Raylan Page 10

  Art said, “Those boys were United Mine Workers at one time, like everybody else.”

  “You’re union, M-T won’t hire you.”

  “Leave ’em alone. They have to care for their families.”

  They were approaching M-T Mining’s Looney Ridge site. Art said, “They dump the rocks and waste over the side and call it ‘holler fill.’ ”

  He slowed down to crawl past a company sign nailed to a tree. It said:

  NO TRESPASSING

  NO HUNTING

  NO FISHING

  NO FOUR-WHEELERS

  NO SIGHTSEEING

  NO NOTHING

  Raylan said, “ ‘Violators will be prosecuted,’ but nothing about investigating maybe a homicide, so we’re okay.”

  They were in the trees now heading up to the work site.

  “Tomorrow’s the meeting M-T’s putting on in Cumberland,” Art said. “Everybody welcome to air their beefs with the mine company.”

  “No jobs,” Raylan said, “and coal dust settling on everything you own.”

  “They’ll answer complaints,” Art said, “and describe how they’ll restore and dress up the bald ridges.”

  “I hear,” Raylan said, “they’re puttin in a golf course. All the laid-off miners can play a round of golf, since they’re not doing nothin. The laid-offs and the working miners will yell at each other a while and that’s the meeting.”

  “You’re bound to see some of that,” Art said, “but this meeting—whether anybody knows it or not—is gonna be about Black Mountain. M-T’s sneakin up on it.”

  “They won’t get it,” Raylan said.

  “They haven’t yet, but they’re patient.”

  “How high is it, four thousand and something?”

  “Four thousand a hundred and forty-five feet above sea level.”

  “How about top to bottom.”

  “About twenty-five hundred.”

  Raylan said, “They won’t stand for it being scalped down. It’s full of nature, animals, deer, ATV trails . . . You know the tree huggers’ll get up in arms.”

  “You’re talkin about people motivated by their emotions,” Art said. “We’ll see how they fare against a coal company lawyer.”

  “This woman the company’s sending?”

  “Carol Conlan,” Art said.

  “Five bucks she’s a ballbuster.”

  “Her dad was a West Virginia miner. I’m told she grew up in coal camps and went on to Columbia for her law degree.”

  It didn’t make sense to Raylan.

  “Her dad’s a miner, what’s she doing workin for the company?”

  “Ask her,” Art said. “You’re Ms. Conlan’s security while she’s here. You’ll be in the limo with her, maybe driving. But you don’t say a word less she speaks to you. Otherwise keep your coal-miner-lovin mouth shut.”

  “You’re givin me this,” Raylan said, “cause I went after the nurse on my own. Didn’t have time to call for backup.”

  Art was shaking his head.

  “Carol Conlan asked for you by name, and got a judge to request the chief deputy to okay it, as a favor. This lady can have state troopers, any amount of protection she wants, and she chose you, Raylan. Tell me why she’d do that?”

  “She’s a vice president of a coal mine company, I guess she can have anything she wants.”

  “But why you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They followed a sweep of road that climbed across the side of the slope to the top of Looney Ridge. Art pointed to a bulldozer.

  “The one Boyd used to dump the rock on Otis. Boyd said it must’ve taken a bad hop and hit his house.”

  “An act of God,” Raylan said.

  “That’s what Boyd called it. He did, an act of God, ‘Since man can never tell what the Lord has in mind for us.’ He said the company’s agreed to pay the wife for her loss.”

  “Her husband or the house?” Raylan said.

  They came in view of the office trailer, none of the broken windows replaced.

  Art said, “Look who’s coming out, with a broom.”

  Boyd Crowder in a white shirt and maroon tie—the M-T colors on their signs—and wearing new chinos.

  Raylan stepped out of the car.

  “Boyd, what they got you doing, cleanin up?”

  “I find myself,” Boyd said, “when I least expect always in the winner’s circle. I’m on Carol Conlan’s staff, helping her out while she’s gettin ready for the meeting.”

  “That’s why you’re driving the limo?”

  “I’m not above takin the wheel,” Boyd said, “she’s got some scudder in the backseat, cuttin him down without ever raisin her voice. Raylan, when you’re always right, you don’t have to talk loud.”

  “You get along with her?”

  “We discuss different aspects of life as they apply to surface mining . . . the kind of complaints the company gets. She wants to know about any new ones she hasn’t heard.”

  “Ask her,” Raylan said, “why she told you to shoot Otis Culpepper.”

  Boyd looked tired shaking his head. “Man, you always get on me, don’t you? The old man was firing his scattergun before I got off a round.”

  Raylan was showing a faint grin.

  “You saved Carol’s life?”

  “She says I did.”

  “Where was she when Otis fired at her?”

  “As I recall, by the trailer, havin come out the door.”

  “He shoot up the trailer?”

  Boyd said, “Hey, come on. All I know is he didn’t hit Ms. Conlan. All this on account of the old man’s fishpond, the pond dead, Otis claims, from all that gob the mine poured into the streams. I said, ‘Otis, don’t fish get old and die, like everybody else?’ He wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “Carol here yet?”

  “She’s stayin at a home in Woodland Hills, one this fella has a piece of the company owns and lets her use. Casper Mott, you remember him?”

  “Little guy,” Raylan said, “living on top of a mountain.”

  “M-T bought it off him. He held out, said he was puttin in a bridle path and rent out horses. M-T wanted his mountain so bad they gave him stock in the company. Casper turned from nature boy to coal company showboat and got rich. He likes Ms. Conlan, so he’ll be at the get-together.”

  Raylan said, “You know when I go to work?”

  “In the mornin,” Boyd said. “I pick you up and then get Ms. Conlan. She wants to talk to you, make sure you’re what she wants.”

  Art stepped up while they were talking, Boyd giving him a nod, then saying to Raylan, “Got your boss watchin out for you; good,” and looked at Art again. “See he don’t shoot Ms. Conlan, now he’s got a feel for shootin women.”

  “I recall,” Art said, “he shot you one time. You’re mouthin off at Raylan, your gun right there on the table.”

  “Havin supper Ava fixed for me that time,” Boyd said. “Yeah, Raylan shot me dead center, but the Lord made him miss my heart by a hair and I survived it.”

  Art said, “I bet the Lord’s havin second thoughts.”

  “Hey, come on,” Boyd said, “me and Raylan are buddies now, both workin for the coal company.”

  In the SUV again, circling down the bare mountain, Art said, “I admire your control. He made that remark about shootin the nurse, you didn’t deck him.”

  “I am practicing self-control,” Raylan said, “for when I’m with Ms. Conlan. Boyd’s right, I’ve shot a woman, but I’ve still never hit one with my hand.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  She came out of the tall pillars across the front of the Colonial in Woodland Hills and walked up to Raylan and Boyd waiting by the limo. She didn’t look at Boyd. She offered Raylan her hand saying, “Carol Conlan.”

  Raylan, his expression pleasant enough said, “Ma’am,” touched the brim of his hat and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m Raylan Givens.”

  “I know, I’ve been reading about you, the one who shot the nur
se.”

  Raylan waited.

  “The write-up in the paper called you brave. Are you?”

  “I try to be whatever’s required.”

  “Would you give your life to save mine?”

  That took him to the heart of his job here. Raylan paused.

  “It would depend on the situation.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He said, “Carol . . . once I’m dead and gone to heaven, how do I know I’ve saved your life?” There. If she didn’t care for him calling her Carol, fire him.

  But she seemed to let it go. What she said was, “Raylan,” in a mild voice, “wouldn’t heaven know if you saved my life or not?”

  He had to smile saying, “You got me.”

  Carol said, “Let’s get in the car.”

  Boyd, way up in front at the wheel of the stretch, couldn’t believe it. The two buddy-buddy already. He watched them in the rearview mirror, next to each other on the backseat; Ms. Conlan, her legs crossed in expensive-looking tan slacks, a preppy black sport coat, sunglasses. Raylan sitting up straight but looked at ease, still wearing his cowboy hat, Ms. Conlan going easy on him, not scaring the shit out of him yet. Boyd looked at his controls now and turned the speaker on back there—to tell the driver what you wanted without raising your voice—and kept it low, both their voices coming to him, Ms. Conlan asking Raylan about the nurse who stole kidneys, saying she read about it in the paper.

  You know what I’ve wondered?” Carol said. “If you ever got it on with Layla. She was attractive, wasn’t she?”

  “You’re askin me,” Raylan said, “since she’s good-looking, did I try to get her in bed?”

  Carol paused. “Did you?”

  “By the time we met I was on to her.”

  She wouldn’t let go of it. Now Carol said, “But if you didn’t know what she was up to . . . ?”

  “My boss asked me the same thing. He said if I hooked up with her, not knowing what she did, I’d be laying in an alley missing my kidneys.”

  “So you set out to arrest Layla the transplant nurse and shot her instead.”

  Raylan waited. It wasn’t a question.

  “What was it like,” Carol said, “shooting a woman? Was it different?”

  “I can’t say you get use to shooting anybody. As a rule, women aren’t into crimes where they’d get shot by people in law enforcement. So we don’t get that many opportunities to shoot women.”

  Let her chew on that.

  She didn’t seem to mind it, saying, “With Layla, did you hesitate?”

  “I had, I’d be dead,” Raylan said.

  She seemed done with shooting women and said, “You’ve worked as a coal miner.”

  He didn’t answer and Carol said, “Isn’t that true?”

  “My boss told me not to open my mouth unless you asked me a question. Yeah, I dug coal, when we weren’t on strike.”

  “Do you still think like a coal miner?”

  “I don’t have his problems, finding work, getting pushed around by the company.”

  “Your attitude about the companies hasn’t changed.”

  “I think miners’ complaints are all real. A miner’s injured on the job, he keeps working or you fire him.”

  Carol held up her hand to Raylan and said in a quiet voice, “Boyd, where’d you put the Cokes?”

  Raylan watched him look at the mirror.

  “They’re on the other side from you, by Raylan.”

  Carol said, “Turn off the speaker.”

  “Oh, was it on?”

  She said to Raylan, “He lies, doesn’t he?”

  “It’s his nature,” Raylan said. “I’m looking at him for shootin Otis Culpepper.”

  Carol said, “You know I was there.”

  “I understand you told the authorities you were by the trailer,” Raylan said, “when Otis fired his shotgun at you.”

  Carol nodded, brushing her blond hair away from her face. She said, “I was coming out,” and started to smile. She knew what he was about to tell her but Raylan said it anyway.

  “No buckshot hit the trailer where you were standing. There aren’t any marks or dents in it.”

  She said, “Then he missed, didn’t he?”

  “From thirty feet, where Boyd drilled him.”

  Carol said, “Raylan,” and put her hand on his knee. “Your job is to look out for me. You don’t investigate a matter that would bring me in as a witness, I don’t have time. Just watch my back, all right? I think this meeting could become physical.”

  She was through talking about Otis, Carol looking out the window now.

  “It’s so green . . . the trees in the hills come so close. Like they want to envelop us.”

  “Pretty soon,” Raylan said, “you’ll see the ridge going bald, but it still causes people living below to fuss. Now they have rocks and bare earth envelopin them.”

  “Be nice,” Carol said.

  Boyd didn’t hear them once she caught him listening.

  He’d look at the mirror and he’d see them talking most of the whole way to Cumberland on 119. He turned on the speaker—hell with her—saying, “You like, I could direct your attention to some points of interest.”

  Carol’s voice said, “No, we wouldn’t.”

  He thought of what he’d recite had she let him. Lynch, we’re not goin there, but you might be interested to know Lynch is where colored miners lived. Excuse me, Americans of the African persuasion. Benham now has a tourist attraction. Portal 31, where you can pay to ride down from the surface and see what a mine looks like cleaned up and tidy. There’s a Johnny-on-the-Spot you never saw in a working mine, any the tourists have to take a leak. Finally they were coming to Cumberland, driving past nice-looking houses on the outskirts, Boyd telling them we have arrived. Approaching Cumberland High he pointed to the red and gold flag flying. He’d tell Ms. Conlan looking out the window, “I don’t know if our Indin brothers have complained about it yet, but look at that sign. Cumberland High School, Home of the Redskins.”

  Cars and pickups were parked along the front of the school—early arrivals—more cars on the other side of the road. Boyd headed for the lot next to the school, not many cars in there yet, and passed an open space directly in front of the building. Saw a colored guy in a chauffeur suit standing in the space like he was guarding it.

  Casper Mott’s driver.

  It was. It put Casper in the stretch parked in front of the space, by the walk that went up to the school. There were people with signs standing across the walk from one another. On one side, COAL KEEPS THE LIGHTS ON, and opposite them on the other side of the walk, was the same sign with words crossed out and one written in that said COAL KILLS.

  Boyd saw the chauffeur in his rearview step out in the road and wave his arm for Boyd to come back, Boyd easing the brakes on and heard Ms. Conlan tell him to stop and he did. Told him to back up and Boyd said to Ms. Conlan, “We never gonna fit in that dinky space.” All right, she’d get out here, and opened her door saying to Raylan, “See you in school,” and walked back to the stretch, the chauffeur holding the door open now. Raylan watched her stand there talking, most likely to Casper, before she got in.

  Boyd said, “That colored fella drivin, I believe was a fighter one time, from Lynch.”

  “Reggie Banks,” Raylan said. “Promoters’d take him around to different coal camps. Pay a miner ten bucks to go two rounds. Reggie had style. Shuffle his feet like Muhammad Ali, fake you out of your jock and hit you with a right he called his stinger. Reggie’d get a hundred bucks to fight five guys in a row, two rounds each.”

  Boyd said, “You know him, huh?”

  “I fought him back when we were diggin coal.”

  “He take your head off?”

  “He came close. But we got to know each other.”

  They parked in the school lot and walked around to the front of the building, Raylan nodding to miners he knew.

  One of them holding a GOT ELECTRICITY? THANK
A MINER sign said, “Raylan, I hear you’re on the company’s side this time.”

  “Till tomorrow,” Raylan said.

  Another coal lover in his sport shirt and M-T company hat said to Raylan, “I’ll meet you out here after, you want. Teach you respect for the company.”

  “You don’t see me right away,” Raylan said, “practice falling down till I get here.”

  The two sides were yelling things at each other now and Boyd said, “Come on,” and they walked toward Casper Mott’s limo, Boyd saying, “Aren’t you suppose to be keepin the peace?”

  “I’m in this, but don’t have a say.”

  Reggie Banks stood by the door waiting to open it, saw Raylan coming toward him and said, “Man, you still pickin fights?”

  They touched fists, Raylan saying, “Reg, you still off the sauce?”

  “Not in two years, nothin. Had me drivin fast till I went to AA and got calmed down.”

  “What’re they doing in the car?”

  “Waitin till they ready. Or the company lady’s given ’em their bonus, one.”

  Raylan heard a tap on the window, from inside.

  “Time to let ’em out,” Reggie said. “Man’s too wealthy to open the door hisself. Somebody told him he was a man of leisure, don’t have to do nothing he don’t want to. Dumb as mud he ain’t schemin with his money. I wonder, does he put on being simple as a child.”

  Reggie opened the door and little Casper Mott came out grinning at Raylan.

  “Boy, hey, you lookin good. Ms. Conlan tells us you’re her security.” He added, not moving his mouth, “I’d stay as close to Carol as I could get, but not believe a word she tells you.” He reached up and gave Raylan a hug. “Hey, I’ve got a guest with me’s an old friend of yours.”

  He turned to the car and the man came out ducking his head and Raylan was looking at his hairpiece shaped for life.

  “Mr. Pervis Crowe,” Casper said.

  There he was, wearing a suitcoat with wide lapels and a tie and his toupee. Now he was an old friend? Pervis took hold of Raylan’s hand saying, “They’s matters we disagreed on, but I always saw you as a man. Even tellin about my boys stealin kidneys. You kept bein yourself, not puttin on how smart you are.”