Jack Keller - 01 - The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  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.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Keller walked out into the motel parking lot, blinking against the sun. The previous night’s thunderstorms had blown away, leaving the world exposed to the hard glare of the sun. The heavy, waterlogged air soaked up the heat until walking across the parking lot was like swimming through soup.

  As he approached his car, he saw a white police cruiser parked crossways behind him. There was a big cop leaning against the car, his arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves were rolled up to accentuate his massive forearms. His partner was standing beside Keller’s Crown Victoria, peering through the window with one hand shading her eyes. She was a tall woman, with the lean build of an athlete. Both cops’ eyes were hidden behind the inevitable mirrored sunglasses. The female cop turned as Keller approached.

  “This your car, sir?” she said. There were a few wisps of light brown hair coming untucked from beneath her blue cap, but that was the only hint of softness about her. Her lips were compressed into a thin line when she wasn’t speaking. When she spoke, her voice was the officious bark of a drill sergeant. She made sure that the word “sir” contained not a speck of actual respect or courtesy.

  Keller took a deep breath. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Is there some kind of—”

  “Mind telling us why there’s a shotgun in the front seat?”

  He kept his voice mild, inwardly cursing himself for choosing not to bring the shotgun in with him. The desk clerk at the last place he had stayed had seen him carrying his gun into the room and had spent most of the evening coming by and calling on various flimsy pretexts to make sure Keller had not killed himself with it. “It’s not against the law to have a shotgun, is it?” he asked.

  The big cop straightened up. His lips stretched over his teeth in a rough approximation of a smile. “Smart-ass, huh?”

  The female cop looked annoyed at the interruption. “Mind if we look in the car, sir?”

  Keller did mind, but there was no way to win the argument without a lengthy discussion, part of which would probably take place at the police station. It was a discussion he was sure he would win, eventually.Still, that would take time, possibly a lot of time. Keller wanted to get back to work. He took the path of least resistance.

  “Sure,” he said. He was still smiling. He took his keys out and opened the doors.

  The search was quick and sloppy. Keller noticed that the male cop seemed to take particular pleasure in leaving the contents of the glove compartment scattered over the front seat so Keller would have to put them back himself.

  “Why do you have these metal rings welded to the floor of the back seat, sir?” the female cop asked.

  Keller’s smile was beginning to pain him. “I work bail enforcement,” he said. “Sometimes they don’t want to stay in the car. The rings are for the handcuffs.”

  “What about the police scanner?” she said.

  “Like I said,” Keller replied, “I work as—”

  “A bounty hunter,” the male cop said. He pronounced it like a curse.

  “Whatever,” Keller said. There was no overt insolence in his voice, but the lack of deference seemed to anger the male cop. He got out of the front seat of Keller’s car and stood up.

  “You got a—” he began. The female cop interrupted him. “Can you open the trunk, sir?” she said.

  Keller’s shoulders tensed, then he shrugged. He popped the trunk. The male cop walked around to the back and whistled in amazement.

  “Marie,” he said. “Come look at this.” The female cop walked around to the back of the car. “Holy shit,” she said. She reached in and pulled out a length of heavy chain. Heavy leg cuffs were soldered to each end. She held it up and looked over at Keller.

  “It’s all legal,” Keller said.

  “We’ll decide that,” the male cop said.

  Keller’s temper had reached the limit. “Bullshit,” he said. “There’s not a damn thing you can make stick here. I’ve got permits for the handguns. The handcuffs and restraints are all legit. All my licenses are up to date. So if you’re going to arrest me, do it. But stop jerking me around.”

  “All right, smart-ass,” the male cop said. “Hands on the car and spread your legs.” Keller shook his head in frustration, but complied. The male cop frisked him quickly while the other one, Marie stood back to give herself a clear field of fire if Keller decided to try anything. Keller felt the male cop’s hand at the small of his back, heard him chuckle as he withdrew the 9MM from Keller’s waistband.

  “Looks like carrying a concealed weapon to me.”

  “I told you, I’ve got a carry permit—” he was cut short by an explosion of pain across his lower back. The cop had pulled his nightstick in a cross-body draw that would have done credit to a samurai. He whipped the nightstick in a short arc and smashed Keller across the kidneys. Keller arched his back in agony and dropped to his knees.

  “And resisting arrest,” the cop said. Keller heard his high-pitched giggle. He tried to roll over on his back to stave off another blow, but he felt a sudden weight on him. The female cop had thrown her body across his. One of her hands grabbed Keller’s wrist. He heard the clink of metal as she took the cuffs off her belt. “Stay down,” she muttered. “You can’t win. Just stay down.” Keller tried to stand, then suddenly realized that she had placed herself between him and another blow. He relaxed and allowed himself to be handcuffed with his hands behind his back.When she was done, she rolled off and yanked Keller awkwardly to his feet. Her grip was very strong.

  Keller looked at the male cop. The man’s image seemed to swim in a red haze before Keller’s eyes. The cop’s own eyes were dreamy and far away and there was a slight smile on his face.

  “When this is over,” Keller said through pain-clenched teeth, “I’m going to take that fucking baton away and shove it up your ass.”

  The cop’s smile widened. This was what he had been waiting for. He drew back his hand for another shot. Keller had no way to protect his head; he knew the next blow would shatter his skull. The female cop interposed her body between them again. “Get in the car, asshole,” she said. She put a hand on Keller’s head to guide him through the open door of the police cruiser. Without taking his eyes off the male cop, Keller slid into the back seat.

  The brown truck pulled into the parking lot of the timber company office. The trailer was still surrounded by a web of yellow crime-scene tape that appeared to have been strung mostly at random. The three men got out of the truck and approached the steps. Raymond took a curved Hawkbill knife out of his pants pocket, opened it, and sliced through the tape. They walked up the steps and stood before the locked trailer door. There was a moment of silence. “John Lee,” Raymond said. “You got the keys?”

  “Oh, um, yeah,” John Lee said, embarrassed. He fumbled for a moment in his pocket, then unlocked the door.

  The interior of the trailer office was small and cramped. A metal desk sat facing the doorway and took up most of one side of the room. There was a gray metal filing cabinet behind the desk on their right. Raymond went around the desk and tried to open the cabinet. It was locked. He rattled the handle in frustration. “You got a key to this, John Lee?” he said.

  John Lee shrugged. “Sorry, Raymond,” he said. “Daddy always kept that one hisself.”

  Raymond slammed his hand against the cabinet in frustration. He turned to Sanchez. “He ever tell you where he kept the key to this?”

  Sanchez shook his head. “No,” he said. Raymond turned back. He hit the cabinet again, as if he could convince it to open by beating it enough times. He withdrew the pistol from his belt and drew back the hammer. He carefully pointed it at the latch on the filing cabinet.

  “Wait,” Sanchez said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small plexiglass key ring. He laid it carefully on the table. There were two keys on the ring, one smaller than the other.

  Raymond l
ooked at Sanchez, his eyes narrowed. “You trying to be funny?”

  Sanchez looked back without expression. “You didn’t ask if I had a key. You asked if your father had ever told me where his key was.”

  “God damn it,” Raymond snarled. “You knew what I meant.”

  “Me?” Sanchez spread his hands. “How was I to know? ”

  Raymond made a strangled sound deep in his throat and pointed the pistol at Sanchez. Sanchez didn’t move.

  “I was your father’s foreman,” he said. “He trusted me with a lot of things. If you kill me, there are many things you will never know.”

  Raymond slammed the pistol down on the desk. John Lee flinched. “Then tell me, asshole!” Raymond yelled. “Quit playin’ games! I need me some goddamn help here!”

  Sanchez’ face clouded with anger. “You have never asked. You have never asked me for anything, least of all help. All you have done is wave your pistola around and shout orders.” He looked at John Lee. “The two of you are out to avenge your father. All right. It is a matter of honor. A man understands such things. A man might be willing to help. A stupid ‘greaseball’ who must be ordered around—” he shrugged. “Such a one will only do what he is told, no more.”

  Raymond stared at him for a long moment. “I ain’t gonna beg you,” he said finally.

  Sanchez shook his head. “That is not what I ask.” They continued to stare at one another, neither one willing to be the first to look down. It was John Lee who finally spoke.

  “Mr. Sanchez,” he said, “will you help us find the man that killed our daddy?”

  Sanchez smiled. “Si, I will help you,” he said. “And call me Oscar.” He pointed at the desk. “When the man Julio talked about came around, he left a phone number where he could be reached. I saw your father write it on the pad on the desk.”

  Raymond looked down at the desk blotter. It was covered with ink stains, coffee rings, doodles and hastily scrawled notes.