Hogdoggin'

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Big guy turned to Perry. “Where’s this bar?”

  Perry shook his head. “Man, you’ve got to call the cops first. I’m not kidding. This is some bad shit.”

  The girl had walked a little further ahead. She called out, “I see it. It’s off the road, right past this rise. I’m pretty sure.”

  When she got back to where the big guy stood beside the bike, both looked down at Perry like he was a dog in a pen. That was a bad feeling, worse than the fake cops back at the bar. Couple of people examining you like it was their own private pet shop.

  “You think?” she said.

  Big guy grunted. Leaned his head left, right. That Santa Claus effect again. Perry had been too naughty.

  He opened his mouth to beg but his jaw hurt. Ended up aiming the plea at the girl. Like, soft fur maybe equaled soft heart. He said, “Please…please…just call Nine One One and leave me right here. Don’t even give them your names. I’ll never tell.”

  Dead eyes. That was all he got. She’d seen plenty of bad things done to men. What was Perry but a stranger, right?

  Big Guy said to the girl, “FBI beat us to him?”

  “Maybe. But he said there were only two.” To Perry. “Only two, right?”

  Perry nodded, even felt like a puppy. Nodded fast. “Please.”

  The big guy rested his hand on the gun lump under his jacket, sighed. Tapped his fingers one after the other. Sounded weird on the suede.

  The girl said, “There’s a farmhouse right there, and if the Feds are still at the bar…”

  “I know. I can still do it.”

  He took a step towards Perry, who fell off his knees onto his ass then tried to scoot back, but the big guy leaned over and landed a hand on Perry’s shoulder. Perry moaned because he felt sick inside and thought he’d choke if he tried to yell, and maybe these two would leave him alone if he looked more pathetic.

  “Sorry, dude. Wish there were a better way.”

  The hand gripped the back of Perry’s collar, lifted him like he was wet paper towels. His bowels finally went. He tried to pull away, but this guy, like some sort of wrestler. Pinned his arms, squeezed the fight out of him. Couldn’t get any air to yell for help. The fake cops were real cops. Maybe they could hear him if he yelled, but he couldn’t get enough air in, and then less and less each time until he was burning and sleepy. That’s when a giant arm wrapped around his neck and made him gag, got in tight under his chin, another hand reaching across his face, digging into his cheek. And then a hard jerk. Fuck! Bones in his neck cracking, Don’t say fuck. Sorry, God. I’m so sorry.

  He was half numb down his left side. Worse than cold snow. Not all smooth the way the paint numbed him. This was just all bad. Big guy hugged Perry closer. Gripped tighter. Clawed his cheek again, and then—

  Sorry. Sor. S.

  *

  Steel God dragged the skinny dude’s limp body to the side of the road, tossed it in the ditch, watched it flop once, roll, fling its arm out wide. Waited another minute. It didn’t move any more. Steel God checked himself, boot to shoulder, to make sure none of the guy’s shit had leaked through or dripped out.

  “I wonder,” he said, mostly to himself. “How many people get away with killing up here? Not one car passed the whole time.”

  Kristal stood with crossed arms, the GPS locator tucked against her ribs. “He’ll get found. We need to hurry.”

  Steel God picked some bugs off his beard. “You’re right. It’s why I brought you along.”

  “You brought me along because it was my idea.”

  If it wasn’t a grin, it was close. “Okay. That’s what you want to think. Maybe I was curious, you still wanting him after he slapped you around.”

  “It was just the one slap, and my pussy doesn’t do my thinking for me.”

  “Who said anything about your pussy? I meant your heart, little lady.”

  Kristal turned her face away. “Can we hurry this up, please?”

  Steel God stepped back over to the bike, smoothed his hand across the saddle. “Soon as you admit it.”

  She did that thing women do, shaking her head to let him know she’s only saying something to shut him up. “It’s what’s best for the family, all of us. We need him.”

  Steel God pursed his lips and ran his tongue between them. The wind picked up. It whistled and brought with it the chug of a distant train that would be along soon enough. He looked back over at the body. It was hard to miss.

  “Maybe so,” he said. “That’s what we’re here to find out. How far ahead?”

  “Not even a hundred yards.”

  “Let’s walk the bike in, keep things quiet. At least we know what we’re up against now.”

  Kristal said, “Yeah, real lucky running into that guy.”

  Steel God grunted as he took the chopper by the grips and pushed it towards the blip they’d been following ever since Mom called and gave them the coordinates after doing a reverse look-up on the number. Sure as hell sounded like Lafitte, she’d said, even if he didn’t use the code.

  They’d lost the first blip, the one for the bike. Steel God had a locator on all his guys’ rides. None of them knew. He had decided it was worth tracking Billy awhile once Kristal admitted what she knew. Regardless of the girl’s encouragement, Steel God would have gone after him anyway. Kristal spoke one hundred percent truth: they needed that motherfucking traitor Lafitte back like birds needed sky.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Desiree sat in a window seat on her way to Denver, the layover where she would board a flight to Sioux Falls, which would land around twelve-thirty, six and a half hours after getting underway and costing her a goddamned fortune. Sun barely up, she hadn’t slept except maybe a half hour on the flight, and shaken awake by turbulence, the doubt began. Under her breath, said, “What the hell am I doing?”

  Still no peep from Franklin on her way to the airport, then the short wait before she had to turn her cell phone off. She would try again at every stop along the way. Hard to tell which was getting to her more—the anger or the fear. Once Franklin had come back from Minnesota, after the violent streak ebbed, she had thought the dangerous days were behind them. It was a promotion, after all. No one wanted the top dogs out there getting shot at by rogue terrorist cops. But what do you do when a top dog wants to get shot at?

  Another bump. The sitcom on the overhead monitors blacked out for a second, then came back. This seat cost a fortune, Desiree thought again, and it’s still third class. Typical. Like Franklin, given all his options laid out on fine linen and silver platters, he chooses the shittiest one. New Orleans? Post Katrina? She didn’t get it at first, thinking maybe he wanted to see some strippers and eat some gumbo. Then she warmed to the idea, as it appeared Franklin’s plan all along was to wait out his bosses, as they were obviously looking for ways out before the whole city sank into the Gulf. Fine with Desiree. The King of a sinking kingdom was still a King.

  Glanced out the plane window as the engine cycled down, first hint of the initial descent into Denver. Shook her head. Why had she done it? Why act like a raging bitch instead of steering them towards a counselor or something? Like she could win just like that, all hardheaded and self-righteous. Shit. Too busy planning her own little strategy to see the one Franklin was cooking up under the FBI’s nose.

  Where the hell was he, anyway?

  Would be a big waste, fly all that way only to discover Franklin was safe and sound at home, hidden away in a boardroom or drunk off his ass in the Quarter. In that case, it wasn’t Franklin she was after. After speaking with McKeown, Desiree turned to her most valuable source of intel: other agents’ wives. She’s met enough of them along the way to realize they all had an understanding. Let the husbands play cloak and daggers “That’s Classified” and “Need to Know Basis”. You want to find out what’s going on, ask a few wives, all of whom share the same fears and know what it’s like to be in the dark, and you’ll find enough to piece together the real story like a jigsaw p
uzzle. All you owed in return is the same honesty that was given to you.

  That said, it took four calls to discover that McKeown had caught a plane for Sioux Falls in the middle of the night, and was last seen driving away with a local policewoman in an old sports car, most likely down a county road back into southwestern Minnesota. Desiree put it together, knew who they had found. The tricky part was finding where they had found him. She climbed aboard the plane still not sure, but was getting there, maybe, and hoping she’d make it before Franklin.

  So impulsive. Probably all for nothing. But she felt pulled along, like it was instinct moving, like the Holy Ghost, like stepping in front of a bullet to save your husband.

  The bullet was Lafitte, and always would be unless Desiree got to him first and did what none of these goddamned pretty boy agents couldn’t do, didn’t have the balls or the permission.

  Desiree dinged the flight attendant, asked if she could get a gin and tonic.

  “Ma’am, sorry, but we’re not stocked like that for a morning flight.”

  Desiree sighed, patted the seat beside her and asked the attendant to sit for a second. The girl, white, maybe in her early twenties, with fire red hair pinned up to make her whole uniform look like it was for a sorority costume party, glanced up the aisle, then dropped the smile and sat.

  Desiree whispered, “You got orange juice?”

  “Yes we do.”

  “So how much would it take to get you to pour one of your own private stash of tiny vodka bottles into that orange juice for me, sweetie?”

  The girl caught Dee’s grin, looked into eyes that had spotted better liars than this little sky waitress before they’d even opened their mouths.

  “Twenty bucks.”

  A nod. “Ten, and I won’t bust you once we land.”

  *

  The State Trooper lit Rome up somewhere south of Memphis. Rome had been on the road nearly six hours, stopping only for gas and coffee, keeping the speed up near eighty most of the way. When he saw the lights in the rearview, he thought two things: It’s going to be fine and It’s over right here.

  The State Cop would either be a Dick or Groupie: ready to show how big his balls were, or eager as little Nate to please Mr. Special Agent Sir.

  Rome pulled over. The squad slid in behind him. Sidelight hit the tag. Then hit the driver’s sideview, wanting a look at the driver. Rome readied his ID. Looked at his watch. Ran his palm down his face and took in a deep breath.

  Two Troopers in the car, both getting out, flanking the car. Not a good sign. Doing that slow gait Trooper walk. Rome lowered the window, got his grin ready, and crossed his fingers.

  “Good morning, Officer.”

  The Trooper leaned in a bit, pointed at the ID wallet on Rome’s lap. “Mind if I take a look?”

  Rome handed it over. The Trooper flipped it open, nodded, and handed it back. “Seeing if it was you, Agent Rome, that’s all. How’s the trip so far?”

  Big smile now. Come on. “Probably better if I could fly.”

  The Trooper laughed, his partner laughed and Rome soaked it in. “I hear you, yeah. You’d think your bosses would loosen the purse strings a little, right? Don’t they know how much gas costs?”

  “Hey, they’re the government. They’re the ones making it rise.”

  Another round of jollies, and Rome settled a bit. This seemed to be going his way.

  “Well, it’s a good thing we ran across you like this. We heard from the D.A.’s office in Memphis, and they’ve asked that we escort you to the airport. Your chariot awaits.”

  The grin was real when Rome said, “Much obliged, gentlemen. Send my regards.”

  “Anytime.” The Trooper reached out his hand. They shook. A few minutes later, Rome was hot on the trail of a Tennessee State Highway Patrol squad, lights and sirens full bore, Rome’s emergency blinkers flashing, all because he’d happened to have a few drinks with an Assistant District Attorney from Memphis at a conference on Terrorism and the World Wide Web. That’s why you had to play the social game. You never knew when you might need to borrow another state’s Learjet.

  That was answered prayer number one. Needed one more before time was up and he turned back into a pumpkin.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Colleen was afraid to move Lafitte. It already looked as if he was in a coma, so maybe trying to rouse him wasn’t the best idea. But after a few more minutes of staring at Fawn’s corpse, the way her fingers still curled as if clutching the gun that was now a few feet away where McKeown kicked it, the agent perked back up and said he wanted Lafitte sitting, feeling better, and talking, like, right fucking now.

  First Colleen went down to the basement and found the wire, the puke, the blood. A torture chamber. Perry and Fawn weren’t the patriotic do-gooders they made themselves out to be after all. The whole story had smelled bad anyway, and now Colleen knew why. Yeah, that was nice. She had the makings of a real detective after all. Always told Nate that if she was given a chance…but in Yellow Medicine County it was all farm kids and crankheads ratting each other out. No one had much of a chance to detect anything other than the office pool betting on who the next OD would be.

  Upstairs, she told McKeown and he said, “Hm. That’s good.” Rubbed his hands together. Guy was shook up a little, like he hadn’t been in a firefight before. Like he hadn’t expected to ever be. Neither had Colleen, but she’d come close, and she’d seen enough movies, read enough novels and true crime books to take a deep breath and put it out of her head. Later. Deal with shock later. Deal with the situation here now.

  “So, about calling someone,” she said.

  “Not right now.” He waved her towards the bar. “Come on, help.”

  “Can’t we wake him up where he is? I mean, they always say ‘Don’t move the victim’. See if he can move on his own.”

  McKeown shook his head, squeezed his eyes tight a moment. “No, no, we don’t have time, remember? The quicker he’s sitting up, the quicker I can get him talking and writing out a statement.”

  Colleen knelt beside Lafitte, lifted his forearm so McKeown could have a closer look. Shook it. Fingers pale and purple. “You want him to write? Look at his fucking hands! His wrists are bleeding, his fingers are bleeding. Jesus, you really don’t know much besides what they taught you in class, and you’re even fucking that up.”

  “Just…look…this is different. I need him to talk now.”

  “There’ll be time later.”

  McKeown flung his arms wide, let out an exasperated breath and cluck and said, “No! There’s no time. It’s not what you think, all right? It’s none of your business either, but can’t you act like the fucking patrol cop you are and stop trying to be my partner?”

  Colleen crossed her arms. “Real nice, cocksucker.”

  He stepped over to Lafitte, bent over and lifted under his shoulders. “Enough, come on. Shut up and help.”

  She took a step back, leaned against the bar. “Tell me why first.”

  McKeown grit his teeth and groaned. He tried to drag Lafitte backwards, slipped after barely a foot. He dropped Lafitte, shook his hand wildly. “Motherfuck!”

  “What?”

  “Bent my fingernail back. Jesus.” He tightened his left fingers around his right. Then took a look, shook them lighter the second time.

  “You okay?”

  Stood there breathing loudly through his nostrils, looked around at the tables.

  “Maybe there,” he pointed to one against the wall. “Let him sit up, see if it helps.”

  Colleen didn’t move. Pushed her tongue into her bottom lip.

  McKeown said, “Listen, I’m sorry, okay? I’m under a lot of pressure here, and I promise I’ll tell you later. I’m sorry for what I said. Now…please?”

  He reached under Lafitte’s shoulders again and waited, looking up at her. Colleen looked the other way, thinking this guy had some other agenda. She didn’t like it. Only two choices for her were to kill the son of a bitch or take hi
m in and let him face justice. Whichever way, she wanted him conscious too, at least. Shooting a man in a coma wasn’t going to make her feel any better. Letting McKeown play with the system wasn’t going to do it, either.

  “Pretty please, Colleen, I need your help.”

  What an asshole. She rolled her eyes and bounced her hip off the bar, unfolded her arms and stepped across Lafitte. “You take one arm, I’ll take the other. And don’t go too fast, in case—”

  And then it all went loud.

  *

  They’d decided this way: Steel God was to bust in the front door and shoot the first person who wasn’t Lafitte. Then Kristal, who had already gotten a peek inside a side window, would follow and take out whoever was left.

  Steel God was already a little hotheaded when he didn’t see Lafitte’s aqua-blue hog in the parking lot. “Little prick’s done sold it, I’ll bet. Take me up on it?”

  “I want to hear it from him first.”

  “Good. We’ll rescue him, and then I’ll punch him in the gut until he tells us what he did with it.”

  At least there were two cars in the parking lot Kristal could choose from on their way out. Only one was worth the trouble—the Chevelle had been loved by someone, while the Stang was a waste of space. Could be one or the other was leftover by a drunk the night before, thus no keys. Kristal hoped not. It had never occurred to them that Lafitte’s chopper wouldn’t be wherever he was.

  Kristal came back after squinting through the dirty shaded window and said, “Two of them, man and woman, standing over Billy. He doesn’t even look awake.”

  Steel God winked and pulled out his revolver. “Ready?”

  *

  Colleen could’ve sworn the door had exploded even though she recovered her sight enough to see it had only been kicked all the way open, sunlight now full-strength. Then a giant blocked the light and pointed a gun towards McKeown, who had already dropped Lafitte’s arm and was reaching for his piece. Lafitte was falling and Colleen was going with him, yelling at McKeown to duck.

  A real explosion. Fire sparked out of the giant’s gun and McKeown danced and shook, sounded like a large slap, his shirt suddenly all red around his stomach.