needle, got a squirt and went after Raylan, almost to the bedroom, his left hand reaching for the doorknob, right hand slipping inside his suitcoat. Behind him now Layla said, “Raylan…?” Saw him hesitate, start to turn his head and jabbed the needle hard through his coat and into his right arm. Saw his hand come out holding the Glock. Saw him look at her, his eyes turning dreamy, his knees giving up and he stumbled against the door, hat on, gun still in his han d, Raylan in his good-looking navy suit sliding to the floor.
“Cuba? You can come out now.”
Cuba opened the door to see Layla posing, holding Raylan’s Glock and wearing his cowboy hat cocked on her head, a saucy angle. He looked down at Raylan, Layla saying, “Let’s get him in the tub.”
Chapter Thirteen
They dragged him to the bathroom and stripped off his clothes, everything, Layla using scissors to open the legs of his pants to pull them over his curl-toed cowboy boots, Cuba thinking they looked custom-made. Layla still had Raylan’s hat cocked on her head, not knowing how to wear it. She took his legs, Cuba his upper body, straining to lift Raylan over the side of the tub. Cuba thought he should be higher, so his chin wasn’t on his chest; it didn’t look right.
“We should move him up higher,” Cuba said.
She was looking at his privates, Cuba pretty sure she’d make a remark.
“Would you say he’s hung or not?”
“A guy knows how to use what he has,” Cuba said, “or he don’t.” He looked at Raylan again. “I want to ease him up so he’s higher in the tub.”
Knowing she’d say something else.
“Why? What difference does it make?” She said, “Do what you want, as long as he’s on his back,” and left the bathroom with Raylan’s clothes and his gun.
Cuba turned to watch her, in the bedroom now dropping Raylan’s clothes on the bed. He watched her take off the hat and toss it by the clothes, on the bed, and almost yelled at her, Get the hat off the bed, it’s bad luck.
He stopped to think, Like what?
They already had the worst kind of luck waiting for them, once they let a federal marshal die. It would be the same as a homicide, their intention being the same as killing him. She’d tell him okay, now dump his body somewhere while I clean up and get ready for bed. Only he wouldn’t come back and get in with her. That would be the moment. That would be the time to keep going, “Get out of town before it’s too late”-Layla always singin that at him-“my dear,” and givin him the cool smile and all kind of lovin.
Or hang him on a corner and call the hospital.
He’d thought of that. Do it but don’t tell her. Give the man a chance.
He looked at Raylan’s head against the end of the tub, chin stuck to his chest like he couldn’t move it, and saw his face twitch, Raylan’s face, like a fly was bothering him. Now his hand came up his bare chest to his mouth and Cuba turned to the bedroom. He saw Layla in there at the dresser laying out her things for the surgery, her scalpels, her swabs and alcohol, her staples she’d use to close him up. Cuba raised his voice to tell her, “Girl, he’s movin.”
He saw her look up at the dresser mirror.
“He’s all right. I’ll be there in a minute, maybe give him another shot.” She said, “Get him comfortable and he’ll nod off.”
Raylan heard her say, “God damn it, I didn’t bring gloves.”
Layla.
He heard her say, “Not that it matters.”
He saw Cuba by the tub, his shape, his face coming down close and out of the smoke in Raylan’s head.
Cuba said to him, “Can you hear me?”
Raylan closed his eyes. He let his hand slip down his body to his groin and learned he was naked but could feel his toes in his boots. They kept slipping when he tried to push himself up, get a little higher. He heard Cuba:
“He’s movin again,” his voice raised.
Layla said something about the fucking syringe; she couldn’t find it. Now Cuba was saying, “I could get behind you I’d pull you up, but they’s no room. I’m on get in the tub and see can I push you up.” He said, “Me and you got the kind of bodies the ladies die for. Our natures keeping us thin. None of that runnin and weight liftin shit. You eat the right food you stay trim. I think the secret is only eat fried food, then work it off quick makin love to the bitches.”
Cuba, close to the tub, turned to the bedroom, Layla in there at the dresser. What was she doing? Cuba called to her, “Girl, you puttin on makeup? Twice was enough-kissin the boys good-bye.”
Raylan opened his eyes to see Cuba turned from the tub, Cuba saying, “You crazy, you know it? Dollin up while I prepare this man for his last thirty minutes on earth.”
Raylan heard her say, “Do what you want,” Raylan staring at the Sig Sauer stuck in Cuba’s waist, the grip showing, the barrel resting against Cuba’s spine.
He turned to Raylan saying, “I got to get in the tub to move you. All right? To move you. I ain’t gonna cop your joint, I don’t play that shit, so don’t worry. You lyin there nothin you can do.”
L ayla’s voice came from the bedroom. “Is he out?”
“He’s all right, like shit-faced. I know can’t stand up.”
“He might not’ve got the whole shot.”
Raylan heard her voice, her words, and could see Cuba with twenty-twenty vision he was so close. In the tub with him, bending over, trying to hug him and inch his dead weight up higher, Cuba straddling his legs. Maybe all they gained was an inch. He could hear, but it was like you were all the way taken down by shine. No, straight whiskey. With shine you felt you were quadriplegic and didn’t dare try to talk. Bourbon turned you alive.
Cuba said, “I get a hold on you, you take hold of me and pull yourself up. You know what I’m sayin? Pull yourself up as I push.”
Raylan didn’t know why he was doing this, wanting to move him higher in the tub. This time Raylan got his hands under Cuba’s arms, trying to get a hold on Cuba’s silk shirt and it tore down the middle. Cuba said it, “You tore my good shirt.”
Raylan said, “Fuck your shirt,” let his hands slide down Cuba’s back to the Sig Sauer and slipped it out of his waist. Raylan and Cuba almost nose to nose in each other’s eyes, Raylan wondering if Cuba felt him take it. He looked lt. g Sike he did. Raylan brought the Sig around to Cuba’s belly and heard Layla say:
“What’re you guys doing, getting it on?”
Raylan looked past Cuba’s shoulder to see her standing in the doorway. She said, “Cuba…?” She said, “Cuba, his eyes are fucking open…” and she was gone-in the bedroom getting his gun, Raylan sure of it. Cuba staring in his face.
“She wants me, ” Raylan said. “Or maybe you, I don’t know.”
He saw her in the doorway aiming his Glock at him, holding it in one hand and turning sideways to strike a shooter’s pose and fired-he saw the gun jump-and fired again and fired again, and Cuba let out a gasp of air and slumped against Raylan, wedging the Sig between them.
He said to Cuba, “You alive?” He didn’t get an answer and said, “Or dead.” He put his ear to Cuba’s mouth, didn’t hear a rattle of breath, but could smell it.
Layla said, “Cuba…?”
“I imagine,” Raylan said, “he’s in Hell by now, the poor man. I’m placing you under arrest,” Raylan said, “for taking his life. Lay down the weapon.” He couldn’t say “your weapon” since it was his. He hoped she’d drop it, the jolt setting off the semi-hair trigger and shoot herself. He felt sometimes he could talk to that gun he called Buddy, to himself. Here we go, Buddy, stay loose. He still had the Sig in his hand stuck between their bodies. But it was coming… and she was firing again, the Glock in both hands now. She fired four rounds at him ducked behind Cuba- Jesus, realizing he was using the man for cover. He pulled out the Sig and extended it past Cuba’s shoulder and saw her right there framed in the doorway and put the Sig on her, and hesitated two, three beats and she was
