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

don’t….” DeWayne began. Then he shrugged. “Fuck it,” he said. He sat down in one of the mismatched chairs. “We gotta figger out what we’re gonna do now,” he said. He took a drag on the joint and coughed.

      “Well, “Leonard said thoughtfully. “I could use a beer. And maybe some pussy.”

      “God damn it, Leonard--” DeWayne began.

      “Easy, cuz,” Leonard said. He gave his cousin a lopsided grin and took the joint from him. “Look, we’ve had a coupla hard days, right? We’re both stressin’. We got the money, sure it’s not as much as we thought it was gonna be, but it’s more than we had. So let’s enjoy it, man. Life’s too damn short.”

      “Don’t it bother you we just killed somebody, Leonard?” DeWayne said.

      The joint was almost gone. Leonard put the roach out in the cracked ashtray. “Sure it bothers me,” he said. “But that old fucker brought in on hisself. He’d a done what we told him, he wouldn’t be dead. Ain’t nothin’ gonna change what we did. All you can change is how you look at it.”

      DeWayne digested this for a moment as Leonard stood up. Leonard put his hands at the small of his back and arched, wincing slightly at the snapping and popping sounds. “Gettin’ too old for this shit,” he grunted. He scooped a handful of bills off the counter and went to the door. “There’s a Short Stop across the street,” he said. “I’m gonna go get us some beers. Then we’re gonna get in the truck, drive on up to Fayetteville, and get you laid.” The lopsided grin was back. “You’re gonna be amazed at how it changes the way you look at things.” He walked out.

      DeWayne sat for a minute, the thoughts coming slowly to him. He wasn’t used to reefer, and the thoughts seemed to struggle upwards in his brain.

      Fayetteville, he thought. Who do I know in Fayetteville? Then it came to him. Crystal, he thought.

      After a few minutes, Leonard came back in, carrying a paper bag under one arm. He had a Budweiser tall-boy in the other hand.

      “Leonard,” DeWayne said. “Crystal still living in Fayetteville?”

      “Yeah,” Leonard said. “Shakin’ her ass in some titty bar on Bragg Boulevard, last time I heard.” He took a long pull on the beer. “Momma and Daddy don’t even mention her name anymore.”

      “She might let us hide out at her place for a while. I been there once.”

      Leonard pulled a beer out of the bag, popped the top and handed it to his cousin. “Not a bad idea,” he said after a moment.. “Bet she’d introduce us to some of her friends, too.” He grinned like a satyr. “Shit, we play our cards right, we might not even have to pay for pussy. Now, you’re thinkin’ right, old son.”

CHAPTER TWO

      Keller walked out into the motel parking lot, blinking against the sun. The previous night’s thunderstorms had blown away, leaving the world exposed to the hard glare of the sun. The heavy, waterlogged air soaked up the heat until walking across the parking lot was like swimming through soup.

      As he approached his car, he saw a white police cruiser parked crossways behind him. There was a big cop leaning against the car, his arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves were rolled up to accentuate his massive forearms. His partner was standing beside Keller’s Crown Victoria, peering through the window with one hand shading her eyes. She was a tall woman, with the lean build of an athlete. Both cops’ eyes were hidden behind the inevitable mirrored sunglasses. The female cop turned as Keller approached.

      “This your car, sir?” she said. There were a few wisps of light brown hair coming untucked from beneath her blue cap, but that was the only hint of softness about her. Her lips were compressed into a thin line when she wasn’t speaking. When she spoke, her voice was the officious bark of a drill sergeant. She made sure that the word “sir” contained not a speck of actual respect or courtesy.

      Keller took a deep breath. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Is there some kind of--”

      “Mind telling us why there’s a shotgun in the front seat?”

      He kept his voice mild, inwardly cursing himself for choosing not to bring the shotgun in with him. The desk clerk at the last place he had stayed had seen him carrying his gun into the room and had spent most of the evening coming by and calling on various flimsy pretexts to make sure Keller had not killed himself with it. “It’s not against the law to have a shotgun, is it?” he asked.

      The big cop straightened up. His lips stretched over his teeth in a rough approximation of a smile. “Smart-ass, huh?”

      The female cop looked annoyed at the interruption. “Mind if we look in the car, sir?”

      Keller did mind, but there was no way to win the argument without a lengthy discussion, part of which would probably take place at the police station. It was a discussion he was sure he would win, eventually. Still, that would take time, possibly a lot of time. Keller wanted to get back to work. He took the path of least resistance.

      “Sure,” he said. He was still smiling. He took his keys out and opened the doors.

      The search was quick and sloppy. Keller noticed that the male cop seemed to take particular pleasure in leaving the contents of the glove compartment scattered over the front seat so Keller would have to put them back himself.

      “Why do you have these metal rings welded to the floor of the back seat, sir?” the female cop asked.

      Keller’s smile was beginning to pain him. “I work bail enforcement,” he said. “Sometimes they don’t want to stay in the car. The rings are for the handcuffs.”

      “What about the police scanner?” she said.

      “Like I said,” Keller replied, “I work as--”

      “A bounty hunter,” the male cop said. He pronounced it like a curse.

      “Whatever,” Keller said. There was no overt insolence in his voice, but the lack of deference seemed to anger the male cop. He got out of the front seat of Keller’s car and stood up.

      “You got a--” he began. The female cop interrupted him. “Can you open the trunk, sir?” she said.

      Keller’s shoulders tensed, then he shrugged. He popped the trunk. The male cop walked around to the back and whistled in amazement.

      “Marie,” he said. “Come look at this.” The female cop walked around to the back of the car. “Holy shit,” she said. She reached in and pulled out a length of heavy chain. Heavy leg cuffs were soldered to each end. She held it up and looked over at Keller.

      “It’s all legal,” Keller said.

      “We’ll decide that,” the male cop said.

      Keller’s temper had reached the limit. “Bullshit,” he said. “There’s not a damn thing you can make stick here. I’ve got permits for the handguns. The handcuffs and restraints are all legit. All my licenses are up to date. So if you’re going to arrest me, do it. But stop jerking me around.”

      “All right, smart-ass,” the male cop said. “Hands on the car and spread your legs.” Keller shook his head in frustration, but complied. The male cop frisked him quickly while the other one, Marie stood back to give herself a clear field of fire if Keller decided to try anything. Keller felt the male cop’s hand at the small of his back, heard him chuckle as he withdrew the 9MM from Keller’s waistband.

      “Looks like carrying a concealed weapon to me.”

      “I told you, I’ve got a carry permit--” he was cut short by an explosion of pain across his lower back. The cop had pulled his nightstick in a cross-body draw that would have done credit to a samurai. He whipped the nightstick in a short arc and smashed Keller across the kidneys. Keller arched his