Right as Rain (33 page)

Earl picked up his six—pack cooler full of Busch, patting his coat pockets to check that he had brought his cigarettes and his .38. He and Ray left the barn. Out in the yard, Earl flicked his cigarette toward the woods and said, “I’ll be back. Need to check on the girl.”

Ray knew that his father was going in the house to give that colored junkie a bag of love, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He wasn’t even mad at his father for pushing him down the day before. He had problems of his own that were weighing on his mind.

Ray went to the edge of the woods and looked into its darkness, letting the rain hit his face. Where the fuck was Edna? All right, so she’d gone into his stash and smoked it up, and now she was scared. But a day had passed, and he’d heard not one thing from her. He’d called that big—haired, smart—as—a—stump girlfriend of hers, Jo—hanna, and she claimed to not know where Edna was either. Lyin’—ass bitch, she
had
to know where Edna was, the two of them was asshole buddies goin’ way back to grade school. That Jo—hanna, she’d even acted suspicious when he called, like he’d done somethin’ to Edna his own self. Shit, he’d never hurt Edna. Course, he’d have to slap her around a little when she did come back, but that was something else.

“You’re gettin’ wet, Critter,” said Earl, standing behind Ray. “Gonna mess up the leather on them boots of yours, standing out in this rain.”

“Just thinkin’ on something, Daddy,” said Ray.

“I know what you’re thinkin’ on. We get through tonight, you can buy a whole bunch of heifers, you want to, take your mind off that girl.”

“I guess you’re right. C’mon, let’s go pick up those boys.”

They walked to the car. Earl said, “Startin’ to smell back in the barn.”

“I’ll bury ’em tomorrow,” said Ray.

“Told you that warm weather was comin’ in.”

What with Edna, and his daddy always tellin’ him what to do, and the speed rushing through his blood, Ray had a mind to bite clear through his own tongue.

“YOU all set?” said Strange, standing in Quinn’s bedroom, nodding at the day pack in Quinn’s hand.

“Yeah,” said Quinn. “How about you?”

“Spent the day with my mother. Doctors say she’s shuttin’ herself down. She’s just kinda layin’ in her bed, looking out her window. Wanted to be with her, just the same.”

“I worked at the bookstore myself. Kept me busy, so I didn’t have to think about things too much.”

“How’s Lewis doin’? He keepin’ his hand away from it?”

Strange and Quinn chuckled, then stared at each other without speaking. Strange handed Quinn a pair of thin black gloves.

“Wear these when we get out there. They’ll warm you some, and they’re thin enough, you can pick up a dime with ’em on.”

“Thanks.” Quinn dropped the gloves into his pack.

Strange looked toward Quinn’s bedroom window. “Rainin’ like a motherfucker out there. Gonna be messy, but the rain’ll cover a lot of noise.”

“And the clouds will cover our sight lines, goin’ through those woods.”

“My NVDs will get us through those woods.”

“You and your gadgets,” said Quinn. He looked at Strange’s belt line, where his beeper, the Leatherman, the Buck knife, and the case holding his cell were hung.

“Speaking of which,” said Strange, “put this on.” He took his beeper off his hip and handed it to Quinn. “We’ll take two cars in case we don’t leave at the same time.”

Quinn nodded. “Otherwise I’ll meet you at that No Trespassing sign on the second curve.”

“Okay, but if we get separated or somethin —”

“I’ll see you,” said Quinn, “back in D.C.”

Chapter
32

R
AY
Boone went behind the bar and found the bottle of Jack where he’d left it, by the stainless steel sink next to the ice chest. His daddy’s Colt was where it always was, hung on two nails, the barrel resting on one and the trigger guard on the other, driven into the wood over the sink. Ray put the bottle of Jack on the bar, took a glass down from the rack behind him, and filled the glass near to its lip.

“You boys want a taste?” he said, shouting over the George Jones coming from the Wurlitzer.

Ray watched the funny—lookin’ coon with the buck teeth, sitting glumly with a beer can in his hand at the felt—covered card table, shake his head. The other rughead, the big ugly one with the fancy running suit, didn’t even acknowledge the question. He was standing in the middle of the room, rolling his head on his stack of shoulders like he was trying to work something out of his fat neck. A cigar was clenched between his teeth.

“How about you, Daddy?” said Ray.

“I’ll have a little,” said Earl. He was at the jukebox, punching in numbers and drinking from a can of Busch beer.

Ray poured one for his father. He almost laughed, thinking of him and his daddy and their guests, all of them still wearing their coats in the heated barn. Ray knew, and each and every one of them knew, that they all were carrying guns. It was part of the game. Ray and Earl wanted out, and with all this money they were makin’, they really didn’t need to be doing this anymore. But when Ray thought about it, he had to admit he would miss this part, the drinking with the customers, the tension, the guns … the game.

Coleman’s pocket cops had put the bag of money up on the bar, near the end. Ray had put the bags of heroin right next to it. Neither of them had made a move to weigh or even have a look at the drugs. Ray had said it would be rude for them not to have a drink first, and they had complied.

Ray broke open a spansule of meth and poured it out onto the bar. He didn’t bother to track it out with his blade. He leaned over the bar and snorted it all up his nose. Fuck it, he didn’t care what his daddy or the rughead cops thought, he was gonna celebrate the end of this thing tonight.

“Whoo!” said Ray. He lit up a smoke.

“Tonight, the bottle let me down,” came the vocal from the juke.

Country—ass, cracker trash, thought Adonis Delgado, killing the rest of the cheap, piss—tastin’ beer they’d given him. First they make him lie down in the backseat of that Ford with his head in Eugene Franklin’s ass, making his neck all stiff, and now he had to listen to this backwoods bullshit on the record machine. Delgado had a throw—down automatic, a Browning 9, in his clip—on holster. He was gonna enjoy pulling it, the time came.

Eugene Franklin watched Earl Boone walk by him and take a seat on a stool set in front of a video game that had playing cards on its screen. Franklin reached into his coat pocket and touched the Glock 17, his service weapon, sitting loosely there. He checked his wristwatch, thinking of Quinn and Strange.

“Got someplace you need to be?” said Ray, coming around the bar with a glass of whiskey in his hand, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Huh, Eugene? It’s Eugene, ain’t that right?”

“I’m comfortable,” said Franklin, not looking into the fucked—up eyes of Ray Boone. “I’m fine.”

“I’m
not fine,” said Delgado. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Piss outside,” said Ray, “like we been doin’ all night.”

“I gotta take a shit,” said Delgado. “Ain’t you got a toilet in this place?”

“Got one in the back, but it’s broke,” said Earl.

“Use the one in the house,” said Ray. “It’s open.”

Delgado saw the father turn his head and give the son a look.

“Don’t worry, I won’t touch nothin’,” said Delgado. “Where’s it at?”

“Top of the stairs,” said Ray.

“Be right back,” said Delgado to Franklin. Delgado snapped his cigar in half and tossed it in the card table ashtray.

Franklin watched Delgado leave by the barn door. He raised the beer can to his mouth and was thankful for the loud music and the sound of the rain hitting the roof. He could feel his teeth chattering lightly against the can.

QUINN
and Strange hiked through the woods. Strange had his goggles on, and Quinn stayed close behind him. The wind and water whipped against their faces. They wore layers of clothing under their coats and the thin black gloves on their hands, but it wasn’t enough. Strange slipped once on a muddy rise, and Quinn grabbed his elbow, keeping him on his feet.

They made it to the area at the edge of the woods and dropped their day packs on wet brown needles in a dense stand of pine. A spot lamp mounted above the barn door illuminated the yard, and the heavy rain slashed through its wide triangle of light. In the house, a dim light shone beyond the darkness of a bedroom window.

Strange dropped his goggles in his bag and withdrew a short crow bar. Quinn reached into his bag and pulled the gun belt. He stood and buckled it, unsnapping its holster.

“Look at you,” said Strange. “Gettin’ all Lee Van Cleef”

“Somebody’s got to.”

“Yeah, I know. I always take the light work, when I can.”

Strange looked up at the second floor of the house. He looked back at Quinn, dripping wet, his long hair slick and stuck to the sides of his face. “I guess she’s in there. And I guess the rest of them are in the barn.”

“Lotta guessin’.”

“Anyway, we’re gonna find out.” Strange took a couple of deep, even breaths. “Put that beeper on that gun belt, man.”

Quinn clipped it to his left hip. “Okay, it’s on.”

“If I get back out here and I don’t see you, I’m gonna keep right on goin’ with Sondra, you understand? I don’t like leavin’ you, man, but we accomplish one thing here tonight, it’s to get that girl back to her mother, Terry —”

“I hear you.”

“So I’m not gonna stop and wait for you, man. I get Sondra back to my vehicle, I’m gonna phone you from my cell. That beeper goes off, it’s your signal that I got her out safe, hear? You get out then, but only then. Till you hear from me, you hold them in that barn.”

“I’ll hold ’em till hell freezes over or you say different.”

“God damn, you are somethin’, man.”

“Get goin’, Derek.”

“Listen, Terry …”

“Go on,” said Quinn. “I’ll see you out front of Leona Wilson’s house, hear?”

Strange went into the yard, zigzagging combat style through the light. He got up onto the leaning porch of the house, ready to use the crowbar in the jamb of the door. But the knob turned in his hand, and Strange opened the door and walked inside.

Quinn removed his coat. He dropped it on his day pack, lying on the pine needles at his feet.

ADONIS
Delgado stripped off his shirt and pants, and left them in a heap on the floor. He got out of his briefs and dropped them atop the rest of his clothing, walking naked across the bedroom to where the girl sat, backed up against the headboard atop the sheets. He thought he heard a creak on the stairs outside the closed door but then became distracted as he caught a glimpse of himself in the dresser mirror; he looked good, hard in the stomach and pumped in the arms, shoulders, and chest. His erection was fully engorged as he reached the foot of the bed.

“C’mere, girl,” he said to the Wilson junkie, depleted to bones and drawn skin, a mile away from the way she’d looked when he’d had her the first time, over in the Junkyard. That was all right. Her irises were pinpoints. He knew she’d just gotten high, and that was all right, too.

“Please,” said Sondra Wilson, her voice little more than an exhaled whimper.

Delgado grabbed hold of one of her thin wrists. “Trick—ass bitch.”

Outside the bedroom, past the landing, Strange ascended the stairs.

“WHERE’S your shadow?” said Ray. “He’s been gone twenty minutes.”

“He’ll be back,” said Franklin.

“I’ll
get
him back,” said Earl, standing from the seat in front of the electronic poker game.

“I will, Daddy,” said Ray. “I gotta drain my lily, anyhow.”

Earl watched his son go out the barn door. He went behind the bar to mix himself a drink, keeping an eye on the one with the horse teeth. The bottle of Jack was sitting on the sink. While his hands were down there, Earl took the Colt off the nails and racked the slide, placing the gun on its side on the stainless steel.

Earl had his .38 in his coat pocket, but he thought he’d keep another weapon live and within reach. You never could have too many guns around when you were dealing with common trash.

“This is a good one right here,” said Earl, motioning with his chin to the jukebox. “Orange Blossom Special.” But the colored cop sitting at the card table didn’t respond. “What’sa matter, fella? Don’t you like Johnny Cash?”

QUINN rolled out into the yard as he saw the barn door begin to open. He got up on his haunches and pinned himself against the Ford pickup that was parked beside the Taurus. He drew his Glock and jacked a round into the chamber, keeping the barrel pointed up beside his face. He rose slowly, watching the son, the one named Ray, go by and head for the house.

For a moment, Quinn studied the rhythm in Ray’s stride. Quinn silently counted to three and stepped out into the yard, walking behind Ray, closing in quickly on Ray, and then shouting, “Hold it right there!” as Ray put one foot up on the porch steps.

Ray stopped walking. Quinn said, “Put your arms up and lace your fingers behind your head. Do it and spread your legs!”

Ray put his arms up, turning his head slightly. He was slow to spread his legs, and Quinn moved in and kicked one of Ray’s legs out at the calf.

“Who the
fuck
are you?” said Ray.

“Shut up,” said Quinn, pressing the barrel of the Glock to the soft spot behind Ray’s right ear. Quinn frisked Ray quickly, found an automatic holstered at the small of his back, pulled it, nimbly released the magazine, let it drop to the muddy earth, and tossed the body of the gun far aside. Quinn nearly grinned; he hadn’t lost a step or forgotten a goddamn thing.

“Walk back into the barn,” said Quinn.

“Easy,” said Ray.

“I said walk.”

Ray turned, and Quinn turned with him. They moved together, the gun still at Ray’s ear, and made it to the barn door. Then they were through the barn door, Quinn blinking water from his eyes. Then they were inside.

Quinn speed—scanned the scene: The father was behind the bar, his eyes lazy and unfazed, his hands not visible. Eugene was sitting at some kind of card table, drinking a beer. Delgado was not in sight.