Raylan_ A Novel - Elmore Leonard [54]
Boyd said, “Raylan . . . I don’t hold ill feelings against you, even for shootin me that time. I admit, it was in my mind to shoot you but only if I saw it comin to that.”
“Boyd, you told me that time it was your intention,” Raylan said. “I let you watch today, so now we’re square, all right? You need a ride, put the Kid and the other one in their truck and take ’em home.”
Boyd said, “Raylan . . . ?”
“We’re through talking for now,” Raylan said, walking up to the porch. He looked at Pervis. “You ever see Carol again, call me, and I’ll get marshals on her.”
“She don’t worry me none,” Pervis said. “I got Dewey here lookin out for me.”
“I’m devotin my life to it,” Dewey said.
Rita had come up by the porch. She said, “I told Pervis he ought to be ashamed of himself, Dewey has to wait till you pass. What if the mountain, it turns out, ain’t worth diddly, the coal Dewey’s been waitin for years already dug out?”
Pervis said, “I always tried to be optimistic in life.”
Dewey looked from one to the other.
“But everybody says it’s full of coal. Ain’t it?”
“Everybody prayin for a job,” Rita said. “Hoping for work.” She looked at Pervis. “I don’t think it’s fair, leaving a dead mountain to your only kin.”
“Well,” Pervis said, “I could give him a pound of my top-grade weed, should last him a while.”
Rita was nodding. “Two pounds would be more generous of you. Two pounds of Daddy’s Own. Dewey could smoke it or sell it, get happy either way.”
“What would be the street value of that,” Dewey said, “I was to sell a pound of it?”
Raylan said to Art Mullen, “Rita’s telling Dewey, he wants to, he could mark it up to ten grand since it’s Pervis’s top-grade smoke. I thought it sounded high, but Dewey’s eyes lit up and that was it.”
They were in Art Mullen’s office in Harlan, the front of his desk stacked with papers and wanted dodgers. Art said, “A girl twenty-three years old, a senior at Butler University, was arrested in a raid on a poker game.”
Raylan started to grin. “The cops bust in the dorm and find ’em playin for matchsticks?”
“Indianapolis police,” Art said, “walked in on a high-stakes game where this girl lost twenty thousand dollars, smart-ass. Police took the girl in and booked her. She was to spend the night in jail for a court appearance in the morning.”
“Where’d she get the twenty grand?”
Art said, “Oh, I have your attention? She won it bettin Duke against Butler, the NC double-A championship. The girl’s dad, Reno—actually he’s her stepdad—runs a sports book in Indy. He raised his little girl playin poker and bettin on sporting events.”
“Losing all her money,” Raylan said, “and getting thrown into jail, it wasn’t her night, was it? Then had to pay a fine?”
“She skipped,” Art said, “walked out and didn’t show for the hearing.”
“You’re tellin me this for a reason, aren’t you?”
“The girl,” Art said, “an A student at Butler, we’re told is now robbin banks in Kentucky, gettin into our area of influence. Rachel and two other young ladies. Their manner of grinnin at the tellers, leads us to believe they’re stoned. Three girls havin a drug-induced fling at robbin banks. Indy police look at the surveillance tapes and believe Rachel’s one of them.”
“They positive,” Raylan said, “or hoping, cause she skipped out on them?”
“Why don’t you go up there and find out?” Art said. “You’ll be workin out of the Lexington office again. Pick the girl up while you’re not doin anything and get the Indy cops off our backs.”
“What’s her name, Rachel?”
“Rachel Nevada.”
“You’re kiddin.”
“And her stepdad’s Reno Nevada,” Art said, “his actual name. Start with the Indy cops and work your way down to Lexington.”
“I got to see a picture of this Rachel Nevada,” Raylan said.
“Start thinkin of her as Jackie Nevada,” Art said. “It’s what Reno and everybody calls her.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Jackie Nevada had walked out of the police station knowing her best bet was to get out of town. Borrow a backpack and stuff it with T-shirts and shorts; sleep a few hours, put on