Both Devil and Dewey said they wanted to be there when he did, and Boyd surprised them saying they would, as they were gonna be his backup. They acted tickled to death till he said, “You know Raylan will have his own people,” and could tell they hadn’t thought of that. But then he said, “How’d we keep the law busy when we robbed those banks?” It got their heads nodding, both of ’em grinning, showing they still wanted to be along. “I’ve thought of a way to keep the feds out of the picture,” Boyd said, “if we can get the timing down. The idea, separate Mr. Givens from his pack of suits and get him off by hisself.”
Oh boy, they liked the sound of that, asking how they’d do it, blow up a car? Boyd said, “I got another plan. What I want you fellas to do is locate Raylan and let me know where he’s at, from now on.”
Late afternoon, Raylan came out of Art Mullen’s office in the courthouse to see Ava coming along the corridor in a beige outfit, skirt and sweater, pearls, Ava getting better-looking by the day, her expression becoming a big smile as she came up to him.
“My lawyer’s still talking to the prosecutor, but it’s looking good. Come on with me while I have a smoke.”
She took him outside, saw the benches on Central Street occupied—”Geezers’re always sitting there,” Ava said—and they went over to the bench in front of the Coal Miners Memorial: six columns of dead miners close to ten feet high, Raylan’s dad’s name among them. He found it as Ava, smoking her cigarette, told him she was pretty sure she’d get off with no more’n probation. “I plead to some kind of manslaughter and I won’t have to go to prison. Hey, why don’t you come by for supper? I’ll fix you something nice.”
Raylan said, “Baked possum?”
“I only cooked that for Bowman. I got mad at him one time and put roach powder in it? He goes, ‘Honey, this is the best possum I ever et.’ Didn’t even get sick. I’ll pick up a couple of nice fryers and fix you some hot biscuits and gravy.” She grinned at him. “Look at you licking your lips.”
Raylan said all his life fried chicken was his favorite, but he had to hang around, didn’t know when he’d be off.
Ava said, “I’m fixing it anyway.” She looked him in the eye saying, “You’re a big boy, Raylan. You want to come, there’s nothing on earth gonna stop you.”
Devil had his hair cut and beard trimmed at the Cumberland Barber Shop, across the side street from the courthouse. He put on his hat and got in Dewey’s junk Cadillac, parked in front of the shop. Dewey said, “You missed it. He come out with Ava, they talked and he went back in again. You said you thought that red Dodge over on Central was Bowman’s? It was. Ava got in it and drove away.”
Devil said, “Wasn’t for Boyd I’d have me some of Ava.”
Dewey said, “Wasn’t for Boyd me and you could have us the marshal. Say we took him out, what would Boyd do, kick and scream? He does that anyways.”
Devil said, “You got the nerve to shoot a marshal?”
Dewey said, “I got the nerve and a reason to.”
They were silent, thinking about it, till Devil said, “That barber didn’t say one goddamn word to me the whole time he’s cutting my hair.”
Ten of six they watched Raylan come out of the courthouse with four other suits and go to their cars parked on Central.
Dewey said, “We get out on the highway—you’re driving ’cause it’s my idea—I reach in back for the twelve-gauge and blow him away. What’s wrong with that?”
Devil said there wasn’t nothing wrong with it.
Except once they got to 421 two other marshal cars were on Raylan’s tail all the way to the Mount-Aire Motel. Devil called Boyd to tell him Raylan was back in his room.
“Roger that,” Boyd said, and told Devil, “Okay, he should be leaving again pretty soon. I got a way to bring him to me I think’ll work. He leaves, you stay on him.”
Devil’s voice said, “Where you at?” sounding surprised.
“Down the road from Ava’s. You stay on him, hear?”
Boyd sat in his Jeep Cherokee by the JESUS SAVES sign, the road here like a tunnel through the trees, dark as night. He called the Pork brothers on the hill behind the motel and told them to get ready. “You saw him come back? . . . Okay, you see his car pull out again, you let it go. Understand? But then any other cars pull out to follow him? You open up on ’em. Pour it on, as many rounds as you can squeeze off.”
The Pork brother on the phone said it was near dark, how would they see the cars? Boyd said, “Jesus Christ, they put their lights on, don’t they? Aim back of the headlights.”
Boyd believed the suits would spot ’em and swarm up there with sheriff’s deputies and state police and shoot those two fat boys down, but didn’t see losing them would handicap him any. It was the reason the Pork brothers were up there.
He drove through the tunnel of trees to a semidry creekbed he turned into and stopped about fifty yards in to leave the Jeep. It was a place he’d used to slip up on the house, make sure Bowman wasn’t home. It was close by. Boyd moved through the pines toward a light shining in the front room, meaning she was home. He rapped on the door. It opened, and he saw right away Ava was expecting company.
X.
She had on her party dress, the shiny green low-cut 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 home-cooked 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 remind him? Go on, he’s at the Mount-Aire.” And gave her the phone 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 time 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 behind the wheel, Devil adjusting his hat as he turned the key and the starter groaned without catching. “You’re gonna flood it,” Dewey said. “Pump the gas pedal twice and try it.” It worked, the engine roaring to life, and they took off east after the Town Car, Dewey saying, “Now catch the son of a bitch, will you?” He reached over his seat for the shotgun and saw out the rear window another car pulling away from the motel and heard gunfire, an automatic weapon, and saw sparks jumping off the road behind the car, the car swerving, U-turning back to the motel with its headlights off. Now a rifle was firing along with the bursts from the AK, Devil hunched over the wheel saying, “Jesus Christ,” and Dewey saying, “It’s the fat boys, up on the yan side of the mo-tel, holding ’em down. Come on, man, put your foot in it.”
Raylan saw the headlights trailing him. He came to the diversion tunnels, drilled through the mountain to run off floodwater, made his turn south and slowed down to watch. Now the headlights behind him made the turn and R
aylan 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 of 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, back him while he made his play. Dewey said he hoped they’d get there before Boyd shot him. Man, that was something he wanted to see.
Devil, his eyes stuck on the narrow road, said, “Christ Almighty . . .” The Cadillac headlights coming onto the rear end of the Town Car sitting in the road, its lights off, the Cadillac creeping now, Devil taking his time, saying, “The hell’s he doing?” as they came to a stop about twenty feet 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. They had to say something to him, Devil wanting to know what the 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 and rested the barrel on the front seat, between the cowboy hat 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 clamped 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 his 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 right hand, put it through the steering wheel and cuff the gator 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. That 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 the trunk to see a couple of Kalashnikovs inside, threw the pistols in there and closed the trunk. He looked in the car again, on 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 they 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 stood there. He didn’t care too much for the green dress or the way she was looking at him. He said, “Don’t feel you have to say 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 moved aside. Raylan stepped through the doorway to see Boyd at the table that was laid out with a platter of chicken, bowls of mashed potatoes, peas and carrots, a plate of biscuits and a gravy boat. It looked like Boyd had already started, white gravy covering everything on his plate, a pistol lying next to 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.”
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 time 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 Jim 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 of the table so he could spread out, rest his elbows when he was eating fried chicken or corn’n the cob. You want to know what Bowman said when he looked up like you did and saw me with his deer rifle?”
Boyd said, “Honey, you only shoot people when they’re having their supper?” He looked at Raylan for appreciation and got a deadpan stare.
“Bowman’s mouth was full of sweet potato,” Ava said. “I watched him shovel it in as I come out from the kitchen with the rifle. He said, ‘The hell you doing with that?’ “
Boyd said, “Honey, put it down, would you, please?” He picked up a paper nap
kin 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 hand that would slide down the lapel of his suitcoat, sweep it open and in the same motion cover the walnut grip of his gun and pull it high to clear the six-and-a-half-inch barrel. He saw 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 racked 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 ripped 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 when he saw Boyd on the floor. Raylan stood by, relating the scene 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 at Raylan.
“He have any last words?”
“He said I’d killed him.” Raylan paused. “I told him I was sorry, but he had called it.”
When the Women Come Out to Dance: Stories Page 9
