'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 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 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.'
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 walked with her through the crowd outside Monaco, then 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 come 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 off by the time they reached her Honda and he took her hand and gave her a peck on the cheek saying he hoped to see her again. In no hurry to make 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 and 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 North 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's feet 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 - raising 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. That 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 okay 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: touch her short blond hair, check out her fanny in profile, long legs in a straight skirt above her knees, Karen still a size 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 high style. She could wear her favorite Calvin Klein suit, the black one her dad had given her for Christmas, her SIG Sauer .380 for evening wear snug against the small of her back, and no 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 around each other, holding, Karen thanking God he was a good kisser, comfortable with him, but not quite ready to take her clothes off. When she turned to the door he said, 'I can wait. You think 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 bed stripped down to a fresh white sheet. They made love in a hurry because they couldn't wait, had at each other and lay perspiring after. When they made love again, Karen holding his lean body between her legs and not wanting to let go, it lasted and lasted and got them smiling at each other, saying things like 'Wow' and 'Oh, my God,' it was so good, serious business but really fun. They went out for a while, came back to her yellow stucco bungalow in Coral Gables and made love 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.'
