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  “Girl, leave all the diner shit in there and change into the red one.”

  Melissa looked good when she smiled. Made up for the harsh parts of her. “I’m going to need some shoes.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Soon as Lafitte closed the phone, he winced and held his breath a good long beat. Then, shit, thought about DeVaughn. All this time, and that piece of shit was still hounding him. Lafitte had never forgotten when he and Paul shot down DeVaughn’s brother, sure enough. Remembered every moment. The little bitch had betrayed Lafitte and Asimov to their own kind—cops. Probably would have sold out DeVaughn, too, if they hadn’t shot him. Guess it didn’t matter to DeVaughn. Blood was still thicker.

  The shit message on the truck stop wall—DeVaughn. Son of a whore had found him somehow, something the whole FBI couldn’t do.

  Not as bad as he thought. DeVaughn was just one guy, maybe with some baby bangers doing his dirty work. But DeVaughn himself still banging? Sad, man. Sad.

  Another wince. The pain was subsiding. His head cleared and he thought I’ve got to get this car off the road. Fast, fast, fast.

  Up ahead, a rest area. A nice big one, too, teeming with semis. Teeming with SUVs. He pulled in and parked far down the line, where people took their dogs to shit. He had forgotten that Mississippi rest areas were little antebellum oases, with white columns and honeysuckle, surrounded by a pine forest.

  He stepped out and closed the door. No need to wipe it down. Cameras everywhere these days, the parking lot full of them. It was hard to get lost anymore, and sometimes the best way was to stand outside, stretch, yawn. Hide in plain sight. At first. So he did. His shirt was soaked. His shorts were clinging, chafing. He needed full lungs of magnolia-scented air. Two. Three. Then he scoped his choices.

  A little car. There was a Fiesta, a Focus, a Corolla, a Kia, another Kia, a Honda hatchback. He couldn’t trust the newer ones—GPS gadgets and satellites and computers able to track his ass all over creation.

  A pick-up truck? The only one here had flames on it. Back-window stickers, Calvin peeing on a Chevy sign, something else he didn’t recognize, probably about hunting. Educated guess. Big tires, too. No, not worth the trouble.

  None of those SUVs, either. Just...no.

  Which left the old man standing next to two touring motorcycles.

  Wide, clunky, built for old people who weren’t RV types. They had always wanted motorcycles, but couldn’t afford them until they retired. By then, they had lost sight of what made them love motorcycles anyway, except for the part about seeing the country. So they bought “touring” bikes and hit the road and met up with thousands of other retirees with touring bikes, and they wore leather jackets and chaps and communicated via hand signs that made them feel like part of the club, even though it was bullshit. It was the retired people’s club, if it was anything. Steel God had laughed it off once—“It’s mutual masturbation, two fingers at a time.”

  These bikes, Jesus. One was tan and red and had deep red saddle bags, while the other, the one the man was right next to, was a little sleeker, black and silver, but it was just another touring bike with sharp corners. All flash, no substance.

  It was Lafitte’s best way out of here, too.

  The bikes were a good fifty yards away. Lafitte did a quick search for the other bike’s owner, found her as she opened the door to the main building.

  Let’s get this over with.

  Lafitte walked over to the old guy with a smile on his face, shaking his head. “Now that’s some mighty fine road machine right there.”

  The old man, startled at the voice, straightened up and laughed and said, “Thank you kindly. It’s a great way to see the country.”

  “Are you a lifer? Been riding all your life?”

  “Oh, no, no. A whim, really. I bought these a couple of years before I retired. A good five years ago. All they did was sit in the garage.” He shook his head. “Until one day, I couldn’t stand them getting dusty anymore. Now we’ve put four thousand miles on them the last six months.”

  The old man was wrinkled enough to be, what, seventy? He was thin but strong enough to handle the bike. He wore brand-new jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, Indian motorcycles logo, tucked into his waistband. Lafitte could take him, but it would be tough in a stupid way. He couldn’t overestimate.

  Then the old man started pointing out specs. “Thirty-five miles to the gallon. Eighteen-hundred cee-cee, six cylinder—”

  “Yeah, listen, I don’t care.”

  The old man gave him a shit-eating grin. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m going to steal your bikes now. And you’re coming with me.”

  The wife was on her way back. She was probably the same age as the man, but looked Vietnamese with jet black hair under a New Orleans Pelicans cap. Lafitte grinned and waved at her. She waved back.

  Lafitte said, “You’re going to be nice and quiet and we’re all going to leave together on your bikes, okay?”

  The old man was already backing away, turning to his wife. “Hey, Tish—”

  “No, wait.” Lafitte stepped closer, reached out to the man. “Don’t be stupid. I can take you with me right now, us two only, and I can break your neck and toss you in the ditch, or you can let me ride your wife’s bike with her riding with me, and I won’t kill either one of you, I promise.”

  The old man’s cheeks grew red. The wife was still oblivious, walking up to her husband saying, “What is wrong? Are you okay? What is wrong?”

  Lafitte gently placed his hands on each of her shoulders and steered her from her husband’s side before he could fuck this up any more than he already had. “We’re going for a little ride, is all. I’d like to see how you bike feels.”

  “Okay.” She looked over her shoulder. “But I ride with my husband?”

  “No, you can ride with me.”

  “No, I ride with my husband.” She tried to twist from his grasp, but Lafitte held on and guided her to the bike.

  “No, it’s okay, really. You ride with me.” He reached over for her helmet, handed it to her, and he climbed onto the bike. Damn, this felt good. Now he was a wall keeping her apart from the old man, and she was not as fit as her husband.

  The old man stalked around the bike and got his finger wagging in Lafitte’s face. “Now you listen to me, you...you...troglodyte. How dare you. How dare you.”

  “Can we go, now? Hurry it up, please.” He grabbed the wife’s arm, and she let out a whine, but she grabbed hold of Lafitte and climbed on behind him. Lafitte said, “You’re making a scene, mister, and I’m taking your wife no matter what, so, let’s hit the road.”

  “I most certainly am not going to let you—”

  Lafitte vroomed the bike and it felt like an old friend shaking his hand. From his balls to his fingertips, goddamn, it had been too long. The old man’s face, beet red, his mouth, slack. Lafitte stabbed his finger at the man’s bike a few times. “Get on, get on, get on.”

  The old man hustled, got to give him credit. Hustled into his helmet, hustled onto his bike. Tish held on tight, her bony hands poking him in the ribs. He looked back over at the security guard, who had his eye on them but hadn’t bothered to get off his cozy little perch and see what was up. Dumbass.

  Lafitte walked the bike out of the parking spot, throttling up some noise, still waiting for the old guy to get his shit in gear. When ready, Lafitte gunned the bike onto the interstate ahead of a semi. He looked back. The old man was gunning it even harder to keep up. Guy was going to fight to win. That was enough to earn Lafitte’s respect. Of course it was a stupid thing to do. Old man should’ve run for the security guard as soon as Lafitte took off. Should’ve got the whole state descending on Lafitte’s sorry ass before he couldn’t even make the next exit. But love conquered all. Love made you stupid. Love. Fuck love.

  Lafitte thought, Good for you, old timer.

  They headed east in a hurry.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Motherfucking embarrassment wa
s what it was, DeVaughn having to go, hat in hand, to those motherfuckers in BGM to beg for help. He’d paid Lo-Wider and his boys cold hard cash, and they couldn’t manage to keep it straight, so what were these baby gangbangers going to do when it was just a favor? How much was this really going to cost him?

  He met up with the new third-in-charge of the Gulf Mob—couldn’t even bother to send the number two—on a pier in Biloxi where these idiots had tied up rented jet skis. All wore baggy shorts, long white tees, a couple shirtless. The number three, who called himself One O Four because it was his junior high locker number or something, was covered in salt spray, arms crossed. Oakley sunglasses and a grill. Always behind the times, the Gulf Mob. Whatever was out of style, they stayed on that shit a good year or two longer. It took DeVaughn getting out of the gang himself to finally see it.

  DeVaughn never really “got out.” Nothing official or shit. One day, he simply wasn’t there. He went away on a trip, stayed longer than expected, and by the time he got back, Black Gulf Mob had moved on. Fine with DeVaughn. Took a load off his mind.

  So here he was in a suit, Melissa in a new dress showing off the goods, while the fools loping around on the pier acted like someone was filming this shit.

  “My nigga!” Open arms. One O Four was shorted than DeVaughn. The motherfucker wanted a hug. What was up with hugging? Now DeVaughn’s shirt was damp, his coat was damp, and he smelled like cocoa butter and weed and beach stink. Melissa stood back. She had a Jackie Kennedy thing going on, her hands together in front, pleasant grin on her lips—bright red.

  One of those bangers was playing hip-hop on his phone. The others were tossing in a phrase here and there. One O Four looked past DeVaughn at Melissa, put his thumb to his chin like he was inspecting a painting. “So what’s going on here? Are we talking or are you bringing us a gift?”

  DeVaughn laughed. “Melissa’s a friend of mine. She goes where I go.”

  “Shit, man, you’re supposed to keep this shit private in your barn, not drag her out in the light of day.”

  Another banger said, “I’m blind, I’m blind!” As if looking at the girl had done it.

  DeVaughn turned his head. Not a word from Melissa. She didn’t give up the grin. Stood still. He mouthed Sorry, but she blinked at him, like, Not your fault.

  “I mean,” One O Four said, “that ass, I feel you, but, damn, son.”

  DeVaughn nodded. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “I feel you, I feel you. Just playing. So tell me what’s going on.”

  “Asking for help, man. I had hoped I could talk to Bark about it—”

  “Bark’s busy. Bark’s really busy.”

  Bark was the one in charge these days. Been a lot of different ones in charge since DeVaughn was part of it. Wasn’t no cult of personality. Loyal to the colors but not to the man.

  Bark was just another one.

  DeVaughn lowered his voice. Hadn’t said this sort of thing in a long time. “Glocks, man. And some soldiers, man. I ain’t got a lot of time.”

  One O Four: “Whatever you need. Long as you can pay for it.”

  This shit. “Lafitte’s back in town, man.”

  “Luh who?”

  Goddamn, they were young. “Lafitte? One of the cops who killed my brother, man. Lafitte?”

  One O Four nodded. “Okay, okay, I feel you, I feel you.”

  “So...my brother was BGM.”

  Nodding like a bobblehead. “Right, right.”

  Jesus, where was that motherfucker Bark at? “I need some extra eyes on him, man. I can’t keep up on my own.”

  Big smile. “Thought you already had it covered, what I heard.”

  “What’s that now?”

  One O Four said, “Something about you giving up some green for those eyes already, I heard, when you could’ve come talk to us first. You done fucked up, so what makes you think BGM will work for free?”

  DeVaughn set his jaw. Smelling his own sweat out here now was no fucking picnic. Quick look at Melissa, still standing like a good, respectable lady, Mona Lisa lips, looking off into the water.

  “Look, we’re all in this together. This is about family.”

  “This is about cash money, nigga. This is about me and these boys with me that will do whatever you want as long as we see your bank roll first. What you got for me?”

  “I’m asking for help here.”

  “Son, you ain’t asking for shit. You paying. You the one turned your back on the Mob to go play cards. This ain’t family. Your family is long gone. BGM’s got a reputation to protect. So I need to see cash up front, enough to keep all of us happy while we watch for this white boy you talking about.”

  DeVaughn thought about the cash in his pocket. He’d already spent more than he could afford if he wanted to play in the New Orleans tournament. Getting Lafitte was more important, but he still had to make a living. “I got a thousand.”

  One O Four laughed. “And I got a whole lot of other shit to do.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Hundred? Listen, let’s be real here.” Thumb on his chin again. “I know what you rocking. I know about your card game in New Orleans, and I know you got to have at least 10K on you. I’m not greedy, but I also ain’t stupid. You need some change left over to impress your lady here. Shouldn’t take much. Drive her through a Wendy’s and you all set. Listen. Five of us here, we’ll give you the family discount. Fifteen each. That’ll leave you enough for some slots, a Motel Six, and three helpings of Long John Silver’s for your whale.”

  Whoa, boy, that got them laughing.

  Even more when Melissa stepped around DeVaughn and slapped the living fuck out of One O Four. DeVaughn couldn’t tell if One O Four was playing or not, staggering until he nearly fell off the pier before one of his back-up grabbed hold, pushed him in front of the girl again. DeVaughn was ready to take him out if he struck back. But Melissa towered over the wannabe godfather. One O Four was all wiry muscle, tight tight tight.

  She went, “You disrespect me all you want. I love French fries, I love pizza, I love Mickey D’s, too, and it shows. You’d still ride it if you got the chance, but you’re not ever going to get the chance.”

  “Shit, bitch—”

  “Did I say talk, boy?”

  Ooo, white bitch call him boy. Got himself a chorus.

  “What I am telling you, are you listening?” Hands on her hips, leaning in. “You don’t disrespect your elders. Especially one who can buy and sell your sorry slave ass.”

  Before he could react, she lifted her foot without looking at it, pulled off her flip flop, and started slamming it against his ear. This time there wasn’t no play-acting. It really did motherfucking hurt, and he really did try to shield himself as he dropped onto the pier and curled into a ball. She took her bare foot and pressed it hard against his cheek and said, “You going to tell Bark to call DeVaughn. You going to tell him he’s lucky DeVaughn asked for help instead of just taking who he needed. And you ain’t getting one goddamned dollar.”

  She gave her foot a twist and stepped back. She threw her flop down, flipped it right side up, and she walked past DeVaughn to the car. A diva. Shit, wasn’t nothing else to say. DeVaughn turned to follow her.

  One O Four was still seething and saying, “Shit shit shit” but got it together and said, “Got some fat bitch doing his talking for him? Like I got to respect that?”

  DeVaughn looked at him and said, “Yeah, I think it would be a good idea.”

  He followed Melissa to the Caddy. Should be mad. Like One O Four said, he didn’t need no fat bitch doing his bidding. Wasn’t what no man did. But he was grinning. He was watching her sashay. He would watch her do anything. He’d watch her take a dump and like it. He’d never felt this way before.

  When he caught up, he said, “You could’ve got yourself beat.”

  She tossed her hair. “Him? I’ve been hit harder by bigger men.”

  “Baby, Goddamn! You can’t be all up in my business, underst
and?”

  She stopped in front of the Caddy and turned to him. Her stomach pressed against his as she smoothed his suit coat and fixed his shirt collar. “Something a man should know. The less he has to say, the stronger he is. There ain’t one of those assholes thinking bad about you right now. They thinking bad about One O Four, though. Let’s go get something to eat and wait for Bark to call you.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  But before they stopped to eat, he pulled in behind a liquor store, put the car in park. He turned up the radio a little, commercials right now.

  He gave her a look. She looked back, a little pissy. “What?”

  He gave her a chin. “Girl...”

  Melissa got it then, teethed her bottom lip. “What?”

  “Lay your seat back.”

  Grin. “Oh yeah? Again?”

  “You better do it.”

  She let her seat drop all the way, set her right foot on the dash, hiked her left leg up so DeVaughn could crawl over on top of her, then she braced her left foot against the steering wheel. He was already unbuckling. She took over while he helped push her dress up past her hips.

  They fucked nice and hard and quick, didn’t even get to the next song on the radio. He lay there on top of her, her fingers grazing the back of his neck.

  He was breathing hard, but asked her, “Damn, what is it ’bout you?”

  She said, “You already know. No need to put it into words.”

  Good enough for DeVaughn. When he was soft again, he slipped out of her pussy and said, “So, Long John Silver’s?”

  She shook her head. “You and me, we need to be seen. Someplace nice, with waiters and shit.”

  So that’s what they did.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The patient’s mother always stayed later than she should’ve. The nurses had stopped warning her because whenever they did, they got a cold stare in response, enough to put them off asking again, let alone wanting to mess with that type of Jesus she worshipped, the old-style Pentecost. Everyone else at the facility was convinced, even though the woman proclaimed she loved Jesus and her screwed-up daughter, she sure as hell didn’t love much else.