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  HOLY DEATH

  A BILLY LAFITTE NOVEL

  Anthony Neil Smith

  Published by Blasted Heath, 2016

  copyright © 2016, Anthony Neil Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  Anthony Neil Smith has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  Visit Blasted Heath at

  www.blastedheath.com

  ISBN: 978-1-908688-81-1

  Version 2-1-3

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About This Book

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SPECIAL THANKS

  Other novels by Anthony Neil Smith

  About Blasted Heath

  About This Book

  Billy Lafitte is back... Back from the brink of death. Back on the Gulf Coast, his home stomping grounds, looking to reunite with his beloved one last time. Back in the sights of DeVaughn Lagrenade, a former gangbanger whose brother was gunned down by Lafitte and his partner during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Back in the mind of his biggest nemesis, Franklin Rome, who swings into Lafitte's orbit in a most unusual way. Throw in a wild-eyed waitress looking for some violent kicks, an ambitious FBI agent slithering up the administrative ladder, a wannabe bad boy on Lafitte's tail with a young psychopath in the passenger seat, and you've got the makings of a rumble that only a prayer to Santa Muerte might help Billy survive.

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this book to my friend and one of my favorite novelists, Les Edgerton. He showed up in my life when I wasn’t sure why I was doing this writing thing, and he showed me why I should keep going. His books The Bitch and The Rapist have kicked me into a higher gear, and I’m thankful for his support.

  There would not be a fourth Billy Lafitte novel without Les.

  Much love, brother.

  CHAPTER ONE

  One-thirty in the morning in a truck stop outside of Hattiesburg, Mississippi. A shout of Goddamn! from the men’s room made everyone turn, forks and mugs frozen in mid-air, until this trucker came out waving his hand in front of his face like whatever it was in there was the stinkingest goddamned thing he’d ever sniffed. Some of the folks in here, mostly men, mostly tired, and mostly white, laughed because they thought he was making a joke about his own shit, right?

  But he kept shouting. “Goddamn! Any of you motherfuckers named La Fit? Anyone know what a La Fit is?”

  “You mean Lafayette?”

  “No, not Lafayette. There’s no ‘y’ in it.”

  The tall black kid working the flattop said, “Spell it?”

  “It’s L-A-F-I-T-T-E. That’s La Fit.”

  Kid said, “I think it’s La Feet. Like, French or something, know what I’m saying?”

  One trucker at the counter said, “Yeah, you’re right. It is.”

  “So what the fuck’s a La Feet, then?”

  The fat girl pouring coffee said, “Pretty sure it’s a pirate. Or a voodoo queen. I forget.”

  And then there was some babbling about Jean Lafitte versus Marie Laveau and how anyone this close to New Orleans should know the difference, but the first trucker said, “I don’t think it’s some dead pirate. All I’m saying is someone took a handful of shit, smeared it on the wall in there, saying they’re looking for a Lafitte.”

  “Serious?”

  “I’m telling you, I’ve got to drop one mighty badly, but not in there. Not now. Shit, I’m going to the Arby’s down the road.” He high-tailed it for the door, dropped his copy of Cigar Aficionado on the floor, and let out a bad fart leaning over to get it. Then a grunt and “Sorry. I’ve got to hurry.”

  After he was gone, a few guys went and took a look and came out either laughing or shaking their heads, disgusted. They snapped pics of it on their phones and showed them to the guys who didn’t want to look and risk losing their greasy breakfasts. The smell, they said. Holy shit, the smell.

  The tall black kid working the flattop, called Alonso by the fat waitress, disappeared for a few minutes, then came back with a mop and rolling bucket, cursing under his breath until he reached fever pitch and shouted at the fat waitress “Ain’t nobody said nothing about cleaning up people’s shit!”

  “Just shut up and get it done!”

  “Can’t it wait until the next shift?”

  “You want me to kick your ass then still make you do it?”

  “Aw, fuck you, you fat bitch.” But he rolled the bucket towards the bathroom anyway.

  Inside, there was a short guy looking at the wall. He wore khaki shorts and a pullover polo and cap with the name of the company he drove for—Muscle Max. The smell of the shit was as bad as the other truckers had said, and the texture was nutty, corny, thick. Sure enough, written in three foot-high letters, WELCOME HOME LAFITTE.

  “Jesus.”

  The driver said, “Mm hm.” Nodded. He had his bottom lip pulled in between his teeth.

  “Got to be a crazy motherfucker who did that, you know what I’m saying?”

  Shrug.

  Alonso pulled the mop up over the bucket, let it drip. The driver didn’t move. “You mind? Need to take a picture first?”

  The driver shook his head. Rumbled when he spoke. “I’m good.”

  Before Alonso could say something else, the little truck driver was gone. Alonso got pissed some more. Probably that one there was the guy who done it. Alonso put up the plastic yellow “Slippery” sign with his free hand, right in the middle of the doorway, then slapped the heavy-ass mop against the wall and watched the water run down over the shit, turn brown, and stream towards the floor.

  Alonso said, “Shit.”

  *

  The Muscle Max driver headed back towards his table, the remains of a catfish sandwich and fries on his plate, a half-empty glass of Mr. Pibb beside it. He tossed a twenty down, way too much for what it cost, and walked out without another word. The fat waitress named Melissa noticed. He hadn’t been very friendly to her, but not unfriendly either. She thought she had made him all mad, asking him where he was headed, asking if he needed a shower, because, yes, he sure as fuck did. At first Melissa wondered, too, if this was the guy writing in shit, but she was pretty sure he didn’t go to the bathroom the whole time until after another one had pointed it out.

  Had he been offended because she was flirty? Not that she was, because she had a boyfriend, plus the guy’s skin color didn’t do it for her. She liked them black. Real black. Always had. Her
current boyfriend was white, but just because, you know? If she didn’t have to be all proper, suppose that was the word, she’d go for the chocolate, and she didn’t mind if everyone knew it. So bring on judging from other white bitches in school—and black bitches, too—but Melissa was who she was, and her mamma said people are born to like who they liked, and were also born to weigh what they weighed, so if the little truck driver didn’t like her vo-CAB-uh-lary or her hairstyle or her big hips and big ass, then fuck that prick. Bet he was a racist. I mean, clean-shaven with no sideburns, his face hard as if it had been chewed up by a dog.

  Still, he had also left her, like, an eight dollar tip.

  She watched him out the window as he headed towards his delivery truck, black with gold letters on the side—Muscle Max, Peoria, Illinois—and a phone number. Melissa didn’t know what Muscle Max was, but that’s what the guy was driving, matched the shirt and the cap. Wearing shorts, too, tight because the guy had some muscle on him, and black sneakers, ankle socks. He couldn’t help what he had to wear to work. It didn’t match his chewed-up face. She thought about looking up Muscle Max later on the internet, but then there were a couple of guys with empty coffee cups, including one fine-looking black man all by himself at a table for the last hour, ordered coffee only, except he’d brought his own bottle of Patron silver along to pour in it. Didn’t look like no trucker. If she didn’t have a boyfriend at home, this one might have been a good sugar daddy. Sure enough was a Rolex on his wrist and the keys to a Caddy on his table.

  “Come on, baby. I see you looking.” He waved her over, and when she got there, he wrapped his arm around her giant hips and squeezed her close. He pretended her sweat stink didn’t make his coffee and Patron back up into his throat a little bit, and she liked the effort. No way to avoid picking up the stench, not working here.

  “The one who left, you didn’t happen to get a name, did you?”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t say much except to order. Did you see which truck he was driving?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Another squeeze. “He hasn’t been in before, has he?”

  “If he was, I don’t remember.”

  “Mind topping off my coffee?”

  She did, then pointed at the Patron with the coffee pot. “You going to be okay to drive tonight? If not, I could take you home.”

  He smiled up at her, teeth like bricks of ice, even after all that coffee. “A fine offer. I appreciate it. I’ll let you know.”

  Melissa smiled back and nibbled her bottom lip and went back behind the counter. When her odor finally cleared the table, he could swallow again and take a nice breath. He picked up his phone, called Lo-Wider, said, “You getting this?”

  “I watched him climb up in his truck. I know it’s him, man, same one I seen, I know it.”

  “Positive?”

  “What I just say, DeVaughn?”

  Okay, yeah, don’t micro-manage. DeVaughn said he was sorry and backed off, told Lo-Wider to follow the truck, call back when it stopped.

  “Can’t Crocker take over, man? We tired.”

  “Don’t lose that truck. Bump up more if you got to, but don’t lose that fucking truck.”

  DeVaughn Rose hung up, licked his lips. He took another look at Melissa, who was watching the TV, dead-eyed bored, munching on Funyuns, washing it down with Diet Mountain Dew. Okay, if it was any other night, any other night except this one he’d been waiting years for, who knew? Something about this white girl. If he could’ve got her back to his place, let the bitch take a shower...

  ...but he was in a good mood. His prey was in the trap. Why shouldn’t he enjoy the rest of his evening? If she wanted to get picked up, he’d pick her up. He liked her eyes. He liked her shape.

  This Lafitte—the motherfucker who shot his brother—him and that other cop, Paul Asimov, who was already dead, DeVaughn never thought he’d see the day. Really, not until that prison break, never thought he’d see the day. Until a young man named Lo-Wider had called on the way home from his mom’s place in Memphis last week and swore, just swore—Swear. To. God. Jesus—this dude he saw at Waffle House? Dead ringer.

  Motherfucker.

  So they did a little homework—careful, careful, so Lafitte wouldn’t spook like some goddamn deer. Next time he was out on a delivery, DeVaughn had some people watching. Friends, some newbie Black Coast Mobsters he dropped some cash on. The Muscle Max driver was working his way South, for sure. It was a long couple of days, waiting for him to dip down far enough into the Bible Belt for DeVaughn to be sure where Lafitte, if it was him, was going.

  It wasn’t until Lo-Wider called and said he was on the tail of the Muscle Max truck south of Jackson that DeVaughn decided to get involved in person. Drove up to Hattiesburg, waited for the truck to pass, and got lucky the man needed to stop where he did, right here at this greasy spoon where DeVaughn paid that white beardy trucker hours to do what he did in the bathroom. Call it a homecoming gift. For the first time since it started, DeVaughn had been there, wanting to be absolutely sure, because he hadn’t seen Motherfucker in years, and if DeVaughn was going to do what he had been dreaming of doing every night since he saw his brother, unrecognizable, in a body bag after the water and bugs had had their way with him, it had better be the right motherfucker.

  “Welcome home, Billy Lafitte.” He raised his mug in a mock toast.

  Melissa took it as a sign to come fill him up. And this time, her odor was less sweat and more Funyuns. He passed her the key to his Caddy and said, “Ready when you are.” She grinned and told him she could leave right now if she wanted, just let her get her purse. DeVaughn was feeling good. As long as his boys were watching over Lafitte’s truck, he might as well have some Funyuns tonight with this waitress’s big ol’ ass, knocking chairs out of her way as she walked back to the counter.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When the pain came, it was the hand of Death himself squeezing Lafitte’s left shoulder, firing up along his neck, down his arm, and across his chest. Took his breath away so bad he had to pull the truck onto the side of Highway 49. Pain had been chasing him a week now, at first only when he was loading or unloading the truck. Then whenever he walked. And now any old time.

  That’s what Death had planned for him, right? Let him reach this close to home and then kill him before he got there? Fuck you, Death, you motherfucker. Fuck you.

  It gave him another squeeze.

  Truth was, Lafitte didn’t have a sane reason to go home anymore. Maybe he did back when they had first trapped him, calling him out of hiding from Steel God’s biker gang. But then he ended up murdering four people—flat-out murder, not “line of duty” shit like when he’d been a cop. Then he went to prison. All sorts of prices on his head. Someone tried to collect in the middle of a prison riot, blizzard, and power outage all in one. Laffite watched his own son die—only eight years old, visiting with his grandmother, both of them trapped in the riot. He had carried Ham’s body out into the snow, climbed over the fence with the boy over his shoulder. After all that, they had tazed Lafitte, then shot him, but Lafitte did what he had to do to live—he dove into the nearest snowbank and dug his ass as far away as he could. No one saw him do it, and the wind erased all traces before they could figure it out. Besides, who the fuck was going to come after him?

  Most days now, whenever he woke, be it morning, night, didn’t matter anymore, he remembered what it felt like having a gunshot wound and electric shivers while buried in snow, and he wondered why he bothered to fight so hard for his life after all. Jesus, if this was all he had left, if this was all he had to live for...what was “this” anyway?

  Except for the letters he had received in prison. They pointed him south. Home.

  Billy Lafitte had been a delivery driver for Muscle Max for about four months. Muscle Max sold protein drinks and vitamins and weightlifting equipment and supplies from their base in Peoria, Illinois to franchises throughout most of the Midwest, and even some decent chain grocery stores. He had
started at the warehouse, picking up the supplies, driving them to the customers, unloading them, collecting signatures on the invoices. Then he would drive back to Peoria to wait for the next trip.

  But he was delivering more than protein drinks and weights and whatnot. There was something else, too. Something that had made Muscle Max a real player a lot faster than its bullshit supplements ever would. Freshly squeezed juice—anabolic steroids, HGH, testosterone. All colors and flavors, ha ha ha.

  Can you see it?

  Can you see a physically drained and starved Lafitte emerging from six weeks in the frozen woods, GSW barely healed, in stolen clothes paying for a gym membership with a stolen credit card so he could build up some strength?

  Can you see Lafitte looking for some sort of job in the paper he’d found left behind at Taco Bell? Can you see him taking handyman jobs for cash until he had enough to buy a beater? Can you see him, week by week, buying better clothes, getting his hair cut, getting a shave from a barbershop with a striped pole and charged twelve bucks?

  Can you see him applying for the Muscle Max job after hearing all the rumors around the gym about its real money makers?

  What you can see, we know goddamned well, is Lafitte getting back on the juice big time, taking a pay cut to partake, so he could pump his body back in tip top shape faster than if he kept on trying good old-fashioned rest and rehab. The bosses didn’t give a shit. Saved them some money, and most of their other drivers had the same deal. It was all good.

  Until his heart started trying to murder him.

  He held his arms tight, shaking, and let out a wail. His jaw was killing him, too, and he stretched his mouth wide. Hoped it would subside before a state trooper got curious and pulled in behind the truck. He needed to keep driving, make it to a rest area or big parking lot where he could get a little sleep. The pain always went away when he slept. The pills helped, too. Turned out guys who trafficked roids also had their hands on some sweet pain meds, but they worked less and less with each handful. Lafitte wondered if they could get him some nitro, maybe. Shouldn’t be hard to find, especially not in America’s Deep-Fryer, Mississippi, but he couldn’t wander into a drug store and flat-out ask, so there.