Elmore Leonard - Raylan

Cuba, close to the tub, turned to the bedroom, Layla in there at the dresser. What was she doing? Cuba called to her, “Girl, you puttin on makeup? Twice was enough-kissin the boys good-bye.”

Raylan opened his eyes to see Cuba turned from the tub, Cuba saying, “You crazy, you know it? Dollin up while I prepare this man for his last thirty minutes on earth.”

Raylan heard her say, “Do what you want,” Raylan staring at the Sig Sauer stuck in Cuba’s waist, the grip showing, the barrel resting against Cuba’s spine.

He turned to Raylan saying, “I got to get in the tub to move you. All right? To move you. I ain’t gonna cop your joint, I don’t play that shit, so don’t worry. You lyin there nothin you can do.”

L ayla’s voice came from the bedroom. “Is he out?”

“He’s all right, like shit-faced. I know can’t stand up.”

“He might not’ve got the whole shot.”

Raylan heard her voice, her words, and could see Cuba with twenty-twenty vision he was so close. In the tub with him, bending over, trying to hug him and inch his dead weight up higher, Cuba straddling his legs. Maybe all they gained was an inch. He could hear, but it was like you were all the way taken down by shine. No, straight whiskey. With shine you felt you were quadriplegic and didn’t dare try to talk. Bourbon turned you alive.

Cuba said, “I get a hold on you, you take hold of me and pull yourself up. You know what I’m sayin? Pull yourself up as I push.”

Raylan didn’t know why he was doing this, wanting to move him higher in the tub. This time Raylan got his hands under Cuba’s arms, trying to get a hold on Cuba’s silk shirt and it tore down the middle. Cuba said it, “You tore my good shirt.”

Raylan said, “Fuck your shirt,” let his hands slide down Cuba’s back to the Sig Sauer and slipped it out of his waist. Raylan and Cuba almost nose to nose in each other’s eyes, Raylan wondering if Cuba felt him take it. He looked lt. g Sike he did. Raylan brought the Sig around to Cuba’s belly and heard Layla say:

“What’re you guys doing, getting it on?”

Raylan looked past Cuba’s shoulder to see her standing in the doorway. She said, “Cuba…?” She said, “Cuba, his eyes are fucking open…” and she was gone-in the bedroom getting his gun, Raylan sure of it. Cuba staring in his face.

“She wants me, ” Raylan said. “Or maybe you, I don’t know.”

He saw her in the doorway aiming his Glock at him, holding it in one hand and turning sideways to strike a shooter’s pose and fired-he saw the gun jump-and fired again and fired again, and Cuba let out a gasp of air and slumped against Raylan, wedging the Sig between them.

He said to Cuba, “You alive?” He didn’t get an answer and said, “Or dead.” He put his ear to Cuba’s mouth, didn’t hear a rattle of breath, but could smell it.

Layla said, “Cuba…?”

“I imagine,” Raylan said, “he’s in Hell by now, the poor man. I’m placing you under arrest,” Raylan said, “for taking his life. Lay down the weapon.” He couldn’t say “your weapon” since it was his. He hoped she’d drop it, the jolt setting off the semi-hair trigger and shoot herself. He felt sometimes he could talk to that gun he called Buddy, to himself. Here we go, Buddy, stay loose. He still had the Sig in his hand stuck between their bodies. But it was coming… and she was firing again, the Glock in both hands now. She fired four rounds at him ducked behind Cuba-Jesus, realizing he was using the man for cover. He pulled out the Sig and extended it past Cuba’s shoulder and saw her right there framed in the doorway and put the Sig on her, and hesitated two, three beats and she was gone.

He lay there with Cuba on him thinking, You didn’t shoot her.

Why didn’t you? She’s standing right there.

L ike that, she was in trouble.

She should have given him another shot before putting on her makeup. Cuba said the first two times were funny, kissing the Willie Lomans while they were still alive, not knowing shit what was happening. But lovin up a man drugged out of his head was creepy. Like kissing the dead.

It was in her mind to run, get out of here. Someone would have heard the shots and called the police.

Or, stay and make up a story.

Officer, I’m a transplant nurse at UK Medical. We save lives, we don’t shoot people.

Get rid of Cuba’s clothes all over the place and the surgical kit.

Officer, I came home after putting in fourteen hours… stopped to have a bite to eat… I knew someone was in the apartment

… and found these two shot to death. I did check their vital signs, not having any idea what they were doing here. I think the naked one’s in law enforcement. He could have followed the other one, the African American, here. Tell them that. But why my apartment?

Don’t think about it now. She had Raylan’s Glock and had fired how many rounds, seven? If someone did hear the shots, one more wouldn’t matter, would it?

Do it and get out. Think later.

I t was work to free himself of Cuba, the man not helping any. Raylan lifted his body enough to push it aside and pull himself out of the tub. He checked the Sig, racked the slide to make sure it was loaded and stepped to the doorway.

Layla was on the other side of the bed with his Glock. She looked up and had the gun pointed at him in the same motion. Raylan didn’t move, standing there naked in his cowboy boots holding the Sig at his leg.

She seemed at ease in her kimono asking him, “How are you feeling?”

“Groggy,” Raylan said. “Like I’ve had too many.”

She said, “What’s that, Cuba’s gun? I hate to tell you, before you try to use it-”

“I checked,” Raylan said, “it’s loaded.” He said, “I don’t want to shoot you. Okay?”

She said, “I thought you wanted to arrest me,” sounding surprised.

“It’s up to you,” Raylan said.

“Well, I don’t see us shooting it out,” Layla said, raising both arms over her head, the kimono coming open enough to show her bare-naked under it.

She said, “Would you like to pat me down?”

This was a first for Raylan: a girl with a gun in her hand exposing herself to him.

Get him horny and shoot him? igntify"›It’s what she tried.

Swung the Glock down to aim eye-level at him and Raylan raised the Sig past his hip and shot her dead center, inches below the heart, the round punching her off her feet to go down grabbing at the bedspread. Raylan circled in his cowboy boots, picking up his suitcoat, put it on and took it off to stand in front of her naked. He stood looking down at her surprised expression, her eyes not yet losing focus, turning to glass. Layla said, “I can’t believe you shot me.”

Raylan said, “I can’t either.”

You don’t think of your manners and let the woman go first,” Art Mullen said, “not when she’s pointing a gun at you.”

They were having breakfast at A Touch of Country in downtown Cumberland. Raylan back from Lexington poking at his bowl of grits, burying the pieces of bacon.

“You keep looking at it,” Art said, “asking yourself were you too quick. The woman jabbed a hypo in you and took your gun. Finally you come to a showdown. She’s aiming at you and you’re still drugged out. You wonder if you might’ve been too quick on the trigger?”

“She was surprised I shot her,” Raylan said.

“Why? She thought you were a gentleman? Tell me what else you could’ve done.”

“I was surprised too,” Raylan said, “I did it.”

“Cause you never shot a woman before?”

“I guess.”

“Why you think you had a choice?” Art said, trying to get Raylan settled in his mind about shooting the transplant nurse, Layla.