Raylan stood a distance from the car, the pasture behind him, about sixty feet from the two getting out of the pickup, approaching now, Bob Valdez with his. 44 slung low; the other one, another Mexican in a straw hat, carrying a twelve-gauge under his arm like he was out here to shoot birds, relaxed, a step behind Bob. He looked tired. Or he was stoned.
Forty or so feet now Bob stopped and grinned at Raylan.
“I didn’t do it. Whatever it is you thinking.”
Raylan said, “I got snapshots of you shootin Ed McCready.” Raylan’s stare went to the other one. “I got you snappin the coon trap on Ed’s foot, Loretta takin the pictures with her phone. You ever hear of that? I got enough to put you in handcuffs and take you in.”
Bob said, “Yes…? Tell me what you saying.”
“I’m busy. I got something else I have to do.”
“Oh,” Bob said, “more important than me, uh?”
“All I want to tell you,” Raylan said, “replant Ed’s patch, give him five hundred for the gunshot to his leg, his injured foot, so he won’t have to sell Loretta to white slavers. I’m telling you to keep your hands off her. You do all that, we’re square. You don’t, I’ll bust you for shootin him.”
“You kidding me?” Bob said. He sounded a little surprised. “They two of us here. You got a gun on you somewhere?”
“Look,” Raylan said, “I take it out I’ll shoot you through the heart before you clear your weapon. Your partner, I’ll wait for him to wake up. What’d you bring him for?” He saw Bob glance at the other guy. “He’s stoned,” Raylan said. “Tell me you’ll pay Ed so I can get back to work. I’m after a woman steals kidneys and sells ’em.”
Bob said, “Yeah? I heard of that, selling parts of the body. What’s a kidney bring?”
“About ten grand,” Raylan said, “the going rate.”
“I couldn’ do it,” Bob said, shaking his head and setting his straw again. “Man, cutting in to some guy’s body.”
“I couldn’t either,” Raylan said. “What kind of person would it take?”
He watched Bob shrug, maybe thinking he could do it.
Raylan said, “You can’t shoot a man, Bob, and tear up his patch. The man has to make a living.”
Chapter Nine
Cuba was trying to think of a way to get rid of the Crowe brothers without getting their daddy on him. The only trouble, they were staying with him now, moved into his house, Cuba believed, confident their daddy would protect them, keep them from going to prison. If they weren’t his blood Pervis would have fired them years ago. Once Cuba did the two fuckups, the old man ought to thank him for taking a load off his mind. Except Pervis would have to narrow his eyes and swear he’d get the one did it. Cuba thought he might offer the old man consolation after, tell him, “Least they won’t go to prison and get cornholed every day by Negroes.”
Wait.
Or shoot the daddy first? Not have to worry about him?
C limbing the log steps to Pervis’s house Cuba had to stop three times to rest his thighs. He had tried the store hoping Pervis was still there and found the place shut for the day. Cuba had made up his mind to do all t ^riehree Crowes in whatever order they came along. He hoped Pervis would be first. After the old man it didn’t matter.
Rita, the old man’s housekeeper? Cuba had never seen her but heard she was hot-looking. Do her too? He reached the house and could smell weed as soon as he stepped on the porch.
Dickie and Coover sat next to each other on the couch. It looked strange, the other chairs in the sitting room empty. Now he saw they were sharing a party bong, passing it back and forth: add weed, put a finger over the hole and take a hit. Coover looked up, saw Cuba at the screen door and waved at him to come in.
Both Crowes stoned, grinning at Cuba like they were glad to see him, the air in the room sweet with reefer.
Cuba said, “Man, you two are havin fun, huh? Where’s daddy, he home or out someplace?”
“Upstairs taking a bath,” Dickie said, holding up the bong. “Want a hit?”
“When I finish my business. Where’s Rita, soapin up the old man?”
“I don’t think it’s their day,” Dickie said. “Rita’s in the kitchen fixin us a treat.”
“Somethin for your sweet tooth?”
“Strawberry shortcake,” Dickie said.
“How’s Rita, she sweet?”
“Coover tried to jump her one time-”
“Years ago,” Coover said.
“Daddy caught him and whipped Coove with a stick, a green one, like a whip.”
“Hurt like hell,” Coover said.
“Lettin you know she’s daddy’s girl,” Cuba said. “Man, how long she been here?”
“About three years,” Dickie said in that weed voice, holding his breath.
“That long? Why’s she stay?”
“The old man pays a lot,” Coover said, “for his nookie.”
“Coove’s been tryin to find her money,” Dickie said, “but she’s hid it good.”
“It’s in the house somewhere? What’s he pay her?”
“Hunnert a day,” Dickie said.
“Jesus Christ,” Cuba said, “and you can’t find it?” He thought of sticking his head in the kitchen, have a look at this Rita, but said, “How y’all like hidin out?”
“Nobody’s lookin for us,” Dickie said.
“Your daddy’s got friends,” Cuba said.
“Or that marshal can’t get a warrant.”
“That’s what I mean. It’s good to have friends can do you favors.”
Cuba asked himself, You through being sociable?
He reached behind him, hands going under his limp cotton jacket to pull the 9 mm Sig Sauer from the small of his back, both the weedheads staring at it with dreamy eyes, Coover saying, “What you got there, boy?”
Cuba put the Sig on the two from halfway across the room and shot both Crowes in the chest, Coover first, bam, exploding the bong he was holding, then Dickie, bam, as Dickie was screaming what sounded like “No!” Cuba waited for the gunshots to fade and listened for sounds in the house. He approached the two sprawled on the sofa, then walked over to the front door, opened the screen and banged it closed. Now he turned his attention to the stairs, Cuba thinking the old man would be careful, look out a front window to see who left.
Un-uh, there he was creeping down the stairs naked, holding a big, must be a. 44 revolver out in front of him. The man had a belly, the rest of him ribs and skinny white legs, his bald head shining, Cuba seeing Pervis for the first time without his toupee, said, “Hey, old man,” got him looking this way and bam, shot him off the stairs, watched him drop the revolver grabbing for the handrail and fall nine steps to the floor. Cuba waited for the naked body to move, the man lying on his belly, staining the rag carpet with his blood, his right arm bent funny, looking broke. Cuba waited a few moments, turned to the hall that went to the kitchen and called out, “Rita…?” Waited again and called, “Where you at, girl?”
S he came in from the kitchen drying her hands on a dishtowel. Cuba watched her look at the brothers flopped on the couch; watched her stand over the old man, Cuba’s gaze holding on her ass in the white slip she was wearing against her black skin. Had that saucy type of ass slim black chicks would arch their backs to show it to you. Cuba watched her stoop down to place the dishtowel over the old man’s profile on the floor, and told himself to shoot her, get it done. But he said, wanting to say something, “I believe he broke his arm.” on the g='en-us' height='0em' width='1em' align='justify'›“Oh, is that all,” Rita said. “I would have swore you shot Mister and the boys. One each-that’s pretty good. I don’t know why you shot the old man, less somebody paid you good money. You coulda done the boys you happen to be feelin out of sorts.” She said, “Quit aimin that thing at me. Put it away. I don’t know you and you don’t know me, all right?”
