When the Women Come Out to Dance

by Elmore Leonard

  X.

  She had on her party dress, the shiny green lowcut one with the straight skirt she'd worn to Bowman's funeral. Seeing Boyd instead of Raylan gave her a start and all she could say was, "Well, hi," disappointed. There was nothing to hide, so she told Boyd she'd invited Raylan for a homecooked supper but didn't know if he'd make it or not.

  Boyd came in sniffing, saying, "Mmmmmm, fried chicken." Saying, "Why don't you call Raylan and remin d him? Go on, he's at the Mount-Aire." And gave her the phon e number.

  Well, then she became suspicious. Why would Boyd know that? "You've talked to him?"

  "Honey, me and Raylan are old buddies. I thought you knew that?"

  She hesitated because it sounded fishy.

  "Go on, give him a call. But don't say I'm here."

  "Why not?"

  "I'm not staying," Boyd said, "so why mention it. I can see you want to flirt with him some."

  "We was neighbors," Ava said, "that's all."

  "I know, and you want to talk about old times and so on. Go on, call him."

  Raylan picked up the phone to hear Ava asking if he could smell the chicken frying. "It'll be done by the tim e you get here." Raylan, sitting on the side of his bed, took a few moments before telling Ava he was on his way.

  He went next door to Art Mullen's room to let him know he was going. Art said, "You don't see it as Boyd using her?"

  "I would," Raylan said, "except she asked me this afternoon, at the courthouse."

  "She could've been setting you up then," Art said. "I think we'll tag along."

  Raylan didn't argue. He drew Art a quick map showing how to get to Ava's and left.

  Dewey saw headlights pop on, the Town Car out from the motel, and hit Devil's arm, Devil still behin d the wheel, Devil adjusting his hat as he turned the key an d the starter groaned without catching. "You're gonna floo d it," Dewey said. "Pump the gas pedal twice and try it." I t worked, the engine roaring to life, and they took off eas t after the Town Car, Dewey saying, "Now catch the son of a bitch, will you?" He reached over his seat for the shotgu n and saw out the rear window another car pulling awa y from the motel and heard gunfire, an automatic weapon, an d saw sparks jumping off the road behind the car, the ca r swerving, U-turning back to the motel with its headlight s off. Now a rifle was firing along with the bursts from th e AK, Devil hunched over the wheel saying, "Jesus Christ," a nd Dewey saying, "It's the fat boys, up on the yan side o f the mo-tel, holding 'em down. Come on, man, put your foo t in it."

  Raylan saw the headlights trailing him. He came to the diversion tunnels, drilled through the mountain to run of f floodwater, made his turn south and slowed down to watch.

  Now the headlights behind him made the turn and Raylan took off, holding the car in deep ruts all the way to the JESUS SAVES sign, where he made his turn into the deep tunnel o f trees, the dirt road here not much wider than the car.

  They saw they weren't going to catch him, no way. They'd drive on up to Ava's and do what Boyd said, bac k him while he made his play. Dewey said he hoped they'd ge t there before Boyd shot him. Man, that was something h e wanted to see.

  Devil, his eyes stuck on the narrow road, said, "Christ Almighty . . ." The Cadillac headlights coming onto the rea r end of the Town Car sitting in the road, its lights off, th e Cadillac creeping now, Devil taking his time, saying, "Th e hell's he doing?" as they came to a stop about twenty fee t short of that black rear deck shining in their headlights.

  Dewey said, "He must be sneaking up on the house."

  Devil looked toward Dewey and said, "No, he ain't," because there was Raylan standing at Dewey's side of the car, resting his hands now on the sill right next to Dewey. The y had to say something to him, Devil wanting to know what th e hell he thought he was doing, Dewey asking why he was blocking the fuckin' road.

  Raylan didn't say a word, not till he opened the door and slipped into the back, picked up the shotgun an d rested the barrel on the front seat, between the cowboy ha t and the gator killer's dyed hair.

  He said, "Tell me what's going on."

  Silence, neither one of them saying a word.

  Raylan racked the shotgun and saw them jump.

  "I didn't hear you."

  "There ain't nothing going on," Devil said. "We's out riding around."

  Raylan squeezed the trigger, putting a big hole in the windshield with the explosion, and the two skins clampe d their hands over their ears, turning their heads back and forth.

  Raylan racked the pump again and Devil said, "Boyd wants to talk to you is all."

  "He told me he's gonna shoot me."

  Dewey turned his head to say, "Then what're you asking us for, asshole?" and Raylan laid the shotgun barrel across hi s face, a quick hard stroke that drew blood from his nose.

  Raylan said, "An outlaw's life's hard, ain't it?"

  He fished handcuffs from his belt and gave them to Devil on the muzzle end of the shotgun, telling him to cuff his righ t hand, put it through the steering wheel and cuff the gato r killer. "Now hand me your pistols."

  "We don't have none," Devil said.

  "All right," Raylan said, "but if you're telling me a story I'm gonna break your nose like I broke Mr. Crowe's. Tha t okay with you?"

  It got him a couple of Beretta nines.

  "And the car keys."

  Raylan got out, went around to the back of the Cadillac and called Art Mullen's pager. While he waited he opened th e trunk to see a couple of Kalashnikovs inside, threw the pistol s in there and closed the trunk. He looked in the car again, o n Devil's side this time, and said, "You fellas wait here, okay?"

  His cell phone buzzed as he was moving through the trees toward Ava's house. It was Art Mullen, Art telling how the y were bushwhacked by a couple of baldheaded kids with a machine gun. "Fired at the cars but didn't hit either one, so nobody's hurt. We went up after 'em with sheriff's people and the kids threw down their weapons. I'm still up on the hill , behind the motel. Where're you?"

  Raylan told him and Art said, "Wait for us, we won't be long."

  "I'll go slow," Raylan said. "If I see he's laying for me I'll hang back. But let's find out where he is."

  He was still holding the shotgun, pointed down at his side, going up to the door. Ava opened it and stoo d there. He didn't care too much for the green dress or the wa y she was looking at him. He said, "Don't feel you have to sa y anything."

  But she did. "I swear to God, Raylan, I didn't know he was coming."

  He believed her and told her so in a nice tone of voice. He wanted to tell her it was a pretty dress, but couldn't. He waited and now Ava motioned with her head as she move d aside. Raylan stepped through the doorway to see Boyd at th e table that was laid out with a platter of chicken, bowls o f mashed potatoes, peas and carrots, a plate of biscuits and a gravy boat. It looked like Boyd had already started, whit e gravy covering everything on his plate, a pistol lying next t o it. Boyd picked it up.

  Raylan saw it was an old Army Colt .45 as it came to point at the shotgun he was holding at his side. Boyd said, "No shotguns allowed." He told Ava to take it and throw it outside, then motioned with the .45 for Raylan to come over to the table.

  "Sit at that end and help yourself. The gravy ain't bad, but not as good as your mama's. It never is, huh?"

  Raylan took his place and Boyd said, "When you shot the guy, that wop? You were sitting at a table like this?"

  "We were a little closer."

  "There was food on the table?"

  "No, but it was set, glasses, dishes."

  "Have something."

  Raylan picked up a drumstick and held it in his left hand to take a bite.

  "You had your gun--what was it?"

  "That time? A Beretta nine, same as your two morons were packing."

  Boyd said, "I believe I heard one shot."

  "That's all it took. They're waiting in the car."

  "Which one'd you shoot?"

  "Neither, but they're out of business."
r />   Boyd said, "You're sitting at the table," getting back to it.

  "Where was your gun--where mine is?"

  "It was holstered."

  "Bullshit."

  "It was holstered."

  "Where was his?"

  "In a beach bag, between his knees."

  "He's going swimmin' and stops off?"

  Raylan didn't answer that one.

  "What'd he have in the bag--what kind of piece?"

  "I don't recall."

  "How'd you know when to pull?"

  "Somebody yelled he had a gun."

  Boyd paused, staring the length of the table, about eight feet, at Raylan. "You give him twenty-four hours--the tim e was up when you shot him?"

  "Pretty close. I'd remind him how much time he had left.

  Ten minutes, two minutes . . . I believe we got down to around twenty seconds . . .'

  "You're looking at your watch?"

  "Estimating the time."

  "How much you think you got left now?"

  "I thought till noon tomorrow."

  "I'm saying it's right now, less you want to eat first."

  "You can call it off," Raylan said. "I don't mind.''

  Boyd shook his head. "If you're gonna keep after me, we may as well get 'er done."

  "Your forty-five's on the table but I have to pull," Raylan said. "Is that how we do it?"

  "Well, shit yeah, it's my call. What're you packing?"

  "You'll pay to find that out," Raylan said. "Ice water in your veins, huh? You want a shot of Ji m Beam to go with it?" Boyd looked away from the table saying , "Ava, get Raylan--" and stopped.

  Ava had the shotgun pointed at him, stock under her arm, finger on the trigger.

  She said to Boyd, "You want to hear my story, how I shot Bowman? He never sat on the end, he liked the long side o f the table so he could spread out, rest his elbows when he wa s eating fried chicken or corn'n the cob. You want to kno w what Bowman said when he looked up like you did and sa w me with his deer rifle?"

  Boyd said, "Honey, you only shoot people when they're having their supper?" He looked at Raylan for appreciatio n and got a deadpan stare.

  "Bowman's mouth was full of sweet potato," Ava said. "I w atched him shovel it in as I come out from the kitchen wit h the rifle. He said, 'The hell you doing with that?' "

  Boyd said, "Honey, put it down, would you, please?" He picked up a paper napkin and began wiping his hands.

  Raylan took one and stuck it in his shirt collar. He kept his hand there, the right one, smoothing the napkin, the han d that would slide down the lapel of his suitcoat, sweep it ope n and in the same motion cover the walnut grip of his gun an d pull it high to clear the six-and-a-half-inch barrel. He sa w himself doing it.

  And saw himself in the Cadillac with the shotgun blowing a hole in the windshield and tried to remember if he'd racke d the pump after, because he sure didn't hear Ava rack it.

  She was telling Boyd, "And you know what I said to Bowman? I said, 'I'm gonna shoot you, you dummy.' "

  Raylan saw her jerk the shotgun to her cheek.

  Saw Boyd bringing up the Colt, putting it on her.

  And had no choice. Raylan pulled and shot Boyd dead center, the force of it punching him out of his chair as Ava in her party dress fired the shotgun and a 12-gauge pattern rippe d into the bare wall.

  It told Raylan he must've racked it.

  Ava said, "I missed, huh?"

  She watched Raylan get up, the gun still in his hand, walk around to Boyd and stoop down over him.

  "Is he dead?"

  Raylan didn't answer. She saw him go to his knees then to bend close to Boyd's face. She believed Raylan said something, a word or two, but wasn't sure.

  "Isn't he dead?"

  Raylan got to his feet saying, "He is now."

  Art Mullen arrived wanting to know how the rear end of the Town Car got fragged, but saved asking whe n he saw Boyd on the floor. Raylan stood by, relating the scen e step by step as Art rolled Boyd over to look at the exit wound.

  He said there wasn't any doubt in his mind, a single shot from a high-caliber weapon had done the job. Art looked up a t Raylan.

  "He have any last words?" "He said I'd killed him." Raylan paused. "I told him I wa s sorry, but he had called it."

  Art was frowning now. "You're sorry you killed him?"

  "I thought I explained it to you," Raylan said in his quiet voice. "Boyd and I dug coal together."

  *

  *

  KAREN MAKES OUT.

  They danced until Karen said she had to be up early tomorrow. No argument, he walke d with her through the crowd outside Monaco, the n along Ocean Drive in the dark to her car. He said , "Lady, you wore me out." He was in his forties , weathered but young-acting, natural, didn't com e on with any singles-bar bullshit buying her a drink, or comment when she said thank you, she'd have Jim Beam on the rocks. They had cooled of f by the time they reached her Honda and he too k her hand and gave her a peck on the cheek sayin g he hoped to see her again. In no hurry to mak e something happen. That was fine with Karen. He said, "Ciao," and walked off.

  Two nights later they left Monaco, came out of that pounding sound to a sidewalk cafe an d drinks, and he became Carl Tillman, skipper of a charter deep-sea-fishing boat out of American Marina, Bahia Mar. He was single, married seven years and divorced, no children; he lived in a ground-floor two-bedroom apartment in Nort h Miami--one of the bedrooms full of fishing gear he didn't know where else to store. Carl said his boat was out of the water, getting ready to move it to Haulover Dock, closer to where he lived.

  Karen liked his weathered, kind of shaggy look, the crow'sfeet when he smiled. She liked his soft brown eyes that looked right at her as he talked about making his living on the ocean , about hurricanes, the trendy scene here on South Beach , movies. He went to the movies every week and told Karen-GCo r aising his eyebrows in a vague, kind of stoned way--his favorite actor was Jack Nicholson. Karen asked him if that was his Nicholson impression or was he doing Christian Slater doing Nicholson? He told her she had a keen eye; but couldn't understand why she thought Dennis Quaid was a hunk. Tha t was okay.

  He said, "You're a social worker."

  Karen said, "A social worker--"

  "A teacher."

  "What kind of teacher?"

  "You teach psychology. College level."

  She shook her head.

  "English lit."

  "I'm not a teacher."

  "Then why'd you ask what kind I thought you were?"

  She said, "You want me to tell you what I do?"

  "You're a lawyer. Wait. The Honda--you're a public defender." Karen shook her head and he said, "Don't tell me, I want to guess, even if it takes a while." He said, "If that's oka y with you."

  Fine. Some guys, she'd tell them what she did and they were turned off by it. Or they'd act surprised and then selfconscious and start asking stupid questions. "But how can a girl do that?" Assholes.

  That night in the bathroom brushing her teeth Karen stared at her reflection. She liked to look at herself in mirrors: t ouch her short blond hair, check out her fanny in profile , long legs in a straight skirt above her knees, Karen still a siz e six approaching thirty. She didn't think she looked like a social worker or a schoolteacher, even college level. A lawyer maybe, but not a public defender. Karen was low-key hig h style. She could wear her favorite Calvin Klein suit, the blac k one her dad had given her for Christmas, her SIG Sauer .380 f or evening wear snug against the small of her back, and n o one would think for a moment she was packing.

  Her new boyfriend called and stopped by her house in Coral Gables Friday evening in a white BMW convertible.

  They went to a movie and had supper and when he brought her home they kissed in the doorway, arms slipping aroun d each other, holding, Karen thanking God he was a goo d kisser, comfortable with him, but not quite ready to take he r clothes off. When she turned to the door he said, "I can wait.

  You thi
nk it'll be long?"

  Karen said, "What're you doing Sunday?"

  They kissed the moment he walked in and made love in the afternoon, sunlight flat on the window shades, the be d stripped down to a fresh white sheet. They made love in a hurry because they couldn't wait, had at each other and la y perspiring after. When they made love again, Karen holdin g his lean body between her legs and not wanting to let go, i t lasted and lasted and got them smiling at each other, sayin g things like "Wow" and "Oh, my God," it was so good, serious business but really fun. They went out for a while, came bac k to her yellow stucco bungalow in Coral Gables and made lov e on the living-room floor.

  Carl said, "We could try it again in the morning."

  "I have to be dressed and out of here by six."

  "You're a flight attendant."

  She said, "Keep guessing."

  Monday morning Karen Sisco was outside the federal courthouse in Miami with a pump-action shotgun o n her hip. Karen's right hand gripped the neck of the stock, th e barrel extending above her head. Several more U. S. deput y marshals were out here with her; while inside, three Colombian nationals were being charged in District Court with the possession of cocaine in excess of five hundred kilograms. On e of the marshals said he hoped the scudders liked Atlanta, a s they'd be doing thirty to life there pretty soon. He said, "Hey , Karen, you want to go with me, drop 'em off? I know a nic e ho-tel we could stay at."

  She looked over at the good-ole-boy marshals grinning, shuffling their feet, waiting for her reply. Karen said, "Gary , I'd go with you in a minute if it wasn't a mortal sin." The y liked that. It was funny, she'd been standing here thinkin g she'd gone to bed with four different boyfriends in her life: a n Eric at Florida Atlantic, a Bill right after she graduated, the n a Greg, three years of going to bed with Greg, and now Carl.

  Only four in her whole life, but two more than the national average for women in the U. S. according to Time magazine , their report of a recent sex survey. The average woman ha d two partners in her lifetime, the average man six. Karen ha d thought everybody was getting laid with a lot more differen t ones than that.