Colleen Hartle pushes the door of her SUV against the bastard wind, slips out of the car and jumps out of the way as the door slams itself shut. She wore the short leather boots today. Maybe she had expected a parking garage or something underground. Good thing she didn't go for the high heels, and the day-to-day work shoes wouldn't suit for what she had planned today. She was only dressing up more the past eight months, pant suits and fashionable blouses and a shiny black leather belt on which she usually clipped the pancake holster for her pistol. Well, not today. The pistol is under the seat and would stay there.
She'd quit the Yellow Medicine Sheriff's Department and hounded Agent Rome until he pulled some strings—not that he had much pull after what happened—to help ease her way into a job as an agent for the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.
They fast-tracked her training, took her on with certain conditions—she would have to endure a sort of "apprenticeship" period that other more experienced applicants didn't require. Colleen was sure that one reason for that was her direct superior realized the girl had a temper. He watched her face flush as he told her everything she didn't know and how quickly she would need to learn it. He leaned back in his chair and gave her something about how he'd seen a big spike in women agents after Silence of the Lambs, way back when, but then it slackened off. Smiled. Asked her what movies she'd seen lately.
She wondered if he was the type that wanted a blowjob or a spanking. Either way, what a douchebag. And no, he wouldn't get either from her.
Didn't she work hard to prove the asshole wrong? But wasn't that the point of him being an asshole, too? Just another few months away from the "probationary" being dropped from her ID.
So she takes a personal day—lies about her mother being sick or needy or whatever—and drives way the hell out here because something has gone wrong. Very fucking wrong.
*
In the prison entry hall, she shakes like a wet dog and hands off her coat to a guard. Young guy. Doing his time in hell before getting a patrol job in Fargo, most likely. Where else, right? Unless you're some sort of weirdo who loves being surrounded by plenty of nothing all the time.
She stamps her feet, still too much snow. Leans against the wall and pounds the side of each boot until the crushed snow falls off in sheets. Finally sends her ID through the glass. Driver's license. The picture isn't her, but her younger, prettier sister. The name isn't either one of them. Rome gave it to her. Traces back just far enough to keep anyone from digging deeper. She signs in. Says the reason is "personal".
Guy at the desk—bald, thick, and with glasses that looked like they were squeezing his skull—says, "Friend of yours?"
A shrug. "We used to date. My baby daddy."
It doesn't matter what her story is. If it takes fucking the nigger to get what she wants, she'll fuck him. That's how bad it has gotten. This is why she doesn't sleep at night anymore.
The only way to keep the prison staff from officially recording the conversation is to pretend she's his lawyer, or pretend she's his girlfriend. A conjugal visit—not allowed in most Federal prisons, but this one must be trying some sort of pilot program. Rome was the one who suggested it when they'd heard what happened. They were lucky the prison made an exception for Colleen, not being his wife and all. Much easier to trace a marriage license than an illegitimate kid. It took Rome less than a day to set it up. And to think he used to enforce the law. To think Colleen is now almost as dirty as Lafitte. No, never. Nev-ah!
Even though the guards aren't supposed to, they probably tape these "family visits", too, she knows damn well. But at least then she can be close enough to the man to whisper, keep things more private. She'll hate every moment of it. The man is all fat, all gangsta attitude, all woman-hater. She's hoping to get out before it goes too far. But if not, then it's still worth it. She can soak in a tub later and scrub her pussy with Lava soap.
Another room, one that still smells like drywall dust and fresh paint. A couple of women guards give her the once over, make sure she's not hiding drugs or weapons or cash up her holes. It would usually be humiliating as fuck, but she's got a one-track mind. And these women—soft-voiced, very patient and gentle with her—are wondering what sort of life Colleen must've lived to end up getting strip-searched so she could fuck a convict. She would bet that at least one of them goes home tonight and rubs one out while thinking of doing the same thing. It's quiet condemnation. Well, fuck that, both of them, even the one making eyes. Colleen was tired of being called a dyke. That's not her at all. One time, maybe, in high school, but Nate fell in love with her for being the tomboy cop. Plenty of men wanted a run at her. Today she's glammed out in bright red lipstick and nails and fluffy hair. Under the clothes she's wearing a thong, a lacy bra, thigh-highs.
This one on her left, going through her pockets, clears her throat. Thin, short hair, brunette long neck. She got to see Colleen take it all off. She liked what she saw. Colleen takes deep breaths, counts to five between inhales/exhales. Thinks about yelling at Rome when it's all over. Thinks about him possibly looking sadder than last time she saw him. The man is a ghost.
After she's been spread and spread again, they check inside her mouth and turn her clothes inside out, sliding their latex-gloved fingers along every seam. She sits in a hard plastic chair and crosses her arms and legs and shivers and waits. A few minutes later the women are done and they tell her to get dressed. She does, fast, and wonders how much this is worth going through to the real wives and lovers.
She's taken to another waiting room. The snow that had ringed the bottoms of her pants has melted and gone wet against her stockings. A man in a suit stands talking to a guard. Lawyer. Talking about how it's the best smelling jail he's ever been in, at least. The guard talks about some other cool stuff they've got—computer back-ups, face recog, paint and floors that are easier to clean. They've even got inmates working on computers. High-tech training, you know, for when they get out. He can't keep a straight face saying it.
She tunes them out and tries to not feel so nauseous. Glances around. It's a bright room. The chairs are padded. Nice lighting. Magazines and coffee tables, even a corner with some children's toys. They look brand-new, untouched.
The only other people in the room are a boy around ten, sitting on the edge of his chair, head down, arms folded—maybe he hasn't outgrown those toys, but he sure as hell isn't interested—and an older woman with him. Maybe a grandmother, even though she still has a smooth face. Has to be older than she looks. A shock of white through her nearly jet black hair, in a simple up-do. She wears a long denim skirt, a long blouse, no jewelry, no make-up. Like a Mennonite woman, but more modern, stylish. Those are mall-bought clothes. She holds her hands in her lap, hums barely loud enough for Colleen to hear. A quick nod when she notices Colleen looking at her. The humming, not sure, but like a hymn. When the boy takes a kick at the chair across from him—something cracks—the woman hisses so sharp the guard spins his head nearly three-sixty and the boy shrinks like a popped balloon.
Who are they here for? Boy's father? Woman's son? Grandpa?
Then one of the women guards comes over to Colleen and motions with two fingers Get up, and Colleen does. The guards turns and walks and Colleen follows, one more look over her shoulder at the humming Jesus lady and wonders if she'll still be humming when it's time to leave.
*
She's tired of being cold but she shouldn't be. She was born and raised in the cold. How can this place feel so much worse than the blizzard coming on strong outside? Colleen crosses her arms so tight her biceps stretch and burn. The guard and Colleen walk on industrial beige carpet down a narrow hall, solid doors with narrow windows on the left. Guess if you fuck cons, you shouldn't expect privacy. Outside the fourth door is a male guard, white and beefy, young. Doing his best to hold that lazy cop face from movie posters. Colleen bets he'll wash out within a year. He'll be full of excuses, saying it's not fair or he didn't want to hurt anyone or his wife asked him
to quit—she so won't, not in this economy.
"He's ready?"
The young guard nods. "Cocked and loaded."
"That's inappropriate."
Sighs through his nose. "I apologize. I do. I didn't mean anything."
"Listen," she says to Colleen. "Anything happens, you need to say ‘Help'. It's better to try to keep the noise down, like moaning or shouting, but ‘Help' will get us in there mighty fast."
"Like, you don't listen, right? Isn't that wrong?"
"It's all computers now. It's not the same thing. You want to be in there without any help at all?"
"He's not going to hurt me."
"These guys, don't count on it. They're not the same as they are at home. They're…shit, Nick, what do you think?"
"Animals." Young guard's drawl is pretty phony. Kid's parents bought him a new pick-up soon as he got his license, right? But he still thought he was working class. "Smart animals. They want to be the meanest dog in the junkyard, but they've got to know when the man with the leash isn't looking."
"Sweetie."
Colleen turns her head again to the woman guard. An old chain-smoking aunt. Tired, tired, tired.
"You don't have to do this, you know. You can do anything you want. This is your last chance to change your mind."
If only this was real life, Colleen thinks. Any other day she would say Thank you to this angel, trying to save girls like the one she's supposed to be today. But all she feels is annoyed. How dare the bitch, right? Who is she to—enough, enough. Smile.
The young one unlocks the door, swings it open and steps in first. Colleen follows, mental blinders to the guy sprawled on the loveseat. There's a sink, a toilet, a thin divider screen between it and the rest of the room. No mirrors. On a shelf near the queen bed with dark brown sheets—better to hide the stains—are some towels, a few packets of condoms, and a small bottle of lube. Box of tissues.
The woman behind Colleen, a soft grip on her elbow, points it all out. "You have an hour. The clock starts as soon as we close the door. Do you have any questions? Can we bring you anything?"
Colleen shakes her head. Still blinking, looking around, but never focusing on the inmate. She's talked to him before, never in person, though. Just listening to him breathe makes her cringe.
"All yours." The young guard steps aside for his partner, then follows her out and shuts the door a bit too hard. The locks whirr and clamp into place, and there they are.
Ricardo Dulles.
Ri'Chess.
Time to do the act.
"Baby." Colleen takes a step towards the loveseat. The man can barely fit on it. His fat oozes out and finds the lowest point it can. Only half his ass is on the cushions. Knees wide. Prison sweats still too big for him. But he smells wonderful. He gussied himself up for this. Oh yeah, Mr. Clean. Even a bit of aftershave. Maybe a guard took pity on him. His face is smooth and his teeth are white, and his cheeks are tight and shiny.
"Stop," he says.
Colleen stops. Grins. "You okay?"
"Been so long, baby. Don't you remember?"
"Sure, sure, you know I do."
"Then we going to do this right. Let me watch you take it off."
She hugs herself. Shit. "So cold in here. I wanted to talk first. Maybe we can slip into bed." Easier to fake it under the covers. Come on, man, don't pull this.
Shakes his head. "We talk enough. I got no idea when we'll get to do this again, and it's been a long time, you know that? Do it for me. Ain't nothing wrong with it."
She knew it. Why wear the lingerie if she hadn't intended him to see her in it? Get it moving. The clock's ticking. She says "Okay, baby. Yeah. I'll give you a show."
She props an arm against the wall and lifts her leg, reaches for her boot.
"Naw, naw, sweetie. Let's save the shoes for last."
Can't help but curl her lip a little. She stands up, goes for her belt. Off. She eases her fingers from her stomach to the top button of her blouse. Drops her chin. One button, two…
Distracts herself from Ri'Chess sucking air through his teeth by remembering what she knows about him. Dulles was on a "business trip" to Minneapolis when he was nabbed, five years prior. Business being he wanted to cut a deal with a Somali gang that was moving some pretty heavy dope. Heard they had mighty fine heroin streaming in too. Then he realized the Somalis weren't doing jackshit, whole thing was bluster. They had nothing. He popped a guy right there. Just bang and done and out. Who would've thunk someone would drop a dime? Never in L.A. But someone across the street, smoking a cigarette outside his restaurant, called it in. The cops got Ri'Chess as he was returning his Escalade to the rental car garage. They turned him Federal when he promised to give up a lot of names and routes and etc re: the West Coast operation. Not the good kind of Federal time, but good enough for him. After a couple of lame-ass attempts on his life, they decided to send him and his inner circle up here. In fact, the company who ran this joint practically begged for him. Sure, we can handle max security. Might get more business if they could pull it off. Mo' cons, mo' money.
She hates herself doing this striptease, even getting into it some, not for his sake but for the guys and gals watching. Maybe she'll blow them a kiss later. The blouse is unbuttoned. She shrugs it off her shoulders and lets it drop.
"Oh yeah." Ri'Chess shifts his pelvis. Hand to his lap. "Now those pants."
Colleen unzips. Goosebumps. She's shivering. There's warm air blowing from the vent overhead, but that makes it worse. Her pants fall and she has to step on them, one foot then the other, to pull the boots through. She nearly falls and then sits on the bed, yanks them off, now inside out. She stands. Bra, g-string, thigh highs. And leather boots.
Ri'Chess pats his leg. "Come on over, baby. Right up on my lap here."
She puts a little runway sway into it, then is standing before the big man. She thinks he wants her to take a seat, but he reaches up, fingertips on her waist, and she gets it. Facing him. Straddles his legs. Puts her knees up on the cushions. Now he reaches and wraps around her waist, pulls her in, and goes for a kiss.
Spearmint mouthwash even. He presses hard. He bumps her teeth with is own. His hands are on her ass-cheeks now, giving them a squeeze. Fuck. She breaks away from his mouth and moans and whispers into his ear, "What went wrong?"
"Easy, now, can't we—"
"You want the money, right? You willing to give it up for this?"
He sighs, nuzzles her neck. "Like...got this boy, see? Had to get someone up in..." Tongue gliding along her collar bone. "...up in PC..."
Colleen palms the back of his head and pulls him tight to her. Stops that licking bullshit. Even colder now. "I'm not stupid. I know that part. I'm the one who told you that part."
"Shit, take it easy, now." Muffled.
"What. Happened?"
"Boy got his neck snapped. Did what we wanted, got in close to Mr. Taliban like you said, got under his wing. But this kid was taking too long. And Lafitte, shit, he knew. Motherfucker smart."
"No plan B?"
He pushes her away and lays his hands on her breasts, nice little rubs. "Hey, it's hard enough. I live in a fucking gym. My only eyes in there think they better than me."
"Better?" She processes. Seethes, "You've got guards in on this?"
"It's cool, it's cool. They want him gone just as bad as you."
Colleen lets him work his fingers under the wire, flip the bra up and over. Lets him lick her nipples. Because, shit, if one guard knows, they all know, and they're not stupid. They know why she's here. Her stomach goes tight, tight, tight. She coughs.
"What do they know?"
"Hm?" Still on that nipple, bit of teeth.
She plants a palm on each side of his head and makes him look at her, nose to nose. "What do they know? You tell them you might get paid?"
"Aw, now, you know I'm getting paid. Don't start acting like that ain't happening."
"You haven't done the job."
"Yet. Not yet
. It'll happen."
"Idiot. You...you don't get it." She had to get out of here. Had to call Rome. If they'd even let her out. She unstraddles Ri'Chess but he tries to hold on, and as she gets up on both feet he yanks her wrist so hard she thinks it'll snap. No, it's fine, it's fine.
But then she's bent over awkwardly, Ri'Chess's face right there, him saying, "I'm not no shithead, Miss Bitch. I ain't told no one more than they need to know, even you. Now if you want to keep it that way, we've got some things to do right here and now and I don't have much time."
"Out of your goddamned—"
"They either come in and rescue your flabby ass and I spill what I know about you and your man, or you best start making me feel pretty good."
"Fuck this, fuck you, and kiss the money goodbye."
"Like you was ever going to pay me anyway. I take what's in front of me."
She tries to pry away his fingers. "The money's real. I'm telling you."
"Ain't that. But Lafitte, that motherfucker's unkillable, is all I'm saying."
"Let go."
"Only if you're taking those panties off."
How long until the guards show up at the door? Would she be able to get out of here before anyone believes Dulles?
"Only if you promise to try again. Do it right next time."
Eye to eye, the man nods then nods some more and his eyes go wide as he releases her. She rubs her sore wrist. "Goddamn."
"Say what you got to. I don't have to hear it."
Colleen does it fast. No show this time. Matter-of-fact yanks them down, steps out of them, tosses them on top of her other clothes. Same with her bra, even though he didn't ask for that. Just stands there, arms crossed, letting him take her in. She never shaves down there. Trimmed it some for this, but she's no Playboy bunny. He's still nodding, finally takes it out of his pants, not as big as she had feared, but still bigger than Nate by, like, three inches. Doesn't matter. Size, schmize. Nate was a real man. Nate knew how to work with what he got. Nate died because of Lafitte. That's the truth. That never changes. And this is the man who's going to kill Lafitte. Colleen has to believe that. She has to. Same as Rome believes it, she has to. There's nothing left in the tank. There's no refueling until this one's done.
The Baddest Ass (Billy Lafitte #3) Page 4