Riding the Rap (22 page)

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?”

I
t 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 there 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.”

“Ap
pro
priate—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.

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).

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 scrub, 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.

“That beautiful structure on the left is the City-Country Building,” the driver was saying into the mike clipped to his lapel. “And the statue in front is the world-famous ‘Spirit of Detroit.' Sitting there, that man is sixteen feet high and weighs over sixteen thousand pounds. Ahead of us now you see the Detroit River.”

As the bus turned left onto Jefferson, heads raised and gazes shifted to look at the river and dismal gray skyline beyond.

“Across the way, beautiful downtown Windsor, Ontario,” the drive said. “You can get over to Canada by tunnel or bridge. There used to be a ferry, but I believe he was arrested some time back. The amazing thing is that, at this particular point, Canada is south of the United States.”

At the front of the bus now Bobby Shy ducked his head to look out. Straightening again he reached inside the jacket of his light-gray business suit, came out with a .38 Colt Special and placed the barrel gently against the driver's ear.

“Give me the mike, man,” Bobby Shy said.

Swag
(1976)

Three guys with illegal expertise, a plan to snag a tax-free hundred grand, and a taste of summertime Detroit's sweet life. But it means committing armed robbery. And being smart enough to get away with it.

Publishers Weekly
: “An electrifying novel . . . with a murderous, well-timed suspenseful finale.”

The New York Times
: “Leonard is nobody's follower, and he has a style of his own. “Swag” is one of the best of the year.”

From the novel:

There was a photograph of Frank in an ad that ran in the
Detroit Free Press
and showed all the friendly salesmen at Red Bowers Chevrolet. Under his
photo it said Frank J. Ryan. He had on a nice smile, a styled moustache, and a summer-weight suit made out of that material that's shiny and looks like it has snags in it.

There was a photograph of Stick on file at 1300 Beaubein, Detroit Police Headquarters. Under the photo it said Ernest Stickley, Jr. 89037. He had on a sport shirt that had sailboats and palm trees on it. He'd bought it in Pompano Beach, Florida.

The first time they ever saw each other was the night at Red Bowers Chevrolet Telegraph when Stick was pulling out of the used car lot in the maroon '73 Camaro. Frank walked up to the side window as the car stopped before turning out on the street. He said, “You mind if I ask where you are going?”

Unknown Man #89
(1977)

Detroit process server Jack Ryan has a reputation for being the best in the business at finding people who don't want to be found. Now he's looking for a missing stockholder known only as “Unknown Man #89.” But his missing man isn't “unknown” to everyone: a pretty blonde hates his guts and a very nasty dude named Royal wants him dead in the worst way. Which is very unfortunate for Jack
Ryan, who is suddenly caught in the crossfire of a lethal triple-cross and as much a target as his nameless prey.

The New York Times Book Review
: “Remarkably ingenious . . . Will keep you on the edge of your chair.”

From the novel:

A friend of Ryan's said to him one time, “Yeah, but at least you don't take any shit from anybody.”

Ryan said to his friend, “I don't know, the way things've been going, maybe it's about time I started taking some.”

This had been a few years ago. Ryan remembered it as finally waking up, deciding to get off his ass and make some kind of run.

His sister drove him down to the Detroit police car auction where he bough a 1970 maroon and white Cougar for $250. His sister didn't like the Cougar because it had four bullet holes in the door on the driver's side. Ryan said he didn't mind.
Didn't mind
; he loved them.

The Hunted
(1977)

Al Rosen was doing just fine, hiding out in Israel — until he decided to play Good Samaritan and rescue some elderly tourists from a hotel fire. Now his picture's been carried in the stateside press, and the guys he's been hiding from know exactly where he is. And they're coming to get him — crooked lawyers, men with guns and money, and assorted members of the Detroit mob who are harboring a serious grudge. Playtime in paradise is officially over; Rosen's a million miles from home with a bull's eye on his back. And his only ally is a U.S. Embassy marine who's been looking for a war . . . and who's damn well found one.

Bergen Record
: “Excellent . . . fun to read . . . a plot and a chase as good as anything he has ever written.”

From the novel:

Rosen first noticed the tourist lady on Friday, the day before the fire. He saw her and said to himself, New York.

She had the look — a trim forty-year-old who kept herself together: stylish in a quiet way, neatly combed dark hair and sunglasses; tailored beige sundress, about a size eight or ten; expensive cane-trimmed handbag hanging from her shoulder; nothing overdone, no camera case, no tourist lapel badge that said “Kiss Me, I'm Jewish,” Rosen, watching her walk past the cafe, liked her thin legs, her high can, and her sensible breasts.

The Switch
(1978)

Ordell Robbie and Louis Gara hit it off in prison, where they were both doing time for grand theft auto. Now that they're out, they're joining forces for one big score. The plan is to kidnap the wife of a wealthy Detroit developer and hold her for ransom. But they didn't figure the lowlife husband wouldn't want his lady back. So it's time for Plan B and the opportunity to make a real killing — with the unlikely help of a beautiful, ticked-off housewife who's hungry for a large helping of sweet revenge.

Seattle Times
: “Nerve-wracking. . . . One of Leonard's best.”

From the novel:

Ordell brought out his box of Halloween masks set it on the coffee table in front of Louis and said, “Now you know how long I've been working on this deal.”

They were in Ordell's apartment, Louis stretched out in a La-Z-Boy recliner with the Magic Ottoman up. He'd been sitting here four days on and off, since Ordell had met him at Detroit Metro and told Louis he was coming home with him. Louis had said home where? Some Place in Niggerville? Ordell said no, man, nice integrated neighborhoods. Ofays, Arabs, Chaldeans, a few colored folks. Ethnic, man. Eyetaliain grocery, Armenian party store, Lebanese restaurant, a Greek Coney Island Red Hot where the whores had their coffee, a block of Adult Entertainment, 24-hour dirty movies, a club that locked the doors and showed you some bottomless go-go and a park where you could play eighteen holes of golf. Does it excite you?”

City Primeval: High Noon in Detroit
(1980)

Clement Mansell knows how easy it is to get away with murder. The seriously crazed killer is already back on the Detroit streets — thanks to some nifty courtroom moves by his crafty looker of a lawyer — and he's feeling invincible enough to execute a
crooked Motown judge on a whim. Homicide Detective Raymond Cruz thinks the “Oklahoma Wildman” crossed the line long before this latest outrage, and he's determined to see that the hayseed psycho does not slip through the legal system's loopholes a second time. But that means a good cop is going to have to play somewhat fast and loose with the rules — in order to maneuver Mansell into a Wild Midwest showdown that he won't be walking away from.

Chicago Sun-Times
: “Ranks with his very best.”