“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, M
arie 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 looked 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.
Finally he located something. “DeWayne Puryear,” he read. “That sound familiar?”
Sanchez nodded. “That is the name that he gave.”
“There’s an address and phone number here,” Raymond said.
Sanchez turned around and walked out the door. He was already waiting in the truck when Raymond and John Lee followed him.
Like most of the people who wore the black robe, Judge Harold T. Tharrington was a former prosecutor. The District Attorney had handpicked Tharrington to run for election to the bench. He had run without opposition; none of the other prosecutors would dare to buck the boss' choice. For their own part, the lawyers of the defense bar declined to take the salary cut that came with going on the State payroll. Defendants paid better, and often in cash.
Tharrington looked over his glasses at Keller, who was standing before him. He was a short, balding man with a round face and a fussy demeanor. He clearly found Keller’s presence in his courtroom distasteful.
Keller had spent the previous day and night sharing a jail cell with a pair of Jamaicans. The two men had totally ignored him. They spent the time playing a seemingly endless game of cards and arguing in low, incomprehensible voices. The argument and the fact that the lights had never been turned off in the cells had made it impossible for Keller to sleep. His eyeballs felt raw and gritty. He hadn’t been allowed to shave. His hands were shackled in front of him and his ankles were fastened together with a short length of heavy chain. His lawyer stood by his side.
The lawyer’s name was Scott McCaskill. He was an imposing figure, a full six and a half feet tall. He had thick snow-white hair brushed back until it resembled a lion’s mane. His face tended to remind people of someone they’d seen on TV, someone playing a Senator or President. He had represented Keller several times before. Part of the secret to his success was his massive presence that seemed to draw all attention in the room to him and away from his raggedy-assed client.
“Your Honor,” McCaskill intoned in a voice so deep that it almost rattled the water glasses, “my client has no prior record. He is a bail bondsman licensed by the State of North Carolina. He served his country with distinction in the armed forces and was decorated for bravery in the Persian Gulf. In addition, we are confident that these charges are the result of a misunderstanding and will be resolved in his favor at trial.”
The judge picked up a sheet of computer printout and studied it. “Your client
,” the judge observed, “has been remarkably lucky to have no record of convictions. The PIN check provided by officers Jones and Wesson shows a remarkable string of charges that were either dismissed by the local prosecutor or resulted in ‘not guilty’ verdicts at trial. Can you explain this?”
McCaskill shrugged and smiled. “The nature of Mr. Keller’s business is such that the people he returns to custody are often, shall we say, less than happy with their situation.”
“Two of them apparently ended up dead,” the judge said.
“For which incident a jury returned a verdict of not guilty by reason of self-defense,” his lawyer replied smoothly.
Tharrington put the printout down and looked at Keller again. Keller was beginning to feel like a piece of livestock being haggled over at the market, but he kept his face neutral.
“I’m concerned here, counselor,” he said, “that your client is a violent man. He was apprehended with a shotgun in his car. He was carrying a weapon concealed on his person--”
“For which--” McCaskill began, but fell silent when Tharrington raised a hand. “I realize he claims to have a carry permit for that weapon. He has not been able to produce it.”
“That’s because Officer Wesson took it. Sir.” Keller said.
“Which brings us to my greatest concern,” Tharrington said. “The contempt and disrespect shown to law enforcement. It’s bad enough that Mr. Keller apparently fancies himself some sort of bounty hunter, despite having no official standing as a sworn law enforcement officer. But for him to assault a real officer and threaten him with further violence--”
“Sir,” Keller said. “Officer Wesson assaulted me.” He ignored the lawyer’s hand on his shoulder urging him to keep quiet. “He struck me with his baton while I had my hands on the car. Officer Jones can confirm that.”
Tharrington looked behind Keller. “Officer Wesson,” he said. “Is Officer Jones present in the courtroom with you?”
The Devil's Right Hand Page 3
