Hogdoggin'

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Kristal’s lips parted, hung open for a moment. Eyes got wider. “You mean…wait, I was mad last night is all. Better now.”

  “Maybe so, but I think I need to ride alone this time. Clear my head. Might help you too.”

  “I’m not the one hiding a cell phone.”

  He turned his head to her, his finger to his lips. Then, “You want to stay with me? I mean, over the long haul?”

  She nodded. “I’d like to, yeah. You’re usually…nice to me. You listen to me. But last night, I’d never seen that from you. Like some sorta Jekyll and Hyde thing.”

  Lafitte sighed. Kristal was right, and she was smart. She’d be on top of this, find out what it was about the phone that set him off. She’d plant some seeds among some of the women, who would then whisper in their men’s ears. Those men would come for him and pry the secret out with fists and boots.

  He told her, “I’ve got some stuff back home to deal with. The phone is a signal that I’d better deal with it now instead of later. I need to tell Steel God, so I want you to go on ahead just in case.”

  “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

  Lafitte shrugged. “No one’s business. I don’t unpack my baggage here, and I don’t truck none of the club’s baggage out. Two separate rooms with a thick wall between them.”

  Kristal stood from the bed, wearing only her panties, and slinked over to him, something she must’ve picked up from soap operas. Her hand glided across his back, and then she was hugging him from behind. Every bit felt phony to Lafitte. Like Steel God had said: read the temperature. If she wanted to hang on like this, it must mean she was in on the plan to get rid of the big guy, and that Lafitte was an important part of it.

  She said, “You’ll be back? I feel safer with you, the way things have been going lately.”

  Maybe too smart for her own good. Lafitte turned in her arms, held her closer. “Just a few days, that’s all.” Thinking, She gets caught, this won’t end well. A little voice called in the back of his mind, Take her with you.

  She wouldn’t have it. He knew. Girl was ambitious. Besides, he didn’t want an entire biker cult following him across the country. Maybe she’d work on Richie. That’s who Lafitte planned on suggesting as his replacement anyway. Young, loyal, strong. They would make a cute couple, and maybe he’d have a better shot than Lafitte at convincing Kristal to abandon the coup plans and wait her turn as the head guy’s old lady.

  He kissed her gently. “Be a good girl while I’m gone.”

  She grinned. “Tight as a nun.”

  *

  Steel God almost surely noticed when Kristal rode out with Richie Rich, but he kept it to himself until nearly everyone had left. It was early afternoon by then, two more couples having left, leaving God and his Sergeant-at-Arms alone. Steel God was between old ladies, his last having died of breast cancer months before Lafitte entered the picture, and no one knew if he was looking or not. The big man had been riding solo since, although with Anastasia spending more and more nights in his bed, Lafitte wondered how long before she was up there with him.

  God and Lafitte sat on their choppers, stared at the horizon across the backfield, Red Gator’s final resting place, at least until the soil is turned over by the tractors in the Spring, scattering what was left of him.

  Steel God said, “Lover’s spat?”

  Lafitte let out a breath through his nose. “Something like that.”

  “She’s trouble, ain’t she? Smart one.”

  “You told me smart was good.”

  “No, I told you it’s good to recognize smart. I didn’t say let it suck your cock.”

  Steel God laughed, slapped Lafitte’s shoulder. Lafitte cleared his throat.

  When the laughs died down to rumbles in Steel God’s throat, Lafitte said, “Something’s come up. I’ve got to leave.”

  The big man lowered his chin to his chest. Belched silently. Then, “Fuck off.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “So am I. You said you wanted a new life. I gave it to you.”

  Lafitte couldn’t argue that. He ran his hand across the hog’s motor, the chopper a gift once Steel God was convinced he needed a new enforcer. The previous one got the message and split, headed for the Hell’s Angels. The bike had been built for Steel God by his brother. A bulky thing, all chrome and a weird, almost aqua blue. Thick-wheeled. Sounded like a dragon. Then Steel God found out his brother had been wired up by local police when he delivered it to God for his birthday. So the bike ended up in a barn for the past three years, and no one heard from the brother again. Steel God gave the bike to Lafitte. Bought him a jacket, too. Made him start shooting the steroids, though. Handed over plenty of rough work—guys skimming off cash or product, customers trying to cheat, couple of guys beating on their women for no good reason. Had to pay for the haul somehow.

  “I can’t let this one alone,” Lafitte said. He kept his eyes on the ground beside his bike. “If I do, it’ll haunt me. I’ll drink myself to death, if I don’t eat my gun first.”

  Steel God tugged his aviator glasses down so he could peer over the top, motioned for Lafitte to meet his eyes. Lafitte did. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.

  “No. Have to say no, Billy.” He’d never found a nickname for Lafitte. Said his name already sounded enough like a pirate. “Let’s start pushing.”

  Steel God dismounted, held his handlebars, and pushed off for the road. A few steps on, he looked back and saw Lafitte still on his hog, shoulders slumped. Not even thinking of moving.

  “Come on, Billy. We can talk later.”

  Lafitte shook his head. “Can’t. I’ve got to go.”

  “Thought we were done with that.”

  “I’ve got two kids.” Lafitte didn’t want to say that. Not to this thug. Lafitte was as loyal as possible out here in the wasteland, but it felt like role-playing in some fantasy world while waiting to get back to his real life. Didn’t matter that the people he hurt bled real blood and begged for real mercy. Just actors playing victims the same way he was playing assassin. Nothing would tie him to any of this, even while he kept his own name, since what happened in the club stayed in the club. Talking about his real life with this…this cold-blooded killer, this egomaniac, and probably the most trustworthy friend he’d had in years, felt way bad.

  But what else could he do? “Two kids and a wife. Ex-wife, but to me, you know. Look, something’s happened. I need to find out what.”

  Couldn’t lift his chin. He’d argued with Steel God before. He’d convinced the man several times not to kill someone when being smart was the better play. When he’d lost, he played the loyal soldier, did his job clean and quick. This was different. No more acting.

  Lafitte waited. No answer. Kept waiting. Still nothing but bird calls and echoes. He finally looked up and found that Steel God was turned away, bike still pointed towards the road.

  Lafitte said, “I’m not asking.”

  Steel God kicked his stand down and spun, started fast towards Lafitte. Stone-faced, one track mind. Lafitte reflexed back, forgot he was on a bike, nearly fell. Dismounted and let the chopper go as he scrambled for the Glock pistol his boss had given him.

  Got hold, yanked it out, and lifted it in time to stop Steel God’s advance. Maybe two feet between them. Steel God could’ve swiped the gun out of Lafitte’s hand. Others had pointed guns at the big guy before and ended up with broken fingers and soiled pants after Steel God was through with them. But Lafitte did it and stopped his boss cold.

  Steel God crossed his arms. “You know what this means, right?”

  Lafitte swallowed hard. Tasted brass. “Means I go home and you go wherever it is you go.”

  Head shake. “Not that easy, Billy.”

  “It has to be.”

  “If I jump you, you’ll shoot?”

  Lafitte cleared his throat again. Maybe killing Steel God was his ticket back to respectability anyway. Could help forgive a lot. He gave up on the old cop’s ha
bit of keeping his index finger rigid along the side of the pistol, instead slipping it inside the trigger guard slowly so Steel God got the picture.

  The big guy grinned, took a step back. He sniffed the air. Billy got a whiff, too. Somewhere, a plant was firing up the soybeans. Steel God said, “I always thought it smelled like ass during the fall here. You’re the one that told me it was more like peanut butter. Captain Crunch, you said. I like that attitude.”

  “I’m not coming back.”

  “Who the fuck’s going to do your job, then?”

  “I like the Rich kid. I trust him.” Lafitte’s mouth was dry. He figured there was no use hiding his fear. “I wouldn’t lead you wrong.”

  That got Steel God barking laughter. “That’s why your woman’s riding bitch with him? You handing her off like some inheritance? Naughty, naughty.” Shook his finger. Lafitte flinched.

  Flinched hard.

  The pistol bucked, but Lafitte had swung it up, above Steel God’s chest, over his shoulder. He’d never seen the big man shrink, but there it was. He squeezed his eyes shut and crouched down, hands jerked up over his ears.

  Fuck, Lafitte thought. It’s him that’s scared of me.

  He recovered, got the gun low, this time getting a bead on Steel God’s forehead while the man stayed low and brought his hands to his knees. Turned his face to Lafitte’s. No anger. Mostly the puffy cheeks and rough grin reminded Lafitte of his father, when they’d gone fishing. When Lafitte had finally been able to catch one and get it off the line himself without any help.

  Lafitte motioned with the pistol. “Up. You need to get out of here before someone checks out who was shooting.”

  Steel God nodded. Grunted. Then said, “I need a hand. Knees aren’t what they used to be.”

  Lafitte thought about Steel God yanking him down, stripping the gun away, doing him in without a second to blink. The man looked tired, though. Squinched up with pain. Lafitte switched the gun to his left hand, reached out with his right. Steel God took hold, grunted himself up. Kept the grip tight a few moments more, Lafitte almost ready to fight for release when the big man let go.

  They passed a couple of head nods, backed away from each other. Lafitte realized he’d dropped the gun arm, aiming at the ground.

  Steel God noticed too, pointed and kind of laughed, not so loud. Shrugged and said, “So it goes.”

  “I’m sorry, but…” But what? It’s his goddamned family. Lafitte hated that, thinking he even owed the guy an apology. “I’ve got to go.”

  Steel God turned to his bike, mounted up. No need to walk it out any more. He was about to kick off when he looked over his shoulder, said, “You remember how to get in touch with Momma, right?”

  Lafitte remembered First couple of days with the crew, Steel God made him memorize a phone number. He said it was in case any one of his people got in trouble, got lost, got separated from the others. He’d drilled it into all the new members heads. After Red Gator was arrested, Steel God gathered everyone up and gave them a new number, but said that they’d reach the same person as the last one—his own mother. Lafitte had never called, although he was tempted once or twice, if only to take a listen. He had no idea who would be on the other end, but the idea that Steel God had a mother still alive, and that she took messages for him, just plain silly.

  Still, Lafitte rattled off those ten replacement digits soon as Steel God asked. The big man said, “If you finish with your business and change your mind about coming back, give Momma a call. Ask about Hugh. Ask her how Hugh’s doing. Tell her you’d love for Hugh to drop in for a visit. She’ll let you know what to do.”

  “Really?”

  “Let’s say about a month, okay? If you haven’t asked about Hugh in a month, then I guess you meeting him wasn’t meant to be.”

  Steel God kicked off and the chopper roared. He throttled high and long before saluting Lafitte like a Marine, sliced his hand down, lifted his middle finger and shook it hard. Big grin, big tobacco-stained teeth, and he was gone.

  Lafitte waved away the kicked-up dirt cloud and tried to keep a bead on Steel God, but he had disappeared at the front of his dust wake.

  Lafitte’s stomach surged, burned bitter up his throat, and he doubled-over, spewing vomit across the ground. Dipped to his knees, let it keep coming, gasping for breath in-between. But the vomiting wasn’t so bad. He was happy to do it. Hell, he was surprised to even be alive.

  FOUR

  The phone rang once, then again. Rome thought his wife would pick it up as usual. The third ring, he shouted, “Honey?”

  “Fuck you!”

  Already a bit slurry and it wasn’t even noon. He’d promised to go with her to some shops on Magazine Street, but one file led to another and another, and he’d wasted two hours. Desiree hadn’t said a word about it, of course. No, just sat in the kitchen with a bottle of local rum and a two liter of Coca Cola. Maybe Rome wouldn’t have lost track of time if she’d sent up a little reminder. But she wanted it this way, leaving it all on his shoulders while she stood back, arms crossed, not offering to bear any of it. What the fuck did she expect? You can’t heal a partnership without any goddamned partnership.

  “Fine, honey.” The fourth ring cut off as the answering machine took over, the dial tone buzzing over the electronic greeting. Ten seconds later, Rome’s cell buzzed. McKeown.

  Rome started with, “Why’d you even call the house if you were going to call the cell anyway?”

  “Sorry. Forgot.”

  “You have something for me? Some reason to interrupt my day off?” As if that meant anything, really.

  “No word from up North, sir. No contact yet. This is about the wife’s story.”

  Rome turned to the window, stared out at the courtyard he shared with several other shotgun houses. “Go on.”

  “Looks like it checks out enough that you can up the pressure. Nothing official, but the local noise has the banger’s brother on the lookout for Lafitte. No one believes Asimov pulled the trigger. They don’t think he was quite that hard-assed.”

  Interesting. Ginny Lafitte hadn’t come right out and said it, but Rome got the feeling she was hinting at Billy carrying a lot more dirt than first expected. The woman was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, too. All the better to hang her out as bait. As long as Rome could keep his grip tight without crushing her fragile state of mind, he’d get a second shot at Lafitte and do it right this time.

  “Maybe I can talk to the brother, then. Is he part of the gang?”

  “No, he’s clean. A grieving brother, but not beyond seeking justice on his own, I’d say.”

  “Call me if you hear anything else.” Then he remembered his wife seething downstairs. “Leave a message on the cell. If Lafitte shows up, text me. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch later this afternoon.”

  “Sir?”

  “Busy. Promises to keep.” Flipped it closed.

  More staring. He couldn’t get Ginny Lafitte out of his head. At first, she had seemed shaky, ready to crumble in little more than a stiff wind. As they settled to talk in her dining room, her daughter Savannah playing with a noisy handheld computer game, teaching math or something, although the kid punched buttons randomly instead of waiting for the full questions, Ginny took on a serene, possibly drugged, countenance. Like Elizabeth Taylor, but spacier.

  “Please understand,” she told Rome. “It wasn’t about falling out of love. Maybe it’s been too long to still be that sort of love, you know…”

  She just stopped. Her head dipped, eyes went to a spot on the table. Rome cleared his throat. That didn’t help. He said, “I know.”

  Ginny blinked a few times. “I won’t do anything to hurt him.”

  “Mrs. Lafitte—”

  “No. Please. Don’t.” A grin. “Ginny’s fine.”

  I don’t think so. “We’re in better shape to help him than he would be on his own.”

  With that, she lifted her head, chin high, looked down her nose at him. “That’s pret
ty damn scary to imagine, can’t you see?”

  It went downhill from there, but at least she talked. Damn it, if only to spite Rome, Ginny Lafitte spilled a few things she would probably regret later. Oh yeah, if she was willing to go that far on her own, Rome was certainly ready to push her off the cliff.

  Except that as soon as he thought it, he felt kind of sick.

  *

  Downstairs a few minutes later, Rome clasped on his watch and walked into the kitchen. Desiree was at the kitchen table, chin on her palm, elbow holding her up. Her other hand was curled around a glass, half-full of rum and cherry cola. Jesus, he’d even promised her a stop at Red Fish Grill, where they made Desiree’s favorite hurricane, and that still wasn’t enough to restrain her.

  “I’m ready when you are,” Rome said.

  She shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “I even told him not to bother me while we’re out.”

  “Oh, that’s right? I rate a full two or three hours away from the cell phone? I’m supposed to feel special?”

  Not even looking at him. Rotating her glass slowly on the table, no coaster. A really fucking expensive table she’d demanded they buy from an antique dealer in the Quarter their first few weeks in town. Since then, she’d burned it with cigarettes, scraped it with knives, and left interlocking water circles all over.

  Rome sighed. “I’ve been looking forward to this. I like to see you happy.”

  “Let me finish this first.” Lifted her glass, finally looked up at him. She saw the cell phone clipped to his belt. “I thought you said—”

  He had it off before she finished the sentence. “Habit. That’s all. Look, I’m putting it on the bar here. See?”

  Desiree rolled her eyes, turned back and hunched over the drink. Rome took a coaster from the bar, stepped over to the table and dropped it next to her glass. He lifted the glass, placed it on the coaster. Desiree reached for it as soon as his fingers cleared the rim. Slung the rum and cola and ice across his crotch before setting the glass back on the table, not on the coaster.