The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [45]
“Hey,” Raymond called through the curtain. “Hey!”
The cop outside poked his head in the door. “Yeah?”
Raymond lifted his hand. The chain on the handcuff jingled as his arm reached the limit of its tether. “Ain’t I s’posed to get a phone call if I’m under arrest?”
The cop gave him a nasty grin. “Doesn’t look like there’s a phone in your room here.”
“I want to talk to a lawyer. You keep me from doin’ it, my civil rights are violated. Maybe you even have to let me go. You think about that.”
The cop’s smile vanished. He withdrew into the corridor. Raymond could hear the crackle of the cop’s handheld radio and a few muttered words. He lay back against the pillow and waited. His gut ached like a bad tooth, but he had carefully stashed his painkillers. After about a half hour, a young black guy came in, dressed in the blue coverall of the maintenance staff. He was carrying a white plastic phone in one hand. Without a word, he plugged the phone into a wall jack behind the bed and placed the phone on the bedside table. “You dial 9 to get a outside line,” he mumbled. He didn’t look at Raymond as he left.
The cop stuck his head back in. “You got fifteen minutes to make your phone call. Then I’m coming back in and unplugging it. You ain’t going to spend the whole night calling 900 numbers on the county’s dime.”
“I don’t want you listenin’ at the door,” Raymond said. “Move off down the hall.”
The cop’s face reddened. “Listen, you son of a bitch, You ain’t givin’ me orders.”
“I got a right to talk to my lawyer in private.” He showed the cuff again. “I ain’t goin’ nowheres with this thing on.”
The cop’s jaw worked for a moment. “I’ll be right down the hall,” he said. “Don’t try anything.” He backed out into the hall again.
After he was sure the guy was gone, Raymond picked up the phone. He dialed a number he knew by heart, but it wasn’t a lawyer that he called.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Fuck,” DeWayne said.
He was looking at the back end of the Crown Vic, which stuck halfway out of a ditch at the side of a two-lane country road. Too many beers, too little sleep, and DeWayne had drifted off behind the wheel. His first warning of any danger was the sound of the car’s tires ripping through the soft grass and earth of the shoulder. By then it was to late to keep the car out of the ditch. He had sat there for a few moments, too stunned and dazed to realize what had happened. Then he clambered out of the car, toting the paper sack containing the remaining beers and the rest of his cigarettes. He stuffed the pistol inside the bag.
“God damn it!” DeWayne fumed. “What the fuck am I s’posed to do now?” A soft glow over the nearest hill rapidly brightened, then resolved into a pair of headlights. DeWayne briefly considered hiding in the woods, then realized that it was too late for that. The car slowed as it approached. DeWayne tucked the bag tighter into his armpit and waved. The car stopped in the opposite lane.
It was a metallic blue Trans Am with tinted windows. As DeWayne approached, he could hear the pulse of rap music from inside, loud enough that DeWayne could feel the pounding of the bass in his chest, even with the windows rolled up. As the driver’s side window came down, the music got even louder. DeWayne couldn’t see the driver clearly, beyond a glimpse of blonde hair and a pale blur of face in the green glow of the instrument panel.
“Need help?” a female voice called over the beat.
“Yeah,” DeWayne said. “My car…a deer ran in the road. I ran into the ditch. I need a lift.”
“Hop in.” DeWayne ran around to the passenger side and got in. The interior was as dimly lit and smoky as a nightclub. He smelled the sweet reek of pot smoke as he closed the door. A joint smoldered in the ashtray.
“Whatcha got in the bag?” said the girl behind the wheel. She was a skinny blonde who looked no more than eighteen or nineteen. Her blonde hair was cut short