Holy Death Page 3

  Confidence. It had always worked before. Seemed to be working now.

  She heard her cell phone buzz. Looked around, found her pants on the armchair, and pulled her phone from her pocket. Seven missed calls, six from the boyfriend and one from Mom. She listened to that one: “Tell your son of a bitch to stop calling me. He’s pretty sure you’re cheating on him. You’ve got to lie better.”

  Sigh. She texted the boyfriend. Don’t call me no more. Get out of my apartment by five p.m. If you’re there at five oh one, I wouldn’t want to be you.

  Dropped the phone back onto her pants, ignored the next buzz and walked across the room to the bathroom door.

  There was DeVaughn, toothbrush in his mouth, shower running, steaming up everything, neck bent to hold his phone. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh...well, I don’t know. I’ll be there. Keep watching. Don’t do anything. Sure as fuck don’t fuck with him.” He saw her reflection in the mirror. He smiled. A good sign. She mouthed “Good morning.”

  DeVaughn said, “I gotta let you go.” He hung up the phone.

  Yeah, definitely working now.

  *

  DeVaughn looked into the mirror and saw her standing there, stark naked with bedhead, and he thought, Damn those eyes. Something about them, he couldn’t look away. The way she looked at a man, like, I want you, and there wasn’t nothing the man could do but give in. And he was glad he did, because, damn.

  Maybe because he was in a good mood. He’d finally done it. Finally seen Billy Lafitte with his own two eyes after all these years. So much had changed since then—this wasn’t the same Coast Katrina had hit, not by a long shot—but Lafitte’s name was never far from the front of his mind. If there was one person in life DeVaughn was sure enough going to kill, there he was. Last night, watching the man eat, watching him talk to Melissa like a normal person, watching him walk to the men’s room to see the message on the wall, it had put DeVaughn in a righteous mood.

  And this waitress, she’d been giving him the eye. Pretty eyes. Hazel. She was one of those women that had a small head and a wide body. A man might look once or twice, and maybe if that man was drunk or lonely, sure. She wasn’t ugly, not one ounce. Just, you know, the situation. Greasy, stanky, some pimples on there, pimples on her ass, but, goddamn, she was nice. She could speak without speaking, you know?

  So yeah, he took a chance while he was in a good mood, and the next morning he was still feeling good. Good God, man, the girl could fuck. Drained him dry. By the time they were done, both were sweating like they’d run a race, and they were laughing cause it was some funny shit. She draped her arm and leg across him, and he didn’t mind it at all.

  He got up, made some coffee, and watched her sleep. Girl had a husky snore on her, but that was okay, too. Something about her, he couldn’t put his finger on it. No need to kick her out right away. They could go get some breakfast. Treat her to Waffle House. Maybe even go buy her a couple dresses from the Lane Bryant, see what she was like dolled up. It wasn’t as if Lafitte was going to slip the net now.

  His phone rang—a Little Richard yelp—and he fumbled it, went to the bathroom. No need to wake her. So he answered it in there, quiet.

  Lo-Wider said, “We getting tired, man. He still ain’t up.”

  “Y’all didn’t take shifts?”

  “Shifts? You didn’t say nothing about shifts. We powered through on Pimp Juice.”

  “Shit nasty.”

  “It’s not so bad, you add the Three Olives whipped-cream, man.”

  “And you wonder why you’re tired.”

  “I’m only sayin. You coming or not? Or we got to bring him to you?”

  “It ain’t like that. We still need to follow him. I know where he’s going, I just don’t know when.”

  “Then you need to tell Crocker or Shack to take over.”

  “Alright, alright, I’ll holler at them.” DeVaughn reached into the glassed-in shower, separate from the bath, and turned on the heat, wide-open, with a little cold. The steam billowed out, fogged the mirror. “But don’t let Motherfucker leave your sight. You stay your ass awake until they get there.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Now you talking shit.”

  DeVaughn thought he heard something behind him. He looked in the fogged mirror, saw Melissa standing there, arm raised, braced on the doorframe. Hip cocked. The smell of her spread all over the bathroom, and those eyes were bright and wide.

  “Rider, I gotta let you go.”

  “You better get Shack down here before I start snoring.”

  DeVaughn ended the call and set the phone on the vanity. “Morning, baby.”

  “Nice room.”

  “Yeah, they comp me here.”

  “I thought you might need some company.” Eyes flicked towards the shower.

  He could already feel himself getting thick. Damn, what sort of potion had she slipped into his coffee last night? No, he knew what it was. It was confidence. Some women made up for what they lacked in the beauty department with pure gumption. But this one, she was one-hundred-percent damn damn damn. He nodded his chin toward the shower. She teethed her bottom lip and stepped over, opened the door and slid inside. She held her head back in the stream and moaned nice and easy.

  DeVaughn wrapped his hand around his dick. Yeah, Lafitte wasn’t going nowhere today. And if he could help it, neither was Melissa.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They called Lo-Wider “Lo-Wider” because he had a Fat Albert belly going on, like he ate an inner tube and it got stuck real low. Kid was nineteen and weighed three-forty. Couldn’t find his neck for all the chins. But, shit, Lo-Wider sounded badass, much better than Fat Albert.

  Right then, not even noon and the sun was turning the car into a broiler. He was riding low in the passenger side of his grampa’s white Nineteen Ninety-Six Monte Carlo SS, sweating a river onto the leather seats. He’d let Bossman Steve take over the driver side because the wheel had started to bruise Lo’s stomach. Bossman Steve was the white guy they let hang around when they needed help. Only seventeen, on the football team, defense, so that was how he knew Isaiah, the guy nearly passed out in the back. This wasn’t no gang-thing, though. Mr. Rose had gotten out of the game when his brother was killed and the cops who did it got away with it. They were nothing but kids back then anyway, but DeVaughn Rose, he was, like, famous to them. Man had made some money with cards, and didn’t even have to cheat. The man still knew all the bangers, and everyone in the Black Gulf Mob knew the man was paying hella good cash for a real Lafitte sighting, and Lo-Wider was friends with bangers, even though he hadn’t joined. He knew better than to even ask. He wasn’t no Biggie Smalls. He was just Big. So Lo-Wider had gotten lucky up in Memphis, and had himself a taste of what DeVaughn was paying. He wanted more.

  But goddamn if this part wasn’t bullshit, babysitting a parked truck all night. They’d burned up so much gas yesterday they couldn’t afford to run the a/c anymore. What Lo-Wider had thought was, hey, this bitch finds a place to park for the night, DeVaughn comes in and pops his ass. Instead, it’s more hurry up and wait.

  “Bossman,” Lo said. The white boy hated being called Bossman, but he’d finally started taking it without a fight. “You know Shack or Crocker’s numbers?”

  “Don’t you got them in your phone?”

  Lo-Wider held up his flip-phone. “Man, this pre-paid piece of shit?”

  Steve shrugged. “Left my phone at home.” But there was an outline of it in his shorts pocket, one of them Samsungs, big as a notebook. Steve was embarrassed he wasn’t on those niggas’ speed-dial. Not even on their slow-dial.

  Lo-Wider shook his head. It had been about forty-five minutes since DeVaughn had told them to expect back-up. Still, wasn’t nothing moving on the Muscle Max truck, at least not what they could see. Instead, they had to sit still and shield their eyes from the harsh reflection of the sun off the truck. Only Isaiah had sunglasses. Lo-Wider picked his shirt off his chest with thumb and index finger, gave it
some flaps. It was as wet as if he’d been swimming.

  “Shit, fuck this.” He opened the door and climbed out. About the same heat as in the car, but the slightest breeze made it feel like Alaska. “It’s hot.”

  Without his weight on board, the car bounced up. Isaiah snorted himself awake and grabbed both headrests in front of him. “What’s up? He moving?”

  “Naw.” Steve shook his head. “Lo getting bored.”

  “Fuck, I hear that. This wasn’t what I expected.”

  “Supposed to watch him.”

  Isaiah leaned forward between the seats. “Yeah, but, you know, supposed to be exciting. Supposed to be something happen.”

  “Don’t matter. We’ve got someone coming to relieve us. You want to get some Popeye’s after this?”

  Isaiah crunked up his face and eyes. “Shit, I didn’t spend all night out here to miss out on the fun. I say we go wake this motherfucker up, scare the shit out of him.”

  “Hey.” Lo-Wider hunched down, leaned through the open window. “We supposed to watch. Only watch.”

  “Man, I ain’t going to touch him.”

  “Still, I’m just saying.”

  Isaiah scooted over to the passenger side and got out. Yawned and stretched. Boy was tall, man. But the problem with bringing Isaiah along as muscle was that’s all he was. He didn’t understand “Maybe.” He didn’t get “Just in case.” It was fine dealing with high school punks or Vietnamese gangstas, but this guy, this Lafitte, motherfucker was a wanted man. He was straight-up dangerous.

  Lo-Wider was losing control of this thing. “Man, come on, we did what we had to do. We bout to get paid, son.”

  Bossman Steve was out of the car, too, walking around to meet them. “We’re not going to beat down on him. We going to kill some time, goof on him some. Call DeVaughn and tell him this guy woke up, tried to leave. All we’re doing is holding him down until someone gets here, then we can get some Popeye’s. I’m hungry, man.”

  Lo-Wider flipped his phone open and hit redial and tried hard to hear over the traffic on Highway 49, semi-trucks, horns, low-end booms from decked out Nissans and Mitsubishis. The line on DeVaughn’s went straight to voicemail. He hung up and dialed again. Voicemail. Shit!

  He left a message—“Man, he’s up, man, but we ain’t got Shack or Crocker, man, what we gonna do? Call me. My boys are getting restless. Call me, man.”

  He looked up. Isaiah and Steve were already ten yards ahead of him. He closed his phone and tried to jog but he was no jogger. Hurt his knees, bouncing and shit. He wasn’t going to catch up. He tried DeVaughn one more time. Still nothing. Told the voicemail, “What are we supposed to do now? My boys want to stop him, man. You’d better get down here.”

  Look at them: Isaiah wearing shiny black kicks, long black jeans shorts, black boxers blousing out, black jersey—fucking Bulls jersey, and he don’t even like the Bulls. Bossman Steve even worse, in those fucking plastic sandals, the ones with the big Velcro strap across them, and white socks, for fuck’s sake. Fuck. He was also in shorts too big for him, kept having to pull them up. T-shirt had skulls and swirls and shit on it. But Lo-Wider, what did he care about posing? Hard enough to find jeans that fit, a nice pullover Chaps polo. Old-school Adidas, size twelve.

  Why they got to act like they got no sense? Why they got to act like they on TV all the time?

  Lo-Wider was still ten feet away when Isaiah started banging on the back of the truck. Lo flinched, stayed off to the side. Afraid of bullets coming out the door.

  “Man, it’s wakey-wake time, you hear me? Open this motherfucker up!” Isaiah still banging. Bossman Steve following up with an extra bang or two of his own.

  “That’s right, nigga!”

  Isaiah shoved Steve. “Man, what I told you?”

  “You know I don’t mean anything.”

  “And this dude’s white!”

  Lo-Wider did a whisper/shout sort of thing. “I’m telling you, shut up! You don’t know what this guy can do.”

  Isaiah smiled. The sort of smile a kid had when he ain’t had his ass kicked yet. No daddy or grampa around to put him in his place like Lo and Steve had had, although whatever sense Steve might have once had done got knocked out by his daddy years ago.

  Isaiah kept his eyes on Lo as he slammed his palm against the back of the truck a few more times. “Come on out, motherfucker! Rise and shine!”

  Lo-Wider willed his phone to ring. Anything, anyone.

  They heard some rambling around from inside the back of the truck. Saw it bounce a bit on its springs. Finally heard the lock click. Then the door, slowly, slowly, slid up halfway, and there was this Lafitte motherfucker on his hands and knees, sweat-drenched uniform, looking weak as Steve’s dad after another all-nighter of booze and beating on his current stepmother. Sleepy-eyed and more confused than mad.

  “Is there a problem?”

  It was the first time Lo-Wider had heard Lafitte’s voice. Low and flat. Full of gunk, full of pain. And now Lo got a better look at the man up close, he didn’t know what to think. Lafitte was small, but under the skin those muscles were taut like the wire holding bridges up. Word was in prison, motherfucker was stacked, though. A tire pumped too tight. Up close, Lafitte wasn’t as strong-looking as Isaiah. Someone had deflated him.

  Isaiah steamrolled on. “Ain’t no one tell you you can’t park here without asking me first? I don’t remember you asking.”

  Lafitte sighed and grunted, got his legs under him, sat on the edge of the truck. “I didn’t see a sign.”

  “I bet you also didn’t see a sign saying Free Parking, Stay as Long as You Like. Because it ain’t here either. But there are rules, man. Rules.”

  Steve laughed. “Yeah, man. Rules to this sort of thing. And penalties, too. Like ten yards and loss of possession.”

  Isaiah screwed up his face at Steve. Steve stopped talking.

  Lafitte didn’t say anything for a long moment. He wiped sweat off his face with both hands, rubbed his palms on his shorts. Left a trail of mud, or damn near it. Lo couldn’t tell you there was a grin on the man’s lips, but it sure as hell wasn’t no frown. Lafitte closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and let it out slow.

  “You hearing us? Don’t we get an apology?”

  Lafitte opened his eyes again. “Who’re you with?”

  Lo-Wider should’ve been the one to talk. This wasn’t a gang thing. He was about to say it, too. About to say what DeVaughn had told him to say, in case something like this happened. Was going to tell him “an old friend” had sent them. “An old friend who wanted to say hello.” Those were the words, right on the tip of Lo’s tongue.

  Isaiah beat him to it, saying, “Who said we’re with anybody? The fuck does it matter to you?”

  “Sure as fuck not Royals, I can see that. Disciples? Maybe you’re Disciples.”

  Isaiah puffed out his chest. Lo-Wider said “Hold up—” but didn’t get anywhere because Isaiah finished with, “We Mob, motherfucker. Mobsters all the way.”

  Steve tossed his hands in the air like he just didn’t care. “BGM for life, baby!”

  There it was in Lafitte’s eyes. The recognition, as DeVaughn had promised. Lo’s stomach churned.

  Lafitte shook his head, and now he really was grinning. “Mob? Shit, and here I was thinking I was in real trouble.”

  “Watch it now, motherfucker.”

  “I don’t want to offend you guys or anything. Seriously, though, how is the Mob still around?”

  Isaiah and Steve, cheerleaders that they were, couldn’t think of much to say past, “Shut your hole, faggot.”

  And “Piece of shit homo.”

  And “You open your mouth when I got something for you to put in it. Right now you listen to me.”

  Lafitte turned his face to Lo-Wider. Raised his eyebrows, like, You with these idiots? Then back to Isaiah. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I parked in your parking lot in front of your thrift store and next to your Waffle House. But I’m movin
g on soon. What do you need, money? You want some money? You want, oh, I don’t know...” He looked over his shoulder. “Vitamins? Protein shakes?”

  “I said to shut your hole.”

  “I can, hold on.” He held up his hands wide, then did a dainty thing with his thumb and middle finger, locking his lips.

  Bossman Steve was on edge, barely able to stand still. “No he didn’t. Dis. Re. Spect.”

  Isaiah’s muscles quaked beneath his skin. He was drum tight. Lo-Wider stepped back. Stared at his phone. Still nothing. Jesus, man, where the fuck was DeVaughn?

  Isaiah took a couple steps closer to Lafitte. “I didn’t ask for money. I didn’t ask you to suck my dick. All I asked for is some respect, but the cracker in you can’t even do that to save your own ass. Can’t even respect a nigga for ten seconds to keep from getting whupped. So now I’ll tell you what I want. What I require. It’s going to be your blood. A whole bunch of your blood. And I’m going to take it the hard way.”

  The last bit got lost because before Isaiah could say it, Lafitte was on his feet again inside the truck and bringing the door down hard. Isaiah, God bless his soul, made a grab for the fucker’s leg and missed and the latch on the door landed right on his wrists and holy shit fuck motherfucker was there some screaming, and Isaiah recoiling his hands as the door popped up a foot. Lafitte slammed it all the way closed this time.

  Lo-Wider squinted like he did for horror movies, but he got a good peek at Isaiah, now on his ass on the asphalt, holding a purpled wrist. Broken glass in a water balloon. Seething through his teeth and saying Shiiiiiiit-ahhhhh-shhhhiiiiiiiit.

  Steve banged on the truck.

  Coward this! Faggot that! Motherfucker!

  Motherfucker! Mother—shit! Cheap shot piece of shit! Fuck you up!

  Gonna fuck you up! You can’t stay in there forever!

  Lo-Wider’s gnarled-up stomach was going to go full diarrhea soon if this didn’t calm down. He glanced around the lot. Mommies coming out of the stores were staring. People pumping gas were staring. People at the counter in Waffle House, turned around, staring. One of them fuckers was going to call the police. Sure as shit they were.