of them looked at the diamond and ruby rings on his fingers and noted the cut of the expensive suit, but no one made comments, at least in his presence. The man had not been a part of their lives for years, but his reputation for random and vicious fits of temper was still legendary.

When the preacher’s voice trailed off into a nervous mumble, the big man looked up and looked at him. His eyes were hidden by tinted sunglasses, but after a moment, the preacher looked away

and cleared his throat. The big man turned away without a word and walked off towards the line of beat-up cars and trucks in the gravel parking lot. He paused a moment to brush the dust from the cuffs of his pants and opened the door of a large brown 4 x 4 pickup. Letters across the top of the dark-tinted windshield said “INDIAN OUTLAW”.

He got into the truck and sat down, leaving the door open. The truck’s oversized wheels raised the pickup off the ground high enough that the man’s snakeskin boots dangled a few inches from the ground like a child’s in a grownup chair. He waited.

The group at the graveside had broken into smaller knots, discussing the weather, the tobacco crop, and everything except the recently deceased. After a few minutes, a young man detached himself from the congregation and walked over to the truck.

“Hey,” the young man said. There was no reply.

“Any news on who killed Daddy?” the big man said finally. The Lumbee accent made the last word come out as “diddy.”

The younger of the two brothers shuffled his feet in the coarse gravel. “Sheriff said they ain’t got no leads.”

“Shit,” the big man said. He spat on the ground next to his brother’s foot. It was an insult that would have resulted in knives being pulled on anyone else.

“Ain’t no need to get pissed off at me, Raymond.” The younger man whined. “I ain’t…”

“Someone knew Daddy had a lot of cash. Got any idea?”

The younger man shrugged. “I guess the Meskins knew. Daddy paid ‘em off ever’…”

Raymond swung his legs into the truck. “We’ll go talk to them, then. Get in.”

The younger man looked back at the safety of the crowd. “Get in the truck, John Lee,” Raymond said. “I ain’t gonna tell you again.” John Lee took a last look at the church and sighed. He got in the truck. He slumped unhappily in the seat as Raymond pulled away from the church. “I gotta drop by the club,” Raymond said. “Then we’ll go see what these Meskins can tell us.”

Interstate Highway 95 stretches 1,970 miles, a gray and black river of asphalt that flows from Miami to the Canadian border. Everything moves on the highway. Truckers ferry livestock, produce, cigarettes, clothing, lumber, bricks, cars, anything that can be shipped in a flatbed or trailer. Tourists stare blankly out the windows of cars, motor homes and SUV’s, as they traverse the flat, empty spaces between entertainments. Salesmen study the mile markers for signs that they’ll reach their next meeting in time. And, inevitably, drugs and money move on the highway. The FBI, the DEA, and a variety of local law enforcement try to interdict the tons of cocaine, heroin and marijuana stuffed into the backs of pickups and the wheel wells of compact cars. They catch a few, but mostly they only succeed in angering the African-American and Hispanic drivers that they stop in disproportionate numbers.

Raymond’s club, the 95 Lounge, was visible from the highway, but a curious traveler had to go a mile up to a little-used exit and double back on a narrow country road to reach it. There was little reason for them to; the club was not advertised on any of the thousands of billboards that grew along the roadside. There was no Texaco nearby, no Cracker Barrel restaurant, no McDonald’s or Burger King. The only people who would take the trouble to find their way there were those who knew its real business.

Raymond and John Lee pulled up in the parking lot of the club. It was a low cinder block building painted a dull purple and black. The words “95 LOUNGE” were clumsily hand-painted on the front and side of the building in green and white Day-Glo letters. There were no windows. A neon sign beside the peeling wooden door announced that the 95 Lounge was “open”. There were a couple of battered cars in the parking lot and a new 18-wheel truck.

They entered the club, stopping for a moment to let their eyes get used to the gloom. The only illumination was provided by a dim fluorescent light behind the bar and a Budweiser sign on the far wall. There were several large booths along that wall. A fat man in a polyester shirt with his name embroidered over one pocket was seated in one of the booths. A skinny woman with bleached blonde hair was seated in the booth on the same side. She was whispering something in his ear. As John Lee stared, her hand slid beneath the table and into the fat man’s lap.

“You see somethin’ you interested in?” a voice said.

John Lee turned. Billy Ray, the club’s manager, was standing behind the bar. He had a malicious grin on his broad copper-colored face.

“Darlene’s busy right now, but I don’t reckon that trucker’ll take too long,” Billy Ray said. “You can have sloppy seconds.”

“Shut it, Billy Ray,” Raymond said. “John Lee and me got stuff to do.” The smile disappeared from the man’s face. He sullenly went back to polishing the bar.

John Lee looked back at the couple, who were disappearing out the back door. There was a broken down trailer in the back, he knew. John Lee had never discussed his brother’s businesses with him, but he knew the rumors. It was said that some of Raymond’s female customers were working off their drug debts in that trailer. John Lee swallowed nervously and followed his brother into the office behind the bar. He sat across the desk from Raymond in a rusted straight-backed chair with a tattered cushion. Raymond flicked his desk lamp on. “You got a pistol?” he said to John Lee.

John Lee shook his head. He felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Naw,” he said. “I got my deer rifle at home.”

Raymond grunted. He turned his office chair around and fiddled with the large, old-fashioned safe behind his desk. With a click, the black door swung open. Raymond reached in and pulled out a large object wrapped in cloth. He set it on the desk and unwrapped it. John Lee stared down at a huge long-barreled revolver that gleamed in the dim light.

“Raymond,” John Lee said, “What you planning, man?”

“You and me,” Raymond said, “We’re gonna find out who killed our Daddy.”

“The Sheriff--”

“Don’t give two shits about a dead Indian. You know that, and I know that. Anyone goin’ to take care of business, it’s us. Just like Lowrie.”

John Lee, like all Lumbee, knew the name. Henry Berry Lowrie was the Lumbee equivalent of Robin Hood, an outlaw who had taken to the swamps in the 1800’s against the Confederate Home Guard and later against the Federals to avenge the murder of his father and brother and the oppression of the Lumbee by whites.

John Lee couldn’t take his eyes off the pistol. “You think it was them Meskins?”

“I don’t know,” Raymond said. “But I aim to find out. And you’re coming with me.”

“I ain’t never killed nobody before, Raymond.”

Raymond sighed as if this was some admitted failing on his brother’s part. He picked up the gun and stuck it in his waistband.

“Okay,” he said. He reached into the safe again and pulled out another pistol, a stubby, ugly automatic. He pulled back the slide and chambered a round before handing the gun to John Lee. “You take this one and back me up. This is your duty, too, little brother. Now let’s go.”

As they walked back out into the deserted bar, Billy Ray called out to Raymond. “Our friend called,” he said. “Our southern friend.”

Raymond stopped. “What’d he say?”

Billy Ray cast a glance at John Lee. “I told him you were at your Daddy’s funeral. He said to give you his sympathy.”

“Yeah, right,” Raymond said. Paco Suarez didn’t get to be the biggest supplier of cocaine on the East Coast by giving himself over to the softer emotions. “He calls again, tell him I’ll get back to him as soon as I take care of some family business,” Raymond said. “C’mon, John Lee.”

They drove for about thirty minutes, with John Lee providing monosyllabic directions. After they got off the main road, the roads grew narrower, but the scenery never changed. They passed field after field of crops growing thick and fat from the dark rich earth where a shallow sea once rolled. Corn, beans, corn, tobacco, tobacco, beans, tobacco. Houses weathered to the same gray as the topsoil stood among the fields, next to metal tobacco curing barns that gleamed and shimmered in the baking sun. Some landowners had given up the precarious living of farming; those fields grew rows of metal house trailers with postage-stamp-sized dirt yards and old tires thrown up on the roof in a forlorn hope of keeping the roof on in a tornado.

They finally pulled into a narrow dirt driveway that ran between a double line of rusting single-wide trailers. About halfway down the line on the left, there was a break in the regular spacing of the trailers. The soil in the gap thus created had been denuded of grass and pounded flat by years of trampling. A group of young Latino men sat playing cards at a picnic table under a spreading live oak in the middle of the common area thus created. They looked up warily as the truck pulled up. One of them stood and walked over to the driver’s side window.

“You know who I am?” Raymond said.

The man nodded. He was short and broad, with a dark-brown pockmarked face and a thin Fu Manchu mustache. He looked to be in his mid-forties, in sharp contrast to the other, younger men. He spoke formally, like a man who had learned his English in school rather than on the street. “We were sorry to hear about your father,” he said in his heavy accent.

Raymond looked the man up and down. His eyes flickered to the other men who were beginning to gather around the truck. Still others were coming out of the trailers.

John Lee cleared his throat. “Hey, Raymond,” he said. “Maybe we better--”

“Shut up,” Raymond replied. He turned back to the man by the truck window. “Y’all know anything about who mighta done it?”

“‘Ey, bitch,” one of the men piped up from the crowd. He stepped forward. He was massively built, with ropes of muscles straining the arms and chest of his t-shirt. His arms were covered with elaborate gang tattoos. “We already talk about all this to th’ cops,” the tattooed man said. “Why we got to answer you?”

“I say anything to you, greaseball?” Raymond snapped. There was an angry murmuring from the crowd around the truck and the circle of men tightened. John Lee tried to slide down in the seat.

Raymond made a sudden movement and the long-barreled pistol was in his hand, pointed at the chest of the man by the window. The man flinched slightly, then straightened and looked Raymond in the eye.

“There is no need for this,” he said. He turned slightly, back towards the man who had spoken, and rattled off a long sentence in Spanish. His eyes never left Raymond’s face. There was a high-pitched angry reply. The man by the window responded sharply, then added something with a sly grin. There was a ripple of nervous laughter from the crowd. The tattooed man’s face grew dark with anger, but he turned away and stomped off.

The older man turned back towards Raymond. “I was the one who found your father’s body,” he said. “The rest of the crew,” he gestured at the men around the truck, “Was with me. We always go in together in my truck. No one here killed him, I am sure of it. We all leave work together the night before, and we all go in together the next day.”

“Somebody knew he had a lot of cash on him,” Raymond said.

“That was our pay,” the mustached man said. “We were going to get that money the next day anyway. If one of us stole it, he would be stealing from the rest of us, and from our families back home. No one here would protect him for stealing that.”

Raymond thought that over for a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “So who else might’ve known about the money?”

The man thought for a moment. “There was a man who came looking for work, “he said finally. “An Anglo.” He smiled thinly at Raymond. “I didn’t like him.”

Raymond ignored the jibe. “You get a name?”

The man shook his head. “No. He talked with your father, not me. I told your father afterwards I didn’t like his looks. He laughed and said he wasn’t hiring anyway. He had a full crew. He took down the man’s name and phone number, but that was just to get rid of him.”

“Anyone else know him?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “He said he was a friend of Julio’s,” the mustached man said.

Raymond looked around. “Which one’s Julio?”

There was another stirring in the crowd and the men looked at each other. “He’s the one who just left,” someone said. “The one you call greaseball.”

“Go get him,” Raymond said. No one moved. Raymond pulled back the hammer on the big revolver. Someone detached himself from the back of the crowd and hurried off.

In a few minutes, the tattooed man came stalking back, a can of beer in his right hand and a sneer on his face.

“This feller who came looking for a job,” Raymond said. “You know him?”

Julio shrugged. “I don’ know, man,” he said. “I know a lot of people. How come you askin’?”

“Because I think that might be the man that shot my Daddy. And if he is, I mean to kill him for it.”

Julio’s face split in an ugly grin. “Well, shit, vato, whyn’t you say so in the first place? Yeah, I knew him. I met him in the joint. Little guy. Name of Dwayne somethin’.”

“You tell him Daddy carried a lot of cash?” Raymond’s face bore no expression, but there was a dangerous note of tension in his voice.

The grin left Julio’s face. He raised his hands in front of him, as if to push away the trouble he saw coming. “Whoa, man,” he said. “This Dwayne fucker, man, he said he was needing some cash when he got out. I tol’ him I don’t know for sure, but I was working for an old man who paid in cash an’ I was going back when my ninety days was up. Thass all I said.”

Raymond thought for a minute. He looked at the mustached man. “You,” he said, “Would you recognize this Dwayne guy if you saw him again?”

The man looked unhappy, but nodded slightly.

“All right then,” Raymond said. “Get in the truck.”

There was another rustle and murmur in the crowd. The mustached man didn’t move.

With his free hand, Raymond reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a roll of bills. “You need work, now that Daddy’s gone. I need somebody who can eyeball the sumbitch and tell me if he’s the right one. You’ll be gone a couple days, then you’ll be right back here.”

The man’s eyes went back and forth from the roll of bills to the gun in Raymond’s other hand that remained pointed at him. “Always it is the same,” he murmured. “Plomo o Plata.”

“What?” Raymond said.

The man looked up at him. “Silver or lead,” he translated. “Always the same choice.”

Raymond nodded. “That sounds about right.”

The man sighed. “The money first,” he said.

Raymond thought for a second. “Half now, half when you show me.”

The man hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders. “All right. But I need to leave it here.”

Raymond smiled and tossed him the roll of bills. The man turned and motioned a slim young man with a ponytail out of the crowd. The two conferred for a moment in Spanish, then the mustached man handed the bills to the man with the ponytail, turned and walked to the passenger side of the truck without looking back. John Lee opened the door and slid to the middle of the seat as the man got in. Raymond started the truck and began backing out. The crowd of men watched him go.

They drove in silence for a few minutes before John Lee spoke up. “I’m John Lee,” he told the man. “This here’s my brother Raymond. You here from Mexico long?”

The mustached man smiled without humor. “Oscar Sanchez,” he said. “And I am from Colombia.”

“Well ain’t that a coincidence.” Raymond’s smile was equally humorless. “Some of my best friends is from Colombia.”

Sanchez sighed and leaned back in the seat. He closed his eyes and appeared to go to sleep.

“How much we get?” DeWayne said. He was standing by the window of the tiny motel room, occasionally using the barrel of his pistol to nudge the curtain aside enough to peer out into the parking lot. Except for their truck, the lot was empty.

“Damn it,” Leonard replied, “Y’made me lose count.” He glared at the piles of cash on the burn-scarred table. “And quit peekin’ out the damn window every ten seconds.”

DeWayne sighed. “Well, you was almost done,” he said. “Where’d you lose count at?”

Leonard picked up the joint that lay smoldering in the ashtray and took a long drag. His dark, lined face screwed up in an exaggerated mask of concentration. “‘Bout twenty-seven hundred.” He said, his word coming out high-pitched and strangled sounding as he held in the smoke. “Figger about three thousand for the whole shootin’ match.” He chuckled slightly at his own inadvertent pun and let the smoke out in a long stream.

DeWayne closed his eyes and leaned his head against the post of the window. “Three thousand,” he repeated. “We killed that old man for three thousand bucks.”

“Aww, man,” Leonard said. “We didn’t mean to do it. Ain’t nothin’ but a thing, cuz.” He put the joint to his lips, took another long pull, held it. “Here,” he croaked as he held the joint out.

“I don’t….” DeWayne began. Then he shrugged. “Fuck it,” he said. He sat down in one of the mismatched chairs. “We gotta figger out what we’re gonna do now,” he said. He took a drag on the joint and coughed.

“Well, “Leonard said thoughtfully. “I could use a beer. And maybe some pussy.”

“God damn it, Leonard--” DeWayne began.

“Easy, cuz,” Leonard said. He gave his cousin a lopsided grin and took the joint from him. “Look, we’ve had a coupla hard days, right? We’re both stressin’. We got the money, sure it’s not as much as we thought it was gonna be, but it’s more than we had. So let’s enjoy it, man. Life’s too damn short.”

“Don’t it bother you we just killed somebody, Leonard?” DeWayne said.

The joint was almost gone. Leonard put the roach out in the cracked ashtray. “Sure it bothers me,” he said. “But that old fucker brought in on hisself. He’d a done what we told him, he wouldn’t be dead. Ain’t nothin’ gonna change what we did. All you can change is how you look at it.”

DeWayne digested this for a moment as Leonard stood up. Leonard put his hands at the small of his back and arched, wincing slightly at the snapping and popping sounds. “Gettin’ too old for this shit,” he grunted. He scooped a handful of bills off the counter and went to the door. “There’s a Short Stop across the street,” he said. “I’m gonna go get us some beers. Then we’re gonna get in the truck, drive on up to Fayetteville, and get you laid.” The lopsided grin was back. “You’re gonna be amazed at how it changes the way you look at things.” He walked out.

DeWayne sat for a minute, the thoughts coming slowly to him. He wasn’t used to reefer, and the thoughts seemed to struggle upwards in his brain.

Fayetteville, he thought. Who do I know in Fayetteville? Then it came to him. Crystal, he thought.

After a few minutes, Leonard came back in, carrying a paper bag under one arm. He had a Budweiser tall-boy in the other hand.

“Leonard,” DeWayne said. “Crystal still living in Fayetteville?”

“Yeah,” Leonard said. “Shakin’ her ass in some titty bar on Bragg Boulevard, last time I heard.” He took a long pull on the beer. “Momma and Daddy don’t even mention her name anymore.”

“She might let us hide out at her place for a while. I been there once.”

Leonard pulled a beer out of the bag, popped the top and handed it to his cousin. “Not a bad idea,” he said after a moment.. “Bet she’d introduce us to some of her friends, too.” He grinned like a satyr. “Shit, we play our cards right, we might not even have to pay for pussy. Now, you’re thinkin’ right, old son.”