doctor. Angel’s, somebody made a mess with the staples. Right away I think of the Crowes, Coover. Why didn’t the doctor close Angel? He could’ve got tired of putting up with the brothers and walked out.”
Art said, “Where you getting that?”
“It’s what I would’ve done,” Raylan said, “knowin those dumbbells. A doctor working under pressure in a motel room, he’s had enough of the brothers, leaves them to close up. But why’d he hire them to begin with?”
“To heft bodies,” Art said.
“Cuba Frank’s there.”
“One thing we know for sure,” Art said, “it wasn’t the Crowes wearing the rubber masks. Both fellas said a man and a woman.”
“The president and Mrs. Obama out havin fun,” Raylan said. “Making about twenty grand every time they put on their masks.” He said, “Imagine you open the door and there the Obamas calling on you? They come in the motel room talking.” He said to Art, “Who’s playing Michelle?”
Art said, “I guess the doctor brought . . . a nurse?”
“Who did . . . ? Cuba Franks?”
It stopped Art. Now he was shaking his head.
“What’s wrong with me—Michelle Obama’s the doctor.”
“It can’t be anybody else, can it?” Raylan said. “Don’t we have tapes of their statements? What the two guys remember?”
“If you want to believe it,” Art said.
“It sounded good to me,” Raylan said. “Michelle walks up and kisses the guy on the mouth.”
“They both said pretty much the same thing. How she approached, got real close—”
“She lifts her mask from under her chin,” Raylan said, “to free her mouth and presses it into his. The last thing he remembers is getting turned on. As they come apart she hits him with the needle. He dreams of the First Lady tonguing him while she’s taking out his kidneys.”
Art said, “I wonder if she’s black.”
Raylan shook his head. “They both said she was white.”
A rt said a couple times he wondered if she might be a doctor. Raylan said he did too, but couldn’t see a woman stealing kidneys in a motel room. Even one pissed off at having her license pulled. “I’m dyin to meet her.”
“Check on Bob Valdez first,” Art said, “it having been handed down from above. Then I want the Crowes brought in while I’m getting the warrants.”
“If you get the right judge.”
“I have ways,” Art said. “ ‘Your Honor, I just hope a law enforcement officer isn’t gunned down in the line of duty by some weedhead while waitin for warrants.’ ”
“And you get fined for being a smart-ass.”
Art said, “You can’t locate the Crowes, go see Pervis. This evening, no customers botherin him. You want,” Art said, “threaten to burn his fields he don’t give up his boys.”
Raylan was picking at a callous in the palm of his gun hand listening to Art. Raylan stopped picking. He raised his head to look at his boss with an expression of wonder.
“That’s where they are, at Pervis’s.”
“You threaten ’em,” Art said, “they run home to their daddy.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” Raylan said.
“You had,” Art said, “you wouldn’t of run out of gas.”
Chapter Eight
COAL KEEPS THE LIGHTS ON.
Raylan read the signs, the coal company rubbing it in. You want coal to heat your house? You have to accept surface mining and the mess it makes; the film of coal dust on your car sitting in the yard. Raylan followed the signs on barns and billboards, finally turning at one reminding him that JESUS SAVES and a mile later came to Ed McCready’s property.
M cCready lay in bed, his head propped up on a pillow so he could see Raylan, his gunshot wound cleansed and cauterized. He yanked aside the flannel cover to show Raylan his thigh bandaged all the way around. “Went in my leg,” Ed said, “turned south and went through the floor of the porch.”
“You’re positive,” Raylan said, “it was Bob Valdez.”
“No, it was some greaser,”
Art said, “Where you getting that?”
“It’s what I would’ve done,” Raylan said, “knowin those dumbbells. A doctor working under pressure in a motel room, he’s had enough of the brothers, leaves them to close up. But why’d he hire them to begin with?”
“To heft bodies,” Art said.
“Cuba Frank’s there.”
“One thing we know for sure,” Art said, “it wasn’t the Crowes wearing the rubber masks. Both fellas said a man and a woman.”
“The president and Mrs. Obama out havin fun,” Raylan said. “Making about twenty grand every time they put on their masks.” He said, “Imagine you open the door and there the Obamas calling on you? They come in the motel room talking.” He said to Art, “Who’s playing Michelle?”
Art said, “I guess the doctor brought . . . a nurse?”
“Who did . . . ? Cuba Franks?”
It stopped Art. Now he was shaking his head.
“What’s wrong with me—Michelle Obama’s the doctor.”
“It can’t be anybody else, can it?” Raylan said. “Don’t we have tapes of their statements? What the two guys remember?”
“If you want to believe it,” Art said.
“It sounded good to me,” Raylan said. “Michelle walks up and kisses the guy on the mouth.”
“They both said pretty much the same thing. How she approached, got real close—”
“She lifts her mask from under her chin,” Raylan said, “to free her mouth and presses it into his. The last thing he remembers is getting turned on. As they come apart she hits him with the needle. He dreams of the First Lady tonguing him while she’s taking out his kidneys.”
Art said, “I wonder if she’s black.”
Raylan shook his head. “They both said she was white.”
A rt said a couple times he wondered if she might be a doctor. Raylan said he did too, but couldn’t see a woman stealing kidneys in a motel room. Even one pissed off at having her license pulled. “I’m dyin to meet her.”
“Check on Bob Valdez first,” Art said, “it having been handed down from above. Then I want the Crowes brought in while I’m getting the warrants.”
“If you get the right judge.”
“I have ways,” Art said. “ ‘Your Honor, I just hope a law enforcement officer isn’t gunned down in the line of duty by some weedhead while waitin for warrants.’ ”
“And you get fined for being a smart-ass.”
Art said, “You can’t locate the Crowes, go see Pervis. This evening, no customers botherin him. You want,” Art said, “threaten to burn his fields he don’t give up his boys.”
Raylan was picking at a callous in the palm of his gun hand listening to Art. Raylan stopped picking. He raised his head to look at his boss with an expression of wonder.
“That’s where they are, at Pervis’s.”
“You threaten ’em,” Art said, “they run home to their daddy.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” Raylan said.
“You had,” Art said, “you wouldn’t of run out of gas.”
Chapter Eight
COAL KEEPS THE LIGHTS ON.
Raylan read the signs, the coal company rubbing it in. You want coal to heat your house? You have to accept surface mining and the mess it makes; the film of coal dust on your car sitting in the yard. Raylan followed the signs on barns and billboards, finally turning at one reminding him that JESUS SAVES and a mile later came to Ed McCready’s property.
M cCready lay in bed, his head propped up on a pillow so he could see Raylan, his gunshot wound cleansed and cauterized. He yanked aside the flannel cover to show Raylan his thigh bandaged all the way around. “Went in my leg,” Ed said, “turned south and went through the floor of the porch.”
“You’re positive,” Raylan said, “it was Bob Valdez.”
“No, it was some greaser,”
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