they were glad to see him, the air in the room sweet with reefer.
Cuba said, “Man, you two are havin fun, huh? Where’s daddy, he home or out someplace?”
“Upstairs taking a bath,” Dickie said, holding up the bong. “Want a hit?”
“When I finish my business. Where’s Rita, soapin up the old man?”
“I don’t think it’s their day,” Dickie said. “Rita’s in the kitchen fixin us a treat.”
“Somethin for your sweet tooth?”
“Strawberry shortcake,” Dickie said.
“How’s Rita, she sweet?”
“Coover tried to jump her one time—”
“Years ago,” Coover said.
“Daddy caught him and whipped Coove with a stick, a green one, like a whip.”
“Hurt like hell,” Coover said.
“Lettin you know she’s daddy’s girl,” Cuba said. “Man, how long she been here?”
“About three years,” Dickie said in that weed voice, holding his breath.
“That long? Why’s she stay?”
“The old man pays a lot,” Coover said, “for his nookie.”
“Coove’s been tryin to find her money,” Dickie said, “but she’s hid it good.”
“It’s in the house somewhere? What’s he pay her?”
“Hunnert a day,” Dickie said.
“Jesus Christ,” Cuba said, “and you can’t find it?” He thought of sticking his head in the kitchen, have a look at this Rita, but said, “How y’all like hidin out?”
“Nobody’s lookin for us,” Dickie said.
“Your daddy’s got friends,” Cuba said.
“Or that marshal can’t get a warrant.”
“That’s what I mean. It’s good to have friends can do you favors.”
Cuba asked himself, You through being sociable?
He reached behind him, hands going under his limp cotton jacket to pull the 9 mm Sig Sauer from the small of his back, both the weedheads staring at it with dreamy eyes, Coover saying, “What you got there, boy?”
Cuba put the Sig on the two from halfway across the room and shot both Crowes in the chest, Coover first, bam, exploding the bong he was holding, then Dickie, bam, as Dickie was screaming what sounded like “No!” Cuba waited for the gunshots to fade and listened for sounds in the house. He approached the two sprawled on the sofa, then walked over to the front door, opened the screen and banged it closed. Now he turned his attention to the stairs, Cuba thinking the old man would be careful, look out a front window to see who left.
Un-uh, there he was creeping down the stairs naked, holding a big, must be a .44 revolver out in front of him. The man had a belly, the rest of him ribs and skinny white legs, his bald head shining, Cuba seeing Pervis for the first time without his toupee, said, “Hey, old man,” got him looking this way and bam, shot him off the stairs, watched him drop the revolver grabbing for the handrail and fall nine steps to the floor. Cuba waited for the naked body to move, the man lying on his belly, staining the rag carpet with his blood, his right arm bent funny, looking broke. Cuba waited a few moments, turned to the hall that went to the kitchen and called out, “Rita . . . ?” Waited again and called, “Where you at, girl?”
S he came in from the kitchen drying her hands on a dishtowel. Cuba watched her look at the brothers flopped on the couch; watched her stand over the old man, Cuba’s gaze holding on her ass in the white slip she was wearing against her black skin. Had that saucy type of ass slim black chicks would arch their backs to show it to you. Cuba watched her stoop down to place the dishtowel over the old man’s profile on the floor, and told himself to shoot her, get it done. But he said, wanting to say something, “I believe he broke his arm.”
“Oh, is that all,” Rita said. “I would have swore you shot Mister and the boys. One each—that’s pretty good. I don’t know why you shot the old man, less somebody paid you good money. You coulda done the boys you happen to be feelin out of sorts.” She said, “Quit aimin that thing at me. Put it away. I don’t
Cuba said, “Man, you two are havin fun, huh? Where’s daddy, he home or out someplace?”
“Upstairs taking a bath,” Dickie said, holding up the bong. “Want a hit?”
“When I finish my business. Where’s Rita, soapin up the old man?”
“I don’t think it’s their day,” Dickie said. “Rita’s in the kitchen fixin us a treat.”
“Somethin for your sweet tooth?”
“Strawberry shortcake,” Dickie said.
“How’s Rita, she sweet?”
“Coover tried to jump her one time—”
“Years ago,” Coover said.
“Daddy caught him and whipped Coove with a stick, a green one, like a whip.”
“Hurt like hell,” Coover said.
“Lettin you know she’s daddy’s girl,” Cuba said. “Man, how long she been here?”
“About three years,” Dickie said in that weed voice, holding his breath.
“That long? Why’s she stay?”
“The old man pays a lot,” Coover said, “for his nookie.”
“Coove’s been tryin to find her money,” Dickie said, “but she’s hid it good.”
“It’s in the house somewhere? What’s he pay her?”
“Hunnert a day,” Dickie said.
“Jesus Christ,” Cuba said, “and you can’t find it?” He thought of sticking his head in the kitchen, have a look at this Rita, but said, “How y’all like hidin out?”
“Nobody’s lookin for us,” Dickie said.
“Your daddy’s got friends,” Cuba said.
“Or that marshal can’t get a warrant.”
“That’s what I mean. It’s good to have friends can do you favors.”
Cuba asked himself, You through being sociable?
He reached behind him, hands going under his limp cotton jacket to pull the 9 mm Sig Sauer from the small of his back, both the weedheads staring at it with dreamy eyes, Coover saying, “What you got there, boy?”
Cuba put the Sig on the two from halfway across the room and shot both Crowes in the chest, Coover first, bam, exploding the bong he was holding, then Dickie, bam, as Dickie was screaming what sounded like “No!” Cuba waited for the gunshots to fade and listened for sounds in the house. He approached the two sprawled on the sofa, then walked over to the front door, opened the screen and banged it closed. Now he turned his attention to the stairs, Cuba thinking the old man would be careful, look out a front window to see who left.
Un-uh, there he was creeping down the stairs naked, holding a big, must be a .44 revolver out in front of him. The man had a belly, the rest of him ribs and skinny white legs, his bald head shining, Cuba seeing Pervis for the first time without his toupee, said, “Hey, old man,” got him looking this way and bam, shot him off the stairs, watched him drop the revolver grabbing for the handrail and fall nine steps to the floor. Cuba waited for the naked body to move, the man lying on his belly, staining the rag carpet with his blood, his right arm bent funny, looking broke. Cuba waited a few moments, turned to the hall that went to the kitchen and called out, “Rita . . . ?” Waited again and called, “Where you at, girl?”
S he came in from the kitchen drying her hands on a dishtowel. Cuba watched her look at the brothers flopped on the couch; watched her stand over the old man, Cuba’s gaze holding on her ass in the white slip she was wearing against her black skin. Had that saucy type of ass slim black chicks would arch their backs to show it to you. Cuba watched her stoop down to place the dishtowel over the old man’s profile on the floor, and told himself to shoot her, get it done. But he said, wanting to say something, “I believe he broke his arm.”
“Oh, is that all,” Rita said. “I would have swore you shot Mister and the boys. One each—that’s pretty good. I don’t know why you shot the old man, less somebody paid you good money. You coulda done the boys you happen to be feelin out of sorts.” She said, “Quit aimin that thing at me. Put it away. I don’t
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