HOGDOGGIN’
a novel by
Anthony Neil Smith
Copyright 2009 Anthony Neil Smith
Originally published in print by Bleak House Books in 2009
Cover Art by Erik Lundy
E-reader Version
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
PRAISE FOR HOGDOGGIN’
“Smith’s version of Minnesota is no Lake Wobegon; the inhabitants are refreshingly made up entirely of the deranged, the damaged, and the doomed. If you can picture the intellectual and physical mayhem that might have resulted from a Jim Thompson and Harry Crews collaboration, you’d be on the right track. But Anthony Neil Smith is his own writer—and a very fine one, indeed.” –Booklist
“The book’s brutality is exemplified by the blood sport that provides the title, which matches vicious dogs like rottweilers against helpless pigs. Fans of darkest noir will be most satisfied.” –Publishers Weekly
“Anthony Neil Smith has long been one of the best of the up-and-coming hardcore crime writers; Hogdoggin’ marks his passage into the very front rank...” –Scott Phillips, author of The Ice Harvest and The Adjustment
"Sex, drugs and rock and roll—kinky FBI agents, steroid ridden bikers and enough musical terrorism to keep your head busy for some time; Anthony Neil Smith’s Hogdoggin’ is like a killer song you can’t get out of your head." –Craig Johnson, author of The Dark Horse and Hell is Empty
This one’s for the kitties, Tang & Lorna
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Brandy, who likes everything except the endings. All my love.
To Victor and Sean—for listening, for the advice, for the utter audacity, and for the next round of golf. The next decade of Crimedoggedness will bark louder than the first.
To Allan Guthrie, the teller of unvarnished truth—stings when it’s bad, but he sends you out to keep fighting round after round until you win, goddamnit!
To Ben, Alison, and Narco (Lisa)—giving me a stage for the story I wanted to tell, and for helping making it even rowdier and more profane (thus, better).
ONE
Steel God said “Fuckin’ guilty.”
Made a lump in Billy Lafitte’s throat, made his stomach twist the way you would a dirty rag. And he wasn’t even the guy Steel God was talking about.
The guy Steel God judged guilty was called Red Gator. He’d come from New Orleans, so no matter what he’d done, Lafitte felt bad for him. Couple of Southern exiles in the middle of South Dakota making do in ways they had probably never expected, finding replacement families and lovers after realizing they’d never see the real thing again.
Well, Lafitte realized it. He’d fucked up, and no matter how much bile he had to swallow to stand there with Steel God’s biker club as his Sergeant At Arms, it made awful but righteous sense. Red Gator hadn’t seen it that way. He’d made a stupid mistake of blowing a trade-off on purpose in order to get picked up and try to work a deal that put him back together with his dying sister and estranged kids while bringing down every last one of his fellow riders. Guess he didn’t think the others would find out and short circuit his grand scheme.
Some stood, others sat, in a circle around Red, who was tied by wire to a kitchen chair out back of a half-burned farmhouse. Fourteen of them that evening, a fire going on a jury-rigged barbecue grill, a split oil drum welded together, hot enough to keep the crisp frost of late fall off their faces even ten feet away. Red heard the verdict and dropped his jaw, strained forward.
He said, “It’s not right! I wouldn’t have told them anything real. They would’ve chased down a dead end. I’d never roll on you, God.”
Steel God was reclining on a tree trunk, bottle of beer in one hand, cigar in the other. Damn thing wasn’t even lit. The tree had been struck by lightning, caught the house on fire. Abandoned, but still a few undamaged rooms, so the clan took them over for a spell. Steel God listened to Red beg without batting an eye.
“You need to believe me. These guys,” Red motioned with his head to the right. At the guys. At Lafitte. “They’re feeding you bad intel because I know what they’ve got planned for you. I can tell you shit, man, you wouldn’t believe.” He scooted the chair closer. A couple of guys moved to stop him, but Steel God waved them off. Red could get an inch away and still not hurt Steel God. That’s how he got the name Steel God—tough motherfucker. Beyond tough.
And yeah, Lafitte knew some of the guys were talking mutiny. Talking about going back to the Outlaws instead of sticking with Steel God’s dream of a new society in the wilderness, new power. Maybe Steel God’s people came across as a little cultish because of that, but Lafitte liked the man’s dream. Angels or Outlaws, always fighting, getting corrupt enough that they’d forgotten why they rode together in the first place. Dealing meth, that was just a way to keep the family together. Let it become the whole enchilada and down you go. The Outlaws were “one-percenters”, the few who ate, slept, and drank the motorcycle club life. But Steel God was one of an even smaller number. He’d grown weary of the wars with the other MCs, of the hypocrisy, of the wheel spinning. The fucking drugs, Jesus, too many users among the merchants. He was done with that. Steel God would’ve preferred to drop the drugs shit altogether as soon as his people could make it on their own, live off the land. And he wanted the women to feel like a real part of the gang, not just sex toys. He could give a shit if you rode a Harley or not, as long as it was a bike you were passionate about. A couple of the boys even had jacked-up Yamahas and Kawasakis.
Over the past few years, Steel God slowly, quietly, seceded from the Outlaws until he was on the cusp of a peaceful transition. Then some reps from the larger clan came calling, tried to convince him to stay. Within an hour, three of the four Outlaws were dead and the survivor was forced to ride back home with a broken leg and a message. In the year since, they’d left Steel God alone, but in his ten months on board Lafitte had seen the signs that the enemies were just waiting for the perfect moment, and probably for a signal from the inside.
So this handful of mutineers was sowing discord amongst the family, and Lafitte’s woman had told him about it. Lafitte had told Steel God, who had told his enforcer they’d keep it quiet for the time being.
Red was wrong about Lafitte. He would never turn on Steel God. He didn’t want to lead, didn’t want any spotlights shining in his face. Someone would recognize him. A certain someone Lafitte hoped only to see on the day he finally got over his moral crisis and decided to kill the fucker. Until then, Lafitte didn’t mind creeping around in Steel God’s shadow one bit.
Red Gator kept spilling his shit, enough to keep Steel God interested without giving away too much as to be completely useless. But he already was. Steel God was only letting him speak so as to scare those pussy-assed mutineers. Steel God lifted his beer to his lips, long pull, then grinned. Hard to see his lips through the thick coal black mustache and beard. He grunted, turned his face to the mutineers, of course standing all together. Dumbasses couldn’t even work out how that looked.
“That true, fellas? You going to jump ship?”
They tittered a bit, all nervous. “Naw, man, naw.”
A few others laughed, too. The women of those guys laid it on too thick. Sun was going down and no one could see each other’s faces as well, only by flame light, full of shadows. Steel God’s laugh was rough like sandpaper, loud like Jimmy Page’s guitar. Everyone laughed when Steel God laughed. He sat up.
“You…you going to bring down the Steel God?” Bellowed. It echoed back from
the low clouds. He stood and chunked his beer bottle at the mutineers. They scattered, watched it fall amongst them and bust to pieces on hard dirt. Steel God stepped over to Red, who was a tad more relaxed in his chair now, and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. Red’s hands must’ve been numb. God knows Lafitte tied the wire tight enough.
“Jesus, Red, you’ve come down with diarrhea of the mouth now? If it’s that easy for you to spill on your own people here, why should I believe you wouldn’t do the same to me?”
Oh, that got him. The shadows on his face changed. Red said, “Honest, God, you’ve got to. When have I ever? Why?”
“Red, do you think that lawyer who came for you was a public defender? Didn’t you know that’s our man? And I don’t pay our man to let him make deals that betray me. As soon as he sat down, he tells me, there you go. The first thing you said.” Steel God turned to face the group, said it to them even though they all knew the words. “ ‘I’ll give up the big man for a free ride.’”
Another round of laughing. Hee-hawing. Kneeslapping. Beer spitting. Lafitte just wanted to get it over with, get out of the wind. Disposing of Red Gator was his responsibility. He was already thinking of how to do it—knife across the throat. No, no, quiet but messy. Didn’t want to attract the animals too soon. Had to be a gunshot, something like a .22 in the head. Bury him out in the wasted corn field, hope it was deep enough. It would be hard digging. Lafitte would have to recruit the mutineers. Anytime he was able to sidestep killing, he did. Tired of bodies. Didn’t mind inflicting pain, though. Especially if it worked.
First things first. Time for the main event.
Steel God nodded at Lafitte, who stepped over to the barbecue pit, lifted the sledgehammer that was leaning against it. The wooden handle had been warmed by the fire. Made the wind all that much colder to Lafitte as he carried the hammer to Steel God. The big man dropped the unlit cigar, lifted the sledgehammer as if it were a helium balloon. Lafitte had never seen Steel God struggle with anything except a bad cough, leftover from his smoking days. Somehow Lafitte guessed Steel God could will himself to beat cancer, too, if that’s what it was. No cough in sight that night. Just a giant with a huge hammer.
He told Lafitte, “Put him on the trunk.”
The circle tittered some more, mostly the women, but they’d all seen it coming. No use fooling about it, think it was all just a scare tactic. Steel God hadn’t kept the club together this long because of his compassion. You played straight with him, he played straight with you.
Red Gator could hardly suck in breath as Lafitte and another guy named Fry, meth skinny but fast and vicious, loosed him from the chair and led him to the tree trunk. The circle closed in. Darker still. Lafitte’s vision danced with squiggles, flashing greens, adjusted slowly. Red Gator’s teeth chattered loud enough for all to hear.
“Stretch him out.”
The wail started then. Red Gator let out a Noooo! Please! Noooo! Poor guy. But it had been all their asses on the line because of this whiny prick. Punishment had to fit the crime. Lafitte grabbed Red’s forearms, Fry got his legs. They pulled him taut on his back across the smooth surface of the trunk. He thrashed, pulled, but wasn’t going anywhere. For a small guy, Fry was all muscle, tight like ropes that hold barges to their docks. Lafitte had never been a slouch, but Steel God had started him on anabolic steroids to make sure he always had the edge. The smell of Red’s fear-sweat was like sulfur.
The circle, closer still. It parted like the Red Sea as Steel God finally made his way up front, then closed behind him. Hammer hanging at his side.
He said, “It’s your words that got you in trouble. So let’s see about taking them from you. Forever.”
Lafitte had talked it over with Steel God. The punishment was only symbolic. Pulverize the snitch’s jaw and teeth. Turn it to mush. Lafitte would still have to shoot the guy later. The only difference was the message behind it. Maybe someone can steel themselves for a gunshot. The shame of the punishment, though, in front of your woman, your friends, your brothers…that crushed a man’s soul.
“Any last words, partner? Anything you need to say?”
Red’s chattering teeth almost did him in. Whimpering now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. God, please, I’m sorry. I…I’m just…sorry.”
Steel God shook his head. “Ah, what a waste. You could’ve at least called me a goddamned son of a bitch. Because if you’re looking for forgiveness, you’ve come to the wrong priest.”
With that, Steel God hefted the hammer, made a clockwise windmill to get the feel for it. Double-gripped it, brought it up, back, then down down down on Red. Missed his jaw and instead crushed his throat.
Red’s head, mouth gaping, lolled around on the trunk. Awful fucking noise scraping up through his windpipe, what was left of it. Chalkboard scratch, strangled duck, a bandsaw drowning. Lafitte winced. He was glad he hadn’t seen it in the bright light of day. The circle seemed to whimper, this man gasping and grating for air that came like ice cream through a straw.
“Aw, shit,” Steel God said. He let out a long sigh, the visible cloud of it hanging in the air over the trunk. Lafitte and Fry held tight to Red, violently shaking head to toe.
Steel God hefted the sledgehammer again. That was a surprise to Lafitte. He pulled his head back, still feeling the swipe of the hammer, maybe a couple of inches from his nose, as Steel God slammed it home on Red Gator’s face. The scraping noises stopped. Lafitte wouldn’t have to shoot anyone after all. Their usually merciless leader had finished the job for him.
Lafitte wondered if that second hammer strike, coming a bit too close for comfort, was a bit of a warning, too. Maybe Steel God really thought Lafitte was in on the mutiny. Not a good sign.
Steel God gazed down on what was left of Red Gator. Maybe he looked a bit sad. Even though Red was a traitor, Lafitte was sure that Steel God understood the impulse. He needed to be taken out, but now they were a man down. The other MCs would hear about it soon enough. The mutineers would grow restless, reckless. If it all fell apart, Lafitte wasn’t looking for another front in his personal war. He might as well be as dead as Red.
Steel God dropped the hammer. Nodded at Lafitte. “Put him in the ground.”
Then he grabbed one of his women and headed towards the farm house.
*
Hours later, Lafitte spread himself facedown across the mattress in the upstairs room next door to Steel God’s. Only one wall was slightly scorched. Looked like it had been a little girls room, with pastel yellow walls, some cobwebbed stuffed critters, and a fancy twin bed. He was sore, the dig draining his energy. He’d recruited two guys—one a mutineer and the other not, so he wouldn’t have to hear bullshit about how Steel God had really crossed the line this time, etc. etc.—but neither one was digging as hard and fast as Lafitte.
His “old lady” sat beside him, her leg propped under as she slid his briefs down so the elastic stretched across the bottom of his ass. Kristal poked the small needle into the meat and plunged. Lafitte grunted. He would never get used to it. Not having much effect on his balls yet, but he didn’t really care any more. Sex was something to do, helped pass the time or get the steam out. Not like he would be falling in love. Kristal, so pale her skin was see-thru in the right light—was a better friend than she was a lay. Twenty-three, nothing fancy about her until she dolled up in make-up. Limp brown hair hung past her shoulders. Plain skinny, not leaning either way. Couldn’t suck cock to save her life. She only really satisfied him when she was on her knees, her ass sticking up in the air. Maybe twice a week, enough for Lafitte.
He liked talking to her, though. Found out she’d quit meth cold turkey after her last man in the club died in a shootout. She planned on leaving eventually to attend community college, maybe become an X-ray tech like her Aunt Jess. She knew how to get all the dirt on the mutiny and any other gossip without coming across like a snitch, even if that’s exactly what she was, feeding info to Lafitte and thus to Steel God. Kristal was smarter t
han she should be, a high school dropout who could barely point out where she was on a map of the world, but someone had taught her well about other things along the way.
Even if the sex wasn’t much to smile about, Lafitte did love the way she felt against him at night or on the back of his chopper. Nice heat. Nice smell.
Kristal pulled the needle out, swabbed Lafitte’s ass cheek, and ran her hand over his back. She said, “You don’t need these.”
“He’ll know if I stop.”
“Maybe not. I think he’s missing more than we realize.”
Lafitte turned his head, got a peek of her over his shoulder. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Fuck you.” She slapped his ass, yanked up the briefs, nearly giving him a wedgie. “I’m on his side, is why I’m saying it. We need to keep an eye, help him out.”
“So what’s he missing?”
Kristal reached back for the dusty quilt at the foot of the bed, motioned with her hip for him to give her room. She covered them in the quilt and spooned tight against Lafitte. “The coup is coming from the women. Those guys just like pussy and fighting. It’s the women who want some changes.”
“And you think God doesn’t know about that?”
A stretch of silence, then, “Does he?”
Yeah, Lafitte would be the one to know. Unless, of course, Kristal had been feeding him less than she should have. Maybe because she was in on it. Sneaky. He said, “Tell me who’s leading the pack.”
“Just so happens the one he chose tonight.”
Lafitte remembered—she was the redhead, Anastasia. Been around a while, met up with her in Pierre, former mama in a Mongol chapter. Probably in her mid-thirties. Steel God had taken an instant liking, but he made the woman work her way up the ladder. He wanted to see if she really had what he needed or if she’d bounce out at the next big town. Turned out she was a tough bitch and a half. Raked some eyes the first time Steel God’s eighteen-year-old fling of the week stared her down.
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