Holy Death Page 12
The douche scrunched his eyebrows and then reached for a tissue off the bedside table. “Hold up, looks like a bit of a nosebleed. Let me get it for you.”
Rome fought a little, but couldn’t move very well. Stoudemire rubbed the tissue under his nose, and then pinched his nostrils closed for a sec, pulled the tissue away. Sure enough, it was soaked in red. Rome tasted pennies in his mouth and tried to swallow. He choked, started coughing. Stoudemire was all “Whoa, buddy, let me get the nurse.” He punched the button, but someone must have already heard, because two of those damned nursing assistants came in, one girl, one boy, all smiles, pulling on latex gloves. Stoudemire backed away while they lifted Rome’s bed, pulled him forward and pounded on his back, offered him some water, still not asking him what happened. Not like he could answer, but still.
While they were pounding, Stoudemire stood near the door, his concerned look so fucking phony. He patiently waited to give Rome more details. Fuck his superior bullshit. Rome started pointing at Stoudemire, Get him out! Get him out!
They understood, the little nursettes. They sure the hell did. So they shuffled Stoudemire out of the room while the male nursette kept patting Rome’s back.
One thought: Billy Lafitte might be a murderous, traitorous blob of cunt pus, but he would never kill Ginny.
Then he realized what Stoudemire hadn’t told him. It would’ve been the first thing. They still hadn’t caught Billy. He had escaped again.
Bad news, good news.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Manuel said he had to go out, asked Billy if he wanted anything.
Lafitte reminded him about the nitro. “Can’t you buy it over the counter?”
“Not how it works, boyo. Not how it works.”
“Do you know anybody? Some friends or something? Don’t they always have extra lying around?”
Manuel shrugged and said he would check.
After eating another slice of the pizza, Lafitte drank a few short glasses of water and then wandered into the real living room, the one with the old-fashioned cabinet TV and lived-in furniture and cat toys and old carpet. Wood panels. Those took real commitment these days.
In the corner, a small bookcase-type box, kind of. Three shelves, a stack of newspapers and photo albums on the bottom, a couple of framed photos in the middle, and on top, a laminated poster curled at the corners, a painting of a skull-faced woman. A skull painted on her face, a sugar skull. The poster had been stapled to the bookcase. In front of her, a statue of a grim reaper, scythe in hand, except in a much more bedazzled gown, holding a crystal ball.
Scattered at the feet of the reaper, several photos. Headshots, like they had been cut from school pictures or from driver’s licenses. All men, most young, most Hispanic, and then...an old DL photo of Billy Lafitte. Mid-twenties, he would guess by the hair, high and tight, before he got into the Gene Vincent thing. Some sort of potpourri sprinkled on top, too. And then, the candles. Those glass Mexican Catholic things he’d seen in truck stops and drug stores. First, a blue candle with yellow art, Saint Dymphna. Never heard of her. The second looked to be a hand-drawn Sacred Heart of Jesus, white art, red candle. The last one, one he’d heard of but never seen. Very simple, a white candle, black art. Another reaper, crude, holding a skull. In bold on top, LA SANTISIMA MUERTE, and on the bottom, HOLY DEATH.
Lafitte picked it up. It had been burned lately. About a third of it gone. Supposed to be some cultlike figure, the Saint of Death, but she was a big deal, especially with the narcos and their families. She could protect them here, above ground, or she could protect them in the land of the dead after they bit it.
Or, he guessed, you didn’t need to be a narco to be under her protection.
He heard Jimena’s shuffle behind him, a tittering no no no no no until she was right there, yanking the candle from his hand and bowing to it, putting it back, saying, “Don’t touch! Don’t touch! Say you’re sorry and don’t touch! Did you touch anything else? Did you?”
He shook his head. A little stunned. He’d never thought her to be superstitious, and only a little religious. Maybe “cover your bets” religious.
“It’s bad luck. But you’ll probably be okay, since, you know.”
He pointed to his photo. “That’s me?”
Jimena shrugged. “You left some stuff at your old place. They called and asked us if we wanted it, since you were already gone. Manuel brought it home.”
“What else?”
“Photos, you and your mother and cousins, and, well, and Ginny.”
“And Ham?”
She raised her eyes and made the sign of the cross. “So sad, so sad, when did I see him last? Was he barely walking? Did he barely have hair?”
“And Savannah?”
Jimena gathered both of his hands in hers. Squeezed. “You know she will come looking for you one day. When her grandparents have long lost influence. She will come for you then.”
He wanted to pull his hands away but didn’t dare. Not from witchy woman, no, he didn’t dare. “If you say so. Cast a spell.”
“No, not...no spells.” She let go, waved her hand over the shrine. “Simply prayer. Some people need more help than others.”
“Like me?”
“You, my cousins, see? And him, he’s my uncle, but that’s an old picture. He died long before. Now, we pray Santa Muerte watches over him.”
He didn’t ask the obvious: in Hell? Hell? Why the hell else would he need a prayer once he was already in Hell? Jesus, in Hell. C’mon. People in Heaven don’t need the living praying for them. Instead, Lafitte pointed to the Dymphna candle. “Who’s she?”
“For the voices. You know? The demon voices, they speak to you and no one else can hear? You pray to her to help soothe the voices.”
“Does it help?”
“With the right medicine. Anyway, don’t worry about it. You should feel it. Whatever you do, wherever you go, know the Saints are watching out for you. Okay? We pray for you. We pray you win all the time.”
“I didn’t, I didn’t realize you were like this. Narco?”
She shook her head, smiled. “My cousins. My uncle.”
“And me?”
“Manuel’s idea. It took me a few days to notice he had added your photo to the altar.”
Lafitte nodded. “Cool.”
Jimena bent down and picked up a box of tall matches, flicked one alight and lit each candle in turn, saving Santa Muerte for last. The prayer under her breath, all Spanish, hurried and rhythmic.
The voices. Maybe that’s why she talked so much. To drown out those voices.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lo-Wider’s grampa’s Monte Carlo wouldn’t be released from impound for a while, and it was all coming out of his hide or his pocket, or both, already the old man’s rasp getting in his head. But since he didn’t have wheels, DeVaughn handed over a Discover card and told him to go rent what he needed, make it a week. Seriously. So he went down to the rental place and got himself a Nissan Armada. Big ass SUV, got the satellite radio built-in and wi-fi and all that shit. Leather seats. If it was his, he’d have some upgrades to do—front grill, rims, more speakers—but as a rental, it was better than he could’ve hoped. He fit in it. The cockpit had plenty of room. His ass didn’t slough off the seat. He could even wear the seatbelt, if he wanted to.
YP was along with him. Seemed a smart enough guy, maybe a bit cocky. Bit cocky and thin, too. Arms like rope. Neck like rope. Legs like...all of him looked like rope. Hard-twisted, burnt-on-both-ends rope. Even wore his clothes tighter than the usual BGM so girls could notice his muscles. Muscles was all he had to show. Brains didn’t show.
Lo-Wider spun down the volume on Waka Flocka Flame, “Round of Applause”, as they turned onto the right street. Blue collar, shit. This was no collar. This was spic territory. Neither would admit it, but they got nervous, they sure did, because spics just kill your ass. No posturing. No playing. They cut you and then get other spics to write a song about it.
One thing Lo-Wider never expected was getting sent to do some espionage. Some RE-con. All he’d wanted was some money, get himself known to DeVaughn so maybe he could learn some things about poker. Face it, Lo-Wider was never going to get fit, never going to get those six-pack abs. So what he wanted was to do what DeVaughn did.
Not what YP was itching to do.
“That one?” The little banger thumbed the house.
“Mm-hm.”
Cute little flowerbed. Garage, but a car outside. These people, the spics, used the garage as an extra room, cramming so many into one house—wait, who was Lo-Wider to judge when he knew damn well he was living with grampa, grampa’s girlfriend, Aunt Eve, Uncle Gummy, two girl cousins and three boy cousins? Shit. Sorry, spics.
“Alright, let’s do this.” YP reached for the door handle.
“What? What are we going to do?”
“Why do you think we’re here?”
“To wait and see if we see Lafitte.”
“So I’m going to go see if I see him.”
Lo-Wider let out a breath and said, “No, no, listen, we watch from the street. If we get caught—”
“—we get caught, we invade this motherfucker. Pow! Pow! Motherfuckers be dead. Like the man said.”
Holy shit, the itty-bity psychopath. “Uhn-uh, no, you crazy! DeVaughn wants this one. This here, it’s personal. That cop shot his brother, you know.”
YP looked, like, disgusted. “I ain’t no errand boy. No one told me shit.”
“What, you thought we were going to strap up and go in two-fisted?”
“I only go in two-fisted on your mama.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He climbed out of the Armada and started across the street, through the yard and over the side-gate into the backyard. Lo-Wider struggled to free himself from the cockpit. Even if it was roomier, it was still a tight fit when it came to twisting himself sideways and trying to get out without pulling some muscles. By the time he was out, trying to close the door gently, YP was already out of sight. Lo-Wider’s insides tightened up, like, same as when he ate Qdoba burritos. Something about the beans. Barely got the last bite down before he had to find a stall.
He sure as hell wasn’t going to follow YP around the house. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe YP was all mouth. Sure seemed it. Smart enough except when it was time to shut up. Should Lo-Wider call DeVaughn? Tell him about another fuck-up today? He was trying to get on the nigga’s good side. Might start by not calling him nigga. Mr. DeVaughn. Mr. Rose. Brother DeVaughn?
No, he wasn’t going to bring the bad news. He was going to wait it out. Lean against his new Armada and wait it out. YP was all mouth. He wasn’t even packing. Lo-Wider was sure of it. Jesus, hot out here, going on seven o’clock at night. His clothes were already sour with sweat from the rest of the day—wet, dry, wet, dry, wet again. He’d rather be inside playing penny ante online, trying to win a few tickets into tournaments. He was too shy to try it on the boats yet, which is why he needed lessons from Mr. DeVaughn. But he wasn’t that bad. Problem was these fuckers didn’t play the way they were supposed to play online for pennies. They did crazy shit. How was he supposed to know if it was a bluff? How was he supposed to guess with a real face to look at? Those motherfuckers might go down hard, but they ended up taking half the table with them.
He thought about his game a few nights back. There was no way he would’ve folded three-of-a-kind except this kid with twice as many pennies kept pushing the bet higher and higher, and, goddamn it. Lo-Wider folded. He never knew what the other player, handled TikTok with a hoodie and sunglasses icon photo, really had. He should’ve called. He would never be like DeVaughn until he—
That scream, tho. Piercing. A woman. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus.
*
Didn’t matter what the fat motherfucker had to say. Like he was in charge? Like he was going to be the one lay down the law? Fuck Lo-Wider. And fuck DeVaughn Rose. The Mob was doing DeVaughn a favor, not the other way around. A BGM kills Lafitte, that’s some righteous shit. Put DeVaughn in his place. Old man. Couldn’t clean up his own trash.
So YP climbed out of the Armada—seriously? Could’ve had an Escalade. Could’ve had a Lexus. Motherfucker picked a Nissan?—and was going to do some damage to somebody somehow. Didn’t matter if Lafitte was here or not. They knew this was his people’s house. Step-people, anyway. Hurting them meant hurting Lafitte. It went without saying. Unless Lafitte already did them himself. I mean, motherfucker already killed his own wife today. But seriously, she was a crazy bitch, what YP heard, so she didn’t count. Crazy bitch wife ain’t the same as your people, even your step-people.
YP took a peek for dogs through the slats. Some neighbor dogs yapping, sure, growling, but not in the backyard he was about to go in. Call it luck, call it God. Call it something. The gate was locked. Okay. Pulled himself up, pulled himself over, easy. Nothing much back here. Deck furniture, Weber grill. Few pots with tomato plants, hot peppers. YP took out his blade. Badass. Folding knife, black, titanium, stumpy but serrated. He’d done some damage to motherfuckers with his little blade. Or one motherfucker, and then this dog had barked at him, someone’s pit. Fuck that. One less pitbull in the world, he did that bit-to-shit hound a favor.
Flat against the back wall of the house. First window he came to, sneaked a look. Right? It was what he expected—garage was half boxes, half some sort of guest room. He moved on. Next window. Kitchen. Empty, but a little TV was on. A sliding glass door was next, also into the kitchen. He tried the handle and it slid right open. Made a bad screeching noise, so he slowed it down, eased it along at glacier speed. Felt like it, but glaciers, man, that was some real slow shit right there. Glaciers could pulverize mammoths, houses, all kinds of shit. And they were melting, which would fuck things up even more. He should name his blade “Glacier.” And he should keep it in the freezer until he was ready to use it.
The thing about YP, he was book smart. He liked science. He liked history. But, goddamn, he didn’t like the other kids who liked that shit. So he played his part. Loyal banger, even if he was taking classes at the community college in secret. A couple at a time, paying cash. As far as his mom knew, it was scholarship. Smart wasn’t the problem at all. Being dissed for being smart was the problem.
YP. “Young Psychopath.” Bored and brilliant. Bad combo. He liked to hurt people. He liked to show he was smarter than them. He knew how to hide in plain sight and play white people games and also hide in baggy jeans and boxers and play black people games. Two lives. Like Batman.
Inside the kitchen, he didn’t bother closing the glass door. The cold air from the house rushed out the back and vaporized and left YP feeling clammy. But he hardened himself to the fear and nausea and kept on. He was hunting. It was a motherfucking rush. Let the fat fucker outside do it DeVaughn’s way. Black man seeking revenge shouldn’t be wearing a fine suit like DeVaughn’s if he was afraid to get it dirty. Should only be wearing a suit like DeVaughn’s if he played for the NFL or if he preached in church. YP would carve up this Lafitte and send DeVaughn some pics from his phone. Dead dead dead. Now pay up and go back to your card games.
Poker bored YP. Too easy.
The house was quiet. There was a TV on the counter on, but muted. And wouldn’t you know it, there was some breaking news: a plane crash on one side of the screen, and a reporter on the other standing outside a hospital, it looked like, in Mobile. Big news day. He walked lightly. He had spent hours and hours walking around at night at home, learning how to make himself a ninja in Jordans. How to anticipate creaking boards, squeaky shoes, sticky linoleum. Took weeks and weeks, but he got to the point he could get the tip of his blade a millimeter from the eye of whatever piece of shit was passed out in his mother’s bed without them ever knowing. If he had wanted to, he could’ve snuffed out every one of them useless, leaching bullshit wannabes. It was only his mo
ther’s happiness kept him from doing so. Maybe it was the wrong way to be happy, getting used and abused the way she did. But everyone had a different happy, and he’d learned this was hers. But it still made him feel good to know that if he wanted to, lights out.
“The Glacier” in the eye, and that was that.
Lots of framed photos on the walls of the hallways. Spic family portraits, but mostly a small woman with flyaway hair and wild eyes, and a dark-toned man with a slick pomp and a heavy mustache. Tired eyes. Looked thirty years out of style. Then the den. Dark except for some candles burning in the far corner. Those Saint candles. And skulls and shit. Voodoo.
Bullshit, all of it. YP knew better. He was all about reason. He was an atheist. As long as his mom and his friends didn’t know, he was cool. Made it a lot easier to explain why he was wired the way he was. Same with other psychopaths. He’d read tons about them, the serial killers, the dictators, the cult leaders. YP made more sense when he put himself among their ranks.
Some chirping, chattering, coming from the next hallway. Was it a bird? Canary? He thought it might be. No, no, it was a person. A whistle here and there, a little sing-song. But in-between were words. Not English. Spanish. He knew a little Spanish. Had to if you were dealing with drugs. Had to go to the source for better prices, so he’d learned enough to do deals. Nothing this voice said, high and chirpy, made much sense. Things like, “My grandson, I never knew you,” and “Sweet boy, may the Holy Death guide your father back to you one day,” and even some singing, like, “We drank a toast to innocence, we drank a toast to time.” A slight echo, her voice bouncing off tile.
Yeah, no bird. It was the crazy-haired lady from the photos. Another step farther along. The bathroom door was not closed all the way, a line of light glowing from it.
One, two, three.