The Devil's Right Hand. J.D. Rhoades

the old man’s hand on the door with his own. The old man looked at the rings on Raymond’s fingers and back to his eyes, which were obscured behind his tinted glasses. The old man swallowed nervously. “He ain’t here,” he repeated in a smaller voice. Raymond continued to shuffle forward, forcing the old man to retreat farther into the cool darkness of the screened porch. “We kinda need to talk to him,” Raymond said. “It’s about a job he applied for.” He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and turned him slightly, guiding him into the house. John Lee and Sanchez saw the door close behind them.

      “What is he doing?” Sanchez asked.

      John Lee shrugged. “Gonna ask him where this Puryear guy might’ve gone, I reckon.”

      Sanchez shook his head. “I don’t like this,” he said. “What will he--”

      “Don’t worry,” John Lee said. “Nobody’s gonna do anything. Just relax.”

      Sanchez looked at the house. His brow furrowed. “Your brother is a dangerous man,” he said. “He is a narcotraficante, a smuggler, no?”

      John Lee’s eyes went cold. “Where’d you hear that?”

      “Your father, he worried about this,” Sanchez replied. “Sometimes I heard him talking on the phone about how worried he was.”

      “And what the hell business was that of yours?” John Lee said.

      “I have sons,” Sanchez said. “In Colombia. I know what it is to worry. I felt bad for him.”

      “Well, he don’t worry no more,” John Lee said. “And you don’t worry neither. You just mind your business.”

      “If I was minding my business,” Sanchez pointed out, “I would not be here.” John Lee had no answer for that.

      They sat in silence for a long while. Sanchez watched the front door. It was late afternoon and the shadows were beginning to deepen beneath the trees.

      There was a sound from inside the house, a wordless cry of pain. Then a sharp bang.

      Sanchez jumped, sitting up straight in the seat. He looked around frantically. “Que? Que pasa?” he said. “What is happening?”

      “Nothing,” John Lee said, but his own agitation robbed the words of all calming effect. He drew his pistol from beneath the seat. He slid over to the driver’s side door and started to open it. There was another cry, then a sound like someone weeping. John Lee stopped, half in and half out of the open door of the truck. A louder wail came from the house, an unmistakable sound of pure agony and despair.

      “Do something!” Sanchez cried. He reached for the door handle. John Lee swung the pistol to bear on Sanchez. “You stay there!” he said. His voice shook, but Sanchez heeded the message of the gun rather than the sick look on John Lee’s face. The two men stared at each other, each straining their ears, wanting to hear what was happening and desperately afraid of the what the next sound would bring. The silence roared in their ears for what seemed like hours. Another flat bang, then the faint sound of a voice. It was pitched high and fast, with a note of desperation. Then there were two more bangs and the silence closed down again.

      After a few minutes, Raymond came out of the house. He was folding a torn piece of paper. He put the paper in his jacket pocket. John Lee and Sanchez noticed the pistol was stuck in his waistband.

      John Lee slid back over to the middle of the seat as Raymond got in. Sanchez was staring at him, eyes wide.

      “What happened?” John Lee asked.

      “Nothin’,” Raymond said. He drew the gun out of his waistband, laid it on the seat between himself and John Lee. “Found out he has a sister in Fayetteville. We’ll try there.” He patted his jacket over the pocket. “I got her address.”

      “How did you get the address?” Sanchez demanded. “What did you do?”

      Raymond smiled. “I asked. Nicely. But I had to ask a few times.” He started the truck.

      Sanchez shook his head. “No. This is not right. This is not what I agreed.” His accent had become thicker with agitation.

      Raymond put the truck back in park and looked at Sanchez. His face was expressionless. “You want out, you can get out here.”

      Sanchez looked at the pistol on the seat. He swallowed hard. After a few moments, he looked into Raymond’s eyes. He saw there what would happen to him if he got out of the truck. He shook his head again. “No. I stay.”

      Raymond smiled again. “That’s what I thought,” he said. He started the truck and drove off.

      DeWayne leaned over the mirror with the intense focus of the truly wasted. He stuck the rolled up twenty into his left nostril and slowly hoovered up the first of the thick white lines laid out on the mirror. Then he switched nostrils and did the other one. He straightened up, threw his head back, and howled like a dog.

      “God Damn it, DeWayne,” Crystal’s voice came from the next room. “I told you to keep quiet.”

      “I feel good, da-da-da-da-da-da-da,” DeWayne sang. “I knew that I would, y’all--”

      “Hey, James Brown,” Leonard said. “Shove that mirror over here.” DeWayne obliged him, placing the small bag of cocaine on the mirror. “Man,” he observed. “This is some good shit.”

      Crystal came out of the bedroom, dressed in a plum-colored low-cut dress. Her mouth dropped open in shock at the sight of DeWayne and Leonard demolishing her stash. Her face turned red with anger. “What the hell do you two think--”

      “Easy, Crys,” Leonard said. He pulled the fat roll of bills out of his shirt pocket and waved it at her. “We gotcha covered,” he grinned.

      She looked at the cash, suspicion and avarice warring for possession of her face. “How much of that do you still have left?” she demanded.

      “Less you know, little sister,” DeWayne said, “the--.ahhhh--less you know.” He giggled.

      “More’n that in this here bag, darlin’,” Leonard promised, holding up the money bag. “Think you could get us some more o’this good toot?”

      “Yeah,” Crystal said, her eyes still fixed on the bag. She tore her eyes away and smiled at him. “I gotta run a couple of other errands first though.”

      “Ain’t you gonna be late for work?” DeWayne said.” You been in there an hour.”

      She laughed. It was a bitter, humorless sound. “They’ll wait,” she said. “They always do.” She held out her hand and Leonard counted off several bills into it with the flourish of a king rewarding a favorite courtier. “We need some more beer, too,” he said.

      Crystal nodded. “I’ll be a couple hours,” she said. She picked up her purse and walked to the door. “For Chrissakes, try to stay quiet.” As she walked out, she pulled a cell phone out of her purse. Leonard went to the window to watch her go. He saw her talking on the phone as she walked to the car.

      “We oughta eat somethin’,” DeWayne suggested. “How ‘bout we order a pizza?”

      Leonard thought it over. It seemed reasonably safe. “Yeah, all right,” he said. He picked up the phone.

      “And see if they’ll bring us some more beer,” DeWayne suggested. “I don’t feel like waitin’ two hours for Crystal to get back. I got a thirst.”

      Leonard sighed. “They don’t do that, DeWayne,” he said. “You can’t get no one to deliver beer.”

      “Shee-it, cuz,” DeWayne replied. “One thing I know, people’ll do damn near anything if the money’s right.”

      Leonard picked up the phone.

      Keller pulled over and parked halfway down the block on the dead-end street. He noticed a rusted pickup