The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [61]
“Thanks, Major,” Keller said. “I owe you one.”
“All you owe me, Sergeant,” the voice said, “is to let me finish the job this time.”
“Okay,” Keller said.
“Get some sleep, troop,” the voice said. “And no dreams. That’s an order.”
Keller smiled slightly at that. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Raymond had finally broken down and taken one of the pain pills, since Delmer was driving. Delmer wasn’t good for much; Raymond sometimes wondered if the kid was a retard. But he sure could drive, and Raymond had employed him in that capacity for several years at the request of Billy Ray, Delmer’s cousin, who was leaning over the back of the front seat, talking to Raymond.
“Buddy,” he said. “That don’t look good. We better get you to that doctor and get you stitched back up.”
Raymond shook his head. “A doctor’ll call the cops,” he said. “It’ll quit in a little while.” Billy Ray shook his head.
“He ain’t bleedin all over my seats, is he?” Delmer asked.
“Shut up, Delmer,” Billy Ray said. He turned back to Raymond. “We got a call from our friends down south. They was worried when I told them you was in the hospital.”
“You tell ‘em I was under arrest?”
“Yeah, but I told ‘em it didn’t have anything to do with the business. I told ‘em it was personal.”
“Shit,” Raymond said. The last thing he needed was the Colombians getting nervous about him. Paco Suarez was fully capable of having Raymond killed just to make sure he didn’t say anything incriminating while under sedation. It was the kind of paranoia that had kept Suarez alive and out of jail through twenty years of drug wars and government task forces aimed at him. It made dealing with Suarez a tricky proposition, however, especially since all communications were filtered through several layers of equally paranoid and trigger-happy lieutenants.
Billy Ray went on. “They was asking when we would be able to move some more product for ‘em.”
“Right away,” Raymond said automatically. “Who’d you talk to?”
Billy Ray’s eyes flickered towards Delmer, but the younger man was intent on the road. “Geronimo,” he whispered.
An idea began to form in Raymond’s mind. Geronimo was their nickname for one of Suarez’ chief muscle boys. His real name was Guillermo, but Raymond had misheard it as Geronimo at their first meeting, and he thought the crazy Colombian had actually liked it. He apparently thought it was some sort of Native American honorary title, and Raymond had never bothered to set him straight. Geronimo had access to firepower and people who weren’t afraid to use it. That was exactly the kind of people Raymond needed right then.
“Good,” Raymond said. “Pull over at this phone booth. Geronimo’s just the boy I want to talk to.”
DeWayne was out of rocks, out of money, and running out of patience with Debbie’s whining. “Stay in the car,” he ordered. He got out and slammed the door. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”
“I ain’t gonna stay in no car,” the girl said. “I ain’t a dog. I’m comin’ in with you.”
“Damn it.” DeWayne said. His nerves were jangling like a multiline phone with all lines ringing. His eyeballs felt sandy and irritated by the morning sun. He felt as if he hadn’t slept in a month. His skin felt scoured and raw. If he concentrated he imagined he could identify each and every nerve ending, and they were all screaming. “There ain’t nothin’ for you to do in there,” he said. “I’m just goin’ in to visit my cousin.”
“What, I’m not good enough to meet your family?” Debbie said in that whiny voice that bored into Dwayne’s ear like a dentists drill set on high. For one brief moment, he contemplated pulling his pistol out and shooting her right there. The number of other people in the hospital parking lot saved her. Instead, he stood up and slammed the door on her, turned around and walked towards the glassed in entrance. He ignored her squawks of muffled outrage.
The woman behind the reception desk was a fortyish blonde with an ample bosom barely contained by her blue and white uniform. She eyed DeWayne suspiciously as he came in. “May I help you?” she