The Devil's Right Hand by J.D. Rhoades Read Free Book Online Page A

DeWayne,” he said, “Shut up
for a second and pay attention. ”DeWayne lurched back in the truck
seat with his eyes closed, playing air guitar along with Stevie
Ray. His back arched orgasmically as he launched into the chorus.
Part of the beer in his left hand spilled on his shoulder as he
mimed the solo. “Hey, hey...” he wailed. “Look at little
sisterrr...”
    “ DEWAYNE!” Leonard bellowed. He reached
over and turned the stereo off.
    DeWayne’s eyes snapped open. “‘Eyyyy, man,”
he whined. “The fuck’d you do that for?”
    “ I got no idea where we are, man.”
Leonard said. “You been to Crystal’s, I ain’t. You gotta tell me
where to go.”
    DeWayne straightened up and look around
blearily. He squinted as if to bring the road into better focus.
“I’m gettin’ hungry,” he said.
    “ One thing at a time, cuz,” Leonard
said. “We gotta--”
    “ Wait, turn here, man!” DeWayne yelled.
“Turn right, turn right!”
    They were almost past the turn. The tires
screeched as Leonard instinctively obeyed. The truck rocked up
slightly on two wheels.
    “ Whoo!” DeWayne shouted. He laughed and
drained the last of his beer. “It’s down here at the
end.”
    In the daylight, it was apparent that the
neighborhood was struggling against becoming decrepit, and
 losing. Some of the houses were in good repair, others had
sagging roofs and trim that was badly in need of fresh paint. There
were small clumps of skinny, half-bare trees in some yards. In
others, the owners who had apparently given up on even mowing the
weeds that grew around the stumps where the trees had once
been.
    A red Corvette was parked in the driveway in
front of the house at the end of the street. It was the newest,
brightest object visible. There were still a few flakes of the
original white paint clinging to the picket fence in front of the
house. The rest had weathered to gray.
    Leonard picked up the bag with the money in
it and got out. DeWayne followed. The two men got out of the truck
and walked towards the white house, with DeWayne leaning on
Leonard’s shoulder for support. He was singing again: “Heyyyy, hey,
look at little sisterrrr..." All of the shades were drawn. Had it
not been for the car parked out front, the house would have
appeared deserted.
    Leonard pushed the doorbell button beside the
door. There was no sound of a bell inside and no answer. He
knocked. He knocked harder. No answer. Leonard began knocking
steadily, monotonously, like a man pounding nails in Hell. Finally,
a slurred female voice responded, “All RIGHT,” God damn it, I’m
coming.” There was a creak of footsteps. DeWayne stuck his face up
to the peephole in the door and grinned maniacally. “Oh, Jesus
fucking Christ,” the voice said. It sounded very weary. There was a
rattle of a chain, the solid snick of a heavy deadbolt, then the
snap of the door lock. The door opened a crack.
    “ The hell do you two want?” the girl
said.
    “ C’mon, sis, let us in,” Leonard
whispered. There was a heavy sigh and the door swung wide. The two
men stepped inside. DeWayne wrapped his arms around the girl and
lifted her up off the ground in a bear hug. “Put me down, asshole,”
she said, the words muffled against his shoulder. There was no
anger in her voice, just a kind of weary amusement. DeWayne put her
down and stepped back.
    She was a tiny woman, a little over five
feet. It was the breasts that men noticed first, an unfortunate
fact that had shaped most of her adult life. They seemed overly
large for her thin body and thrust against even the shapeless cloth
robe she wore, demanding attention. Her hair, cut short and parted
in the middle, was dyed a dark reddish-brown. The hair was rumpled,
as if she had just gotten out of bed. Her facial features were
small and regular, but just enough out of proportion to one another
that she missed beautiful by a narrow margin and had to settle for
cute. Her mouth was drawn in a perpetual affected pout that