Slouches into the chair beside Lafitte. "Sweet. You got internet on this thing?"
"No."
West thumps the keyboard with his knuckles. "Bullshit man, what's this shit anyway? Some sort of job?"
"You get twenty cents an hour. Take it or leave it."
"I'm not a file clerk." Crosses his arms and leans way back.
Lafitte stares at the kid a moment before going back to his work. "Most of it is labeling. They scanned a bunch of old records, or got them off floppy discs. We've got to re-label them and make backups. Easy stuff."
"Dull stuff, is what you mean."
Then Lafitte's hand is on the back of West's head, bringing him upright against his will. He doesn't fight it.
"I told them to hire you for this. You want it or do I throw you back?"
"Why should I do their work for them? They ain't done nothing for me. I got plenty to do without this boring shit."
Lafitte takes his hand back, lays it on the mouse and keeps working. He speaks slowly, deliberately. "Trouble is what you get into without this...so this...this is what you...um..." Click. "This is what you want. Something boring. Something monotonous. Something that fills up the minutes and hours and…the...days. It keeps you out of trouble. And it makes the time...go..." Click. "...by that much...faster." Click.
He doesn't say any more. Just steadily clicks and scans the screen. Drags. Scrolls. West sits with his arms crossed. He looks around. Other men doing the same thing as Lafitte. None of them look like they want to kill each other or West or the biker.
West leans towards Lafitte. The man smells dark, like the woods at night. "I don't get it."
"You wanted to warn me about this hit, okay. I didn't need to hear it from you, but you made the effort. I appreciate that. So if that..." Click. "...if that batshit preacher cop is giving you a hard time, let's say I'm returning the favor. I'll keep an eye out, all right? You don't breathe a word." Click. "That's just the way it is."
West hunches his shoulders. Protection from the guy he's supposed to kill. Right. Not like Ri'Chess won't send more assassins. West gets it—he's expendable, whether he kills Lafitte or not. Once he's out of the way, how will they deal with West? Fuck. He's supposed to be here for years. Why does it feel like he might not make it through the week?
West puts his hand on the mouse, runs the arrow around the screen, and says, "Show me how to do this."
*
Garner's in his grill. "It's good, I get it. Get close to him."
Steve's at his right. "Wasting time."
"It's not a rush job."
"It sure as hell's not a long one, either."
Garner scrunches his eyebrows—thick caterpillar things—and says, while looking at Steve, "You know, West, our friend here tried to buddy up to Lafitte, too. And Lafitte let him. Weirdest thing I might've ever seen inside."
"That's enough."
"Like Lafitte was his big brother or something. I don't even think the man cared what Little Stevie did on the outside, either."
Steve says, too loud, "That's enough."
Gets him shoved by Garner. The slap echoes three, four, five times. Steve steps back, rubs his chest. The cop's open hand folds into a wagging finger. He keeps going.
"So there's one day when some new piece of garbage, excuse my language, waltzes in here. He's got the Mexicans on his side, right? Thinks PC is going to be like a siesta for him and his boys. Loud muchachos. Steve asks this spic to keep it down a little. Brave boy. He knows Lafitte's got his back. Except..." Garner blows on his fingers, fans them like it's all gone. "Not this time. These Mexicans were going to slice and dice. Steve runs back to Lafitte, and you know what happened?" Garner looks over West's shoulder at Steve. "Want to tell him?"
Steve keeps rubbing his chest, stepping back and back until he's just not around anymore.
Garner gives West the gummy smile. "Stone cold silence. Lafitte shut Steve out. It was fine when all was good, but when Steve got a big head about his friend solving problems for him, down came the wall. Those Mexicans, man, they whipped up on Stevie like you wouldn't believe. If it hadn't been PC, he'd been the same as you." Garner cupped his fingers around his wrist, pushed and pulled, pushed and pulled. "Probably not as big as what you got. That nigga had a massive dick."
Cramps all over. West puts his hands on his hips. Getting sick. He lets go of a loud fart, and he knows what's next. "I gotta go."
Garner waves the stink away. "Or did you already?"
West makes quick time back to his cell, little bitty steps.
Chapter 4
The only times West feels safe is sitting at the computer beside Lafitte, or locked in his cell at night to sleep. Even then, he's on a hair trigger listening for the bolt to unlock and have something else horrible happen to him.
Lafitte doesn't mention the favor again. West sits at his table for meals but still maintains a respectful distance. Doesn't talk. Offers his dessert sometimes—his stomach can't deal with sweets anymore—but is always refused. They don't talk outside of the computer room, and West begins to wonder if Lafitte would really have his back at all. But days go by and that old black guy, name's Cooker, and Slick Steve leave him alone. And Garner leaves him alone. Always around, but no more personal visits or stories or any of that.
Until the day no one comes and gets him for work. He figures at first it's just an off day. No files to transfer. So he wastes his time, tries to read but gets bored. The fuck is with the magazines? Boring computer shit or Christian fucking enlightenment and shit like that. Where's hot rods with women draped over them? How about computer games, man. Misses his PlayStation like crazy. Likes the zombie games, man, and zombie movies. Or he did until the Granite Man fucked him, cuz that guy, he's a fucking zombie for reals.
Next day, no work.
Shit. Now he calls for Garner. They're not even letting him out of his cell. Had to eat breakfast here. He's freaking out, pacing. Sweating. Garner's not coming. West is all like, "I've got a job. You can't keep me from my job. I've got rights."
Cop shakes his head. "Says here you're in for the day. I just do what I'm told."
"No, no, no, ask Garner. I've got a job. You've seen me in there. You know me. Come on."
"Says here—"
"Don't give a shit what it says!"
Cop gives West eye slits, then sighs. "Adding another day in for that one."
West slams his palm against the steel door. Cold. Rattles and then numbs his hand on impact. "It's not fair! Fuck you! I've got a job! I've got a fucking job!"
Cop gets right up to his face in the window. "Then do your fucking job already. You know which one I mean. This isn't a vacation for you, you shit for brains."
West's eyes go wide and he backs off the door. His hand is really stinging now. He cradles it. They're all in on it. Like a fucking, like, Twilight Zone shit going down. All the cops. All the inmates. All on his shoulders.
Four days. No one talks to him. He gets food shoved through the tray slot. This is way illegal, too, but they don't care. He's supposed to have at least one hour out, he knows it. He trades out his lousy magazines for lousier ones, realizes the Rachael Ray magazine at least has pictures of Rachael Ray, so that's decent enough for a wank. He can tell by the stiffness of the pages and smudged colors that other guys felt the same. No one surprises him while he's taking a shit, and the shits are starting to feel better, too, so he's healing. His stomach doesn't heave quite as much, only after he eats.
So maybe, you know, this alone thing is not as bad as his keepers think. He can ride it out. Fuck Ri'Chess and the Aryans and Garner and the fucking pervs. Fuck Lafitte, even. Let the "protective" part of protective custody work to his favor. Not like life on the outside, no, but it's still better to live in his head in here than in general pop.
Until he wakes up one morning and the door is wide open. No one there. He hadn't heard the lock go. Hadn't heard it swing out. Hardly any noise at all out there. West stands up with his blanket a
round his shoulders and eases over to the door, peeks out.
Two cops flank a huge, pale black man. The Granite Man, Jean Robert. Marching him through the central area towards a waiting cell. West dips back into his and tries to keep from coughing. Flat against the wall, sliding down until he's on the floor. It's him. Fuck. It's him. Here. Fuck.
The Granite Man walks past his door and catches him looking. Eyes flick left. He doesn't move any other muscle on his face, but it still looks like the most evil smile the moment he locks eyes with West.
West is sweating. He's too hot. He can't let go of his blanket. He's shivering. He's a dead man. A dead man.
"Garner! Gar-Ner!"
Over and over until the cops come tell him to shut up, and then more until they cuff him and leave him facedown on the floor of his cell, hours it feels like, until the lock clicks and West knows it's Garner standing there. Before the aftershave hits him, he knows.
"What's he doing here?"
"You'll have to be more specific, convict. And have a little respect."
"You know who I mean. Giant fucking nigger. You know."
Sigh. "I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from—"
"The fuck, Garner? What the fuck?"
Silence. Maybe that's all the answer he needs.
But then Garner says, all quiet like, "Jean Robert? Same as you. Concerned for his safety, so he checked in."
"Bullshit."
Tk, tk, tk, with his tongue. "You haven't learned your lesson yet. How about we keep those cuffs on until dinnertime?"
West doesn't answer. Whatever. Gonna fuck with him, then whatever. He'll kill himself before letting that monster have his ass again. Stab himself with that screwdriver, right in the neck, before they can save him.
It's the only thought that brings him comfort.
*
Jean Robert sits at the table across from West's at dinner. Lafitte's back to the man, line of vision between West and his rapist. When Jean Robert looks at him, it's with the same stone face. A blink here and there, then right back to eating. West pushes his plate away. Nothing going down would stay down anyway.
Lafitte says, "That's him?"
Word gets around. West weasels in his seat. "Don't worry about it."
"You missed work."
"Not my fault."
"But not good."
"Shit, man, get off me." Starts to get up. He notices Granite Man watching. Sits back down.
"I'll handle it," Lafitte says.
"You do and I'm dead."
Lafitte drops his fork. "You're dead either way. At least my way, you can cover your ass with both hands instead of having to fight him off with one."
Lafitte rises like a giant in a fairy tale, at least to West. The man's not tall—pretty damn short, really—but he's got presence. Yeah, like an illusion or some shit. The biker pushes back from the table and walks right over to Jean Robert, sits in front of him. Didn't wait for an invite, so this is serious shit. Not even Lafitte can break all the rules whenever, wherever, right?
All West sees is Lafitte's back. Hears nothing. Jean Robert doesn't storm out or yell or slam Lafitte's head against the table. It's all diplomacy. It's unspoken, whatever it is. West closes his eyes, rests his forehead on his arm, and takes in short breaths. Thinks, I so didn't want to kill that girl. It was just kinky was all. Thinks, God, no, please, that's got to mean something. I don't deserve this. Thinks, I'm so sorry. I am so sorry. Thinks, Fuck you, God. Fuck you. Fuck you and Jesus and Mary and and and—
A hand on West's shoulder. Makes him jolt like firecrackers going off right next to him. Turns to see Lafitte behind him. Up at the other tables, Jean Robert has taken his tray and gone away.
Lafitte says, "Don't worry about him."
"Shit, man."
"Don't worry."
And Lafitte is gone.
*
The next day, Granite Man is gone from the PC block like he was never there. Moved during the night. Funny, because West had been awake all night and not heard a thing.
Chapter 5
They come to get West for work and he's out of his gourd, pacing, having not slept a wink. Crazy tired, but crazy wired, too. What's next? Who will they send for the next round of intimidation? How far will they go before just deleting him and starting over with another gung-ho kid?
The lock goes and Garner pokes his head in. "Rise and shine."
"Yeah, I'm coming." He leans across his mattress, takes the screwdriver from its hole, and hides it in his sock. Glances up at Garner, who nods, says, "Let's go."
Sweaty. Too hot, even though he hears the weather outside is harsh—icy, two-foot snow pack, winds blowing from hell via Canada. And that's not so bad for North Dakota in January. It would get much worse next month. But in here, he's burning up like he has a fever in the desert.
The walk is too long, but he doesn't feel the same pressure from Garner that he usually does. No hints. No taunts. But, Jesus, the sweat. He blinks drops out of his eyes then wipes his forehead with his arm. The slime beads up, runs down his fingers. Still nothing from Garner.
West asks, "Do I get back pay?"
Garner says, "Inmate will not speak unless spoken to."
That's that.
In the computer lab, he takes his seat next to Lafitte, who gives him a long look before turning right back to his screen. West looks around. New instructions on the board: LAST DAY TO FINISH THE WEST FARGO PROJECT. REMEMBER TO COPY TO THREE FILE TYPES. And today there's Steve and Cooker, sitting apart at other machines, pretending not to notice him. That's the message, isn't it? No need to lay it on thick any more. As long as West knows they're all watching him...
Shit. He says it under his breath. "Shit."
Lafitte says, "Just do the job."
"You don't get it."
He turns in his chair towards Lafitte, enough for the newbie guard with the red flattop to shout at him, "Stank, face the screen! This ain't play time."
West ignores him. "I can't take it, man. They're ramping up the pressure. They're not going to let it slide, man. What the fuck?"
"Stank!" Cop Boy gets his baton ready.
Lafitte says, "Say ‘Sorry, boss' and face the screen. Don't give them a reason."
West does as told. Blue screen. Basic Windows. Sweaty palms on the keys and mouse. Like he's been standing out in the rain. The cop keeps coming, stops halfway. West nods and tells the guy he's sorry and he's not feeling well.
"Want another day off, is that it? Want to see the doc?"
"I'm good, boss."
"And stop calling me boss. Asshole."
The cop heads back to the door with that constipated look they get when they want you to know they're watching you, but really they're praying, Please God no fights, no fights, no fights.
West clicks randomly, not even aiming for his log-in icon. "I'm done. Either by those guys or on my own. I can't take it, man."
Lafitte keeps at his own work for a few minutes. West wonders if he gives a shit. Wonders if this is his brush off, same as Steve got.
Then Lafitte says, "If they could kill you, they'd have done it by now. The worst they can do is make you feel bad. You're not going to die up in here."
West lifts the mouse, a puddle of sweat under it. He shakes the moisture off, but splatters his screen. Breathing through his nose to keep from throwing up. "Oh God."
"I'm telling you, man. Just cool it. Think of the long haul."
But all West can think about is another beating, another rape, another week in his cell alone, never knowing when someone might walk in on him. Jean Robert with Garner waiting outside the door. Not again. He can't. He's done.
West slips the screwdriver from his sock. Eyes on Steve. Fucking perv. Greasy fucker. Show those motherfuckers up, man, show them what he's really made of. Grease and blood. Hear him cry. Hear him beg. They would leave him alone. Damn right.
He whips around and launches the screwdriver, thinking he'd get Lafitte deep in the armpit first. A good v
ulnerable spot. Then he'll move on to the neck. Sees it in his mind like it's already happened.
But he can't get his arm swinging without a shout, and he's still inches away when Lafitte grabs his hand mid-flight like it was a crumpled ball of paper.
He yanks out of the big man's grasp and stumbles off his chair, tangled and frantic, trying to get back up as Lafitte rises, all Zen master calm and shit. West pushes himself up and waits for the cop to beat him or tackle him from behind, but there's nothing. He looks back to see Cooker and Steve holding the cop back, Cooker whispering into his ear. The cop nods, backs off and crosses his arms.
West turns to Lafitte, man just standing there. "Drop it and we'll call this a misunderstanding. Water under the bridge."
West shakes his head. "Fuck you, man. This sucks!"
"Do this, it gets worse. Like they're going to let the fucking hitman live. Son, they're playing you."
Tune him out. Tune him out. Just his ass on the line, that's all. Go low, aim for the thigh. Artery. Stab and twist. There ain't no shot at the neck any more.
West lunges, closes his eyes. He feels his arm go slack, muscles weak. Drops the screwdriver and it clatters on a keyboard. Lafitte's got him in a sleeper hold and West is kicking and straining and can't breathe and and and
Lafitte's voice in his ear: "Jesus, kid, I was so hoping this wouldn't happen."
Then Lafitte's hand reaches across West's face, grabs hold, and there's pressure and his neck is twisting—
And then West is dreaming. He knows it's a dream, feels like it, one where you know it's all wrong but you can't wake yourself up. Trapped in the dream. But the goddamnedest thing of all is that in this dream, he's still in prison.
Chapter 6
There are only three cars in the visitor's parking lot. Someone had plowed the ice and snow off, barely, but another half-a-foot has already taken its place. This is a brand new prison in the middle of nowhere in what used to be a North Dakota soybean field. It's not even finished, that's what she'd heard, but so many jails across the country were overcrowded that they gladly sent the cons over anyway and shoved them in wherever while the construction guys kept going until winter forced them to stop.
The Baddest Ass (Billy Lafitte #3) Page 3