Raylan_ A Novel - Elmore Leonard [9]
“I believe Ole Miss,” Raylan said, “has the best-looking girls of any college in the country. Even Vanderbilt. Ole Miss, the girl’s an eight-plus, she doesn’t have to pass her SATs.”
“Excuse me,” Cuba said. “Y’all have things to discuss, I may as well be goin.”
Raylan said, “Cuba, why don’t you get in the car so we can talk.”
“It’s Cooba, how you say my name. But I haven’t done nothin, I’m clean, done my time.”
Raylan said, “Cooba? Open the door and get in the car.”
He did, and Raylan adjusted his mirror.
“What’re you doing with the Crowes?”
“I drive ’em around. I was in the racing business, same as their daddy. Quarter-mile dirt, slide through the turns, man. The Crowes thought they could drive—have a pickup with juice? I scared ’em to death showin what real drivin’s like. Throw it in reverse, hit the gas, pull the hand brake, and spin around.”
“Hey, Cooba?” Raylan said. “Every boy in Harlan County knows how to do a reverse-one-eighty. Taught by their grampas. So why’d the Crowes hire you?”
“I ’magine so they can sit back, take it easy.”
Raylan said, looking at the mirror, “The boys hired you or you hired them? Couple of dumbbells, do the lifting for you.”
“Yeah, I’m the boss,” Cuba said. “I wait in the car someplace they havin a good time, I’m listenin to Loretta Lynn.”
“They call you ‘boy’?”
“They do, I’m gone.”
“It’s a good cover,” Raylan said, “working as their chauffeur. They don’t get arrested you don’t either. I bet you let the Crowes think they’re partners in the deal. But you still tell ’em what to do.”
Cuba in the mirror stared, didn’t say a word.
“How much of a cut they get for helping with Angel? Puttin him in the ice water? Once the doctor removed his kidneys.”
Now he was frowning.
“Like you don’t know what I’m talkin about,” Raylan said. “You wouldn’t have to’ve been there. Less you brought the doctor to the motel. That how it worked? I’m thinkin the doctor must’ve hired you. Caught you stealin his car and signed you up. You look around for some dumb white boys and hire the Crowes?”
“You telling me,” Cuba said, “I got somethin goin with takin people’s kidneys and then sellin ’em?”
“I see you as the middleman,” Raylan said, “between the doctor and the Crowes.”
“You want to talk to Coover and Dickie? Ask ’em about stealin kidneys?” Cuba said. “I be anxious to see that.”
Chapter Four
Coover and Dickie Crowe were still boys in their forties. When they weren’t driving around looking for poon, they hung out at Dickie’s house the other side of the mountain watching porn. Coover’s house was a mess and smelled. Dickie’s was busy inside with his Elvis Presley memorabilia:
Fifty-seven photographs of Elvis in the front room, posters in the hall and kitchen. There were Elvis bobble heads; a bong looking like Elvis; a jar of dirt from the garden at Graceland; a photo of a cloud formation that looked like Elvis that Dickie paid a hundred dollars for; and a pair of towels Elvis used to wipe his face while performing, now doilies on the backrests of Dickie’s La-Z-Boys.
Coover said, “I thought you was getting rid of all this Elvis shit, tired of lookin at it.”
“When I get around to it,” Dickie said.
“Give it to the nigger, he can sell it.”
“I said, when I get around to it.”
Dickie had dismal hair he combed back and teased into a wave he sprayed to hold rigid. He wore starched white shirts with Hollywood collars that touched his earlobes, bought a dozen in Las Vegas for a bill apiece.
Coover had hair growing wild he never combed. Girls told him, Jesus, it didn’t hurt to take a bath once in a while, clean his house, least use some soap powder on that pile of dishes. They told him he was gonna have rats nesting in his kitchen. Coover said, “They’s already some moved in.” He wore Ed Hardy T-shirts or the “Death and Glory” track jacket that had a skull and dagger on it.
You’d never tell they were brothers. Dickie was picky and liked to scowl, his bony face sticking out of his