Raylan_ A Novel - Elmore Leonard [28]
Nichols said, “You’re a bouncer in a dive bar?”
“When I’m there. I don’t think this’ll take long.”
“You’re younger’n I am,” Nichols said. “You might come out of there alive.”
“Martinis,” Raylan said, “are only three bucks.”
Saturday evening he talked to the manager, a cautious but pleasant guy running a saloon on the edge of the University of Kentucky campus. Why wouldn’t he be pleasant? He had droves of patrons, boys and girls coming in for rum or vodka in different flavors; for the three-dollar martinis; five dollars for a pitcher of beer, and for ten bucks you could drink all the beer you wanted. “But just for yourself,” the manager told Raylan, “or everybody in here’d get sloshed on the ten bucks.”
Raylan had on the suit and tie he’d worn to the transplant center yesterday. Hanging around in the Two Keys Tavern, there wasn’t any doubt, this guy with the star on a chain was a lawman. He expected to get some remarks. They were all twenty-one going on thirty. A guy stared and Raylan would nod with his nice-guy look. He saw a lot of zip-neck sweaters over all kinds of shirts. He saw girls talking loud, girls making faces. They had a goldfish race in a plastic trough, hit the fish with water pistols to quit swimming in a circle and race, goddamnit. Not many beer drinkers seem to care about it. A celebrity deejay Raylan had never heard of came on and the crowd went crazy for about a minute.
He saw some good-looking girls here. One of them came up to him and said, “My friends think you’re a rent-a-cop and I bet them you’re for real. Are you?”
Raylan opened his coat to show his star hanging on the silver chain. He said, “I’m a United States marshal, miss. Tell me what your friends call you?”
A guy with some size standing there said, “Anybody ever rip your badge off you, hangin there?”
“Not yet,” Raylan said. “One tried but didn’t make it. What do you do, play football? I’d take you to be an offensive lineman.”
This guy with shoulders on him said, “I play defense.”
“What I meant,” Raylan said, “I see you as a lineman becoming offensive to me. Twenty years ago I ever tried out for football here I’d be cut by the third day.” Raylan said, “I’m gonna move the badge down to my belt, not get anymore remarks about it.” Raylan told him, “In case you didn’t know it, I’m one of the good guys. I’ve shot seven men in the line of duty, wanted fugitives, no women or students, and they all died.” Raylan smiled at the defensive lineman. “You gonna have me telling marshal stories next.”
At 2:30 A.M. he put on his cowboy hat and went to visit Miss Layla.
Raylan used his burglar picks to open the front door without disturbing the manager. He went up the stairs to Layla’s apartment and knocked on the door. He stood before the peephole in his hat—no way she wouldn’t know him, and knocked again, giving the door three firm raps.
He waited.
She’d be looking at him by now, wondering how to play it.
“I’m not here to make an arrest,” Raylan said, his face close to the door. “I want to talk to you about something.”
Finally he heard her voice.
“At three in the morning?”
“I been trying to get hold of you,” Raylan said. “You told the hospital you took leave to nurse your mom back to health, but you never went near her. You know the time I mean?”
There was a silence.
Her voice said, “I met my boyfriend. I actually was in New Orleans.”
“Let’s get him to vouch for you,” Raylan said, “and I’ll quit worryin about it.”
“He’s married,” Layla’s voice said.
“I could have a word with him,” Raylan said. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t want to get him in trouble.”
“I start arrestin people for committin adultery I’d never get home for supper and see my wife and kids. We have three boys and a girl.”
Layla’s voice said, “Wait till I put something on.”
Raylan imagined Layla standing on the other side of the door bare-naked and wanted to come back with a cool line, but couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t stupid and said, “Okay,” and waited.