The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [23]
Keller saw the pizza car drive off. The curly-haired guy called a shorter Latino man over and spoke to him for a moment. The Latino nodded, but from the slump of his shoulders and the way he trudged towards the front door, pizza in hand, he didn’t appear happy. As the Latino rang the doorbell, Keller eased the shotgun out of its rack.
“About damn time,” DeWayne said as the doorbell rang. He looked out the small window next to the door and saw a Mexican standing on the front steps holding a pizza. He opened the door.
The Mexican looked him in the face for a moment, then thrust the pizza forward. “T-twenty-two fifty,” he stuttered.
“You bring the beers?” DeWayne said. The Mexican smiled and shrugged. “Twenty-two fifty,” he repeated.
“The beers,” DeWayne said. “Cervezas? Dos six packs de Budweiser?”
Another smile and shrug. “No comprende.”
DeWayne sighed. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Cain’t get decent service anywhere. “ The smell of the pizza reached him and his mouth began to water. “Ah, what the hell,” he said. “Not your fault if the order guy didn’t tell you about the beer.” DeWayne reached over beside the door and picked up the canvas bag full of cash. He reached in and rummaged around, finally coming up with a fifty-dollar bill. He handed it to the Mexican guy, grinning at the look on the guy’s face. “Keep the change,” he said magnanimously. Before the guy could say anything else, DeWayne took the pizza and closed the door.
They watched Sanchez as he came back across the street. “Well?” Raymond snapped when he reached them.
Sanchez nodded slightly, his head down. “It is him.” He looked back up, his face solemn. It was the face of a man pronouncing a death warrant. “And he has a bag full of money.”
“Did he recognize you?” Raymond said. Sanchez shook his head.
Raymond opened the door of the truck. He took out his pistol and handed another one to John Lee. Both men held their pistols down along their legs.“Come on,” Raymond said. "It’s time.”
“I will wait here,” Sanchez said.
“I don’t think so,” Raymond said. “We need you to get him to open the door again. Go back and knock. Tell him you gave him the wrong change or something. We’ll be on either side of the door.”
“Wait,” Sanchez said. There was a note of pleading in his voice.
Raymond smiled. “Don’t worry, buddy-ro. We’ll be doin’ all the hard stuff.”
“And then you will kill me,” Sanchez said. “Like you killed the old man. So there will be no witnesses.”
Raymond’s face hardened. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said. “I tell you one thing, though, Sanchez. You don’t get a move on, I will shoot you.”
Sanchez bowed his head. He turned back towards the house, shuffling like a man walking in his sleep. He was muttering something underneath his breath.
“Dios te salve, Maria,” he was saying, “Llena eres de gracia..” Hail Mary, full of grace...
Keller saw what looked like an argument between the three men standing in the street. Suddenly, the argument seemed to resolve, with the Latino turning and heading back towards the house. The other two men followed. He held the shotgun across his lap, waiting to see what developed. He eased the driver’s side door open and set his foot on the asphalt, ready to move. As soon as I figure out what the hell’s going on, he told himself.
“You go knock on the door,” Raymond said. “He knows you, sorta. When the sumbitch opens the door, step back. We’ll take it from there.”
Sanchez didn’t look up. “Santa Maria,” he murmured. “Ruega por nosotros pecadores...” Holy Mary, pray for us sinners.
Raymond looked over at John Lee. “What the fuck’s he talking about?” he whispered.
John Lee shrugged. He looked as nervous as Sanchez. Raymond briefly regretted not bringing a couple of professional hitters along, but dismissed the idea after a second. This was a family affair.
They had reached the front steps. Raymond and John Lee moved to opposite sides of the door, out of sight of anyone inside. They raised their pistols. Sanchez reached up and took a deep breath. “Ahora y en la hora de nuestra