Raylan: A Novel (6 page)

Chapter Ten

T
he Lexington office gave Raylan a partner whether he wanted one or not.

Bill Nichols, fifty-five, half his life a marshal; slim, about five-ten, hair cut short around a tan bald crown. He told Raylan:

“Fourteen I knew everything, shaved my head to become a hundred-and-thirty-pound white supremacist. Before I got any swastika tats, I got tired of getting beat up by these grown neo-Nazis dumber’n stones. I said fuck this and reversed my field, entered a seminary to become a brother, not a priest, a brother. Play softball, or walk around with my hands in the sleeves of the habit thinking of girls. I quit, went to UK, joined the marshals and married my wife, Julie, twenty-seven years now. We have three boys wanderin the earth, good guys, smart, three-point-fives or better. Max teaches English at a school in France. Alex designs book covers for Italian publishers and French, and Tim’s writing his second novel in New York. The first one sold four thousand. I asked him what it’s about, the one he’s writing. He said the subtext is the exposure of artistic pretension. And my little girl, Kate, senior in high school, wants to be a marshal.”

“I’m gonna have to get busy,” Raylan said.

“How long you been married?”

“I’m divorced,” Raylan said. “You ever look for the Nazi lovers beat you up?”

“Two of ’em are gone, overdosed. The third guy,” Nichols said, “by the time I found him was a crackhead, his tats hard to read. I stood him against a brick wall, put on leather gloves while I’m lookin him in the eye. I hit him one-two, both sides of his jaw. He went down and I stood lookin at him.”

Raylan said, “He remember you?”

“I doubt it.”

“Something you had to do before you got too old,” Raylan said. “It’s a shame he wasn’t a wanted felon.”

“So I could shoot him he resisted.”

“I meant you’d have a reason to hunt him down.”

Nichols said, “You’ve shot and killed a man?”

“Yes, I have,” Raylan said.

“An armed fugitive?”

“More than one,” Raylan said.

“It doesn’t matter how many, does it?”

“Not a bit,” Raylan said. “Once or twice I might’ve been lucky.”

“You get to where you have to pull—”

“Knowing you better shoot to kill,” Raylan said.

Nichols gave Raylan a nod.

They knew each other.

T
hey were in Nichols’s Crown Vic leaving a two-story frame house on Chestnut—the address on one of Cuba’s drivers licenses—that turned out to be a boardinghouse. Cuba Franks? Been more than a year anyone had seen him around.

The last address for him was out on Athens–Walnut Hill Road. Nichols knew it as Burgoyne Farms.

“Hasn’t changed his address,” Nichols said, “since he left. I have a brother, all he does is build fences for horse farms. Thirty-five thousand thoroughbreds born in the U.S. every year. Twenty make it to the Derby. One race you can’t buy.”

Raylan said, “You didn’t talk to Burgoyne, did you?”

“Couple of young marshals did,” Nichols said. “Mr. Burgoyne told them Cuba Franks walked out on him. He said, ‘It’s what they do, get tired of workin and walk out.’ He means African Americans,” Nichols said. “I’m finally getting use to saying it.”

“Burgoyne’s wife,” Raylan said, “thought Cuba got tired of putting on an African accent?”

Nichols said, “She thought it was funny. You get the feeling she knew Cuba better’n her old man did.”

“Cuba’s our lead,” Raylan said. “We get hold of him, he’ll give up the woman doctor.”

They were moving east on New Circle, coming up on Richmond Road, where they’d turn south. Nichols glanced at Raylan.

“You saw the list of doctors? Thirteen workin on transplants?”

Raylan shook his head. “I haven’t seen it yet. There only thirteen?”

Nichols turned on to Richmond and looked at Raylan again.

“They’re all guys. No women doctors doing transplants.”

Raylan did not want to give up the idea and said, “You sure?”

“I have the list in my case,” Nichols said. “All professors of surgery or associates.”

Raylan said, “She’s not an MD—”

“Least not at Chandler. It’s part of UK Medical.”

“But she knows how to do it,” Raylan said.

“She knows how to take kidneys out,” Nichols said. “She know how to put ’em in?”

Raylan had to think about it, looking at horse country cut with fences, thoroughbreds grazing, looking up to see their Crown Vic drive past, on Old Richmond now, on their way to Burgoyne Farms.

“She doesn’t have to put ’em in,” Raylan said, “does she?”

“That’s right,” Nichols said, “not if she’s takin out kidneys to sell ’em. But I don’t see an MD doin that.”

“I don’t either,” Raylan said. “But I’d like to find her working on transplants.”

Nichols said, “She watches doctors exchange organs three times a week, about a hundred and fifty a year. She mops the doctor’s brow under those lights and he likes her touch. They close up and he bangs her in the linen closet standing up.”

Raylan said, “Yeah . . . ?”

“Life in the OR,” Nichols said. “He’s playin doctor with his good-lookin nurse.”

“You’re telling me,” Raylan said, “that’s the reason the good-lookin nurse is taking out kidneys in motel rooms?”

“I’m settin a scene,” Nichols said. “Does getting banged in the closet have anything to do with her stealin kidneys? She knows how to take ’em out and finds out how to sell ’em. Money is what moves her. She sees how being Mrs. Obama once a week could make her rich. Still, I like the idea of human sexual feelings involved. Doing it standin up is all right with me.”

They were on Athens–Walnut Hill now, closing in on Burgoyne Farms. They’d called ahead and made arrangements to stop by for a visit that had to do with a former employee, if they didn’t mind the intrusion?

Raylan said, “You take Harry and I’ll talk to Elizabeth. She gives her age as fifty-five, Harry’s wife sixteen years, a second marriage for each.”

“You take Harry,” Nichols said, “get him talking about African Americans and have some fun.”

“It’s my case,” Raylan said, “I’m going with Elizabeth.”

T
he maid took Raylan from the front door and down a hall saying Ms. Burgoyne would see him in the sun parlor. They came to a room as high-end formal as the rest of the house and Raylan said, “Why’s it called a sun parlor? It doesn’t look like one.” He saw the maid in her yellow uniform look toward Elizabeth Burgoyne coming in from outside, her white cotton shirt hanging out of low-slung jeans.

“It’s been the sun parlor for eighty-five years,” Elizabeth said coming in, the way it was done in the movies. “Why call it somethin else?”

“It’s all right with me,” Raylan said and told her who he was.

She said, “You want to know about Cuba Franks. Why, what’s he done?”

“We think he’s stealing kidneys,” Raylan said. See what she’d do with that.

She said, “Really?” Paused a moment and asked, “What would you like, iced tea or a martini?”

“Whatever you’re having,” Raylan said and watched her hold up two fingers to the maid in her yellow maid’s outfit. He’d bet ten dollars they were having martinis.

She said, “I’d like your opinion about something, okay? All of my horse-country friends call me Beth. I think cause my mother does when she comes to visit. But my older friends—from a different life you might say—call me Liz. Which do you think I am, Beth or Liz?”

“You’re testing my power of observation,” Raylan said.

“Come on, which am I?”

“Liz,” Raylan said.

“Why?”

“Because you had more fun with your old buddies than the horsey set.” Fifty-five—she looked no more than forty. A lot of dark hair she stood twisting around her fingers. “You miss them,” Raylan said. “I wouldn’t mind hearing where you came from and how you met Harry—I bet it’s a good story. But I need to learn about Cuba. I think you got to know him better’n your husband did.”

“Harry,” Liz said, “has no idea how to get next to people. His personality holds them off, his expression seems nailed on. Though he’s not as stuffy when he’s drinking, not nearly as boring. I think he’d love to be a stallion and get it on with the mares all day.”

“What do you do,” Raylan said, “go to teas?”

She said, “Yeah, I love tea,” and turned to the maid coming into the sun parlor with a pitcher of martinis and a bowl of anchovy olives.

T
hey were both on the sofa now with the drinks, a cushion between them, the pitcher on the cocktail table, Liz still talking about Harry.

“He’d have a few and he and Cuba would do their Boss and Darky show. Harry scolds him for what he’s wearing, and Cuba says, ‘But, Boss, is your missus dresses me,’ and everyone in the Keeneland bar howls.”

“Why don’t you get the horse people,” Raylan said, “to call you Liz?”

She said, “It wouldn’t work. It would sound like Liz Taylor in
Tin Roof
. She had that Hollywood southern accent, like everybody’s from Virginia.”

“You like acting a little nuts,” Raylan said. “So does Cuba, the kind of action he gets into.”

“He was funny,” Liz said. “We had all day to talk, if we wanted, Harry at the stables. We didn’t meet to have sex, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He was, but shook his head.

“Cuba was funny.”

“I believe it,” Raylan said.

“I’ll be honest with you,” Liz said. “It did happen now and then, but not on a regular basis. It would just, you know, happen, begin fooling around, you’d be crazy to stop.”

Raylan said, “I’ve known that experience.”

“You understand,” Liz said, “Cuba’s a street guy, but very natural about it. I never had to ask what he was talking about. He told me what it was like in prison. He told me the difference between black chicks and white girls in bed”—Liz grinning till she said—“he told me about meeting someone, a girl.”

“A white girl,” Raylan said.

“He wouldn’t say but I knew she was. He’d say, ‘What difference is it I see this person once in a while. I’m not gonna marry her.’ He always called her ‘this person.’ We’d meet and I’d have martinis or daiquiris, or pack the shaker with ice and pour in bourbon, sprinkle some sugar . . . And he walked out on me. I couldn’t believe it.”

“I can’t either,” Raylan said. “This was about the time he left?”

“Disappeared.”

“I told you he’s selling kidneys?”

“I don’t believe that.”

“He sells them for ten thousand each.”

“Really?”

“He’s done it three times, with help.”

“You mean the girl?”

“I think she’s here at UK Medical.”

“A doctor?”

“A transplant nurse.”

Liz edged over the table to refill their glasses and drop in olives, saying, “This is getting good. You’re looking for the nurse, thinking he might’ve mentioned her to me, but he didn’t.” Liz handed Raylan his drink and sat back with her own, nodding. “I’ll bet she’s fat.” She sipped her drink and said, “Why are so many women who work in hospitals overweight?”

“I’ve noticed,” Raylan said. “Why are they?”

“He could have met her,” Liz said. “Cuba drove Harry to Chandler at least twice to have his kidneys checked. They still work, despite all he drinks. He’d bitch, order the nurses around. One of them wouldn’t give him his favorite dope and he tried to get her fired. I can’t remember her name.”

Raylan said, “I hope she’s still there.”

“It was Layla. Like the Eric Clapton number.”

Chapter Eleven

R
aylan came off the elevator and crossed the hall to a waiting area, vinyl furniture and magazines, Nichols in there reading
People
. He closed the magazine and picked up a file folder next to him on the couch.

“You have lunch?”

“Ham and lima beans,” Raylan said, settling into the couch.

“The days we’re lookin at,” Nichols said, “two of the nurses from this floor were away on leave, deaths in their family. Gladys, thirty-five years a transplant nurse, now a coordinator, came back and put her dad’s death notice in the nurses’ room. The other one’s Layla.” Nichols brought a black-and-white head shot from the folder and handed it to Raylan.

“Thin face,” Raylan said, meaning she didn’t appear to be fat.

“Five-six, a hundred and twenty pounds,” Nichols said. “She’s thirty-seven.”

“She’s got great eyes,” Raylan said, “they hold on to you. Who died in her family?”

“Nobody. Layla took a two-week leave to nurse her old mom back from death’s door, coughing her lungs out, but didn’t die, she’s recovering, quit smoking.”

“Where’s the mom live?”

“New Orleans.”

“You check it out?”

“Soon as I finish reading about Harrison and Calista gettin married after eight years keeping house. Then catch up on why Jake Pavelka says Vienna cheated on him, whoever they are.”

“Layla,” Raylan said, “you notice her eyes. She makes you keep lookin at them.” Raylan squinted at the woman in the photo not quite smiling at him. He said, “I’d like to know what she’s thinking.”

Nichols turned his head to look at the photo. “She’s starin at the photographer thinking, You take one more I’m gonna get up and kick you in the nuts.”

“I don’t see her impatient,” Raylan said.

“No, she’s thinking it in a nice way.” Nichols looked at his watch. “She ought to be out of surgery by now. She’s helping Dr. Howard Goldman transplant a kidney. Like Layla doesn’t know how.”

Raylan said, “She’s our girl, huh?”

“I don’t see anyone else,” Nichols said.

They both got up from the couch: Raylan to stand in the opening to the hall, looking at the far end where they’d come out of surgery, Nichols to go check on Layla’s mom.

R
aylan watched them come out, both in white lab coats, Layla holding the door for Dr. Goldman, the young doctor doing most of the talking, Layla using her hands to gesture, shaking her head, talking her way out of what he wanted to do. Like get laid. Raylan had stopped him earlier in the day to ask about nurses. Stopped him and committed his name to memory. Howard Goldman, that was it. The doctor had no time for him, waved his hand in front of his face and kept going. Now, down the hall, he was opening his hands to Layla, the hands he had used to restore someone’s life and it had given him a hard-on.

They were coming this way again.

Raylan walked up to Dr. Goldman—didn’t look at Layla—and said, “Excuse me, Doctor, but my sister’s suppose to be here, seein about having a kidney transplant?”

Layla said, “What’s her name?”

“Raejeanne Givens,” Raylan said, his younger sister’s name. “I don’t know why I don’t see any family. I came straight from the airport.”

Layla said, “Let’s check on Raejeanne,” laying her hand on Raylan’s arm and giving the doctor what Raylan saw as a kiss-off look with a shrug. Dr. Goldman walked past him without a word and on down the hall.

“I’ve been here an hour,” Raylan said, “trying to get information. You just come out of surgery, huh?” He held out his hand. “I’m Raylan Givens, deputy United States marshal. I’m sorry if I intruded on you and the doctor. I’m concerned about my sister.”

She said, “Hi, I’m Layla. The doctor just finished a kidney transplant and you say Raejeanne needs one? That’s funny, cause we don’t have a Raejeanne scheduled for anything, not even an exam.” Layla raising her eyebrows with kind of a smile.

“It doesn’t matter,” Raylan said. “You didn’t look happy talking to Howard. I thought I may as well step in, see if I could free you. You seemed to pick up on it.”

She said, “You want to question me about something?”

“What I’m looking for,” Raylan said, “is a doctor takes out kidneys in motel rooms and sells them on the body-parts market.”

She was smiling now. “You’re crazy.”

“A doctor here can’t have a gambling problem? Goes broke out at Keeneland and gets in debt to a shylock?”

“They bet playing golf,” Layla said.

“I understand,” Raylan said, “to take out a kidney, you make your incision in the front.”

“How do you know that?”

“Talkin to guys. Two of ’em said it was a woman took their kidneys. I thought, Well, maybe the doctor had a woman’s mask on. You put the donated ones in the front too?”

“You put them anywhere you want,” Layla said. “What kind of mask was it?”

“Rubber, slips over your head. I think it was suppose to be Mrs. Obama.”

“Really.”

“Well, the other mask, I’m pretty sure, was the president.”

Layla said, “The other mask . . . ?”

“The one Cuba Franks was wearing.”

Raylan let that hang to see if Layla could handle it.

She took a moment to shake her head and shrug in her white transplant nurse outfit. Layla said, “I wish I could help you,” started to turn away and stopped. She said, “Why can’t the doctor be a woman?”

“I’m told all the MDs here are men.”

“She could be from another hospital.”

“You’re right, except Cuba knows this place. He’s been here once or twice with his boss. You know Cuba Franks?”

“I don’t think so,” Layla said. “I wish I could help you,” and started to walk away.

Raylan let her take a few steps before saying to her, “Layla, you’re not the one stealing kidneys, are you?”

He may as well get that said, thinking it would stop her and she’d turn around. Not Layla. She raised her hand over her head to give Raylan a lazy kind of wave, often seen in movies.

Again in the waiting room, with all its old magazines, he thought of what he’d say to her the next time. He wasn’t sure until Nichols came in saying, “She lied about nursing her mom back to health. The old lady’s been in a home with Alzheimer’s the past three years.”

C
uba was staying with Layla in her apartment on Virginia Avenue, the other side of South Limestone from the UK campus and hospitals; Cuba on the pull-out sofa, Layla with the bedroom to herself when they weren’t using it. She liked to come home and have a drink while she took off her whites and sat down to watch the news in a T-shirt and panties. It would turn Cuba on and they’d go in the bedroom so Cuba could satisfy himself; her too most of the time. He knew when a chick was faking, always overdoing it. Layla never said a word and he’d wait for the gasp, the groan, like all the air was being sucked out of her. They’d watch TV then and have some more vodkas while he deep-fried supper.

This evening she came in talking about Raylan Givens and Cuba felt a tug in his gut and thought, Shit, though it didn’t surprise him. The man kept on the job. He said to Layla, “How’d he get on us?”

“You worked for the Burgoynes.”

“You layin it on
me
? They already lookin at dead Crowes.”

“You had to do it,” Layla said. “But, you let the maid go, Rita.”

“I knew you’d bring her up.”

Layla stepped up to him in her nurse outfit, put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth from tender to hard. Finally easing off she said, “Don’t worry about it. But I think we should hold up on doing Harry. The marshal would’ve talked to him. Probably asked his wife a few questions. You got it on with her, didn’t you?”

“Not too much,” Cuba said. “I been thinking, I go see Mr. Harry and apologize for leavin, this poor, uneducated Negro not knowin shit how to act. But that darky skit depressed me. I tell him I got a new gig we can try.”

“What is it?”

“I make up something—bring tears to his motherfuckin racist eyes laughing. I say I got a tape he can listen to. Bring him here and you pop him with the needle.”

“How does he pay us, say, two hundred and fifty thousand?”

“I’m workin on it.”

Layla said, “We’re not doing Harry just yet. I’ve been thinking, we could be gathering a few more organs. Gregg Allman just had a liver transplant, he can drink again—
yeaaah
! We’ll extract kidneys, liver, lungs, pancreas. Hearts are too tricky. You have to keep it pumping.”

Cuba thinking, Like sellin used auto parts, a transmission, a manifold. She made it sound easy, reminding him that time, “You don’t do the Crowes they’ll tell on us.” Her bein cool about it’s what scared him. Like telling him to close the window so it don’t rain in.

“This might blow your mind,” Layla said, “but I’m thinking the one to do next is the marshal. We wouldn’t even have to lure him. Raylan has more questions for me.”

Cuba’s mind saw Dickie holding a gun while Raylan good as dared him to raise it. He said to Layla, “Where you want to do it, here?”

“I was thinking right in the tub, instead of lugging him around, then add water. I don’t see why we’d need ice.”

“How we get him out of here?”

“In the wee small hours of the morning,” Layla said, not quite singing it, “we drop him out the window, put him in the car . . . Or we wait till he’s coming to and walk him out to the car.”

“You haven’t figured it out yet,” Cuba said.

“I’m thinking,” Layla said. “We have until I decide to answer the phone.”