Riding the Rap

by Elmore Leonard

  Louis paused in the sea grape to look out at the ocean again. The boat seemed closer now, but not much. If it was Mr. Walker he was easing his way in, careful of reefs maybe, or sandbars. Louis turned and hurried across the yard, glancing at the pool hiding Bobby, went in the doors off the patio and through the sunroom to the study. Who was standing there waiting but the Chipper.

  “Hey, you made it.”

  Louis grinning at Chip till he saw Chip wasn’t looking at him but at the TV. Like hypnotized. Louis turned to look. What he saw was Harry sitting on his cot and the man—seeing him from behind, the man bent over fooling with the chains—but it was the man, the cowboy, no doubt of it, wearing his hat, the suit. . . .

  “You crazy?” Louis said. “You let him in the house?”

  Chip turned to him all eyes. “We got to get out.”

  “Leave Harry?” Louis said. “Leave the cowboy knowing all about us? Man, you are crazy.”

  It seemed to wake him up some. Chip went to the chest saying, “The shotgun.”

  “It’s out on the beach,” Louis said. “Shit, everything’s out on the beach,” and ran from the study through the sunroom. He heard Chip.

  Chip yelling, “Where you going!”

  Asshole. Louis wanting to stop and say, where you think? But not having the time. He knew where Chip was going for sure, in the pool. Him and the cowboy both.

  Louis was across the yard and into the sea grape when he thought of the window in the hostage room, uncovered now, but didn’t turn around to look. Man, he had to move. Get the shotgun and the Browning—shit, dig it out of the hanging bag—and get back in time to do the cowboy in the room still bent over. Or coming down the stairs, see the man’s face. Say to him, Surprise, motherfucker. Boom.

  Harry said to Raylan, standing at the window now, “You could open these with a screwdriver, for Christ sake. You don’t need the key.”

  “What’d he tell you exactly?”

  “He said be ready in five minutes, and that was about ten minutes ago. He had to take his stuff down first.”

  “He didn’t have anything with him,” Raylan said, watching the date palms and clumps of sea grape at the edge of the property, the trees hiding the strip of beach.

  “He said he’d be back for me.”

  “I think that’s what he did,” Raylan said.

  “Then why didn’t he come upstairs?”

  It took Raylan maybe two seconds to decide what it meant and say, “He knows I’m here,” and start for the door, in a hurry to catch Louis outside.

  Harry had time to say, “Wait a minute, will you?” He yelled at him, “Get me out of here!” too late.

  Raylan was gone.

  Harry’s gaze, coming away from the door, stopped on Raylan’s shotgun, lying on the other cot.

  Louis stood in the path through the sea grape studying the house, taking in that upstairs window now free of plywood. Nobody up there watching that he could tell. He pumped the stubby shotgun to put one in the chamber. The Browning was stuck in his waist beneath his new black silk jacket. He needed to hurry, catch the man by surprise, but didn’t like having to cross the yard out in the open, exposed. So what he did was sprint across hunched over, like anybody looking out a window then wouldn’t see him. He came past the swimming pool, got to the patio and stopped, seeing one of the French doors come open.

  The cowboy stepped out, nothing in his hands, and stood looking right at him. He said, “You don’t want to get shot, do you? Put down the gun. Drop it on that chair.”

  Louis was where he’d stood when he did Bobby only turned around, facing the house instead of the swimming pool, a lounge chair next to him. He said, “What’d I do?”

  “You have two years coming for that illegal weapon,” Raylan said. “I won’t discuss the kidnapping with you at this time. Put the gun down and come over here, your hands behind your head.”

  “You telling me all that,” Louis said, “you don’t even have a gun pointing at me.”

  “If I pull it,” Raylan said, “I’ll use it. You understand? You make a threatening move I’ll shoot you through the heart.”

  Louis held the sawed-off pointed down and against his leg. He said, “Man, all I got to do is raise this thing.”

  “I have to advise you, though, to put it down.”

  Louis said, “We like in the movies, huh? The two hombres facing each other out in the street.”

  “That’s the only place it ever happened,” Raylan said. “In the movies. You ever shot a man?”

  Louis liked the way this was going, knowing he had the advantage, holding a shotgun he’d hardly have to aim. He said, “Lemme see. Yeah, I did, just the other day.”

  That stopped the man. But he believed it, asking, “How close were you?”

  “About like this far, me and you. Was Bobby, the Puerto Rican gunfighter. You know Bobby.”

  The man’s suitcoat was open and he had his thumbs in his belt now in his U.S. marshal pose. Louis watched the man’s right hand.

  He said, “You killed Bobby with that gun?”

  “No, man, we drew on each other with pistolas, did the deed like you suppose to.” With his left hand Louis opened his coat enough to show the Browning. “Used one like this on him.”

  Raylan said, “Now you want to try with the shotgun?”

  “I don’t see no other way. Do you?”

  The man raised his hat and set it on his head again, on his eyes, and it gave him a look—not just the hat but the man’s whole manner standing there—that made Louis hesitate and wonder did he have the advantage here or not. The man saying, “I’ll tell you once more to put down the gun.”

  See? Like he thought he had the advantage.

  The man saying, “You don’t put it down by the time I count to three I’ll shoot to kill. One . . .”

  Louis thinking, Hey, shit, wait.

  “Two.”

  And saw the man’s hand come out of his coat with a pistol. Cheating, the man drawing on the count of two. Louis saw the muzzle hole looking at him the same way Bobby’s had, swung his gun up from his leg now, quick, and right then heard a shotgun blast that wasn’t from his, that got him to look up to see Harry with a gun barrel sticking out the window, the gun going off again with the smoke and noise it made and Louis felt the load hit him high in the chest to punch the breath out of him and slam him off his feet. He wanted to say come on, man, wait now, looking at sky, that’s all, the sky turned darker from what it was a minute ago, and thinking, The man never said three. Thinking, Was Harry. But how could it be? It was too quick, how it happened. He wanted to start over and do it right this time, no cheating. He was looking at sky, then looking at the man’s face in the hat looking down at him . . .

  Raylan touched Louis’s throat and closed his eyes with the same two fingers.

  Chip looked like he was approaching the edge of a cliff, coming within a few feet of Louis and turning away. Raylan sent him to get Harry.

  “Nine days up there in fucking chains,” Harry said, coming across the patio, eager, his eyes full of life. “I nailed him, didn’t I? Like a split second before he was gonna shoot.” Harry turned to Raylan. “I saved your life, you know it? You realize that? You come to rescue me and I end up saving your ass.”

  Raylan said, “Is that what you think?”

  thirty

  It was Sunday morning now, half past ten. Dawn asked Raylan if he’d like a cup of coffee; he said he wouldn’t mind and followed her to the kitchen. It seemed bare, hardly ever used. She stood at the range, her back to him, in jeans and a white shirt, her hair combed. Raylan, by the Formica table, had his hat on. He said to her, “You saw Harry?”

  “Last night, but only for a few minutes. I told you he was okay.”

  “For a man who spent a week chained up,” Raylan said, “blindfolded, eating TV dinners.”

  “He was nice to me,” Dawn said, sounding hopeful, coming to the table now with the electric coffeepot. “I told him I was sorry, but t
here was really nothing I could do. He said he understood that. You want toast?”

  “I’ve had breakfast.”

  “He said if I needed a lawyer he’d get me one.”

  “Harry did?”

  “He’s not mad at me. He kept telling Joyce how he’s shot and killed three bad guys in his life, making the point, more than you have. Joyce was all over him. She even fixed him a drink, saying ‘cause he deserved it. I left.”

  Raylan watched her pour coffee into ceramic mugs. Sugar and powdered milk were on the table. He pulled a chair out and sat down. “I understand they’re going away.”

  “Yeah, to Vegas,” Dawn said. “I love Vegas, I wouldn’t even mind living there. Maybe when this business is settled. . . . What about Chip?”

  “His first appearance hearing’s tomorrow afternoon. He’ll be charged and a bond set.”

  She said, “I suppose I’ll have to appear sometime.”

  Raylan watched her lean over the table, her shirt open in front, to put three spoons of sugar in her coffee and stir it. He said, “The sheriffs people will talk to you, then it’s up to them.” He had to ask her, “What do you see happening to you?”

  “It’s not real clear yet.”

  Raylan said, “I think you see things the same way I do except you have that Grand Trine in your natal chart, so you believe you have a gift. I’ve never understood people wanting to know their future. I’d rather let it happen and be surprised.”

  Dawn put the spoon down. She moved around behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. She said, “You’d like to go to bed with me.” She said, “That’s how psychic I am. You can deny it, it’s still true.”

  “I admit it’s crossed my mind,” Raylan said.

  “See? Come on then, let’s go.”

  “Wanting to is one thing,” Raylan said, “doing it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “Appropriate—gimme a break. If you want to and I want to . . .”

  “I’m not gonna arrest you.”

  There was a pause.

  “You’re not?”

  Raylan felt her hands slip from his shoulders. She was sitting down now at the table, hunching her chair in close, all the while looking at him.

  “How come?”

  “It’s not my case. I was never on a case, I was looking for Harry. I’ll be asked what I know, but mainly it’ll be Harry’s word, and you said he was nice to you.”

  “Yeah, but what’ll you tell them about me?”

  “Only what you told me, you were threatened, they made you do it.” Raylan paused. “You said the other day, when we were talking about that woman’s murder and how you conned the detectives—”

  “I did not. I saw the murder weapon, that bookend.”

  “You took a chance, guessed there were two bookends and reasoned it out from there. I called you on it and you said, ‘What’s wrong with wanting to do better?’ Wanting to get ahead in the world, be somebody. See, I think the way you go about it,” Raylan said, “you give yourself enough problems without my adding to them.”

  “You’re not gonna testify against me?”

  Sounding like she wanted to be sure about it.

  Raylan shook his head. “Why put you in prison? This place is bad enough.”

  “Then why can’t we go to bed?”

  He said, “I’m getting out of here before I do something foolish.”

  She said, “What’s wrong with being foolish sometimes?”

  It was a good question.

  The Extras

  I. ALL BY ELMORE: THE CRIME NOVELS; THE WESTERNS

  II. SELECTED FILMOGRAPHY

  III. IF IT SOUNDS LIKE WRITING, REWRITE IT

  V. MARTIN AMIS INTERVIEWS “THE DICKENS OF DETROIT”

  This section was prepared by the editorial staff of HarperCollins e-books, who thank Mr. Gregg Sutter, Elmore Leonard’s longtime researcher and aide-de-camp, for his unstinting support and help in the assembling of this material.

  Further riches await the reader at the website that Mr. Sutter maintains, www.elmoreleonard.com, and in “The Extras” sections of other HarperCollins editions of Elmore Leonard’s novels (“All by Elmore” and “Selected Filmography” come standard in each e-book).

  All by Elmore

  The Crime Novels

  The Big Bounce (1969); Mr. Majestyk (1974); 52 Pickup (1974); Swag* (1976); Unknown Man #89 (1977); The Hunted (1977); The Switch (1978); City Primeval: High Noon in Detroit (1980); Gold Coast (1980); Split Images (1981); Cat Chaser (1982); Stick (1983); LaBrava (1983); Glitz (1985); Bandits (1987); Touch (1987); Freaky Deaky (1988); Killshot(1989); Get Shorty (1990); Maximum Bob (1991); Rum Punch (1992); Pronto (1993); Riding the Rap(1995); Out of Sight (1996); Be Cool (1999); Pagan Babies (2000); “Fire in the Hole”* (e-book original story, 2001); Tishomingo Blues (2002); When the Women Come Out to Dance: Stories (2002).

  The Westerns

  The Bounty Hunters* (1953); The Law at Randado* (1954); Escape from Five Shadows* (1956); Last Stand at Saber River* (1959); Hombre* (1961); The Moonshine War* (1969); Valdez Is Coming* (1970); Forty Lashes Less One* (1972); Gunsights* (1979) Cuba Libre (1998); The Tonto Woman and Other Western Stories* (1998).

  As of November 2002: Unless otherwise indicated (*), all titles are available from HarperCollins e-books. All titles are available in print form in dazzling new editions by HarperTorch paperbacks, with the exception of: The Moonshine War (1969); Swag (1976); “Fire in the Hole” (2001). “Fire in the Hole” is available within HarperCollins e-book and William Morrow hardcover editions of When the Women Come Out to Dance (2002).

  The Crime Novels

  The Big Bounce(1969)

  Jack Ryan always wanted to play pro ball. But he couldn’t hit a curveball, so he turned his attention to less legal pursuits. A tough guy who likes walking the razor’s edge, he’s just met his match — and more — in Nancy. She’s a rich man’s plaything, seriously into thrills and risk, and together she and Jack are pure heat ready to explode. But when simple housebreaking and burglary give way to the deadly pursuit of a really big score, the stakes suddenly skyrocket. Because violence and double-cross are the name of this game — and it’s going to take every ounce of cunning Jack and Nancy possess to survive . . . each other.

  Houston Chronicle: “[Leonard is] a sage poet of crime.”

  From the novel:

  She was facing him now, her cold look gone and smiling a little. Of course it’s loaded.

  “You going to shoot something?”

  “We could. Windows are good.”

  “So you brought a gun to shoot at windows.”

  “And boats. Boats are fun.”

  “I imagine they would be. How about cars?”

  “I didn’t think about cars.” She seemed pleasantly surprised. “Isn’t that funny?

  “Yeah that is funny.”

  “There’s a difference,” Ryan said, “between breaking and entering and armed robbery.”

  “And there’s a difference between seventy-eight dollars and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Nancy said, “How badly do you want it?”

  Mr. Majestyk(1974)

  Vincent Majestyk saw too much death in the jungles of Southeast Asia. All he wants to do now is farm his melons and forget. But peace can be an elusive commodity, even in the Arizona hinterlands — and especially when the local mob is calling all the shots. And one quiet, proud man’s refusal to be strong-armed by a powerful hood is about to start a violent chain reaction that will leave Mr. Majestyk ruined, in shackles, and without a friend in the world — except for one tough and beautiful woman. But his tormentors never realized something about their mark: This is not his first war. Vince Majestyk knows more than they’ll ever know about survival . . . and everything about revenge.

  Bergen Record: “First rate . . . an excellent thriller . . . well-plotted and smoothly written and crackles with suspense.”

  From the novel:

  Majestyk was running across the open scru
b, weaving through the dusty brush clumps, by the time Renda got out of the car and began firing at him with the automatic, both hands extended in the handcuffs. Majestyk kept running. Renda jumped across the ditch, got to the fence, and laid the .45 on the top of a post, aimed, and squeezed the trigger three times, but the figure out in the scrub was too small now and it would have to be a lucky shot to bring him down. He fired once more and the automatic clicked empty.

  Seventy, eighty yards away, Majestyk finally came to a stop, worn out, getting his breath. He turned to look at the man standing by the fence post and, for a while, they stared at one another, each knowing who the other man was and what he felt and not having to say anything. Renda crossed the ditch to the Jag and Majestyk watched it drive away.

  52 Pickup (1974)

  Detroit businessman Harry Mitchell had had only one affair in his twenty-two years of happy matrimony. Unfortunately someone caught his indiscretion on film and now wants Harry to fork over one hundred grand to keep his infidelity a secret. And if Harry doesn’t pay up, the blackmailer and his associates plan to press a lot harder — up to and including homicide, if necessary. But the psychos picked the wrong pigeon for their murderous scam. Because Harry Mitchell doesn’t get mad . . . he gets even.

  Chicago Tribune: “A splendid thriller.”

  From the novel:

  The Gray Line sightseeing bus was approaching the foot of Woodward Avenue when Bobby Shy started up the aisle in his light-gray business suit and sun-glasses, past the thirty-six heads he had counted from his seat in the rear. They were mostly couples, out-of-town conventioneers and their wives, middle-aged or older, almost all of them wearing glasses and name tags.