Raylan_ A Novel - Elmore Leonard [30]
Chapter Thirteen
They dragged him to the bathroom and stripped off his clothes, everything, Layla using scissors to open the legs of his pants to pull them over his curl-toed cowboy boots, Cuba thinking they looked custom-made. Layla still had Raylan’s hat cocked on her head, not knowing how to wear it. She took his legs, Cuba his upper body, straining to lift Raylan over the side of the tub. Cuba thought he should be higher, so his chin wasn’t on his chest; it didn’t look right.
“We should move him up higher,” Cuba said.
She was looking at his privates, Cuba pretty sure she’d make a remark.
“Would you say he’s hung or not?”
“A guy knows how to use what he has,” Cuba said, “or he don’t.” He looked at Raylan again. “I want to ease him up so he’s higher in the tub.”
Knowing she’d say something else.
“Why? What difference does it make?” She said, “Do what you want, as long as he’s on his back,” and left the bathroom with Raylan’s clothes and his gun.
Cuba turned to watch her, in the bedroom now dropping Raylan’s clothes on the bed. He watched her take off the hat and toss it by the clothes, on the bed, and almost yelled at her, Get the hat off the bed, it’s bad luck.
He stopped to think, Like what?
They already had the worst kind of luck waiting for them, once they let a federal marshal die. It would be the same as a homicide, their intention being the same as killing him. She’d tell him okay, now dump his body somewhere while I clean up and get ready for bed. Only he wouldn’t come back and get in with her. That would be the moment. That would be the time to keep going, “Get out of town before it’s too late”—Layla always singin that at him—“my dear,” and givin him the cool smile and all kind of lovin.
Or hang him on a corner and call the hospital.
He’d thought of that. Do it but don’t tell her. Give the man a chance.
He looked at Raylan’s head against the end of the tub, chin stuck to his chest like he couldn’t move it, and saw his face twitch, Raylan’s face, like a fly was bothering him. Now his hand came up his bare chest to his mouth and Cuba turned to the bedroom. He saw Layla in there at the dresser laying out her things for the surgery, her scalpels, her swabs and alcohol, her staples she’d use to close him up. Cuba raised his voice to tell her, “Girl, he’s movin.”
He saw her look up at the dresser mirror.
“He’s all right. I’ll be there in a minute, maybe give him another shot.” She said, “Get him comfortable and he’ll nod off.”
Raylan heard her say, “God damn it, I didn’t bring gloves.”
Layla.
He heard her say, “Not that it matters.”
He saw Cuba by the tub, his shape, his face coming down close and out of the smoke in Raylan’s head.
Cuba said to him, “Can you hear me?”
Raylan closed his eyes. He let his hand slip down his body to his groin and learned he was naked but could feel his toes in his boots. They kept slipping when he tried to push himself up, get a little higher. He heard Cuba:
“He’s movin again,” his voice raised.
Layla said something about the fucking syringe; she couldn’t find it. Now Cuba was saying, “I could get behind you I’d pull you up, but they’s no room. I’m on get in the tub and see can I push you up.” He said, “Me and you got the kind of bodies the ladies die for. Our natures keeping us thin. None of that runnin and weight liftin shit. You eat the right food you stay trim. I think the secret is only eat fried food, then work it off quick makin love to the bitches.”
Cuba, close to the tub, turned to the bedroom, Layla in there at the dresser. What was she doing? Cuba called to her, “Girl, you puttin on makeup? Twice was enough—kissin the boys good-bye.”
Raylan opened his eyes to see Cuba turned from the tub, Cuba saying, “You crazy, you know it? Dollin up while I prepare this man for his last thirty minutes on earth.”
Raylan heard her say, “Do what you want,” Raylan staring at the Sig Sauer stuck in Cuba’s waist,