Raylan Goes to Detroit Read online

  Praise for Quiver

  “Quiver is good. It’s really very good—with some cracking dialogue, clever plotting, and an enjoyable bloody climax.”

  —The New York Times

  “[The] prose is clear, paunchy, and free of what his father calls ‘hoote-doodle.’ His villains are so scuzzy…the story moves so quickly that there is no time for the novel to drag.”

  —The Daily Telegraph

  “Quiver is a spectacular debut….With a large cast of characters—each presented as meticulously as an Andrew Wyeth portrait—and numerous points of view, all funneling inevitably to a stunning conclusion, you will be holding your breath until the final page.”

  —The New York Sun

  “A strong debut that combines a tight plot (about a deadly double-cross in the woods of Michigan) with memorable characters and dialogue—come to think of it, not unlike what Leonard’s father, Elmore Leonard, creates.”

  —Seattle Times

  “Quiver is a fast-paced, cleverly plotted thriller…the reader is left somewhat breathless as the plot accelerates toward a climax involving plenty of gunfire and bodies, eventually, everywhere.”

  —Uncut

  Praise for Trust Me

  “As anyone who read his debut novel Quiver knows, Leonard really is the equal of his father, Elmore. Set like Quiver, in Detroit, Trust Me is a knockout caper comedy, packed with unexpected twists, improbable entanglements, and wry, paint-fresh dialogue you could read all day without getting bored.”

  —The Guardian

  “Leonard is starting to show some real individuality…he’s crafted a pleasantly twisty thriller and a central character who could give Jackie Brown a run for her money….The plot is smooth and Leonard conveys the menace with assured ease. Promising.”

  —Observer

  “Trust Me is about gasping for air. Peter Leonard, like Leonard père, depicts physical violence not so much in terms of sharp pain, and there’s plenty of that to go around, as it is about controlling the flow of the air to the solar plexus. Breathtaking is a reviewer’s cliché. But it is simply the best way to describe the pace of Peter Leonard’s latest offering.”

  —The Washington Times

  “Razor-sharp dialogue and a plot that races like a souped-up Mercury Cruiser; from turbocharged start to explosive finish. Brilliant!”

  —R. J. Ellory, author of A Quiet Belief in Los Angeles

  Praise for Back From The Dead

  “Back From the Dead is a one-sit read; there is no good place to pick up from where you left off. One page flows seemlessly into the next, so quickly that there should be skid marks on the pages on the final quarter of the book. The beginning will hook you, and there are passages that you will underline and write down elsewhere.”

  —BookReporter.com

  “Leonard gets better and better.”—Uncut

  Praise for Voices From the Dead

  “If you haven’t read Leonard before—and you must—this is a great place to start.”

  —The Guardian

  This is a Genuine Rare Bird Book

  A Rare Bird Book | Rare Bird Books

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 302

  Los Angeles, CA 90013

  rarebirdbooks.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Peter Leonard

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic. For more information, address:

  A Rare Bird Book | Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 302

  Los Angeles, CA 90013.

  Set in Dante

  epub isbn: 9781644280065

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Names: Leonard, Peter A., author.

  Title: Raylan Goes to Detroit : a novel / by Peter Leonard.

  Description: First Hardcover Edition | A Genuine Rare Bird Book |

  New York, NY; Los Angeles, CA: Rare Bird Books, 2018.

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781947856219

  Subjects: LCSH Fugitives from justice—Fiction. | United States Marshals—Fiction. | Detroit (Mich.)—Fiction. | Criminals—Fiction. | Suspense fiction. | FICTION / Thrillers / Suspense

  Classification: LCC PS3612.E5737 .R39 2018 | DDC 813.6—dc23

  For Dante Salazar, Aaron Garcia, and J. B. McVay

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Diaz sat in the long line of cars waiting to cross the border from Mexicali into Calexico, watching the beggars and the window washers, looking at the high wall that separated Mexico and the United States. When it was his turn, he handed his passport to the Hispanic border agent.

  When the man asked why he had been in Mexico, Diaz said he was a parts manager working for Volkswagen and had visited the plant in Puebla and then the Hermosillo Assembly and Stamping Plant. Now he was returning home to Virginia to see his family. He drove a Passat with a registration that listed the car as owned by Volkswagen of America on Ferdinand Porsche Drive in Herndon, Virginia, near the nation’s capital.

  “Mr. Perez,” the border agent said, “welcome home.”

  Diaz drove across the flat green fields of Imperial County that smelled of manure and something else, but he could not decide what it was. He could see migrants in the far distance, bodies bent over, picking vegetables, and a tractor crossing a dry parcel, dust trailing behind it.

  And then he entered El Centro, an ugly little town of auto dealerships, strip malls, and fast food restaurants. With the GPS he found Elm Avenue and the address, a small one-story house surrounded by a chain-link fence, as many of the houses were in this quiet neighborhood inhabited by members of the cartels, by members of the border patrol living with their families, and by members of the US Marshals Service.

  He parked in the driveway, got out, and walked to the front door. Pelon, a fat, oily man he had met on a previous occasion, invited him in and closed the door. “Care for something—agua, cerveza, tequila?”

  Diaz shook his head. The fat man walked across the room and disappeared down a hallway. Diaz glanced at the room, the empty beer bottles, the ashtray on a table next to the couch overflowing with cigarette butts. He heard angry voices and a door slam, and now Pelon was coming toward him carrying a small suitcase.

  Diaz said, “Is there a problem?”

  “My woman,” the fat man said, eyes on the floor, “she can be difficult.”

  “Sure, like any woman, uh?” Now Pelon’s eyes met h
is and the fat man grinned.

  “My concern, your woman can make trouble for me.”

  Embarrassed, the fat man said, “No, señor, nothing like that. Le aseguro que.”

  “Something happens, you know who I come after.”

  “Todo está bien.”

  The fat man handed the suitcase to him.

  “Open it, let me see.”

  Pelon laid the suitcase on the couch, unzipped the top, and pulled it back. Diaz glanced at the guns, reached in and picked up the .22 Sport King, felt the weight and balance, ejected the magazine; it was full. He screwed the suppressor on to the end of the barrel and set the .22 in the case. He picked up the SIG Sauer, aimed the red dot laser sight on a lamp across the room, lowered the gun, and put it in the case. There were boxes of cartridges for both guns. There was a roll of duct tape and a set of picks. Everything he had ordered.

  Diaz zipped the suitcase closed, dug a folded wad of bills out of his trouser pocket, and handed it to the fat man. He carried the suitcase to the car and lifted it into the trunk. He drove east across desert and scrub, a dark line of mountains in the distance, the outside temperature registering 119 degrees. He stopped for gas, tacos, and a Coca Cola in Yuma, a desert town that made El Centro look like a resort.

  Diaz arrived in Tucson at four o’clock and checked in to the Arizona Inn. He changed into a bathing suit, walked to the pool, swam, and lay in the searing afternoon sun, enjoying a Grey Goose and tonic, admiring the lush grounds, the sculpted shrubs and flowers.

  When the sun was fading over the mountains, Diaz returned to his room, showered, dressed, and drove to El Torero. Luz, the bartender, noticed him when he walked in but didn’t say anything, didn’t acknowledge or welcome him. He sat at the bar and waited for her to come his way, and when she did, she said, “What can I bring you, señor?”

  “You don’t remember me?” Although Luz was married, he had spent the night with her the last time he was passing through.

  “You remind me of someone, a man who made many promises and has kept none of them.” Her expression was stern as she looked into his eyes. “What do you drink?”

  “Surprise me,” Diaz said, smiling, trying to loosen her, pry her out of this dour mood. Minutes later, Luz placed a lowball glass in front of him. It was red and fizzy and had a cherry floating near the bottom. She watched as he picked up the glass and took a drink. It was something a child would order, and now she broke into a grin.

  A little after two in the morning, Diaz awoke Luz and told her she better go home. This time he promised he would take her with him to a resort in Cabo and on a shopping vacation to Buenos Aires. Luz believed him cause she wanted to. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

  Dressed in black, Diaz drove north to the foothills of the Tucson Mountains. He parked on North Tortolita Street and walked down into the wash, moving on the sandy bottom, camouflaged by saguaro, choya, octillo, and desert trees he could not identify. He heard dogs barking and smelled the javelinas before he saw them—a feral reek that was worse than a skunk. He climbed up the sandy rock-strewn slope and crouched behind a giant saguaro, saw their red eyes glowing in the dark as the herd, at least twenty javelinas, passed by him.

  Four in the morning, it was still ninety-two degrees, sweat running down his face, blotting the shirt that clung to his shoulders and back. He passed a chicken coop and thought it would be bad to be a chicken in the Arizona desert, wild animals staring at you, licking their chops.

  A decorative fence wrapped around the back of Frank Tyner’s property. Diaz opened the gate and crossed the pool enclosure to the French doors. He could hear the hum of an air conditioner. He used the picks to unlock the door.

  Inside it was cool and quiet. He went in the kitchen and dried his face and hands with a dish towel, pulled the .22 Sport King from the belt behind his back, and moved toward the bedrooms.

  Peeking through the open door, Diaz could see the shape of someone in bed, under the covers in the dark room. As he moved closer, he could see Frank Tyner on his back asleep. Diaz shook the man. Tyner opened his eyes, a knowing look on his face, as if Frank had been expecting him, knew he would show up sooner or later. Diaz took a step back, aimed the gun and said, “Plata o plomo.”

  Frank Tyner raised his hands in surrender. “No, it’s a misunderstanding. I can explain.”

  “Señor Rindo say is too late for explanations. Que Dios te ayude.” Now Diaz made the sign of the cross and shot him in the forehead, and again in the chest, and it was over. He made a final check of the room, picked up the casings, and went into the bathroom to relieve himself. He glanced at the tub on the other side of the room, shower curtain pulled all the way open. He did his business and walked out.

  •••

  She was coming out of the bathroom, half asleep, saw a man with a gun approaching the bedroom, ducked back in, moved to the tub, got in on her back, held her breath, and tried not to move—more afraid than she had ever been in her life. She heard what the man said to Frank and heard the pffft sounds of the suppressed rounds being fired. She heard him come into the bathroom, shoes clicking on the tile floor, and listened to him urinating. Her body frozen, heart thumping in her chest, sure he was going to come over and look in the tub.

  She heard the sliding door to the pool squeak as it opened and thud as it closed, got up and went into the bedroom, checked Frank’s pulse. He was dead. She found her purse, grabbed her weapon, and ran out to the street. Down to the right a silver Volkswagen sedan was making a U-turn. She ran toward it but was too far to read the license before the car turned left on El Camino Del Cerro.

  She had to call this in, but wasn’t sure what to say and needed to think it through. Maybe it would be better to wait, say she’d tried calling Frank for a couple hours and he didn’t pick up. She was worried and stopped by his house. Frank’s wife was out of town. Somebody would have to tell Claire. The main thing was not to panic.

  •••

  When Diaz walked out the rear gate, the sun was peeking over the Santa Catalinas. He moved quickly to the car, thinking about the contract. He never became involved in the politics of the hit, never questioned who or why. Diaz was paid to do a job and he did it.

  Even with his Catholic upbringing, there was no feeling of contrition for what he had done. He remembered being taught the catechism of the Catholic church—that confession of even venial sins was important. Diaz’s sins were of a more grievous nature. One day he would go to confession. He imagined the dialogue with the priest.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he would begin.

  And the priest would say, “My son, what do you have to confess?”

  “I have killed many men and even some women, but never a child.”

  “How many are you talking about?”

  Diaz did not know what the final count would be, but estimated the way he was going it would be close to fifty.

  The priest would say, “What did they do to you?”

  Diaz would say, “They did nothing, Father.”

  “Why did you kill them?”

  “I was paid to do it.”

  “Paid to take the lives of other human beings?”

  Diaz saw himself fidgeting, anxious and impatient in the narrow confines of the confessional, waiting to be absolved of his sins through the sacrament of reconciliation, receiving God’s mercy. He would not mention other sins he had committed—venial or mortal—in his adult life. The priest would conclude by asking him to do penance and forgiving him his sins so he would be accepted by God in heaven.

  Two

  We like to hit them before they take their first piss in the morning,” Bobby Torres said. “Man doesn’t have the same fight when you catch him in his underwear.”

  “I don’t know,” Raylan said. “I’ve seen them buck naked, sitting on the toilet with more fight than a pit bull.”
r />   They were passing decorative storefronts with signs in Spanish. Bobby turned left on a street named Clark from Vernor, the sun coming up over fields of tall grass, houses scattered here and there—some in decent shape, others leaning left or right, looking like they were going to fall over any minute—and in the distance the skyline of Detroit.

  “Been to any foreign countries lately?”

  Raylan glanced at him.

  “Cause you just drove through two: Lebanon and Mexico.” Bobby grinned.

  “What was that we just passed?”

  “Mexicantown. Know why they call it that?”

  “I’ll take a wild guess, say that’s where the Mexicans live.”

  “I like your instincts.” Bobby paused. “Town before that with all the signs in Arabic’s Dearborn. We’ve got like three hundred thousand Arabs living in the Motor City.” Bobby Torres pulled over, the nose of the Ford SUV pointing at a Victorian house with a porch in front, maybe a hundred yards down the street.

  The neighborhood was quiet as Raylan brought binoculars to his eyes, zooming in on the house but not seeing anyone. There was a car in the driveway and two more on the street.

  Raylan lowered the binoculars, glanced at the wanted poster on the console. Jose Rindo, a tough-looking guy with a shaved head and a square jaw, resembled someone he’d seen fight in the Octagon, the UFC.

  Name: Jose Cardenas Rindo

  Race: White or Hispanic

  Gender: Male

  Hair Color: Black

  Eye Color: Brown

  Height: 5’ 10”

  Weight: 165

  DOB: July 19, 1985

  Names/Aliases: Pepe, Snow, Snowman

  Scars/Marks/Tattoos:

  Tattoo: Back—Grim Reaper

  Tattoo: Right Forearm—Skull

  Tattoo: Right Bicep—Praying Hands

  Tattoo: Chest—Dragon

  Tattoo: Left Forearm—Ant Dog

  Tattoo: Left Bicep—Get It Bitch

  Tattoo: Left Calf—Pitbull

  Tattoo: Right Calf—Cross with Wings

  Tattoo: Right Hand—Tribal Design

  Scar: Left Shoulder—Knife Wound