Raylan_ A Novel - Elmore Leonard [20]
He watched Bob shrug, maybe thinking he could do it.
Raylan said, “You can’t shoot a man, Bob, and tear up his patch. The man has to make a living.”
Chapter Nine
Cuba was trying to think of a way to get rid of the Crowe brothers without getting their daddy on him. The only trouble, they were staying with him now, moved into his house, Cuba believed, confident their daddy would protect them, keep them from going to prison. If they weren’t his blood Pervis would have fired them years ago. Once Cuba did the two fuckups, the old man ought to thank him for taking a load off his mind. Except Pervis would have to narrow his eyes and swear he’d get the one did it. Cuba thought he might offer the old man consolation after, tell him, “Least they won’t go to prison and get cornholed every day by Negroes.”
Wait.
Or shoot the daddy first? Not have to worry about him?
Climbing the log steps to Pervis’s house Cuba had to stop three times to rest his thighs. He had tried the store hoping Pervis was still there and found the place shut for the day. Cuba had made up his mind to do all three Crowes in whatever order they came along. He hoped Pervis would be first. After the old man it didn’t matter.
Rita, the old man’s housekeeper? Cuba had never seen her but heard she was hot-looking. Do her too? He reached the house and could smell weed as soon as he stepped on the porch.
Dickie and Coover sat next to each other on the couch. It looked strange, the other chairs in the sitting room empty. Now he saw they were sharing a party bong, passing it back and forth: add weed, put a finger over the hole and take a hit. Coover looked up, saw Cuba at the screen door and waved at him to come in.
Both Crowes stoned, grinning at Cuba like they were glad to see him, the air in the room sweet with reefer.
Cuba said, “Man, you two are havin fun, huh? Where’s daddy, he home or out someplace?”
“Upstairs taking a bath,” Dickie said, holding up the bong. “Want a hit?”
“When I finish my business. Where’s Rita, soapin up the old man?”
“I don’t think it’s their day,” Dickie said. “Rita’s in the kitchen fixin us a treat.”
“Somethin for your sweet tooth?”
“Strawberry shortcake,” Dickie said.
“How’s Rita, she sweet?”
“Coover tried to jump her one time—”
“Years ago,” Coover said.
“Daddy caught him and whipped Coove with a stick, a green one, like a whip.”
“Hurt like hell,” Coover said.
“Lettin you know she’s daddy’s girl,” Cuba said. “Man, how long she been here?”
“About three years,” Dickie said in that weed voice, holding his breath.
“That long? Why’s she stay?”
“The old man pays a lot,” Coover said, “for his nookie.”
“Coove’s been tryin to find her money,” Dickie said, “but she’s hid it good.”
“It’s in the house somewhere? What’s he pay her?”
“Hunnert a day,” Dickie said.
“Jesus Christ,” Cuba said, “and you can’t find it?” He thought of sticking his head in the kitchen, have a look at this Rita, but said, “How y’all like hidin out?”
“Nobody’s lookin for us,” Dickie said.
“Your daddy’s got friends,” Cuba said.
“Or that marshal can’t get a warrant.”
“That’s what I mean. It’s good to have friends can do you favors.”
Cuba asked himself, You through being sociable?
He reached behind him, hands going under his limp cotton jacket to pull the 9 mm Sig Sauer from the small of his back, both the weedheads staring at it with dreamy eyes, Coover saying, “What you got there, boy?”
Cuba put the Sig on the two from halfway across the room and shot both Crowes in the chest, Coover first, bam, exploding the bong he was holding, then Dickie, bam, as Dickie was screaming what sounded like “No!” Cuba waited for the gunshots to fade and listened for sounds in the house. He approached the two sprawled on the sofa, then walked over to the front door, opened the screen and banged it closed. Now he turned his attention to the stairs, Cuba thinking the old man would be careful, look out a front window to see who left.
Un-uh, there he was creeping down the stairs naked, holding a big, must be a .44 revolver out in front of him. The man had a belly,