Riding the Rap Read Online Free PDF Page B

know’s been through it.’ Bam. ‘You bit the bullet, then you chew it.’ Bam.” Raylan liked it.
    When they were first getting to know one another, almost a year ago, he’d told her how he’d worked for different coal operators in Harlan County, Kentucky, where he grew up, and before joining the Marshals Service. He toldher, “I’ve worked deep mines, wildcat mines, the ones you go into and scratch for what’s left, and I’ve stripped.”
    Joyce said that time, “So have I.”
    He said, “Pardon me?”
    She hadn’t wanted to tell him too soon about working as a go-go dancer when she was younger—one of the few topless performers, she said, without a drug habit. Like it was okay to dance half-naked in a barroom full of men as long as you weren’t strung out. He told her no, it didn’t bother him—not mentioning it might’ve been different if he’d known her when she was up there showing her breasts to everybody. No, the only thing that bothered him now was her devoting her life to poor Harry.
    She’d say she wasn’t devoting her life, she was trying to help him.
    Sitting at the kitchen table again Raylan thought of something and began telling about the bust he’d taken part in that morning. Telling it in his quiet way but with a purpose:
    How they went to an address out in Canal Point to arrest a fugitive known to be armed and dangerous. Banged on the door and when no one came a strike team officer yelled at the house, “Open up or it’s coming down!” So when still no one came they used a sledgehammer—what the strike team called their master key—busted in and here was a woman standing in the living room no doubt the whole time, not saying a word. One of the strike team, a sheriff’s deputy, told her they had a warrant for the arrest ofRussell Robert Lyles and asked was he in the house. The woman said no, he wasn’t, and had no idea where he might be. The deputy said to her, “If Russell’s upstairs, you’re going to jail.” And the woman said, “He’s upstairs.”
    Raylan waited for Joyce, saw her nod, but that’s all; she didn’t say anything. She didn’t see the point he was trying to make.
    So Raylan said, “You understand it wasn’t like the woman was giving the guy up, telling on him. There was nothing she could do, so she said yeah, he’s upstairs.”
    Joyce nodded again, uh-huh. “So did you get him?”
    She still didn’t see the point.
    â€œWe got him. Even with all the commotion, busting the door down? The guy was still in bed.”
    â€œDid you shoot him?”
    Looking right at Raylan as she said it and it stopped him, because he could see she was serious, waiting for him to answer.
    â€œWe had to wake him up.”
    Nudged the guy with a shotgun—the way it actually happened—the sheriff’s deputy saying, “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”
    But that wasn’t the point either. What he wanted Joyce to see, she had as much chance of helping Harry Arno as this woman had of hiding a fugitive. There was a silence. “I didn’t like to bust into somebody’s house,” Raylan said. “I asked the woman why she didn’t open the door. She said, ‘Invite you in for iced tea?’”
    There was another silence until Raylan said, “You know Harry’s an alcoholic,” and saw Joyce look at him as if she might’ve missed something, one minute talking about apprehending a fugitive . . . “You know that, don’t you?”
    â€œHe’s trying to stop.”
    â€œHow? Is he in a program? He won’t admit he’s got a problem, so he makes excuses. It’s what alcoholics do. You left him, he’s depressed and that’s why he’s drinking again.”
    Joyce said, “As far as he’s concerned . . .”
    â€œYou