Raylan: A Novel by Elmore Leonard

and turning sideways to strike a shooter’s pose and fired—he saw the gun jump—and fired again and fired again, and Cuba let out a gasp of air and slumped against Raylan, wedging the Sig between them.
    He said to Cuba, “You alive?” He didn’t get an answer and said, “Or dead.” He put his ear to Cuba’s mouth, didn’t hear a rattle of breath, but could smell it.
    Layla said, “Cuba . . . ?”
    “I imagine,” Raylan said, “he’s in Hell by now, the poor man. I’m placing you under arrest,” Raylan said, “for taking his life. Lay down the weapon.” He couldn’t say “your weapon” since it was his. He hoped she’d drop it, the jolt setting off the semi-hair trigger and shoot herself. He felt sometimes he could talk to that gun he called Buddy, to himself. Here we go, Buddy, stay loose . He still had the Sig in his hand stuck between their bodies. But it was coming . . . and she was firing again, the Glock in both hands now. She fired four rounds at him ducked behind Cuba—Jesus, realizing he was using the man for cover. He pulled out the Sig and extended it past Cuba’s shoulder and saw her right there framed in the doorway and put the Sig on her, and hesitated two, three beats and she was gone.
    He lay there with Cuba on him thinking, You didn’t shoot her.
    Why didn’t you? She’s standing right there.
    L ike that, she was in trouble.
    She should have given him another shot before putting on her makeup. Cuba said the first two times were funny, kissing the Willie Lomans while they were still alive, not knowing shit what was happening. But lovin up a man drugged out of his head was creepy. Like kissing the dead.
    It was in her mind to run, get out of here. Someone would have heard the shots and called the police.
    Or, stay and make up a story.
    Officer, I’m a transplant nurse at UK Medical. We save lives, we don’t shoot people.
    Get rid of Cuba’s clothes all over the place and the surgical kit.
    Officer, I came home after putting in fourteen hours . . . stopped to have a bite to eat . . . . I knew someone was in the apartment . . . and found these two shot to death. I did check their vital signs, not having any idea what they were doing here. I think the naked one’s in law enforcement. He could have followed the other one, the African American, here. Tell them that. But why my apartment?
    Don’t think about it now. She had Raylan’s Glock and had fired how many rounds, seven? If someone did hear the shots, one more wouldn’t matter, would it?
    Do it and get out. Think later.
    I t was work to free himself of Cuba, the man not helping any. Raylan lifted his body enough to push it aside and pull himself out of the tub. He checked the Sig, racked the slide to make sure it was loaded and stepped to the doorway.
    Layla was on the other side of the bed with his Glock. She looked up and had the gun pointed at him in the same motion. Raylan didn’t move, standing there naked in his cowboy boots holding the Sig at his leg.
    She seemed at ease in her kimono asking him, “How are you feeling?”
    “Groggy,” Raylan said. “Like I’ve had too many.”
    She said, “What’s that, Cuba’s gun? I hate to tell you, before you try to use it—”
    “I checked,” Raylan said, “it’s loaded.” He said, “I don’t want to shoot you. Okay?”
    She said, “I thought you wanted to arrest me,” sounding surprised.
    “It’s up to you,” Raylan said.
    “Well, I don’t see us shooting it out,” Layla said, raising both arms over her head, the kimono coming open enough to show her bare-naked under it.
    She said, “Would you like to pat me down?”
    This was a first for Raylan: a girl with a gun in her hand exposing herself to him.
    Get him horny and shoot him?
    It’s what she tried.
    Swung the Glock down to aim eye-level at him and Raylan raised the Sig past his hip and shot her dead center, inches below the heart, the round punching her off her feet to go down grabbing at