“It’ll be crowded.”
Kenneth said, “I like spectators.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
I been sittin here waitin an hour,” Boyd said. “She calls I got to jump and go pick her up.”
Raylan said, “Where’s Nichols?”
They were in his office at the courthouse.
“He went to a meeting. Said I could wait for you long as I don’t take anything. You people know how to make visitors feel right at home, don’t you?”
“I should prob’ly be in that meeting,” Raylan said. He picked up the phone on the desk.
Boyd said, “I just want to tell you somethin so you’re clear in your mind about what happened to Otis. I did not shoot him.”
Raylan replaced the phone and sat down at the desk across from Boyd, staring at him. “You’re tellin me Carol shot Otis?”
“She’s the only female mine-company thug I ever met,” Boyd said. “I can’t work for her no more.”
“Now she’s a gun thug?”
“I’m sayin she’s thuggish for a woman,” Boyd said, “how she comports herself, talks the company line.”
“Boyd, if you’re sayin Carol shot Otis, say it.”
“Raylan, I never been a snitch in my life. I would cut out my tongue first. I’m tellin you I did not shoot Otis, and I’m leavin it at that.”
“If you and Carol were the only ones there—” Raylan stopped and said, “Did Otis fire his shotgun at you?”
Boyd hesitated.
“Or’d you pick it up once he’s dead and empty the gun in the air?”
“I’m not gettin into anything has to do with Carol.”
“But you set it up,” Raylan said, “to look like you shot him in self-defense.”
“Raylan, I swear on a holy Bible I did not shoot the man.”
“You and Carol are the only ones there, aren’t you?”
“Draw what conclusions you come to, I’m tellin you I didn’t shoot him.”
“But I can’t arrest her for Otis,” Raylan said, “without putting it on her, can I?”
“I’m not workin for her no more,” Boyd said, “and that’s all I can tell you. I got to go now, pick her up.”
Raylan let him walk out. He wasn’t going far.
Carol came out of the mine company building with a couple of manila envelopes under her arm and got in front with Boyd this time.
“What did you do, go to a bar?”
Boyd came right out and told her, “As a matter of fact, I stopped off to see my old buddy again.”
He could feel her staring at him, Boyd looking at his outside mirror, waiting for cars to pass.
She said, “Tell me why.”
“I wanted to get something straight with him.”
She reached over, turned the key to kill the engine.
“You know I’m an attorney.”
Boyd said, “Yeah . . . ?” feeling he had the edge here.
“I’ve told you how many times,” Carol said, “there is no possibility of your being convicted. You won’t even be brought to trial, even if I were to admit you murdered him. I’m an accomplice, it’s my gun—the company’s actually. Even if I say I tried to stop you.”
Boyd held off from screaming at her, I didn’t shoot him, you did! as loud as he could in her face.
He cleared his throat to get himself ready and said in his normal voice, “Raylan knows I didn’t shoot the man. He knows me from standin on picket lines with him, couple of coal miners on strike hopin our Higher Power’s on our side and not the company’s.”
Carol said, “You told him you didn’t shoot Otis.”
“That’s correct, since I didn’t.”
She said, “Boyd—”
“You call me by name, you’re about to yell at me for somethin.”
She said, “When have I ever raised my voice?”
“I figure you’d fire me anyway.”
“You told him,” Carol said, “I shot Otis?”
“What I told him was I didn’t.”
“And you think he believes you.”
“Yes, I do.”
“It seems to me,” Carol said, “nothing’s changed. Whether you told him I shot Otis or not. He’d still have to prove it wasn’t self-defense.”
Boyd said, “Tell me who did it, all right? Just so I’ll know.”
“What’s the difference? You were there, you didn’t stop me. I said empty his shotgun, and you aided and abetted. But whether you keep your big mouth shut or not,” Carol said, “now that you’ve found God, you want me to give myself up so you won’t have to turn snitch. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You know what they say, que sera sera,” Boyd said.
“God,” Carol said. “You’re too dumb to be a threat.”
He turned the key and started to pull away from the curb, his jaw clamped shut, and she stopped him.
“Get out and I’ll scoot over. Take a taxi to the nursing home, St. Elizabeth, the address is on the envelopes.” She handed it to him. “Get Marion to sign wherever it’s indicated and tell her I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“For what?”
“Thank her for being so cooperative. God, talking to her on the phone was an extreme test of will. Tell the old lady she’s getting five bills a month and that’s it.” She said, “Boyd,” her tone becoming almost soft, “let me do the thinking, okay?”
The taxi driver said, “You going to see your fatha or your mama in this place?”
“My old mom,” Boyd said, holding the envelopes on his lap, the one with the deed not as fat as the one with the agreement the old lady had to sign, three different places.
“Is nice you go see her,” the driver said. “You bring her some candy?”
“She eats sweet stuff she gets pimples.”
“Yes? How old is she?”
“I believe goin on eighty.”
“She still has teeth?”
“I haven’t examined her mouth, but I believe they long gone.”
“Get her some candy she can suck on.”
Boyd could not tell where this guy was from, but not anywhere close to America. “She’s old-lookin from the life she’s had, married to a coal miner.”
“He die?”
“Yes, he did. Was shot.”
“Oh, you know who shot him?”
“Yeah, but I’m not tellin.”
“You say okay? You not gonna shoot him?”
Boyd said, “Where you from?”
“I come here from Albania,” the driver said, “but I’m not Muslim. I have to shoot some guy, I do it.”
He pulled into the drive of St. Elizabeth’s, the nursing home. Boyd got out and paid the driver, telling him, “You oughta try to control your emotions, partner,” and went in the building: two stories of red brick with white trim, a nice-lookin place to end your days. But wasn’t at all nice inside. It smelled of old people wettin theirselves all day long. A woman took him down an aisle, around the corner and down another aisle to Marion Culpepper’s room.
There she was sitting in a rocking chair, a quilt over her legs to the floor, limp hair stuck to her head, eyes sunken, not showing much life in there. She had oxygen tubes stuck in her nose, the line going underneath the quilt to the floor. As a representative of the coal company, Boyd said, “Ms. Culpepper, don’t you have a cozy setup here.” The room had the rocker and a straight chair, a chest of drawers, a bed you pressed a button and it changed its shape and, on the wall, a picture of Jesus showing his Sacred Heart.
It was a room at the end of the trail.
Boyd said, “Hey, you got your own bathroom.”
Ms. Culpepper said, “Wasn’t you suppose to bring a jar?”
Boyd frowned. “I only was given these papers.”
“I told Sista to find when somebody was comin.”
“I never heard from her,” Boyd said.
“Miz Conlan’d never bring any.”
“As I say, I only brought these papers for you to sign, the deed to the house
and how much you’re settlin for. It says five hundred, cross it out and write in what you want or you won’t sign it. You can discuss it with Ms. Conlan, she’s the one wrote it up. Or,” Boyd said, “you can sign it, and I’ll get ’em to write any changes you want.” He thought a moment and said, “I tell you what, you sign the papers, I’ll run out and get you a jar of shine.”
“I miss Otis,” Marion said.
“I ’magine so, but you’re gonna be with him pretty soon, aren’t you?”
“Doctor says they’s years left in my bones. I’m only sixty-nine. He told me I only had a touch of black lung, my cooked lungs was from smoking reefer all my life.”
Boyd said, “Try to get some Oxy off the nurse.”
“She said I need to be in pain. I’m not takin any sass off that company woman no more. She’s always short with me. I hear her yellin I get what she gives me or nothin. I said, ‘Where you think we’re livin, back in 1940?’ It all started with that goddamn fishpond of Otis’s. I threaten to cook the fish, he’d go up on Old Black and shoot us squirrels. One time he got us a buck.”
Boyd said, “Ms. Conlan’s stoppin by tomorrow. Whyn’t you come out’n demand what you want?”
“Six hunnert, I ever speak to her again. Up from five hunnert, what I been tellin her. Hey, you work for her, don’t you?”
Boyd said, “I’m in charge of”—came close to saying Disagreements, but changed it to—“drivin her around.”
She said, “You was with her, wasn’t you? The night Otis come up to you?”
Boyd straightened, saying to the widow, “Ma’am, I did not shoot your husband.”
“I know that,” Ms. Culpepper said. “I’ve heard her talk and now I’ve heard you talk, offerin to go out and get me a jar. Get two, please. I suppose you don’t have much patience, but she don’t have none. She like to get things done right now. She come to get these papers signed, you now what I’m gonna do?”
Boyd shook his head.
She threw off the quilt covering her legs and was aiming a shotgun at him.
Boyd said, “Jesus Christ.”
Ms. Culpepper said, “My Lord and Savior.”
“You surprised me’s all.”
“I’m gonna scare her good. Thinks I’m about to shoot her, but they’s no shells come with the gun. Was Otis’s, a state trooper give me. I asked him, ‘Say I want to go out and shoot a turkey for supper?’ He says no, he can’t bring me no shells since I’m stayin in this home. He believes it’s against the law.”
“What you need shells for?”
“Shoot the company woman, she comes in tomorrow.”
“Whoa,” Boyd said. “You can shoot that gun?”
“Near good as Otis.”
Boyd took his time before asking, “How many loads you think you’d need?”
“Jes one,” Ms. Culpepper said. “It’ll put her down. Maybe one more if I need it.”
Chapter Thirty
Liz Burgoyne came in the sun parlor from the patio to see Jackie Nevada waiting, getting up from the sofa, and it made Liz think of Raylan, the time she walked in and he asked her about Cuba stealing kidneys. Liz crossed the room in jeans and cowboy boots offering her hand, saying:
“Jackie Nevada. Harry’s told me about his poker-playing buddy. He makes you sound like a little girl, but you’re quite something else, aren’t you?” Liz smiling now. “Harry mentioned you’re wanted by the police?”
“It’s a misdemeanor thing,” Jackie said. “I didn’t show up for a hearing.”
“Picked up in a raid,” Liz said. “Harry told me about it. He said you like Manhattans, is that right?”
Jackie said, “If that’s what we’re having.”
They were both on the sofa now, the nearly empty pitcher on the cocktail table, both smoking cigarettes.
“You ever cheat?” Liz said.
“Why do only women ask that? You mean at poker.”
“Or on a guy.”
“Poker, I’ve never had to.”
“You’re that good?”
“You have to work with another player. Didn’t you see Rounders? They cheat playing with a bunch of cops. I’ve never cheated on a boyfriend either. Right now I don’t have one, but I live with seven guys. You know what they think is funny? Farting.”
“Why do guys love to fart?”
“They’re expressing themselves.”
“You hop in the sack with any of them?”
“Nope. There’s some fooling around, girls come for a party and we get high, but I don’t recall anything really inappropriate. You might hear a girl tell some guy to quit grabbin her ass. We have great parties.”
Liz said, “You like to go down on guys?”
“Not guys, no. But I have polished the occasional knob.”
“Wow,” Liz said. “You’re not bashful, are you?”
“You know what I’m talking about or wouldn’t of asked.”
“You have to meet some of my friends from olden times, they’d love you.”
“I’m not a lay,” Jackie said. “I’ve only gone to bed with three guys in four years, ones I thought I was serious about.”
“What happened to them?”
“They graduated.”
Liz poured the rest of the Manhattans.
“You like to do it standing up?”
“I never have,” Jackie said. “In movies they look like they’re ringing the bell, but I think it would be uncomfortable.”
Liz said, “I bet I know the movie you’re thinking of. The girl walks in the bar—”
“That’s the one.”
“She can’t get any attention and yells out, ‘Who’s a girl gotta suck around here to get a drink?’ ”
“She gets into the cute guy’s pants, in the booth.”
“Then you see them in back doing it standing up.”
“You ever do it with a black guy?”
“No, and I’m not racist,” Jackie said. “Or maybe I am and don’t know it. I’ve never had any chills and thrills yet when I meet black guys at parties. I know you have.”
“Our driver at the time,” Liz said. “Harry thought was from West Africa, so Cuba always had to put on an accent, one he picked up from cabdrivers.” She said, “I can’t imagine Harry trying anything with you.”
“Why?” Jackie said.
“He’s too old. He might ask you to strip, promise he’ll just look.”
“Would that upset you?”
“Not in the least, if he can pull it off.”
“He sure goes to the bathroom a lot.”
“His tired kidneys,” Liz said. “And here’s your boyfriend now.”
Harry came in from the hallway telling Jackie, “I got three guys so far want to play you: my friends the breeders, Ike and Mike, and a World Series of Poker pro they dug up called Dude Moody.”
Jackie was nodding.
“He’s been at the final table. I think he won a couple of bracelets. They call him Moody Blues or just Blues.”
“I said to Ike and Mike, ‘For Christ sake, what do you guys need help for?’ And there’s a guy in town I asked to stop by. You met him, Liz, Raylan Givens? The marshal lookin for that driver we had. He called, I asked him to come by for a drink and say hello.”
Jackie said, “Harry, don’t tell him I play poker, okay?”
Jackie watched Raylan take off his hat shaking hands with Harry and they stood talking for a few minutes. Now they were coming over to the sofa, Raylan saying, “Don’t get up, ladies, you look comfortable.”
“We have had a couple,” Liz said. “Raylan, it’s so good to see you. It seems to me that you and I sat here having martinis one time. Harry, where were you?”
“Tendin business. I believe I was helpin a foal come into the world. She’s still lookin like a possible.”
Jackie saw Raylan stare at her for a moment and turn to Liz again, Liz saying, “This time my guest said she might try a Manhattan. They seemed to’ve worked just fine.” Jackie wondering h
ow she’d be introduced. These people got in conversations and forgot she was there.
Not Raylan.
Harry said, “Liz makes it sound like she’s never had a Manhattan.”
Jackie watched Raylan smile, being polite, watched his eyes come back to her. She said through her buzz, “Hi, I’m Jackie.”
Raylan came over to shake hands telling her not to get up, but she did and stood with her feet planted.
“Harry’s latest partner,” Liz said.
Raylan gave her hand a nice squeeze and said, “Is that right?”
Jackie told herself she’d get out of this or she wouldn’t, and said, “Harry’s my banker, he stakes me to poker games, but doesn’t pay too much attention.” Smiling then to show she was being funny. “He has no idea how we’re doing.”
No one laughed. Liz said, “If you’ve been playing no-limit for the past week, you’re winning, or Harry would’ve left you off somewhere.”
Harry said, “You make me sound heartless.”
“I’ll bet,” Liz said, “she’s up at least a hundred grand.”
Raylan said, “You play poker as an occupation?”
She said, “I’m not sure. I’m looking at it.”
“You were in a game,” Raylan said, “in Indianapolis recently that was raided, weren’t you?”
Jackie said, “You know how much I lost?”
Harry said, “You never want to be in a game when the cops bust in. They take all the cash and chips as evidence. What happens to the dough after that?” Harry said to Raylan. “Maybe you can tell me.”
“Isn’t part of my job,” Raylan said.
“I’m always careful,” Harry said, “pickin games for Jackie. What I do is call the chief of police, tell him who I am, and say I want to play some poker without gettin in the way of a raid. I ask him if there’s a police fund-raiser I could help out.”
Liz asked Raylan if he had time for a drink. He said, glancing at his watch, he’d better get back. “We’re tryin to locate a guy wants to shoot me on sight.”
Liz said, “I’d think you’d have them lining up.”
“Well, some are dead,” Raylan said, and looked at Jackie. “I’d like to hear more about what you’re doin. I haven’t played a lot of poker but’ve always had a good time. Are you stayin here by any chance?”