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  Rome waved off the rest, at least for the night. “Tired.”

  Stoudemire stopped talking and stared out the window. Rome wondered why he didn’t get the hint. Time to go. The whole story, this giant tease, and he was at Stoudemire’s mercy. The only way he was going to find out what happened next was to let the prick tell it his way.

  Jesus, that blowjob pic. And for some reason, Rome had thought Stoudemire was a closeted gay. Rome wanted to laugh out loud. That would hurt. So he held it in. Still, Rome fell asleep thinking, once he got better, he would go find this Agent Janice and ask for the real story. Maybe he could even use it to get back on at the FBI. Maybe. Maybe. Maybes babies. Maybe rabies. Maybe someday...

  *

  Rome had to wait until nearly two p.m. the next day before Stoudemire showed up again, considerably less cheerful than before. It had been an excruciating morning—physical therapy, speech therapy, a bland lunch, an hour alone with the TV playing a rerun of a game show he was sure he’d already seen in 1987. Waiting was intolerable. It would have to be this way for a long time, wouldn’t it?

  Stoudemire didn’t bother with taunting. He cleared his throat when he sat down and said, “The parents.”

  “St-t-tep-parents.”

  “Shut up, Frank.”

  “Sthere a...prow-blum?”

  Another throat clearing. “Fine. It’s fine.”

  Liar. Terrible liar. Fucking liar.

  What did he have to lose? “Lie. Er.”

  Stoudemire looked away, out the window again. Rome tasted the apple juice from lunch coming up in his throat again. He burped. “Hear. Me? Lie. Er.”

  Stoudemire shook his head. “Why am I even bothering?”

  Rome didn’t say anything. Should he apologize? He needed to hear the rest of the story. He was dying to hear it. “Please?”

  A firm nod from the prickly agent. Rome settled back on his pillow and closed his eyes.

  *

  He found Lafitte’s step-parents at a neighbor’s home, still exhausted after a visit to the ER for Jimena’s burns, minor, and for possible smoke inhalation. Manuel had come home only a few minutes after Lafitte had head-butted the cop and taken off, two patrol cars in pursuit. The cops left at the scene were pissed off, so when Manuel came home and ran into the yard towards his wife, they tackled and tazed him.

  “I expect an apology,” Manuel said to Stoudemire. Even at the neighbor’s house, there was a Biloxi cop standing at the archway between the kitchen and the dining room, where the couple sat alongside Stoudemire and Janice. The smell of aloe vera and coconut oil swirled around them. “This is ridiculous.”

  “Well, you do realize it was standard procedure. They had no idea—”

  “Stupid,” Jimena said. She seemed too cold, hugging herself, a man’s flannel shirt draped over her shoulders. “You talk as if the cops are stupid. Or , ah, ah, robots. They knew. They were full of piss and vinegar. All because of Billy.”

  Manuel shushed her, laid his hand on her arm. Stoudemire watched him. A sad man, looking as if he had aged ten years in one hour. All the reports had shown a less-than-stellar relationship between Lafitte and his stepdad. Some might say Billy had learned a lot of his baddass bullshit from Manuel, made even worse by his hating Manuel.

  But Jimena, she was the key. Stoudemire could tell. She had changed her husband’s mind about life in general, about his stepson. About God and right and wrong.

  “Billy’s hurting,” he said.

  Manuel shushed again, barely a whisper this time. Jimena looked down at the table and nodded.

  “He got burned, I know. And something else. I’m right, right? There’s something else wrong with him.”

  Manuel said, “He’ll be okay.”

  “You aided and abetted, you know. This is how you get your life back. You tell me what I need to know and we won’t shove a hook through your lips and hang you out for bait.”

  Jimena barked a laugh. She unleashed a wave of Spanish. Stoudemire caught some of it—“Snakes, all of you, poisonous snakes,” and “Fuck the police! Fuck them!” and “Santa Muerte will protect him.”

  Manuel sighed. In English, “She nearly killed him.”

  Jimena wagged her finger. “Not her fault! Not her fault! He’s still alive, is not?”

  Stoudemire sat back in his chair and waited it out. He turned to Janice. Another wink. This time she grinned. Going to be a good night, he could tell.

  Manuel said, “They won’t catch him.”

  Jimena seethed in Spanish under her breath. Stoudemire didn’t catch any of it. She looked at the FBI agents and said, “What is it we have to tell you?”

  “What’s wrong with him? Who else could he go to for help? A way to get in touch—”

  “No,” Manuel said. “He’s not stupid enough to keep a phone. We have no way to contact him. He won’t come back.”

  “He was stupid enough to try killing his wife earlier today—”

  “Ginny’s alive?”

  “Barely. Not exactly what you’d call ‘and well’, but breathing.” Stoudemire’s eyes lingered on Manuel an extra second. Why would that surprise him? Why didn’t the ‘attempted murder’ part shock him? “He was stupid enough to come home at all. He’s nothing but stupid, and he’s going to die if we don’t get to him first.”

  Jimena crossed herself. In Spanish, “God willing.”

  “Or he’ll kill someone else, like this girl he took hostage. Or innocent people out on the road. He’s done it before. He kills without thinking. You know I’m right.”

  Jimena shivered. Hugged herself again, rocked herself. Manuel stared at the table a long moment. Tapped his fingers on it. Tap tap tap. The air conditioner switched off. The sounds of the neighborhood seeped in. Kids playing on the street, only hours after the fire and the escape and all the cops, as if it had never happened. Manuel dug into the front pocket of his jeans and brought out a small bottle, set it on the table in front of Stoudemire.

  “There’s no one else to help him. He’ll never get in touch again. That was the last time I would ever see my boy.” Trying hard not to cry. Trying real hard. Brick of a face.

  Stoudemire picked up the bottle. He knew what it was but wanted to be sure. Very small print on the bottle. He opened it, took a peek inside. Tiny white pills. Nitro.

  Stoudemire said, “Thank you for your time.” He meant it.

  *

  The plan was falling into place. But Stoudemire told Rome about it in a pissy voice with a pissy face.

  Rome concentrated really hard and asked, “Why you mad?”

  “Mad?”

  “Pissy?”

  Stoudemire glared at him, then looked at his watch. Seriously. Big hunk of a watch. When he looked up again, it was a pissy face showing off a pissy grin. “Maybe I’ll tell you tomorrow.

  He got up, walked towards the door, flipped off the light, and left.

  Rome shook his head. “Prick.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Lafitte had been preoccupied with the gun and with Melissa’s flailing feet kicking him in the face. She’d lost a flip-flop at the garage. Kicking Lafitte’s skull hurt her toes. He didn’t notice she was dialing DeVaughn, praying he would answer. Several times. And finally, she saw he had picked up. She shoved the phone between her legs, up her dress, kept them loose so DeVaughn could hear everything.

  Lafitte got the gun away. She told him how DeVaughn was going to kill his ass. Then he said, “I need a doctor.”

  Was he serious? Melissa said, “Sure, I’m a doctor. Here, give me the gun and I’ll cure you.”

  Damned if Lafitte didn’t grin in spite of himself. “Cute.”

  It was the first time she had gotten a look at him close-up. He was a mess. If there was anything appealing to him, it was hidden under burns, blisters, and scars. His hair was greasy, matted, and she could’ve sworn it was smoking. His hands and one arm were wrapped in duct tape. Loose skin on his face, neck and arms, angry and red underneath.

/>   “What you need a doctor for?”

  “I’m not feeling so good. If I promise not to hurt you, will you help me get one?”

  “Fuck you. I hope you feel even shittier.”

  “How about this? I won’t hurt DeVaughn either.”

  Whatever smartass remark she wanted to drop on him got frozen on its way out of her mouth. Not killing DeVaughn. Not that he could kill her man, just sayin’. Not that Lafitte had an ounce of DeVaughn’s cold-bloodedness. But to not even try...

  “Keep talking.”

  “You know why he wants me dead?”

  “You killed his brother. You and some other cop.”

  Lafitte nodded. “Yeah, we did. He ripped us off on a drug deal. We were pissed off, and he was going to get the BGMs on our ass, so we found him, shot him, and dumped him into a ditch full of shit and mud and trash from Katrina.”

  She hoped DeVaughn had heard every word.

  “Which one?”

  “Hm?”

  She said, “Which one of you shot him?”

  “Paul had the shotgun. But fuck, I might as well have done it myself. The fucker tried to cheat us. I didn’t flinch. Paul shot him in the chest, then walked up real close and shot his teeth out.”

  Melissa’s mouth went dry. She couldn’t swallow. She licked her lips, then said, “You’ll leave him alone? You’ll let me go and leave DeVaughn alone?”

  He nodded, slowed down. He had gotten a lot of distance between them and the casino, heading north into the piney woods, looking to get lost down twisty two-lane roads. Melissa looked out her window. She could feel the vibrations of DeVaughn’s voice against her thighs. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but knew it had to be, Hold it together, baby. Lead me to you. Keep him talking. I’m coming to save you.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You tell me,” Lafitte said. “Pull that phone out from your legs, hang up on DeVaughn and find me a doctor.” He leaned over, spoke directly to her lap. “You hear me, DeVaughn? Loud and clear?”

  When Melissa didn’t reach for it, Lafitte did. Reached between her legs. She clamped her thighs together hard but he already had his hand around the phone and twisted his way out again. Shouted at it, “Your brother deserved it and I would do it again if I had to.”

  Ended the call. Handed the phone back to her. “You got three gee?”

  She punched up a browser and said, “Like, a hospital?”

  Lafitte shook his head. “A cardiologist.”

  *

  When Lafitte hung up on him, DeVaughn let out a howl and then started slapping the driver’s head.

  “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

  The driver ducked and covered. “Hey, hey, hey!”

  The whole time. He’d known the whole time. Probably didn’t need no doctor either. Probably wasn’t going to keep his promise to Melissa. DeVaughn was fucked. Fuuuucked.

  He sunk back into the seat, phone loose in his hand, his fucking foot throbbing. Knew damn well his jaw was swelling up. Motherfucker. Lafitte killing his brother was one thing, but if the motherfucker dared even look at Melissa wrong...

  His phone vibrated two short times. He took a look. A text from Melissa: Heart doctor

  “Stop, stop driving! Pull over there.” He pointed at the back of what used to be a Taco Bell, now painted white and blue and serving gyros. The driver hit the brakes too hard and skidded, got some horn attitude from behind, and pulled into the lot across two spots.

  “Don’t turn off the engine,” DeVaughn said. “Leave the air on max. We’ve got time to kill.”

  He looked down at the phone and willed it to buzz again.

  *

  Melissa scrolled through names, said, “So, you need the address? Start at the top?”

  Lafitte shook his head. He was driving one-handed, his left hand flat on his chest, all of him hunched close to the wheel. “Call them up, one by one. Ask if they’re in today. First one who’s not in, we look up his home address.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want a hospital?”

  “I don’t want a hospital.” He wouldn’t look at her. She was glad of it, since his face straight-on was the stuff of nightmares right now. But she had to remember, he knew her every move. “Hospitals mean I’m outnumbered. Hospitals mean I get caught. The fuck do I want with a hospital?”

  “They’re also where you get fixed.”

  “What about the doctor’s office? Why not there?”

  “Same thing. Too many people. Too little control. I need a fucking doctor. You can be his nurse.”

  Melissa scrolled through. “You trust me? To just pick one?”

  “No, girl, no. I don’t trust you one bit. I trust the deal we made. I trust you believe me when I say if you fuck it up somehow, I’ll kill DeVaughn. Might be a legion of cops descend on me at the hospital, but some way, somehow, DeVaughn would still die by my hand.”

  She did believe him. She sure as fuck did.

  “Now, start calling doctors.”

  *

  It was a long-ass time, sitting in that parking lot, smelling that sauce, tzatziki sauce, and the grilled meat smoke. DeVaughn’s stomach growled. He should’ve eaten at Waffle House when he had the chance, but he was still getting over the dead bodies at the car lot. He wasn’t mad at Melissa for it. Them men had to be dealt with. But seeing them lying there, all dead and shit, it wasn’t the same as he imagined standing over Lafitte’s dead body would be. A jungle beast. A real prize. Something majestic. Not lumpy in a golf shirt and khakis.

  The driver and friend tried to talk real low, like they didn’t want to bother DeVaughn. One of them clicked the radio back on, picked up where it left off, a good beat. DeVaughn didn’t know it. Sampled saxophone riff.

  “Hey,” he said to the driver. “Let me ask you. You know why I left, right? Why I left Mob?”

  The driver shook his head. “Man, each his own. I do what I gotta do.”

  “But seriously.” To the passenger. “You’ve got to know, right?”

  The passenger was younger, maybe too young. Had a lot of spic in him. He had a goofy smile. “I never heard of you til this morning. You look like you get paid, bro-ham. Dollar bill, y’all.”

  The driver fought the giggle, then let it go. “Hold up, hold up, you ain’t even shaving yet.”

  “Women like it smooth.”

  “You crazy, man.” Then he turned to DeVaughn. “My brother knew your brother. Man, I’m sorry. I heard about it.”

  DeVaughn nodded. “Because, you know, there are times in a man’s life...you can’t carry that stuff around day after day. You want to compete at the level I compete at, you’ve got to let it go. You’ve got to, what, like, meditate. Clear your mind, try to read your opponent without him reading you.”

  The passenger shook his head. “I prefer dice.”

  “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

  “I know. Don’t listen to him.” The driver looked in the rearview, caught DeVaughn’s eyes. “We cool.”

  The phone buzzed. This time, a name and address.

  “Alright, time to finish this.”

  Passenger: “You know it.”

  DeVaughn grinned but didn’t let the kid see it. Eager beaver. Reminded him of...hey, where’d Lo-Wider get off to, anyway?

  *

  It took four tries. The first one, kids all over the yard. A couple of moms. Too much. The second, in a gated community, a rent-a-cop in the booth giving them a staredown as they drove past too slowly. The third, nobody home.

  Melissa texted the first two names and addresses to DeVaughn, but after those went bust, she wrote, Wait. Working on it.

  They pulled up outside the house of the fourth, passed it, turned around, and parked on the opposite side of the street. It was an older neighborhood, not far from the beach, lined with ancient twisted oaks that had survived storm after storm, even Katrina. They looked painful, as if riddled with arthritis. They made the last of the daylight disappear, the darkness full-on now
. Lights from the windows shone yellow, blurred. Lafitte blinked, rubbed his eyes. He was fading. It could be he was dying. Melissa had no idea. It didn’t matter. DeVaughn would come and get her, and by then they would finish off Lafitte because her promise was shit. It was the only way she could live with herself, making sure DeVaughn got his revenge.

  Lafitte took deep breaths, grunted, and finally got out of the car. He shoved both guns into the back of his jeans. Melissa walked around the front, following as Lafitte lumbered up the walkway. The house had a New Orleans vibe—stairs up to a wide front porch with columns. Everything white, only a little purple and gold in cushions for the outdoor furniture. The door was tall and looked heavy. Hanging plants with flowers overflowing, same kind her grandma had. Purple petunias, pink geraniums, sweet and syrupy, like childhood.

  Lafitte knocked on the door as if with a hammer, then leaned on it as if it had taken all his energy, let out a long breath. He waved her over with his chin. “Do the talking.”

  “What?”

  “It’s an emergency. Do the talking. Get us inside, at least.”

  Someone was coming to the door. They could see the shadow through the heavy glass, hear the footsteps on the wood floor inside. Melissa grabbed Lafitte’s shoulders and pulled him upright as the man inside peered out the windows, unfocused and warbly.

  He said, “Yes?”

  Melissa shouted back, “I need help! My brother! He’s having a heart attack! I need a doctor!”

  Quiet. “How do you know I’m a doctor?”

  “Across the street! Your neighbor said! She said you’re a doctor! Are you? Can you help him? Can you? Please! It’s been half-an-hour!”

  The doctor opened the door while she was still talking, focused on Lafitte. “Can he walk?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.” Lafitte pressed his hand against the doc’s chest and pushed him back inside the house. He pulled out one of the guns, and the doctor retreated, hands up. “Oh god, oh god. Wait, wait.”

  “You’re Joshua Groff?”

  He nodded. “Please.”

  “You’re a cardiologist?”