Raylan

by Elmore Leonard

  “Running Black Boy,” Harry said, “I won three hundred thousand off that stud.”

  “What I meant,” Carol said, sounding pouty now, “you do remember I was here?” Smiling now to show the pout was for fun.

  “Yeah, Cuba and I did our routine and I sat down at your table. But hey, I want you to meet Jackie Nevada, my guest.”

  Jackie watched Carol raise her eyebrows and say, “Really,” surprised for a moment.

  “I want you to know,” Harry said, “I have a keen interest in this little girl.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Carol said.

  Harry said, “Guess what she does.”

  Carol took a moment. “She’s a jockey?”

  “You aren’t even close.”

  “But she has something to do with horses,” Carol said. “She whispers in their ears and they nod their heads?”

  “She’s got nothing to do with horses. Jackie’s out in the world associating with people.”

  “She’s an exotic dancer,” Carol said.

  Jackie smiled and looked at the guy in the tan suit, pretty sure it was a uniform. She said to him, “What do you think I do?”

  He said, “Somethin I believe must draw a crowd.”

  “Once in a while,” Jackie said.

  “Boyd knows all kinds, good and bad,” Carol said. “It’s why I keep him handy. Harry, you know I owe my life to Boyd.”

  Harry was still holding his drink. He said to Carol, “That was a tragic situation. I guess there was nothin else your boy could’ve done but shoot that miner. What was his name, Otis something?”

  “I couldn’t move,” Carol said. “Boyd stepped in front of me drawing his revolver—”

  “I read in the paper,” Jackie said, “it was an automatic, a Glock? If you’d like to know what I do, I play poker. Harry staked me when I was down, just about out, and takes me to poker games.”

  “I put up ten grand,” Harry said. “This was after she’d lost twenty thousand to some boys I happen to know. I was curious and had a feeling about Jackie, the way she talked about poker, on intimate terms with the game, and I decided why not? I gave her ten big ones, and said you lose it, I’ll drop you off at the next crossroads. Well, the little girl’s been on a hot streak, a few clubs in Indiana, two whole days in Louisville playin some boys don’t know what hit ’em.” He said to Jackie, “Tell Carol how much you’re up.”

  She said to him, “You know you never helped me count my winnings?”

  He said, “You poor thing,” and to Carol, “Louisville, Jackie put a wad of bills in the bank and got an ATM card. You want to know for how much? Ask her, she won’t tell me.”

  “Well, if she was playing against high rollers,” Carol said, “and you say she was on a streak, I’ll guess . . .” Carol paused, looking at Jackie. “You’re not saying a word, are you? If you talk about it, I might think you’re bragging, so you keep it to yourself. That’s admirable restraint for a young girl . . . twenty-one years old? You’ve been playing poker all your life, haven’t you?”

  “About seven years,” Jackie said.

  “You started when you were—”

  “Sixteen,” Jackie said, “playing online.”

  “That’s close to all your life. You always play for money? What’s the point if you don’t, right? I suppose at school.”

  “Butler,” Jackie said. “I played every night.”

  “Do you cheat?”

  “No.”

  “You mean you don’t have to. You read people.”

  “It’s unavoidable,” Jackie said. “You check out mannerisms while you’re deciding on the odds.”

  “All there is to it,” Carol said. “We should get together, play a little poker.”

  “She’s busy,” Harry said.

  “When she’s not,” Carol said. “Have a drink and chat.”

  “I’m actually twenty-three,” Jackie said.

  Carol gave her a nice smile. She said, “Does it matter?”

  Now at Carol’s table in the middle of the Blue Grass Room, Boyd wasn’t saying a word, hands folded in his lap. Their drinks came, white wine for Carol, Boyd, a bottle of Rolling Rock. She didn’t let him drink anything hard while he’s driving her around Lexington. He poured his beer, raised the glass to take a sip and placed it on the table again.

  “I know what it was,” Carol said, “Harry calling you boy. ‘Your boy had to shoot Otis Culpepper.’ Harry calls any guy under fifty boy. He calls Jackie ‘this little girl.’ Did you hear him? Jackie’s twenty-three. She knew I’d caught her, so she owned up. It doesn’t matter to me how old she is. She’s a kid, but she’s aware.”

  Boyd said, “Cause you owe your life to me you keep me handy? In case you want me to drive you or run an errand? You know what it’s like, hear people talkin about you while you’re sittin there?”

  “She jumped on me,” Carol said, “for calling the Glock a revolver. But I don’t think to correct me. She said it to get my attention.”

  “It’s your piece,” Boyd said. “I coulda told her that.”

  “It’s like playing poker,” Carol said. “Her turn comes, she says, ‘I’ll raise,’ getting everyone’s attention and reveals what it will cost the table to stay in the game. I think understating the bet would be her style. I’d love to know how much she’s won, betting with Harry’s money.”

  “I’ll ask her,” Boyd said, “you swear you’ll never mention Otis Culpepper again in my hearing.”

  Carol sipped her wine.

  “Why does it make you nervous?”

  “You mean everybody thinkin I’m the one shot him? I don’t even own a gun no more.”

  “We tell them the gun’s licensed,” Carol said, “and I gave it to you just in case, that evening, once we knew Otis was armed.”

  Boyd stared at her across the table.

  “We tell who the gun’s licensed?”

  “The marshals,” Carol said. “One of them called again this morning.”

  “Raylan?”

  “No, a Bill Nichols. He’s writing a report. Wants to be sure he has the facts straight.”

  “They got the sheriff’s account don’t they? Everything you told ’em?”

  “They’re not coming to get us. He’d like us to stop by the office and I forgot,” Carol said. “He called again this morning and I told him we’d come in tomorrow.”

  “It’s that goddamn Raylan,” Boyd said.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Nichols was telling Raylan back in the Lexington marshals office again, Jackie Nevada was no longer a bank suspect.

  Raylan said, “She never was.”

  “But could’ve been. Start with her droppin twenty grand in a poker game.”

  “That’s her motive? You lose money, you rob a bank?”

  “The Indy cops said she was acting desperate.”

  “Wait,” Raylan said. “Who was acting desperate?”

  “Why’re we arguing?” Nichols said. “We’re holding a twenty-five-year-old white girl walked out of a bank on West Main—it was this morning—with a little over two grand and a dye pack among the take. It goes off as she pushes open the door and colors her red for guilty.”

  Raylan said, “She’s one of the girls in the surveillance tape?”

  “The one Indy police swore was Jackie Nevada. She sent word from the cage she’s ready to talk to us. Like she’s changed her mind, gonna put the stuff on this guy has her robbin banks.”

  “You know who the guy is?”

  “We’re gonna find out, aren’t we?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jane Jones on her driver’s license.”

  “You look her up?”

  “Couple of falls for prostitution,” Nichols said. “Jane Jones both times. Her occupation’s listed as exotic dancer.”

  “A stripper,” Raylan said, “when she’s not robbin banks.”

  “Good-lookin young girl,” Nichols said, “blond. I wouldn’t mind seein her act.”

&
nbsp; Jane was brought in and seated facing Nichols at his desk, Raylan in the chair next to her. He said, “Jane . . . ?” She turned to him with not much of an expression, tired out. “You look good for gettin hit with a dye pack. Your face is just a little pink. No color on your jeans or your T-shirt.”

  She said, “You should see my raincoat. You may as well throw it in the trash. I wanted to brush out my hair, but you don’t have a brush you loan out.”

  Raylan asked where she was from and she said Kentucky.

  “But not from around here,” Raylan said. “I think I hear Letcher or maybe Perry County in your voice. Am I right?”

  “Born and lived in Hazard till I worked up my nerve to leave.”

  Raylan, grinning at her, said, “Get out. You know where I’m from? Harlan County. Worked my way out and I’m back there again with the marshals.”

  Now Jane was sort of smiling. “It’s hard to escape. You have to make up your mind, you gonna go? Then get the hell goin.”

  “Your daddy,” Raylan said, “dug coal, didn’t he?”

  “Till a mine blew up on him.”

  “The one in ’96”—Raylan shaking his head—“when you were a little girl. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

  “It’s all right,” Jane said. “I came away from Hazard to better myself, I end up dancin naked and robbin banks.”

  Raylan smiled.

  Jane said, “It isn’t funny.” But now she was grinning.

  “The way you tell it it is,” Raylan said, “like ten years from now you’ll have people laughin out loud.”

  She said, “That’s how long I’ll be in prison?”

  “This fella made you rob the bank,” Raylan said, “didn’t he get you high and you’d think it was fun? I believe you have a case against this man. What’s his name?”

  “The reason I didn’t tell it before,” Jane said, “I’m scared to death of him.”

  “He’d beat you up?”

  “He’d slap me I argue or don’t answer right away. Then says in his soft tone a voice, ‘Baby, you know I don’t like to hit you.’ Always this, ‘Please, baby, don’t make me do it.’ He told us we had to get five thousand each or don’t come home. So we go in a bank it’s what we ask for. Three times with the girls and once alone, when the fucking dye pack went off.”

  “How much you get to keep of the take?”

  “Couple hundred.”

  “Did you know the other girls before?”

  “Stripped with ’em for a while. Couple of Barbie dolls on drugs. Kim and Cassie.”

  “He fixed you up?”

  “He’d give us a hit, tell us, ‘You get done, ladies, come straight home, hear?’ This young guy would drive us to the bank and pick us up, but I bet anything Delroy was watchin.”

  “Delroy,” Raylan said, “got you the jobs?”

  “I said his name, didn’t I? It just come out.” Jane was squinting at Raylan now. “You know about Delroy Lewis?”

  Raylan remembered having to wait for Delroy to let go of the shotgun and put up his hands. “I arrested him one time. We didn’t say much to each other.”

  “In Florida,” Nichols said. “Tall skinny guy? Convicted of assault meaning to do great bodily harm. He took a man’s arm off firing a shotgun at him as the guy’s pullin his gun.”

  “Tryin to get it out of his pants,” Raylan said. “The guy wanted a million bucks for the loss of his arm. The only snitch I ever heard of packin a gun. Delroy drew seven to ten for tryin to kill him.”

  “What’d he make off you girls,” Nichols said to Jane, “around forty, fifty thousand? We get him this time for bank robbery from a distance.”

  “I talked to him,” Jane said, “on the phone.”

  Raylan said, “You called him from here?” Wanting St. Christopher to stop her from telling Delroy she was being held.

  “I told him I’d been picked up,” Jane said, “covered with red dye. You know what he said? No mellow tone a voice this time. He said, ‘Who is this, please?’ Trying to sound innocent. First time he ever said ‘please’ in his life. He knows cops are gonna be playin my call later. I’m like, ‘Come on, don’t fuck around, I’m in jail.’ Delroy says in a white tone a voice, ‘Who is this, please?’ I screamed at him, ‘It’s Janie. I got picked up.’ His white voice comes on the phone again, ‘I don’t happen to know anybody name of Jane,’ and shuts off his cell. I robbed banks for the son of a bitch. Now he don’t even know me.”

  Raylan saw he’d better move this along.

  Nichols’s phone rang.

  He picked up and listened and said, “Tell Miss Conlan we’ll see her in just a couple minutes,” and hung up.

  Jane said, “Delroy made porno movies too, in the back of his van. Kim and Cassie were in them. I wouldn’t do any.”

  Nichols said, “I’ll take Miss Jones and get things started while you interview Miss Conlan.”

  Raylan said, “And Boyd?”

  “And Boyd.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “I told the chief why you think Boyd shot Otis.”

  “I know he did.”

  “The chief said he wishes you’d go back to Harlan County.”

  “What was his tone a voice? You don’t know when he’s kidding with you? He let you set it up, didn’t he?”

  “You’re gonna owe me for this.”

  “I get Boyd to shoot off his mouth,” Raylan said, “I’ll buy you a three-dollar martini.”

  “Delroy’d get us in a nod,” Jane said. “I’ll have a case, won’t I? Forced to rob banks? You have to arrest him for sure now, right?” She said, “Oh my God, I just thought of somethin. The girls don’t know I’m in jail. You think I could call them? If I’m in jail they’ll know I gave him up. Somebody oughta tell them.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Delroy Lewis was a member of a biker club one time called Spades, all black guys, least fifty of ’em in black leather, the ace of spades painted on their yellow helmets. Once a month the Spades took a ride to some sleepy town in the country and fucked with people on the street. Delroy rode with the gang four times, got filthy dirty riding in the ass-end of the pack and quit the Spades.

  He wore sport shirts with high collars to shorten his neck, the man long all over his six-foot-six-inch frame, 178 pounds wet, a skinny body on toothpick legs. He wore a white scarf loose around his neck and sunglasses in his hair.

  This was a time before Delroy went down for shootin the snitch, the idea of Chicks Who Rob Banks came to him.

  He owned a cocktail lounge on New Center Road called the Cooz Club that featured chicks writhing bare-naked on a pole that rose from the narrow strip of stage back of the bar. They’d get up there in their heels, eyes dreamy, out of focus, and the guys at the bar would bet on which chick would fall off, side bets on hitting the bartender or not. He made drinks looking over his shoulder. Once Delroy had the idea, he turned the bare-naked ladies into bank-robbin chicks and was doing fine till Janie tripped the dye pack. He’d told them how many times, check the money in bank straps before leaving and remind each other. Jane was alone and hadn’t checked.

  He phoned the other chicks, Kim and Cassie, had to wake them up saying, “Collect your clothes and valuables, any dope, get all your shit together and be ready to leave when I get there in ten minutes. You listenin?” He said, “Jane got picked up and is gonna roll over on us. Jane, the chick you do banks with.” He’d have to go over there and slap ’em some, make sure they took everything they owned out of the house. Finally, they got in Delroy’s car and drove out to horse country.

  Going past miles of white fences and thoroughbreds raising their heads to see Delroy’s Mercedes flying past.

  They were approaching trees and some bushes now. Delroy slowed down and stopped on the side of the road.

  “Come on out and we’ll relieve ourselves together, ladies. Won’t have another chance to pee-pee for a while.”

  Kim said she couldn’t do it with him watching.

&nbs
p; Delroy said, “Girl, I see you bare-ass naked every day. Get out the car.”

  Once the girls were out looking for a good place to pee, Delroy took his PPK from inside his shirt and racked it. By the time he was in the trees, Cassie was pulling up her jeans. Kim was still squatting. He walked up and shot Cassie first. She fell without making a sound. But now Kim was screaming to bust a lung. Delroy shot her and she stopped. He made sure neither one had ID on her and dragged their bodies into the bushes.

  A marshal brought Carol and Boyd to Nichols’s office, rapped on the glass door, stepped aside, and Boyd saw Raylan standing by the desk, Raylan coming around it now, looking right at them.

  Boyd said, “You knew we were seein him.”

  “I didn’t,” Carol said, “really. It was someone else who called, both times.”

  “I’m not talkin to him,” Boyd said. “I got nothin to say on the matter hasn’t been written in reports. Far as I’m concerned the case is closed tight.”

  Carol said, “Try to control yourself, all right?”

  The door opened and she was saying to Ray1an, “Well, isn’t this a surprise, my old bodyguard.”

  I’ve always enjoyed watching you,” Carol said. “Even when you were showing off and shot one of my employees . . . It wasn’t in the head but in the hair? I asked Boyd, ‘He’s so accurate he can do that?’ Boyd said, ‘He wanted ’em dead they be dead.’ ”

  They took the two chairs facing the desk, Boyd gripping the arms of his, staring at Raylan sitting at the desk now holding forth. Boyd saw him waiting to try some new approach and said, “What’re you gonna pull on us this time?”

  “Tell me if I have it straight,” Raylan said. “You shot Otis while he’s firing a twelve-gauge at you.”

  Boyd took his time. Did he shoot Otis? No, goddamn it, but said, “Yes, I did.”

  “You hit him and he fired in the air.”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “How many times?”

  “Did he shoot? I don’t know, a couple.”

  “Racked the shotgun and tried twice, after you hit him in the chest from fairly close.”

  Boyd paused, thinking of how he’d told it to the sheriff’s people. “See, Otis was firing before I shot him. After I hit him, I guess he only got off one more.”