Jack Keller - 01 - The Devil's Right Hand Read online

  The Devil's Right Hand

  Jack Keller [1]

  J. D. Rhoades

  J.D. Rhoades (2005)

  Rating: ★★★☆☆

  Tags: Mystery, bounty hunter, North Carolina, hard boiled, Romance, redneck noir, Thriller

  Mysteryttt bounty hunterttt North Carolinattt hard boiledttt Romancettt redneck noirttt Thrillerttt

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  Ex-cons DeWayne and Leonard thought it was a simple plan: Swipe the payroll from a local construction company and make off with easy cash. Pity they left the owner dead. Bigger pity is that the owner's son is a violent drug-dealer who's crazier than the low-caliber ex-cons

  he's vowed to nail--along with anyone else who gets in his way.

  Bounty hunter and war vet Jack Keller is the perfect man for his job. With a brain full of combat nightmares, he's primed for every hunt, keen for the heady scent of gunfire, and high on the release each takedown brings. His new quarry is bail-jumper DeWayne, but even Keller isn't

  prepared for where this chase is going to take him.

  Caught in a violent vendetta between two trigger-happy rednecks and a psycho blinded by rage, Keller's soon spiraling into a revenge plot set to explode in the North Carolina backwoods. Add to this murderous mix a local cop with his own agenda and his beautiful partner who's hot for men on the edge, and someone's bound to see hell before the night is over.

  ### From Publishers Weekly

  Loaded with testosterone and high-caliber weapons, Rhoades's hard-boiled debut lurches from one bloody gun battle to another in the streets and back alleys of Fayetteville, N.C., as a bounty hunter finds himself drawing highly unwelcome attention. When dim-witted cousins DeWayne and Leonard kill an old Lumbee Indian during their first armed robbery, they get a load of trouble along with the cash. Raymond, one of the victim's sons and a vicious local crime boss, vows to kill everyone involved with his father's death. Caught in between is Jack Keller, a bail bondsman's enforcer; he's after DeWayne for skipping out on his breaking and entering bail. A Gulf War veteran tormented by guilt over the deaths of his squad members in a friendly fire incident, Jack must now deal with the two armed robbers, crazed Raymond and his gang of assorted Colombian gunmen, and sadistic cops who mistakenly think he's the cause of all the mayhem. Resourceful and determined, Jack happily lays out a few bad guys himself, but he's annoyed that everybody wants to kill him, too. He is arrested, beaten up, shot at and pursued, making miraculous escapes each time in the best pulp fiction tradition. Add spectacular car chases, kidnapping, torture, carjacking, a dozen killings and lukewarm sex scenes, and this gritty novel has everything it needs except for suspense, mystery and likable characters.

  Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

  ### From Booklist

  *Starred Review* Rhoades slaps this supercharged crime-fiction debut into overdrive in the first paragraph and never lets up through nearly 300 pages of nonstop action. It starts with a simple armed robbery in which two dumb and dumber ex-cons, Leonard and DeWayne, set out to steal the weekly payroll from an elderly Native American who owns a construction company. It quickly goes wrong, however, and the owner is killed. Meanwhile, bounty hunter Jack Keller, a Gulf War vet with a head full of nightmares, is already tracking bail-jumper DeWayne. He'll have to hurry, though, if he hopes to find his quarry before the dead man's son, a drug dealer who is every bit as violent and considerably crazier than the killers he tracks. Throw in a couple of psycho cops with a thing about bounty hunters, and you have the narrative equivalent of a string of homemade bombs timed to explode at random along the Arkansas back roads. Like Stephen Hunter's *Dirty White Boys,* however, this is not simply a car-chase-with-fireworks novel; Rhoades builds his rampaging white boys from the ground up, complete with believable backstory and humanizing shots of *Pulp Fiction-*like humor. Keller is a definite keeper, the kind of flawed noir hero that women want to nurse, cops want to bust, and bad guys want to hurt. There's a formula at work here, of course, but Rhoades never gives us time to feel manipulated. More Keller, please, and soon. *Bill Ott*

  *Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved*

  THE DEVIL’S RIGHT HAND

  by

  J.D. Rhoades

  copyright 2005

  All rights reserved

  Smashwords edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  To my wife, Lynn, and my children, Nicholas and Nina.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “She ain’t no damn lesbian,” the stocky man said.

  “Sure she is,” the skinny one said. “Didn’t you see that MTV show? Man, Madonna had her tongue right down that girl’s throat.”

  They were sitting in the front seat of a dented pickup truck, pulled back into the woods. From there they could see the trailer the timber company used as an office. It was 5:30 in the morning, and the sky was brightening. A few stray wisps of fog hugged the grass, flowing sluggishly in the humid air. Rusting log trucks loomed in field behind the trailer, looking like ancient behemoths in the mist.

  They had been in place since 4:00. Boredom had finally trumped the need for stealth so they had turned the radio on low. Britney Spears was moaning that she had done it again.

  “Man, you got to be crazy,” the big one said. “She was goin’ with that guy from the who is it, the Backseat Boys. She gave up her cherry for him. ”

  “Well, there y’are, then,” the skinny one said triumphantly. “Ever’one knows those guys is all faggots. It was all a cover, man. Like that Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford. All them Hollywood homos cover for one another.”

  “An’ you believe that shit?” the stocky one said. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair. He had kept it trimmed short in prison, thinking it gave him a more menacing appearance. Now it was growing back out, and it was taking some getting used to.

  There was a brief flash of headlights through the trees. He reached down and snapped the radio off. “You sure about this now, cuz?” He asked for what seemed like the fiftieth time.

  “Sure I’m sure,” the skinny man replied. He recited the facts again, with the patience of a special-ed teacher repeating a lesson for a slow pupil. He didn’t get irritated; it made him feel good to be the one who knew something for a change. All his life, his older cousin had gotten to do everything first. Drink beer, get laid, get arrested. Now it was DeWayne’s turn to lead.

  “The old man don’t hire nobody but Mexicans to do his cuttin’and haulin’. They don’t work for nothin’ but cash money. They don’t pay no taxes that way, see, and neither does the old man. I seen him in the bank the last few Thursdays, gettin’ out a big bag of cash. He brings it back here, puts it in the safe for payday Friday.”

  “I still think we oughta just break in and take the safe out,” the stocky one said. “We can find somebody to get it open.”

  “You wanta bring a stranger in on this?” the skinny one demanded. “Id’nt that how you got caught last time? We can trust each other, Leonard, ‘cause we’re family. But anyone else’ll sell you out in a hot second.”

  “You don’t know, DeWayne,” Leonard said. “You ain’t never done nothin’ like this before. Armed robbery is serious shit compared to B and E, man. This D.A.’s got a real serious hard-on for armed robbers. ‘Sides, you think that old dude don’t have a gun, carryin’ around that much cash?” He shook his head and looked out the window, his face glum. “This shit is dangerous.”
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  “You wanna back out, cuz, ” DeWayne said, “You better do it now. Here he comes.” Another pickup, this one at least thirty years old, pulled up in front of the trailer/office. An old man in coveralls got out. He looked to be at least seventy, but his step was sure and confident. He went up the steps of the trailer. He paused a moment on the narrow porch that ran across the front of the trailer. He rummaged through a ring of keys until he found the correct one. He opened the door and disappeared inside.

  “When he comes out,” said DeWayne, “he’ll have the bag. He takes it out to the job site so he can pay the Mexicans off at the end of the day.” Sure enough, in a few minutes the old man came out and walked to the truck. He was carrying a large canvas bag.

  The two men got out of their truck. DeWayne let Leonard take the lead. Even though he had let most of his muscle go to fat in his last stay in the joint, Leonard’s size still made him intimidating.

  “Mornin’, sir,” Leonard said.

  The old man stopped and turned towards them. His eyes were pale green, and made a startling contrast to his skin, which was a light caramel color. “Hep you fellows?” he said in the flat nasal accent of the Lumbee Indian.

  Leonard pulled his gun. He was carrying a long-barreled .44, Dewayne a snub-nosed .38. “Let’s do this easy, old man, and no one has to get hurt,” DeWayne said.

  “Just put the bag down on the ground, and step away real slow,” Leonard said.

  The old man didn’t move. He looked first at DeWayne, then at Leonard.

  “Shit,” was all he said.

  “What are you talkin’ about, man?” DeWayne’s voice was high, almost cracking with the strain of adrenaline. He felt the familiar dizzy sensation of things slipping out of his control.

  Both of them saw the old man’s hand go into the bag. “Don’t do it, man…” Leonard shouted as the hand came out holding a small automatic. Both Leonard’s and DeWayne’s guns barked at once, the sharp cracks muffled by the soggy air. One shot went wide and struck the side of the truck. The other hammered the old man back against the door. The only change in his expression was a grimace of pain, then blankness. The automatic slid from his fingers as he slumped to the ground.

  “God DAMN it!’ Leonard shouted at the old man. “The FUCK’d you do that for?” The man didn’t answer.

  DeWayne rushed forward and grabbed the bag, kicking the automatic further away with his foot as he did so. He needn’t have bothered. The man looked straight ahead, not noticing the bag, the gun, or the rising sun in his eyes. He was dead.

  The young paratrooper was full of piss and vinegar, pumped up on the Airborne mystique, and stumbling drunk, as well. He looked like he was ready to make an issue out of Keller talking so long to the redhead. Keller didn’t see what claim the kid had on the girl, other than the fact she had been recently been grinding her crotch on the kid’s lap, but he didn’t have time to argue.He showed the kid a peek of the 9mm hanging in a shoulder rig beneath his coat. It was enough to make even a drunk kid realize that attitude and training don’t make anyone bulletproof.The young soldier did a quick fade into the crowd and Keller turned back to the dancer who called herself Misty.

  A lot of people would find it difficult to concentrate on an interview when the interviewee is a redhead wearing only a transparent silk teddy. Keller kept reminding himself he had a job to do and not a lot of time to do it in.Misty helped take his mind off prurient interests by the way she cracked her bubble gum and looked bored. She was no more aware of her clothes, or lack of them, than if she had been in uniform behind the counter at Mickey D’s.

  “Crystal worked here for a while,” she said. It was Saturday night, and the strip club was crowded and noisy. Misty had to shout into Keller’s ear to be heard. “She was cute, had a nice figure,” she went on “but her heart wasn’t really in it, you know? It was like she was half-asleep most of the time. Customers want you to be, like, into it.So she left. I don’t know where she went.”

  Keller could see a big guy in a black tuxedo vest and bowtie working his way through the crowd. He wondered for a second how anyone with no visible neck could wear a bowtie. He figured someone had tipped the bouncer off that he was carrying. Keller

  had all the right permits, but he didn’t expect that to cut any ice with the neckless wonder. He flipped Misty a business card.“If you hear anything,” he said, “Call me on my cell-phone number.” He had to shout the last phrase, since the music was increasing from the merely deafening to the truly painful. It was time for the next show.

  She looked at the card blankly and blew a bubble. “You a bail bondsman?” she said.

  “I work for one,” he said. He sidled through the crowd towards the door.

  Keller stepped out into the humid night and lit a cigarette. A summer thunderstorm had recently blown through, leaving the parking lot scattered with puddles of oily water that reflected back the red and blue neon lights of the club. The sudden cooling brought by the storm had caused the waterlogged air to turn to light fog. Keller blew out a long stream of smoke and watched the Friday night traffic sigh past on Bragg Boulevard. A Ford minivan pulled up and a group of young men in sport shirts and khakis piled out. Keller noticed that one of them appeared much drunker than the others, who gathered around him to prop him up. They were whooping and laughing. Bachelor party, Keller thought. There was an edge to their laughter, almosthysteria. “We’re having fun,” the laughter said. “Really. We promise.”

  There was the sound of footsteps behind Keller. He turned and saw Bowtie advancing on him. He squared off to face the big man.Bowtie stopped, his red face within a few inches of Keller’s. The bouncer squinted, trying to make his small eyes look hard. Keller looked back without expression. Finally, Bowtie spoke.

  “You been asking a lot of questions about one of the ladies,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Keller said. Bowtie began to look uncertain. He was obviously used to being placated at this stage of the game. He looked Keller up and down, obviously measuring his broad six feet against Keller’s lankier six-two. His jaw worked for a minute, then he said, “You a cop?”

  Keller shook his head. “Bail Enforcement.”

  The term obviously threw Bowtie, and the uncertainty was making him angry. His face got even redder and his neck and

  shoulders seemed to inflate slightly.He was building up his rage for the next stage of the game.Keller interrupted the process.“I’m going to reach into my pocket and get my business card,” he said. He did so without waiting for permission. He handed the card to Bowtie, who squinted at it.

  “H & H Bail Bonds,” he said finally. “What, Crystal in some kind of trouble?”

  Keller shook his head. “Her cousin,” he said. “Name of DeWayne. They grew up together. He didn’t show on a B & E down in Brunswick County. I figured his family might know where he is.”

  Bowtie stepped back a few inches and deflated his neck and shoulders. “She don’t work here no more.”

  “So I hear. She quit?”

  “Naw. I fired her ass. She was, ah, doing private shows after hours. Know what I mean?”

  Keller tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it out with his boot. “She was hooking.”

  Bowtie nodded. “I don’t need that kind of shit.”

  Meaning, Keller thought, that she wasn’t cutting you in on the profits. Or letting you sample the merchandise.

  “ Plus,” Bowtie went on, “She was wasted half the time.” He tapped the side of his nose and tried to look knowing. It didn’t work. “Know what I mean?” he said again.

  “Yeah. Any idea where she went?”

  Bowtie shrugged. “Escort service’d be my guess.”

  Keller sighed. There were at least fifty of those in the Yellow Pages alone. “Don’t guess her cousin ever came around.”Bowtie shook his head. “No,” he said, “she never said nothin’ about having a family.”

  “Okay,” Keller said. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, don’t mention it,
” Bowtie said. “And, ah, sorry about gettin’ in your face like that. I gotta look out for the ladies.”

  “Yeah,” Keller said. “You’re a real knight in shining armor.”

  “What?” Bowtie said, but Keller was already walking away.

  He walked over to his car and opened the door. The car was a former police cruiser, a late-model Crown Victoria. He had had it repainted to remove the police markings, but it still had a rack in the front seat in which a 12-gauge shotgun rested upright. A cell phone nestled in a hands-free system rose from the floor next to the rack. Keller leaned over and hit the speed dial.

  “H & H Bail Bonds,” a female voice said after a few rings.It filled the car, directed through the stereo speakers by the handsfree system.

  “What are you wearing?” Keller said.

  She chuckled softly. “Keller,” she said.

  As always, her voice saying his name caused a tightening in his throat. “Any luck?” she said.

  “I think the cousin’s going to be a dead end,” he said. You got anything on the other one, Crystal’s brother? They were allraised together. Find one, the other’s probably not far away.”

  “No,” she said. “Leonard Puryear missed his last two appointments with his probation officer. The P.O. went out to his house, but the place was empty. They’re about ready to violate him. What happened to the sister?”

  “I traced her as far as a strip club on Bragg Boulevard, but she’s not there. No one knows where she went, but she’s probably hooking. Escort service, probably.”

  “I suppose you could work your way through all of those,” she said. “Poor Keller. You always get the tough jobs.”

  He laughed. “Might be a little hard on the cash flow,” he said.

  “Among other things,” she said.He heard the insectile clicking of computer keys. “Hold on a minute,” she said. “If she’s hooking, she probably has some kind of record.”