Read Raylan: A Novel for Free Online Page B

Lady Cuba believed he must go the other way.
    Layla seemed calm now, staring at him with those brown bullets she could turn soft as he looked on.
    Layla said, “Cuba?”
    “Yeah . . . ?”
    “I’m tired of hospitals. Tell me what you’re tired of.”
    Cuba saw Mr. Harry waving at him and said, “You gonna see it in a minute.”
    T ime for the routine: Mr. Harry waving Cuba out to the tables of horse lovers, Mr. Harry holding a drink now. Good, ready to show his friends his idea of a regular guy. He watched Cuba coming around to the front of the room and Mr. Harry began to frown. This was part of the act, seeing Cuba in his black suit and black shirt, a bright lavender necktie popping out of the dark look.
    Mr. Harry: “Who said you could wear my colors with your chauffeur’s uniform?”
    Cuba telling himself to sound Ah-frican. A real African ever showed up at one of these he was fucked.
    Cuba: “Was your missus, Boss.” He waited a couple of beats before saying, “It is your missus dresses me.”
    This got a burst of laughs from the horse lovers.
    Mr. Harry: “ Mrs . Harry told you to wear my racing colors?”
    Cuba: “Because when we out, you always have me racing to get you to a men’s room, so I wear your colors.”
    Mr. Harry: “When did I tell you to do that?”
    Cuba: “You never have, Boss, but I believe is what you thinking.”
    Mr. Harry, to the room: “I explained to Cuba that calling my winner today Black Boy was never meant as a racial slur.”
    Cuba: “Yes, sir.”
    Mr. Harry: “Tell my friends what you think of the name Black Boy.”
    Cuba: “I’m proud the horse was name for me since it wins all its fuckin races.”
    Bursts of laughter.
    Mr. Harry: “Cuba, we don’t use African words here in polite society.”
    More laughter, but not as much.
    L ayla watched from the bar. She had told Cuba she was tired of hospitals; now he was showing her what he was tired of: playing the grateful darky, grinning with this asshole’s arm around his neck, Cuba reciting his lines on cue.
    Mr. Harry was telling the Blue Grass Room it was unfortunate Old Tom got sick and passed away on him. Old Tom, bless his heart, had become fearful of traffic, always drove with his foot on the brake. “You weren’t patient,” Mr. Harry said, “it could make you irritable.” Mr. Harry paused for the Blue Grass crowd to laugh kindly at him. “But now Cuba,” Mr. Harry said, “he’d put his foot on the gas and leave it there. I asked him one time, ‘Cuba, you never stole cars by any chance, have you?’ What’d you tell me?”
    Cuba saying, “I believe I tole you no, Boss, that is one thing the devil never made me do.”
    Mr. Harry slapped Cuba’s shoulder, told him, “Get outta here,” the horse lovers laughing, and Mr. Harry joined a front table making room for him.
    C uba walked back to the bar raising his hand to people applauding, Cuba nodding, grinning until he reached the bar and Layla set her drink in front of him. Cuba picked it up and finished the vodka without looking around. He said, “You know how many times I been the grateful nigga?”
    “Everyone believed you,” Layla said.
    “What he said about Old Tom was bullshit. He hired me and fired the old man, why he took sick and died.”
    “Watching your skit,” Layla said, “I couldn’t help thinking, one day you’re gonna turn around, take Harry by the throat and strangle him in front of his friends. They’ll think it’s part of the act.”
    Cuba said, “Drivin him in the Rolls, I’ve thought of aimin the car to send it off a curve, top of the grade. I bail out and watch the man lose his ass. Car hits and blows up, like in the movies. Real life you don’t get that much explosion. I’m drivin Mr. Harry . . . the man already has to take a leak. I see in my brights a stretch of road comin up, the side droppin away steep . . . I say to him, ‘Mr. Harry, get out your dick, we almost there.’ ”
    Layla’s eyes on him turned