been something of a new experience for me.”
“Anything happens to Pervis,” Raylan said, “I’ll come lookin for you.”
Carol said, “You promise?”
She walked off-not looking at Boyd-walked to the limo and got in and made a U-turn in the yard, skinned past the pickup and the Audi and got out of there.
Raylan turned to Boyd.
“I guess you’re fired too.”
“You asked me a question,” Boyd said, “what side I’m on. What did I say? Nothin. Was this scudder answered you, I didn’t. You don’t know what I was gonna say, do you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Raylan said. “You pulled, I’d of shot you. I think you believed that, so you decided to watch.”
Boyd said, “Raylan… I don’t hold ill feelings against you, even for shootin me that time. I admit, it was in my mind to shoot you but only if I saw it comin to that.”
“Boyd, you told me that time it was your in tent ion,” Raylan said. “I let you watch today, so now we’re square, all right? You need a ride, put the Kid and the other one in their truck and take ’em home.”
Boyd said, “Raylan…?”
“We’re through talking for now,” Raylan said, walking up to the porch. He looked at Pervis. “You ever see Carol again, call me, and I’ll get marshals on her.”
“She don’t worry me none,” Pervis said. “I got Dewey here lookin out for me.”
“I’m devotin my life to it,” Dewey said.
Rita had come up by the porch. She said, “I told Pervis he ought to be ashamed of himself, Dewey has to wait till you pass. What if the mountain, it turns out, ain’t worth diddly, the coal Dewey’s been waitin for years already dug out?”
Pervis said, “I always tried to be optimistic in life.”
Dewey looked from one to the other.
“But everybody says it’s full of coal. Ain’t it?”
“Everybody prayin for a job,” Rita said. “Hoping for work.” She looked at Pervis. “I don’t think it’s fair, leaving a dead mountain to your only kin.”
“Well,” Pervis said, “I could give him a pound of my top-grade weed, should last him a while.”
Rita was no)'›='Times (Tdding. “Two pounds would be more generous of you. Two pounds of Daddy’s Own. Dewey could smoke it or sell it, get happy either way.”
“What would be the street value of that,” Dewey said, “I was to sell a pound of it?”
R aylan said to Art Mullen, “Rita’s telling Dewey, he wants to, he could mark it up to ten grand since it’s Pervis’s top-grade smoke. I thought it sounded high, but Dewey’s eyes lit up and that was it.”
They were in Art Mullen’s office in Harlan, the front of his desk stacked with papers and wanted dodgers. Art said, “A girl twenty-three years old, a senior at Butler University, was arrested in a raid on a poker game.”
Raylan started to grin. “The cops bust in the dorm and find ’em playin for matchsticks?”
“Indianapolis police,” Art said, “walked in on a high-stakes game where this girl lost twenty thousand dollars, smart-ass. Police took the girl in and booked her. She was to spend the night in jail for a court appearance in the morning.”
“Where’d she get the twenty grand?”
Art said, “Oh, I have your attention? She won it bettin Duke against Butler, the NC double-A championship. The girl’s dad, Reno-actually he’s her stepdad-runs a sports book in Indy. He raised his little girl playin poker and bettin on sporting events.”
“Losing all her money,” Raylan said, “and getting thrown into jail, it wasn’t her night, was it? Then had to pay a fine?”
“She skipped,” Art said, “walked out and didn’t show for the hearing.”
“You’re tellin me this for a reason, aren’t you?”
“The girl,” Art said, “an A student at Butler, we’re told is now robbin banks in Kentucky, gettin into our area of influence. Rachel and two other young ladies. Their manner of grinnin at the tellers, leads us to believe they’re stoned. Three girls havin a drug-induced fling at robbin banks. Indy police look at the surveillance tapes and believe Rachel’s one of them.”
“They positive,” Raylan said, “or hoping, cause she skipped out on them?”
“Why don’t you go up there and find out?” Art said. “You’ll be workin out of the Lexington office again. Pick the girl up while you’re not doin anything and get the Indy cops off our backs.”
“What’s her name, Rachel?”
“Rachel Nevada.”
“You’re kiddin.”
“And her stepdad’s Reno Nevada,” Art said, “his actual name. Start with the Indy cops and work your way down to Lexington.”
“I got to see a picture of this Rachel Nevada,” Raylan said.
“Start thinkin of her as Jackie Nevada,” Art said. “It’s what Reno and everybody calls her.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Jackie Nevada had walked out of the police station knowing her best bet was to get out of town. Borrow a backpack and stuff it with T-shirts and shorts; sleep a few hours, put on jeans and hitch a ride to Shelbyville: start out playing Texas hold ’em at the Indian casino with farmers and truck drivers who’d been up all night to build up her stack. She lost the twenty grand sitting in cigar smoke, the five no-limit gentlemen in their suitcoats watching her, not saying a word. She folded, threw in her ace-five against her better judgment. She would have called if these guys were wearing work clothes. She watched an ace come up on the flop and she would have won with the pair of bullets. It would’ve told her it was possible to take these guys; at least give her the feeling. Say, “Oh, you waiting for me?” and raise on the ace-five. But she’d folded. Telling herself the odds said to fold. Why didn’t she tell herself to fuck off? She let herself be cleaned out and was down to three hundred in her sneakers when the cops came in.
In the morning, Buddy, who drove Jackie out to 74, where she’d get out to thumb the thirty miles to Shelbyville, said, “Isn’t that my backpack?”
Jackie told him he’d loaned it to her last night and Buddy said, “I did?”
“I’m starting out with three hundred,” Jackie said. “I’ll make enough today to buy a bus ticket and only stop to play poker, all the way to Tunica, Mississippi, last stop before Las Vegas and the World Series of Poker. What I need to make is the buy-in money, win the tournament, pay off Reno and get back to Butler in time for graduation. How does that sound?”
Buddy in his hungover state said, “Hey, why not.”
He didn’t have enough gas to drive to the casino and back. Jackie told him not to worry about it, kissed Buddy on the mouth holding her breath, said, “See you,” and walked out to the highway, Buddy watching her, the backpack hanging from one shoulder. She hadn’t even raised her thumb and cars were slowing down for a look. Buddy thinking, Two minutes she’ll have a ride.
He watched a car pull over and creep past Jackie for a close look and Buddy realized, holy shit, the car must be fifty years old but so what. It was a Rolls-Royce Phantom repainted its original green body color and looked brand-new.
He watched a black guy in a chauffeur’s outfit get out and open the rear door, taking her backpack. Buddy watched her wave to him and get in the Rolls.
T he chauffeur, still holding the door open, was saying to Jackie, “The gentleman offering you a ride is Mr. Harry Burgoyne of Lexington and Burgoyne Horse Farms.”
Harry, watching her duck into the Rolls, said, “Don’t tell me you’re runnin away from home. We cross a state line I could end up in jail.” He said, “No, you’re a student, huh? Don’t say Butler. I had to give Butler five points the other day so I could bet on Duke and lose ten big ones.”
