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

one was really all he had left. He sat motionless, like a predator by a waterhole, and waited.

      He had been sitting like that for almost an hour when he saw the brown pickup in his rearview mirror. The big truck was crawling down the street like a tank rolling through an unknown town. Keller could see the outlines of three men in the front seat, but it was too dark to make out their faces. The truck pulled down to the end of the street and parked across from the Puryear vehicle. No one got out.

      “That’s the address,” Raymond said. “Sanchez, that look like the truck the feller was drivin’?”

      Sanchez shook his head. “I can’t tell,” he mumbled. “I didn’t get a good look at what he was driving. Only the man.”

      Raymond drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “John Lee,” he said. “Get out and look it over.”

      Sanchez got out first and John Lee followed. Sanchez stood by the front fender as John Lee walked across the street and peered in the driver’s side window. After a few moments, he came trudging back, head down.

      “Can’t see nothin,’” he said. “‘Course, I ain’t real sure what I’m supposed to be lookin’ for.”

      Raymond was silent for a moment. Another set of headlights appeared at the entrance to the street. A dented blue Chevy Nova rattled its way down the street towards the three men. There was a white triangular sign perched on top of the car on the driver’s side. The sign was lit from within so it looked like a the sign on top of a taxi, but running lengthwise to the car. The sign read “Domino’s Pizza. Free Delivery.” The Nova pulled up and double-parked beside the truck. A thin young man in a red white and blue uniform got out, holding a large vinyl pizza-delivery case.

      “I got an idea,” Raymond said.

      Keller had been watching the scene unfold before him. He hadn’t moved because he was still unsure of what was going on. He saw two men get out of the brown truck. One of them stayed there while the other walked over and examined the Puryear truck. Keller heard another car engine and saw a flash of headlights. It was a pizza delivery car.

      As the delivery boy got out, Keller saw a big curly-haired man in a suit get out of the driver’s side of the truck and approach. In the dim light of the lighted car-top sign, Keller saw the man approach the pizza guy. There was a brief conversation, and some money changed hands.

      “Looks like we got perfect timing,” Raymond told the tall kid in the deliveryman’s uniform. The kid backed away slightly as Raymond advanced. He looked suspiciously from the big Indian dude to the other two leaning on the truck. “Huh?” he said. Then he saw the wad of bills in the Indian dude’s hand and relaxed slightly. It no longer looked like a potential robbery to him. He had been robbed twice already, and neither time had the crooks approached him with money in hand.

      Raymond gave the kid his most amiable grin. “Guy who ordered this is a friend of ours,” he said. “Tell you what, why don’t I get this, and we can take it in. He’s expectin’ us.”

      A look of doubt crossed the kid’s pimply face. “I don’t know,” he said. Raymond began pulling off bills. The kid looked back into his car at the stack of pizzas still to be delivered. “Twenty-two fifty,” he said. Raymond paid him and threw in a five-dollar tip.

      “Wow,” the pizza guy said. “Thank you, sir, and have a good night.” He got back in his car. As he drove away, Raymond motioned to Sanchez.

      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.