Hogdoggin' Page 7

  He fired.

  Maybe it did get his arm. It got something. Nate screamed awful bad and his pistol hand fired involuntarily into the road. Damn thing scraped across the road and the gasoline and lit up like shock and awe. Colleen tried to get close, got pushed back when the flames whipped and scorched her. Lafitte shielded his eyes with his arm and saw Nate, flaming arms and head flapping around, piercing scream. Lafitte started towards him. Okay, some bad burns. They could survive that. Maybe wrap his leather jacket around one arm and reach for the poor kid.

  Another couple of feet and Lafitte would’ve had him, but then the fire got to the open ammo spilled in the car, setting off rounds all over. A slug pinged the frame near Lafitte’s head. Another dug into the ground right behind his boot. Then through the back window. Lafitte got up and ran as best he could and dove for the ground. Covered his head. An eternity, it seemed, of pops and pings, then it was over. Lafitte crawled up. No more noise from Nate, now engulfed. Flesh bubbling, smoking. Lafitte went Aw, goddamn. If he had only put down the fucking guns. If Lafitte hadn’t been distracted, he could’ve dragged him out, slapped them both unconscious, and gone on his way. Just two kids playing cops and robbers, no matter if Nate had thrown in with the Feds, he didn’t deserve this. Goddamn.

  Lafitte looked for Colleen, found her on the other side of the road. He limped towards her. She looked alright. Her arms too red, maybe. Some cuts on her face and neck, but all small time.

  Before he got across the road, she was already reaching for her back, pulling out a little .380, gripping it tight with both hands. She was breathing hard, tears streaming, but solid and in control. “Get on the ground.”

  “I’m sorry, Colleen. It’s his own fault. I never—”

  “I don’t want to hear anything except you dropping to you knees. Hands behind your head.”

  Lafitte didn’t think she would shoot. He hadn’t gotten to know her so well, but guessed from the last few minutes, watching her react to Nate, she could be a badass but probably wasn’t up for seeing another death right away. He kept coming closer to her.

  “Goddamn it, I said down!”

  Lafitte kept his hand out, open. Said, “I can’t do that. You know damn well I don’t deserve it.”

  “Oh yes you do.” Sniffly, on the edge of stuttering. “N-Nate. You shot Nate.”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill him. He was shooting at me!”

  “I swear to God, I’m not letting you get away. Get on the ground. The Sheriff was wrong. You should’ve been hanged. Hanged and castrated and your body left for the dogs.”

  Lafitte stopped walking. No use trying to talk sense to the girl. He didn’t have the time. Instead he dropped his hands, shook his head.

  “I’m getting on that bike, if it still runs right, and getting myself out of here. If it doesn’t run right, I’m going to commandeer the next vehicle that drives by. One of these options is better for you than the other, since I can’t have you trying to arrest me while I’m waiting for a ride. Stop pretending to be hard and cry for your boyfriend.” Lafitte nodded his head towards the fire, Nate’s husk. “I don’t care how bad you hate me, you’d better remember this is your fault. I was minding my own business, young lady.”

  He let a moment hang between them, and he knew she was trying to catch all that blame in a bucket and sling it right back at him. Searching for a profound slap in the face. But she couldn’t argue with him. It was eating her up.

  Lafitte turned for the bike, took a couple steps. Heard her behind him.

  “Wait, you listen to me. You have to listen!”

  “Not how it works.”

  The voice breaking more. “It’s not fair!”

  Ignored her. He waited for the shot, and when it came he flinched but didn’t worry. Without a doubt she’d shot it straight into the sky.

  Then she screamed, maybe some words in there, but mostly just ear shrieking that spread fast across the fields and scared birds out of trees.

  He mounted the hog, cranked it. Looked up to see Colleen on her knees, face buried in her hands, the little gun hanging on her finger. It slipped off and fell into the grass and all you had left was her crying. It was hard crying, backed with fire and venom and if Lafitte were to wait another minute, the fire would get the better of her and she’d come up shooting.

  The hog missed at first, then fought through the sputter and came alive. Roaring back. Behind Lafitte, the first wavering of sirens. He didn’t have time to do a test jag. He got on his way fast, mental fingers crossed that the frame wouldn’t snap in two once his speed topped eighty. Like he would get far now with an aqua blue chopper anyway. All he needed was enough of a head start to hide the bike somewhere and pick up another ride. And that was just to get him started.

  *

  Lafitte sped away leaving Nate to his pyre and Colleen angry about breaking down. She glanced over at the flames, could make out Nate’s head if she concentrated, but once it was in focus, she regretted trying. She sniffed back phlegm and tears—Jesus, the smell. Burning flesh and gasoline. The sirens were a little louder now and she damn well didn’t want to get caught crying. Pretty much a career ender, and Nate wouldn’t have wanted it that way.

  What was the point of sticking around Yellow Medicine County, though, without Nate? She only took the job so they could be together as he started to blaze his own exit towards the FBI. Other boyfriends, you know, they liked that Colleen knew how to handle a gun but felt that dating a cop somehow fucked up the power dynamics. A man didn’t need to check himself at the door for his woman. They would always answer a tad too late, maybe a fraction of a second, enough so that she knew they were watching every goddamned word.

  Most other cops? Dating them was also a chore, the macho thick as musk. Always something to prove. Jesus, she wanted a relationship, not a competition.

  Nate, sweet Nate. A gentleman. Her best friend. They liked the same stuff on their pizzas. Nearly thought the same thoughts. Now he had burned away because they tried to do the right thing. She should’ve shot first. Should’ve stayed in the car, made a plan.

  Or at the very least, goddamn it, should’ve shot that son of a bitch Lafitte.

  She stood. Sirens loud at gut-level now, the lights flashing not far away. No tears. Colleen took a deep breath. She was going to tell the story that got her free the quickest, because after that she was going to hunt that motherfucker down and slice him from his balls to his neck.

  ELEVEN

  Rome hated the meetings worst of all. Men in ties sitting around sterile conference rooms, too much paper piled on the table, thinking they were making a difference by sharing what they knew about whatever the hell was in the mix that week. This one, some illegal immigration cases, referred to the FBI over terrorist concerns, and some drug-running out in the Gulf. Plus a couple of sightings of men from the Wanted list. Not to mention budgets, stats, and subcommittee assignments.

  Hot air. The air conditioner was barely able to keep up with it all. Rome just sat, doodled. Thought about how to approach Ginny Lafitte later that afternoon. With her ex flushed out, it was time to turn the screws.

  Rome was hardly necessary in the meetings. Every now and then they’d make use of his “expertise” for some small point about hierarchy, customs, and how previously foiled terror plots added to the bank of knowledge for the next attempt. But he wasn’t an active participant in any case any more. They wanted to keep an eye on him. The agent he reported to had said, “It’s required of you to attend meetings several times a week. You are an invaluable source of intelligence and experience for our agents.” Translated: We’ve got you, boy. Don’t try anything funny again.

  It made Rome’s “secret project” that much more dangerous.

  Agent Williams went on and on about a proposed sting operation along the border with Texas to deter terrorists looking to sneak in across the Southern border. Sure, sure, issue of national security, blah, blah, blah. Rome was doodling his wife as a pissed-off huntress, w
ith Rome subservient on all fours at her command. Just another idea for role-playing, should he ever grow the nerve to ask her.

  Last night’s hard fucking let off much of the steam between them, a surprise to both. This morning, she burned his toast, made weak coffee, and then demanded he crawl under the table in his suit to make her happy. That was hot. No relief for him, though. Desiree told him, “None for you until I say so, you worm. Don’t even think of touching yourself, either. I’ll know. You have to hold back.” That alone had kept him daydreaming and semi-rigid all morning.

  He didn’t even notice the meeting had been adjourned until other agents rustled papers, started in on cell phones, and stood to leave. Rome cleared his throat and looked out the third story window, catching a glimpse of the Superdome, back in operation after being trashed during Katrina. Some had said, after the horrors that occurred when it was being used as a shelter, there was no way it could ever be seen as a place for entertainment again. Money won out, though, and there it was, home of the Saints and all the big arena tours.

  “Agent Rome?” A voice from the other end of the table. Rome blinked, turned to it. Agent Stoudemire, Rome’s “superior” supposedly, although Rome had originally been told he was “reins free” down here, reporting only to Washington. Lasted about three weeks. Stoudemire wasn’t anything but a pencil-pushing accountant, more or less. “Franklin?”

  Rome realized he hadn’t responded. Jesus, don’t screw it up. He had to play the game to avoid prying eyes. He turned his legal pad face down in his lap. “Sorry, Shane. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  A smirk. “Pretty busy, eh? Maybe Desiree was keeping you up? I know that look, man.”

  The fucker winked at Rome. Rome imagined Stoudemire with Desiree. Desiree sucking the man’s cock but watching her husband while she did it. Rome imagined punching Stoudemire’s teeth out. He imagined Stoudemire in a motorcycle jacket. “What’s on your mind, Shane?”

  Stoudemire had walked down to Rome’s end of the table, sat on it so he could face Rome, still deep in the chair. Classic intimidation technique.

  “Well, we’ve been worried about you lately. I’d been meaning to ask how you’re adjusting after being here a while and all, but things get in the way. You understand.”

  “Sure.” Split lips, bloody mouth, spitting his own teeth.

  “Exactly. Still, I know this is a big change for you, not being out in the field. Having to show these young guns how to do it right. I was the same way. Missed the action.”

  You know damned well the action made you piss your pants. Eager to fly a desk. “Hey, when it’s time, it’s time. At least I can get to all the things I’d wanted to do but couldn’t because of the job.”

  Stoudemire grinned. It was one of those lies impossible to call anyone on. The only reason to join the FBI was the action, the power, and the chance to be in the know. All those things you suspected about the government? Mostly true, except now you were the one dishing out “I can’t answer that, ma’am.” It was all over now, and you were either like Rome or you were like Stoudemire—kicking and screaming as they carried you off the battlefield, or gladly sipping brandy and studying maps back at the Colonel’s tent. Everyone assumed you would want the latter, so it was hard to look a man in the face after he’s given the number one cliché “off into the sunset” answer and say, “What a sack of shit.”

  Stoudemire’s way: “Good to hear. We’ll have to compare notes on that sometime. I’ve got a fishing camp up around False River, if you happen to like that sort of thing.”

  Rome pulled the fakest smile he could. “Sounds like fun. Desiree and I like to travel a lot, though. I’ll have to see if we can fit it in.”

  “Do your disappearances recently have anything to do with this travel?”

  Oh, yeah, walked right into that one. Someone had been paying attention after all. Either that or he had a team member who needed some reminding about which had more leverage—the bosses or “What Rome knows”.

  “Disappear?” Rome laughed. “Like a magic trick? I’ve always got my phone with me.”

  “Still, you should make sure you’re seen around the office a little more often. Don’t want people here getting ideas. Plus, you’ve put some miles on the company car.”

  Shrugged. “Okay, I admit, it was personal use. Desiree and I were thinking, you know, maybe a beach house. Neither one of us has been to the beach much. Trying to find the right place at the right price.”

  Stoudemire stood, clapped Rome on the shoulder, then stepped over to the window, taking in the view. “You tried Gulf Shores yet? It’s actually Alabama, if you can believe that, not as crowded as Pensacola.”

  “That’s a good tip. Thanks much.”

  “You know, next time you’re in Mobile, might as well keep driving south.”

  Stoudemire looked back over his shoulder after saying it. Rome was impressed, all this passive-aggressive buddy shit. Stoudemire had brass ones. Not quite telling Rome to cease and desist, not getting anything official on the record. A little nudge was all.

  Rome shifted. One leg over the other. “Okay.”

  “What do you think of Mobile? Know anyone over that way?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh?” Eyebrows. “So, just out driving?”

  Rome let out a breath. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s a bit nosey.”

  “Not on company time. Like I said, it would be a good idea to be seen around here. We don’t want people getting ideas.”

  Rome got out of the chair, tugged his suit coat straight. “I’ll take the bus.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “If the car is the problem, I’ll take the bus instead. Really surprised, Shane. I didn’t know there was a curfew on me. This is something I should discuss with the home office, to make sure everyone’s on the same page.”

  “Now wait—”

  “And when I do,” Rome stepped close behind the man, his face a reflection over Stoudemire’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure to leave out your own shortcomings, just between us guys. You know. Quote: ‘Next thing you know, one whiff of misunderstanding and they’ll give him my job.’ Unquote.”

  Stoudemire stiffened. “That’s a damned lie. I never said anything like that.”

  “Shane, buddy, hey. I didn’t accuse you of anything, did I? All I’m saying is that if it was said, and someone happened to have sworn affidavits from more than two people who heard someone say that, along with a few more demeaning things—”

  The man spun on Rome. Finger in his face. “You. You think threats are going to help you here? What’s worse? Some guys in private conversation simply raising a few thoughtful points about job security, or you sticking your hand in forbidden cookie jars.”

  Rome grinned. “First, those conversations? Not private on company time in a company office. Second, to answer your question, both. Both are equally worse in the government’s eyes. After they discipline me for an internal matter, guess what gets the big headlines?” Rome spanned his hand across the air. “RACISM PLAGUES NEW ORLEANS BRANCH OF THE FBI. Yeah. Good for a Pulitzer, I’d say.”

  Stoudemire paled. Dude was sweating. Rome backed off.

  “Your call, Shane. Either keep quiet and let me step in my own dog shit down the line, or put in the complaint and feel real good about yourself when you’re out looking for a job. Maybe a consultant gig. I hear those pay pretty well for very little work.” Clapped the man on the shoulder, same thing Shane had done to him. “Thanks for the tip on Gulf Shores, though. I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

  *

  Stoudemire wouldn’t talk. Even if the threat itself wasn’t enough to keep him quiet, Rome guessed guys like Shane would understand why he was still after Lafitte, and would be glad when Rome dragged the bastard in. It was more likely Stoudemire wanted a piece of the glory should Rome succeed.

  No, what bugged Rome more as he made the drive over to Mobile again that afternoon, light rain keeping the wiper
s busy while much darker clouds and bold streaks of lightning were churning a few miles offshore, was how Stoudemire figured it out. Maybe it began with a good guess, but he wouldn’t have brought it up unless he had confirmation.

  Rome’s team was pretty much under his thumb, the only wild card being McKeown. The smartest of them. He’d most likely already planned a way to come out on top in spite of Rome’s nasty little secrets file. Hell, he’d be the type to admit to it, take his hit, and still have more on Rome than even Stoudemire. So if McKeown went up the chain, it must’ve been because he didn’t trust Rome to keep his word.

  Yeah, a very smart little prick. He had it nailed. Rome had no intention of bringing Lafitte to “justice”. The whole charade of going through the back channels, looking for a solid case, building a team, all of that was to get Lafitte out of hiding. And, what do you know, it fucking worked. Next, Rome needed the man to keep coming, hell bent, exhausted, not thinking straight, right into Rome’s trap. The traitor would disappear somewhere in northern Alabama, and Rome would rant and rave at his team for “losing the subject” before quietly letting them off the hook, sworn to secrecy.

  Looked like McKeown wasn’t going to let it happen. Or that’s what he thought. Rome had covered more bases than necessary just in case. The problem with trusting other agents was that they were other agents. Simple. People paid to figure out problems, impress bosses, and look good in a suit.

  As Rome pulled off the interstate and turned towards Ginny Lafitte’s apartment, he added a new item to his mental “to do” list: End McKeown right after ending Billy Lafitte. Didn’t matter what happened after. For Rome, there was no after. Only an end.

  *

  Ginny wouldn’t sit down. She looked older and paler than the last time they’d talked. She started talking and pacing as soon as he stepped in the door. He followed her into the living room, sat on the couch and winked at Savannah playing on the floor. The child looked up at him with a blank expression before she giggled and destroyed the Lego house she’d built. Started over.