The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [1]
The two men got out of their truck. DeWayne let Leonard take the lead. Even though he had let most of his muscle go to fat in his last stay in the joint, Leonard’s size still made him intimidating.
“Mornin’, sir,” Leonard said.
The old man stopped and turned towards them. His eyes were pale green, and made a startling contrast to his skin, which was a light caramel color. “Hep you fellows?” he said in the flat nasal accent of the Lumbee Indian.
Leonard pulled his gun. He was carrying a long-barreled .44, Dewayne a snub-nosed .38. “Let’s do this easy, old man, and no one has to get hurt,” DeWayne said.
“Just put the bag down on the ground, and step away real slow,” Leonard said.
The old man didn’t move. He looked first at DeWayne, then at Leonard.
“Shit,” was all he said.
“What are you talkin’ about, man?” DeWayne’s voice was high, almost cracking with the strain of adrenaline. He felt the familiar dizzy sensation of things slipping out of his control.
Both of them saw the old man’s hand go into the bag. “Don’t do it, man...” Leonard shouted as the hand came out holding a small automatic. Both Leonard’s and DeWayne’s guns barked at once, the sharp cracks muffled by the soggy air. One shot went wide and struck the side of the truck. The other hammered the old man back against the door. The only change in his expression was a grimace of pain, then blankness. The automatic slid from his fingers as he slumped to the ground.
“God DAMN it!’ Leonard shouted at the old man. “The FUCK’d you do that for?” The man didn’t answer.
DeWayne rushed forward and grabbed the bag, kicking the automatic further away with his foot as he did so. He needn’t have bothered. The man looked straight ahead, not noticing the bag, the gun, or the rising sun in his eyes. He was dead.
The young paratrooper was full of piss and vinegar, pumped up on the Airborne mystique, and stumbling drunk, as well. He looked like he was ready to make an issue out of Keller talking so long to the redhead. Keller didn’t see what claim the kid had on the girl, other than the fact she had been recently been grinding her crotch on the kid's lap, but he didn't have time to argue.He showed the kid a peek of the 9mm hanging in a shoulder rig beneath his coat. It was enough to make even a drunk kid realize that attitude and training don’t make anyone bulletproof.The young soldier did a quick fade into the crowd and Keller turned back to the dancer who called herself Misty.
A lot of people would find it difficult to concentrate on an interview when the interviewee is a redhead wearing only a transparent silk teddy. Keller kept reminding himself he had a job to do and not a lot of time to do it in.Misty helped take his mind off prurient interests by the way she cracked her bubble gum and looked bored. She was no more aware of her clothes, or lack of them, than if she had been in uniform behind the counter at Mickey D's.
“Crystal worked here for a while,” she said. It was Saturday night, and the strip club was crowded and noisy. Misty had to shout into Keller’s ear to be heard. “She was cute, had a nice figure,” she went on “but her heart wasn't really in it, you know? It was like she was half-asleep most of the time. Customers want you to be, like, into it.So she left. I don’t know where she went.”
Keller could see a big guy in a black tuxedo vest and bowtie working his way through the crowd. He wondered for a second how anyone with no visible neck could wear a bowtie. He figured someone had tipped the bouncer off that he was carrying. Keller
had all the right permits, but he didn’t expect that to cut any ice with the neckless wonder. He flipped Misty a business card.“If you hear anything,” he said, “Call me on my cell-phone number.” He had to shout the last phrase, since the music was increasing from the merely deafening to the truly painful. It was time for the next show.
She looked at the card blankly and blew a bubble. “You a bail bondsman?” she said.
“I work for one,” he said. He sidled through the crowd towards the door.