Edge of the suburbs. Brick facades on businesses, tax assessors and accountants and shit. More people pulling up to the four-way stop now. Was DeVaughn really going to shoot at him again, with people watching now? With his bitch singing in pain?
The aches caught up with Lafitte, his arm, chest, jaw. Ahead of him, a small parking lot in front of a lawyer’s office. Four cars spread out. And the wide open world behind it.
Count to three.
One, two...
Take the fuck off and hope to fuck there’s not a bullet gaining on you.
Flat out. Past one car, two, a glimpse of people staring at the scene from inside the building, through the blinds.
No shot.
DeVaughn shouted over his girl’s screams: “Motherfucker! I will find you, motherfucker!”
The farther Lafitte ran, the more DeVaughn’s bullshit faded into fuzzy noise. Run even though your heart is aching. Run even though your heart is breaking.
Fine time to sing.
*
Tabitha gave her statement to the security guard, then the cop, and they all got hung up on her mistakes while she thought, Are you going to get him or not? Turned out she wasn’t so good with details. She saw a guy in shorts and boots and a cap, carrying a package. Package guy. That was all. A little beardy. But as for eyes, hair color, scars, nose, lips, and whatever the fuck was written on the back of his shirt, Tabitha was useless.
She waited in the hall outside the Operating Room, pacing. Loretta had passed in and out several times now without speaking to her, not even looking at her. Tabitha couldn’t afford to lose her fucking job over this. She would need to talk to the flirter later, get him to match his story with hers. She had only been in the room a couple—no, five—five to seven minutes. Standard, with a little chit-chat. Nothing out of the ordinary. Unless they had already gotten to him first. Shit.
Without this job, she wouldn’t be able to pay rent, groceries. Back to her old room at her mom’s house, the one filled with extra boxes of Hamburger Helper because Mom was a little hoardery about Sam’s Club bulk.
One of the residents, the cute one who always needed sleep and a comb, pushed out of the OR. Yawned, stretched his arms and laced his fingers behind his head. Over his shoulder, Loretta and the emergency docs and nurses that had crowded around Ginny now dispersed.
Tabitha seethed through her teeth. Cringed.
“Well,” the resident said. “We got her back. Barely, but she’ll make it.”
The relief broke the tension. Tabitha’s held-back tears spilled, smacked on the floor.
Then the resident said, “But she’ll never be the same. Her brain went without oxygen for too long. What’s left of her won’t be able to do much. She’ll pretty much be a toddler the rest of her life.”
He went back in and Tabitha sat down. She wondered if there would still be enough left of Ginny Lafitte deep in her brain to think of this as the ultimate Hell. Still wanting to die, and no one to let her.
Horrible.
If Tabitha didn’t lose her job over this, maybe she’d help the poor crazy bitch. One shot, nighty-night...
...No, she couldn’t. What she could do was request a transfer to a new floor. Fuck this drama for good.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Oh my God!”
It was all Melissa could do to keep from cumming. Squeezed her thighs together and widened her eyes while DeVaughn sped the fuck out of there in reverse, head turned over his shoulder, trying to keep Lafitte in sight.
“Shit!” He backed through the four-way stop, threw it into drive, and squealed a right turn. Steel on rock, screaming, probably the bumper getting sheared off. That goddamned bike had fucked up his car bad.
“Get him, baby! He went over there—”
“I saw where he went, shit! We’re not going to get him here”
“He can’t get far!” She pulled her legs beneath her and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “I can shoot him out the window.”
DeVaughn shook her off. “I got to drive, baby. We’ve got to get out of here and ditch this car.”
“But you love your Caddy.”
“I’ll buy another one.
Melissa pouted a little, but she was too excited to give a shit right then. This was real! Heart-in-her-throat real! She was feeling the danger of it, the sex of it, like, being inside one of those Grand Theft Auto games her ex played. This was so much better. Best day of her life—great sex, lunch at a restaurant that cost a whole day’s pay, riding in the Caddy with a real man who carried a real nine millimeter Glock, going after real revenge on a bad guy who had killed his brother. She wasn’t even wearing her seatbelt. Even the bang on her head and the little gash on her leg was nothing. She didn’t even feel it now.
They made it to Mobile as quick as they could, one of One Oh Four’s soldiers calling in a Lafitte sighting outside the facility DeVaughn had told them about. So they relieved him and waited for Lafitte’s little raggedy ass to come out. Best place for it. He’d been planning it ever since Lo-Wider turned him on to Lafitte being back around.
How the fuck did she get so lucky? If she ever made it back to the truck stop, although they would probably fire her for missing her shift later anyway, she would be sure to thank the manager for giving her the chance to get picked up by DeVaughn. It was fate and the late-shift.
Lafitte, the little truck driver’s name, had been as polite as could be, and left her a decent tip. But what they always say is that the nice ones are the ones to watch out for. DeVaughn had told her the story, Lafitte and his partner lording around Gulfport like they owned the place, bullying themselves into a piece of BGM cash. Then, right after the storm, how they ended up assassinating DeVaughn’s brother over this bag of heroin they’d found. Mind you, finding it was sheer luck. They found it in a casket in the back of an abandoned hearse. They needed someone to move it. The kid got himself in too deep, talked to the wrong people—in this case, the good cops—and there it was: a reason for the bad cops to get rid of DeVaughn’s little brother.
If it made DeVaughn happy, then Melissa’s new ambition in life was to kill this motherfucker.
“Over there,” she pointed across the road, a corner used car lot, packed tight and surrounded by pine trees on one side, a closed-down Wendy’s on the other. The joint had obviously been a gas station at one point. Too many pennant-flag strings, yellow and orange, criss-crossing, flapping. None of the cars were top-notch. What they were was there.
“Shit, baby, we don’t have time.”
“Sure we do. We’ve got this. Pull over in the Wendy’s lot.”
So he did, parking in back, the building hiding the car from a street view. He got out, shrugged his coat into place and buttoned it. Melissa pulled her dress down, smoothed it. She stretched out a hand to DeVaughn. Come hither. “Give me the gun.”
DeVaughn looked around. Sirens still out there, bouncing this way and that. He shook his head, but with a little grin. “Shit. I’m going to have to get you your own.”
“Right now, I want yours.”
“I might need it. Come on.” He stepped over, offered his arm. “Let’s do this with class. You have a favorite?”
She took his arm and held her chin high. They stopped at the edge of the lot, standing on a concrete divider, scoping out the selection. The fat white “bro” in khakis and a golf shirt stood at the front window, watching, but probably thinking, “Not worth getting out in the heat for.”
Most of the cars were nineties mid-range shit. Pontiacs, Chevies, some ass-ugly Dodge cars, goddamn. Neon? Stratus?
Melissa tightened her grip on DeVaughn and then pointed towards the far corner. A real beauty—you had to see past the flaws, of course. A red Hyundai Tiburon had been left out in the sun too long, clear coat peeling on the top and hood. But, hey, sun-roof. Paint on the window said it had 96K miles and cost seven thousand and change. Had to be a joke. A joke so good, they laughed at it.
DeVaughn said, “Let’s go get
it.”
They walked across the lot, the sunshine banging off metal and chrome and fiberglass. She pretended it was paparazzi flashes. Lost in the moment. DeVaughn’s hand slid from hers, slid onto her ass, grabbing himself a squeeze. She did the same, slipping her fingertips into his slacks pocket. Feeling like a million fucking dollars, worth maybe seventy-five grand. The fat sales-bro backed off from the window, can of Cherry Dr. Pepper in his hand, resting against his paunch. They watched him huff, shake his head, then head outside.
“Doing alright?” he asked.
“Fine. How about yourself?”
“I’m here by myself today. Can’t let you test-drive anything.”
“Is that so?”
Shrug. “Wish I could. Try back tomorrow if you see something you want to drive.” He gave Melissa a long look, up and down. DeVaughn could almost read the bro’s mind: the zits, but nice lips. The weight, but nice shape. Starting to piss DeVaughn off because he knew what was next: yeah, niggers like fat ugly white girls.
Quicker than it took to get mad, Melissa’s hand rose from DeVaughn’s pocket, up the back of his jacket to where he’d shoved the gun into his waistband, and tugged it once, twice, until it was free. She brought it up nice and smooth and pointed it between the sales-bro’s eyes.
She said, “Go get me the keys for the red Tiburon.”
Hands up, not even dropping the Dr. Pepper. “Hey, hey, hold on. Please. My boss. Please.”
“Get me the keys.”
Salesbro blinked a lot. DeVaughn wondered if he would do the same, someone pointing a gun at him. Wondered if his brother had when Lafitte and Asimov did that shit. Melissa held it like a girl, of course. Bit limp and flippy with it.
The problem with Salesbro was he was still trying to think his way out of this. DeVaughn stepped up to him—watched him go “No no no no!” and cower back—and grabbed the back of his neck, turned him right around back through the glass door into the shop. First thing DeVaughn saw was another guy peeking over a desk in the next room, wood panel walls with a Plexiglas window. He pointed so Melissa would see, and she turned her aim onto the new guy.
This one, sandy spiky hair, no sideburns. Jeans and a dress shirt, knit tie. Loafers and no socks. Hands sort of up, at his waist, because shit, he wasn’t no coward, was he? He’d dreamed of this day, wasn’t going to react like some people, just give away the store. Not when he had taken those ju-jitsu classes. No, he would—
Melissa shot him. Right through the Plexiglas. Surprised the goddamned living fuck out of DeVaughn, the shot shutting down his ears, making him flinch and lose his grip on the bro. Didn’t matter, because the bro had probably shit himself. He dropped to the floor, curled up. Through the ringing, it sounded like he was crying. Melissa stepped into the office and squatted beside the guy she shot. Knees together, heels up off her flip flops. The gun dangled loose in her grip, over her knee. She watched, waited. A very patient killer. He must’ve moved or some shit, because she stood up and shot him again. Then she turned back to the bro.
Dude was all a mess. Sloppy and fat and useless. Melissa took her foot, asphalt-stained flip-flop and all, and pressed it on his cheek, going, “Sh, sh, shush. Sh, sh, shush.”
When she had his attention, she said, “Red Tiburon. Keys. Now.”
He climbed off the floor, still holding his Dr. Pepper, now crushed and oozing and all over his sleeve. Melissa palmed the back of his neck the way she might a lover, and she jabbed the gun into his gut. She didn’t have to say anything. He nodded. He wheezed. They headed into the office where the other man lay dead on the floor.
DeVaughn looked away, out the front windows. It was a really nice day, maybe a little too hot, sure. It was always a little too hot most of the time. No breeze today.
Lafitte should’ve died when they hit him in the car. Should’ve died when DeVaughn shot at him. Shit, he should’ve died instead of DeVaughn’s brother, is what he should’ve done.
Another gunshot.
DeVaughn spun round to watch Melissa do a Beyonce walk out of that office where there were now two dead men. She tossed the key and fob in the air, caught it again. “Ready?”
He held the front door open for her. He had to play catch up when she sashayed past.
“Girl? Goddamn! Someone had to have heard.”
“I figured.”
“You better walk a little faster, then.”
“Ain’t no need. I’m driving, too. I’ve always wanted a sports car.”
“Jesus, baby, you even listening to me?” He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him and got up in her ear. “You just killed those motherfuckers.”
She rested her cheek against his lips. “Look, you’re the one told me you want Lafitte dead. Then you shoot at him like we’re at the fair. Like you want to win me a stuffed monkey. Do you want to win me one of them?”
“Shit.”
“I don’t need monkeys.”
“What you need?”
She grinned. Broke away from him and kept walking. “Look at this car! It’s a fine-ass car.”
“I said what you need, baby?”
She put her hands on her hips and twirled to face him. “I need you to get used to seeing dead guys if you want to kill Billy Lafitte. I need you to pull that trigger and mean it. Get in my car.”
“Your car?”
“You wrecked yours, and I killed two white boys for this one, so yeah.”
Unbelievable. He needed to take a big piss. But he wasn’t going back into the little building behind them. He wondered if there were people watching from close-by, on their phones describing him and Melissa to the cops. He hoped they were saying Fine suit, handsome motherfucker. Girl has got an ass she knows how to use.
She opened the driver’s door of the Tiburon, and DeVaughn went around, got in the other side. Hot as balls in the car. Waves of heat coming out as he sat down. She cranked up and revved and revved again. Turned the a/c on full, a blast of hot making them both cough first before the cold hit. He expected her to shift into gear, but first Melissa grabbed his crotch all the sudden and said, “If we weren’t in a hurry, I would’ve let you fuck me back on the desk in their office.”
“You serious? Dead guys watching and shit?”
“I feel you getting hard. You know you would’ve.”
She was right. Off they went, too fast down a road lined with strip malls and fast food joints.
CHAPTER TWELVE
An hour into the flight, the turbulence shook them hard. Rome closed his eyes, interlaced his fingers on his lap, and took a deep breath. “Airplane crash” was a more high-profile way to die than “hit a deer”. Maybe people seeing his name on the victims list would get the nation talking about Lafitte again. Since he’d escaped and been able to stay escaped, the news had gotten tired of talking about it, and had stopped mentioning the sightings altogether.
Rome could be a martyr for his cause.
Worth it.
But when he opened his eyes after a calm stretch, the flight attendant was already up again, picking up the drink orders where he had left off. Nothing fancy, water or orange juice. Conventional wisdom: if the flight attendant is up and about, then no worries. This was a small jet, a CRJ-700, a bit stuffy but still plenty of leg room on the exit row they had paid extra for. Only four “first class” seats, only three taken this flight, both by lucky upgraders instead of someone who paid full price. He could tell because even back here, he heard word-for-word a conversation between a loud old woman and the flight attendant, telling him all about her upgrading adventures, and him doing a shit job pretending to care. Even she could tell the “sky waiter” didn’t care, but that didn’t stop her.
Wyatt read a magazine. Rome couldn’t read on planes. Never could. Didn’t like movies on flights, either. He listened to the drone of the engines, cringed to the slight bounce of the fuselage on the air currents. If he didn’t concentrate on those things, it would all fall apart. His willpower was what held the plane toge
ther.
Another bitchslap of turbulence. Jesus! He had to grab hold of the headrest in front of him.
Wyatt said, “Hey, Frank, take a look,” and started to pass over an article—some shit about an over-fifty dating service—but then the article was in his face, pressed hard against it. Rome reached up and grabbed the edge, peeled it off. He was disoriented. The plane’s dinger went ding-dong four times, and the flight attendant said, “Excuse me,” to the old woman as he turned for the phone, but the jolt came fast and dropped him to the ground as they lurched to the right. Way far right. Goddamn almost turned upside-down. People falling out of seats, luggage slamming down from the overheads. Screams.
Engines screaming too.
Oxygen masks.
Something cold. Cold all over. Smoke.
Ears pop pop popping.
Disembodied voices from the speakers: “Keep calm! Keep fucking calm! I can’t—I can’t—shit! I can’t!”
Wyatt, grunting, white-knuckling the armrests.
Rome closed his eyes.
Still totally worth it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lafitte took stock.
His elbow, a fucking bloody mess. Rubbed a patch of skin clean down to the bone. Ear was all skuzzed up from gravel, broken asphalt. Cheek, too.
But other than the blood, the burning, and the electric cattle prod his heart was turning into, he got out of it pretty fucking clean.
Behind a house in an old subdivision, all brick homes in one of three styles, propped against the back wall in a fenced yard with a colorful, plastic swing-set, an air conditioning unit, roaring, next to a water hose snaking through unmown grass. He turned it on a trickle, hoping no one inside would notice, and took a long drink before washing off the blood, dirt, and rocks.
DeVaughn had known where Ginny was, had he? Or had someone follow him there? Shit. DeVaughn knew too much. Shit. BGM and DeVaughn had been the ones writing in shit. Shit. Shit. How long had they known? By the time they wrote on the wall of the truck stop, it was too late. He’d already committed. Like a dog and bell, he came running. Shit. Is that all that was left in his skull? Shit? DeVaughn? Not Rome? Not the FBI?
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