Raylan Read online

  At 2:30 A.M. he put on his cowboy hat and went to visit Miss Layla.

  Raylan used his burglar picks to open the front door without disturbing the manager. He went up the stairs to Layla’s apartment and knocked on the door. He stood before the peephole in his hat—no way she wouldn’t know him, and knocked again, giving the door three firm raps.

  He waited.

  She’d be looking at him by now, wondering how to play it.

  “I’m not here to make an arrest,” Raylan said, his face close to the door. “I want to talk to you about something.”

  Finally he heard her voice.

  “At three in the morning?”

  “I been trying to get hold of you,” Raylan said. “You told the hospital you took leave to nurse your mom back to health, but you never went near her. You know the time I mean?”

  There was a silence.

  Her voice said, “I met my boyfriend. I actually was in New Orleans.”

  “Let’s get him to vouch for you,” Raylan said, “and I’ll quit worryin about it.”

  “He’s married,” Layla’s voice said.

  “I could have a word with him,” Raylan said. “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

  “I start arrestin people for committin adultery I’d never get home for supper and see my wife and kids. We have three boys and a girl.”

  Layla’s voice said, “Wait till I put something on.”

  Raylan imagined Layla standing on the other side of the door bare-naked and wanted to come back with a cool line, but couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t stupid and said, “Okay,” and waited.

  Cuba had pulled on his pants and was stripping the bedding from the sofa. He said, “Raylan,” shaking his head. “I could hear you lyin to each other.”

  Layla had on a black kimono with touches of red here and there. She told Cuba to put on his shoes and wait in the bedroom. “With your gun,” Layla said. “We’re ready, we’ll do it here, right now. In the bathtub. Run water to wash out the blood. He comes in, we’ll lie to each other some more. I’ll see how it goes, the kind of mood he’s in. I’ll have the needle ready.” She looked around the room. “Maybe in the kitchen. I’ll get him relaxed first.”

  “When he ain’t lookin,” Cuba said, “you pop him with the needle?”

  “And you take him out when we’re finished,” Layla said. “Get him to disappear.”

  “Not hang him on a corner and call emergency?”

  “He knows us,” Layla said. “He gets on dialysis we’re fucked.” She took time to look at Cuba and said, “Am I right?”

  Cuba said, “You always right, aren’t you?”

  She opened the door and said to Raylan, “Follow me,” and took him through the living room to the kitchen, where two vodkas over ice waited on the counter. She watched him grin as she handed him one.

  “To ease me down,” Raylan said. “Tell you the truth, I came here with the same idea. Let you know I’m not gonna snitch on you, tell the hospital you didn’t take off to see your old mom. She wouldn’t of known you, you wore a sign with your name on it.”

  “I told you, I met my boyfriend,” Layla said.

  “His name Cuba Franks?”

  Layla gave him a tired look, shaking her head. “Whoever Cuba is, he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “He brought his boss to the hospital a couple times. Mr. Harry Burgoyne?”

  “I still don’t remember him,” Layla said.

  “Cuba’s easy to meet, for a fella’s done hard time,” Raylan said. “I thought he might straighten out his life, till he shot the Crowe brothers. Shot the dad too, but Pervis survived. Now the old man wants to do Cuba himself. Did you know that? For killing his worthless boys.”

  Layla got out a cigarette and lighted it saying, “Why don’t you finish your drink and leave?”

  “You haven’t eased me down,” Raylan said, “have you? The Crowe brothers did some work for Cuba one time. Lifted Angel Arenas on the bed to get his kidneys removed. I thought, Why didn’t they do him in the tub, save messin up the bed? I guess they were still learning. The Crowes gave Angel a week to come up with a hundred grand—the second biggest mistake Cuba ever made, hookin up with the Crowes.”

  Layla had to ask:

  “What was his first mistake?”

  “Getting involved with Miss Transplant,” Raylan said. “Why he’s hiding in the bedroom right now.”

  She said, “You can’t just . . . search my apartment.”

  “I’ve got cause,” Raylan said. “Reason to believe a wanted felon’s in there.”

  “Why you’ve come after me all of a sudden,” Layla said, “I’ll never know.” She moved closer to Raylan leaning on the yellow-tile counter, his body against the fucking drawer she had to open to get the needle.

  “Do you think I’d actually steal kidneys from the center?”

  “You learned how watching for eleven years. Only you do your surgery in motel rooms.”

  “I think you’re crazy,” Layla said. “You want to look in the bedroom? Go ahead.”

  She threw her cigarette in the sink as he straightened, leaving his glass on the counter, and watched him walk out of the kitchen in his cowboy hat. Layla opened the drawer and picked up the syringe.

  Now the tricky part: walk up behind him and jab the needle into his arm before he saw her. She tested the 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 hand, 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.”

  Layla’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 like 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 gone.

  He lay there with Cuba on him thinking, You didn’t shoot her.

  Why didn’t you? She’s standing right there.

  Like that, she was in trouble.

  She should have given him another shot before putting on her makeup. Cuba said the first two times were funny, kissing the Willie Lomans while they were still alive, not knowing shit what was happening. But lovin up a man drugged out of his head was creepy. Like kissing the dead.

  It was in her mind to run, get out of here. Someone would have heard the shots and called the police.

  Or, stay and make up a story.

  Officer, I’m a transplant nurse at UK Medical. We save lives, we don’t shoot people.

  Get rid of Cuba’s clothes all over the place and the surgical kit.

  Officer, I came home after putting in fourteen hours . . . stopped to have a bite to eat . . . . I knew someone was in the apartment . . . and found these two shot to death. I did check their vital signs, not having any idea what they were doing here. I think the naked one’s in law enforcement. He could have followed the other one, the African American, here. Tell them that. But why my apartment?

  Don’t think about it now. She had Raylan’s Glock and had fired how many rounds, seven? If someone did hear the shots, one more wouldn’t matter, would it?

  Do it and get out. Think later.

  It was work to free himself of Cuba, the man not helping any. Raylan lifted his body enough to push it aside and pull himself out of the tub. He checked the Sig, racked the slide to make sure it was loaded and stepped to the doorway.

  Layla was on the other side of the bed with his Glock. She looked up and had the gun pointed at him in the same motion. Raylan didn’t move, standing there naked in his cowboy boots holding the Sig at his leg.

  She seemed at ease in her kimono asking him, “How are you feeling?”

  “Groggy,” Raylan said. “Like I’ve had too many.”

  She said, “What’s that, Cuba’s gun? I hate to tell you, before you try to use it—”

  “I checked,” Raylan said, “it’s loaded.” He said, “I don’t want to shoot you. Okay?”

  She said, “I thought you wanted to arrest me,” sounding surprised.

  “It’s up to you,” Raylan said.

  “Well, I don’t see us shooting it out,” Layla said, raising both arms over her head, the kimono coming open enough to show her bare-naked under it.

  She said, “Would you like to pat me down?”

  This was a first for Raylan: a girl with a gun in her hand exposing herself to him.

  Get him horny and shoot him?

  It’s what she tried.<
br />
  Swung the Glock down to aim eye-level at him and Raylan raised the Sig past his hip and shot her dead center, inches below the heart, the round punching her off her feet to go down grabbing at the bedspread. Raylan circled in his cowboy boots, picking up his suitcoat, put it on and took it off to stand in front of her naked. He stood looking down at her surprised expression, her eyes not yet losing focus, turning to glass. Layla said, “I can’t believe you shot me.”

  Raylan said, “I can’t either.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  You don’t think of your manners and let the woman go first,” Art Mullen said, “not when she’s pointing a gun at you.”

  They were having breakfast at A Touch of Country in downtown Cumberland. Raylan back from Lexington poking at his bowl of grits, burying the pieces of bacon.

  “You keep looking at it,” Art said, “asking yourself were you too quick. The woman jabbed a hypo in you and took your gun. Finally you come to a showdown. She’s aiming at you and you’re still drugged out. You wonder if you might’ve been too quick on the trigger?”

  “She was surprised I shot her,” Raylan said.

  “Why? She thought you were a gentleman? Tell me what else you could’ve done.”

  “I was surprised too,” Raylan said, “I did it.”

  “Cause you never shot a woman before?”

  “I guess.”

  “Why you think you had a choice?” Art said, trying to get Raylan settled in his mind about shooting the transplant nurse, Layla.

  “She was standing by her things on the bed. I could see her okay but I was wobbly. She’d made up her face, put lipstick on, did her eyes . . .”

  Art said, “I don’t see that makes any difference.”

  “She’s gonna take out my kidneys and—I don’t know—wanted to look her best? I woke up naked, in the bathtub.”

  “You crawled out,” Art said, prompting him.

  “I had to move Cuba Franks off me. I still don’t know why she shot Cuba.”

  “She’s trying to hit you,” Art said. “Police have the rounds she fired from your piece.”

  “See, but once we’re in the bedroom, I don’t remember if she shot at me.”