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

“Maybe we better--”

      “Shut up,” Raymond replied. He turned back to the man by the truck window. “Y’all know anything about who mighta done it?”

      “‘Ey, bitch,” one of the men piped up from the crowd. He stepped forward. He was massively built, with ropes of muscles straining the arms and chest of his t-shirt. His arms were covered with elaborate gang tattoos. “We already talk about all this to th’ cops,” the tattooed man said. “Why we got to answer you?”

      “I say anything to you, greaseball?” Raymond snapped. There was an angry murmuring from the crowd around the truck and the circle of men tightened. John Lee tried to slide down in the seat.

      Raymond made a sudden movement and the long-barreled pistol was in his hand, pointed at the chest of the man by the window. The man flinched slightly, then straightened and looked Raymond in the eye.

      “There is no need for this,” he said. He turned slightly, back towards the man who had spoken, and rattled off a long sentence in Spanish. His eyes never left Raymond’s face. There was a high-pitched angry reply. The man by the window responded sharply, then added something with a sly grin. There was a ripple of nervous laughter from the crowd. The tattooed man’s face grew dark with anger, but he turned away and stomped off.

      The older man turned back towards Raymond. “I was the one who found your father’s body,” he said. “The rest of the crew,” he gestured at the men around the truck, “Was with me. We always go in together in my truck. No one here killed him, I am sure of it. We all leave work together the night before, and we all go in together the next day.”

      “Somebody knew he had a lot of cash on him,” Raymond said.

      “That was our pay,” the mustached man said. “We were going to get that money the next day anyway. If one of us stole it, he would be stealing from the rest of us, and from our families back home. No one here would protect him for stealing that.”

      Raymond thought that over for a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “So who else might’ve known about the money?”

      The man thought for a moment. “There was a man who came looking for work, “he said finally. “An Anglo.” He smiled thinly at Raymond. “I didn’t like him.”

      Raymond ignored the jibe. “You get a name?”

      The man shook his head. “No. He talked with your father, not me. I told your father afterwards I didn’t like his looks. He laughed and said he wasn’t hiring anyway. He had a full crew. He took down the man’s name and phone number, but that was just to get rid of him.”

      “Anyone else know him?”

      There was a moment’s hesitation. “He said he was a friend of Julio’s,” the mustached man said.

      Raymond looked around. “Which one’s Julio?”

      There was another stirring in the crowd and the men looked at each other. “He’s the one who just left,” someone said. “The one you call greaseball.”

      “Go get him,” Raymond said. No one moved. Raymond pulled back the hammer on the big revolver. Someone detached himself from the back of the crowd and hurried off.

      In a few minutes, the tattooed man came stalking back, a can of beer in his right hand and a sneer on his face.

      “This feller who came looking for a job,” Raymond said. “You know him?”

      Julio shrugged. “I don’ know, man,” he said. “I know a lot of people. How come you askin’?”

      “Because I think that might be the man that shot my Daddy. And if he is, I mean to kill him for it.”

      Julio’s face split in an ugly grin. “Well, shit, vato, whyn’t you say so in the first place? Yeah, I knew him. I met him in the joint. Little guy. Name of Dwayne somethin’.”

      “You tell him Daddy carried a lot of cash?” Raymond’s face bore no expression, but there was a dangerous note of tension in his voice.

      The grin left Julio’s face. He raised his hands in front of him, as if to push away the trouble he saw coming. “Whoa, man,” he said. “This Dwayne fucker, man, he said he was needing some cash when he got out. I tol’ him I don’t know for sure, but I was working for an old man who paid in cash an’ I was going back when my ninety days was up. Thass all I said.”

      Raymond thought for a minute. He looked at the mustached man. “You,” he said, “Would you recognize this Dwayne guy if you saw him again?”

      The man looked unhappy, but nodded slightly.

      “All right then,” Raymond said. “Get in the truck.”

      There was another rustle and murmur in the crowd. The mustached man didn’t move.

      With his free hand, Raymond reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a roll of bills. “You need work, now that Daddy’s gone. I need somebody who can eyeball the sumbitch and tell me if he’s the right one. You’ll be gone a couple days, then you’ll be right back here.”

      The man’s eyes went back and forth from the roll of bills to the gun in Raymond’s other hand that remained pointed at him. “Always it is the same,” he murmured. “Plomo o Plata.”

      “What?” Raymond said.

      The man looked up at him. “Silver or lead,” he translated. “Always the same choice.”

      Raymond nodded. “That sounds about right.”

      The man sighed. “The money first,” he said.

      Raymond thought for a second. “Half now, half when you show me.”

      The man hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders. “All right. But I need to leave it here.”

      Raymond smiled and tossed him the roll of bills. The man turned and motioned a slim young man with a ponytail out of the crowd. The two conferred for a moment in Spanish, then the mustached man handed the bills to the man with the ponytail, turned and walked to the passenger side of the truck without looking back. John Lee opened the door and slid to the middle of the seat as the man got in. Raymond started the truck and began backing out. The crowd of men watched him go.

      They drove in silence for a few minutes before John Lee spoke up. “I’m John Lee,” he told the man. “This here’s my brother Raymond. You here from Mexico long?”

      The mustached man smiled without humor. “Oscar Sanchez,” he said. “And I am from Colombia.”

      “Well ain’t that a coincidence.” Raymond’s smile was equally humorless. “Some of my best friends is from Colombia.”

      Sanchez sighed and leaned back in the seat. He closed his eyes and appeared to go to sleep.

      “How much we get?” DeWayne said. He was standing by the window of the tiny motel room, occasionally using the barrel of his pistol to nudge the curtain aside enough to peer out into the parking lot. Except for their truck, the lot was empty.

      “Damn it,” Leonard replied, “Y’made me lose count.” He glared at the piles of cash on the burn-scarred table. “And quit peekin’ out the damn window every ten seconds.”

      DeWayne sighed. “Well, you was almost done,” he said. “Where’d you lose count at?”

      Leonard picked up the joint that lay smoldering in the ashtray and took a long drag. His dark, lined face screwed up in an exaggerated mask of concentration. “‘Bout twenty-seven hundred.” He said, his word coming out high-pitched and strangled sounding as he held in the smoke. “Figger about three thousand for the whole shootin’ match.” He chuckled slightly at his own inadvertent pun and let the smoke out in a long stream.

      DeWayne closed his eyes and leaned his head against the post of the window. “Three thousand,” he repeated. “We killed that old