The Devil's Right Hand

The Devil's Right Hand Read Online Free PDF Page B

Book: The Devil's Right Hand Read Online Free PDF
Author: J.D. Rhoades
Tags: thriller, Romance, Mystery, Hard-Boiled, north carolina, bounty hunter, redneck noir
He rattled the handle in
frustration. “You got a key to this, John Lee?” he said.
    John Lee shrugged. “Sorry, Raymond,” he said.
“Daddy always kept that one hisself.”
    Raymond slammed his hand against the cabinet
in frustration. He turned to Sanchez. “He ever tell you where he
kept the key to this?”
    Sanchez shook his head. “No,” he said.
Raymond turned back. He hit the cabinet again, as if he could
convince it to open by beating it enough times. He withdrew the
pistol from his belt and drew back the hammer. He carefully pointed
it at the latch on the filing cabinet.
    “ Wait,” Sanchez said. He reached into
his pocket and withdrew a small plexiglass key ring. He laid it
carefully on the table. There were two keys on the ring, one
smaller than the other.
    Raymond looked at Sanchez, his eyes narrowed.
“You trying to be funny?”
    Sanchez looked back without expression. “You
didn’t ask if I had a key. You asked if your father had ever told
me where his key was.”
    “ God damn it,” Raymond snarled. “You
knew what I meant.”
    “ Me?” Sanchez spread his hands. “How
was I to know? ”
    Raymond made a strangled sound deep in his
throat and pointed the pistol at Sanchez. Sanchez didn’t move.
    “ I was your father’s foreman,” he said.
“He trusted me with a lot of things. If you kill me, there are many
things you will never know.”
    Raymond slammed the pistol down on the desk.
John Lee flinched. “Then tell me, asshole!” Raymond yelled. “Quit
playin’ games! I need me some goddamn help here!”
    Sanchez’ face clouded with anger. “You
have never asked. You have never asked me for anything, least of
all help. All you have done is wave your pistola around and shout orders.” He looked at
John Lee. “The two of you are out to avenge your father. All right.
It is a matter of honor. A man understands such things. A man might
be willing to help. A stupid ‘greaseball’ who must be ordered
around--” he shrugged. “Such a one will only do what he is told, no
more.”
    Raymond stared at him for a long moment. “I
ain’t gonna beg you,” he said finally.
    Sanchez shook his head. “That is not what I
ask.” They continued to stare at one another, neither one willing
to be the first to look down. It was John Lee who finally
spoke.
    “ Mr. Sanchez,” he said, “will you help
us find the man that killed our daddy?”
    Sanchez smiled. “Si, I will help you,” he
said. “And call me Oscar.” He pointed at the desk. “When the man
Julio talked about came around, he left a phone number where he
could be reached. I saw your father write it on the pad on the
desk.”
    Raymond looked down at the desk blotter. It
was covered with ink stains, coffee rings, doodles and hastily
scrawled notes.
    Finally he located something. “DeWayne
Puryear,” he read. “That sound familiar?”
    Sanchez nodded. “That is the name that he
gave.”
    “ There’s an address and phone number
here,” Raymond said.
    Sanchez turned around and walked out the
door. He was already waiting in the truck when Raymond and John Lee
followed him.
     
    Like most of the people who wore the black
robe, Judge Harold T. Tharrington was a former prosecutor. The
District Attorney had handpicked Tharrington to run for election to
the bench. He had run without opposition; none of the other
prosecutors would dare to buck the boss' choice. For their own
part, the lawyers of the defense bar declined to take the salary
cut that came with going on the State payroll. Defendants paid
better, and often in cash.
    Tharrington looked over his glasses at
Keller, who was standing before him. He was a short, balding man
with a round face and a fussy demeanor. He clearly found Keller’s
presence in his courtroom distasteful.
    Keller had spent the previous day and night
sharing a jail cell with a pair of Jamaicans. The two men had
totally ignored him. They spent the time playing a seemingly
endless game of cards and arguing in low,
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