Now, what was left was all of this shaggy shit falling over his eyes. He thought about letting it all go, too, but thinking about Manuel for a second, he shook his head, searched in the medicine cabinet. There it was, as he guessed. A jar of Tres Flores Brilliantine. Some real greaser shit, only four bucks a jar, what all the vatos wore, and their fathers, and their grandfathers. It would do for now. Lafitte dug out two big licks, smoothed them in his palms until he had a hot grease smear, and slicked his hair back. Felt good. Felt like home.
Where there was grease, there had to be a comb. He clinked around some more in the medicine cabinet and found it, cleaned the leftover gray hair from it, wondered if it was Manuel’s or Jimena’s, then worked up a nice little pomp, the kind he used to wear. Gene Vincent. Unruly mop on top threatening to fall apart at the least urging, slicked back everywhere else. Made him want to howl. Made him want to punch someone, in a good way.
Now, this fucking beard.
*
Twenty minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom, a sheepish left to right. No one. Wearing Manuel’s jeans, rolled on the bottom. Boots. White T-shirt. Fuck, what if those two women in the Gospels had seen this walk out of Jesus’ tomb, right?
He walked through to the kitchen, liking the heavy sound of his boots on the floor. He found Manuel sitting at the little table, staring into space, his hand wrapped around a Coors Light. No, not staring into space. The little TV on the counter. It was on one of the news channels, a plane crash. Then Manuel looked over at fresh-scrubbed Billy. “Now that’s more like it. The Billy I remember.”
“Yeah, beat to shit.”
Waved him off. “The least of your worries. Beer’s in the fridge.” Then back to the TV.
Lafitte crossed to the fridge, got a beer, snapped it open and tried to block out the sound of the news guys. He’d heard enough of news, checking for his name on the national shit for a week or two after he had busted out. Once it had died down, there were still some local stories, sightings, but the tediousness of waiting for them to get to it got to him and he stopped bothering. Hated “news voice.”
He sat beside Manuel. Had they ever sat down together with some beer? Ever? “Where’s Jimena?”
“Out to get us pizza.”
“They deliver, you know.”
“Not from where we get it. Listen, now, hush and listen.” Pointing at the TV.
Lafitte didn’t want to. Took a cold drag of beer instead. But something familiar in the air, some sound. That thing where you hear your own name but no one’s calling you. “What’s going on?”
“Plane crash.”Manuel raised his eyes. “Might be a friend of yours on the plane.”
What now? What could it possibly be now?
“I don’t have any friends.”
“Sit, sit.”
Lafitte sat and watched TV with his stepdad. Ex-stepdad. When they showed Franklin Rome’s name and photo, it got him in the gut. He broke down, head between his knees, eyes burning. Manuel asked him what was wrong, and Lafitte finally got it out: “I’m free.”
But he knew deep down it wasn’t true and it would never be true, and he was even sad in a way, thinking about Rome out of his life, the way Batman must have been sad putting away the Riddler, the sorry fuck.
Then Manuel said, “No wait, he survived.”
Well, goddamn it. Good news, bad news.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Melissa realized she hadn’t had a cigarette all day. And she wasn’t sure she wanted one now. DeVaughn’s cock was better than Nicorette.
But, hey, if this BGM soldier was offering, who was she to say no? It was different than the usual cooling rush she felt blowing out a long stream of smoke on break from the truck stop, or after a fight with her jackass ex (yes, officially an ex now, for sure) when she’d been able to crush his fire under her heel like a cigarette butt. It felt good to win. She loved winning. She felt sexier. She’d killed two men for DeVaughn. They had cowered before her. Even better than fighting with the ex. The only time that hickster had treated her with any respect was when she’d turned on the sexy-bitch routine, lit up one right in the trailer, then promised him he wouldn’t get any more of her pussy, and then talked about the black guys she’d been with. But her first cigarette after her first kills was better. Much better.
DeVaughn didn’t take a cigarette. Not adamant or anything. A simple, “I’m good.”
She asked him if he smoked, and he shrugged. “Playing poker? Sometime you’ve got to sit for hours and hours. Being around thick clouds of smoke for that many hours fucks up your throat and nose. And then sometimes, at tournaments, they don’t let you smoke at all. So, shit, I gave it up by accident.”
Good answer. He sure enough didn’t seem to mind that she had smoked. Didn’t seem to mind once they’d gotten down to it, her breath was all cigarettes and her stink was all cigarettes and grease and sweat. That was love. Love was not minding each other’s smells. Him, all coffee breath and garlic. Some sort of body wash, Old Spice? One of those new Old Spices? And when he was done fucking her, his cum smelled sweet like hard candy.
DeVaughn sent YP—she wanted to call him “Yip”, and he’d been giving her vibes, too, like, baby, once your man ain’t around—and Lo-Wider off to check out Lafitte’s stepdad’s house, and the other soldiers to get strapped and ready for war. Lafitte was a living Stallone movie.
It left them alone again after her cigarette. Alone and bored. Bored was the big bad wolf. She hadn’t been bored for nearly a full day and she didn’t want it to end. So her being bored meant she got horny and pretty soon her and DeVaughn were in a Sonic Drive-In restroom where she sat on the toilet, sucking him off, except he was only getting a little hard and she started to worry he was bored, too. Was he already losing interest? Not love after all? Another goddamned misfire in her brain? She knew it was love, though, she really knew it this time. So she got into it even more, got her hand stroking harder, got her mouth more wet, used her tongue.
And when that didn’t work, she started talking dirtier: “Want to fuck my ass? Want to cum in my ass? Don’t you want to?”
And he sighed and laid his hands on her shoulders. “Look at me.”
Cock still in her mouth, she did.
“It’s okay, girl. It’s okay. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. It’s not you, I swear.”
He backed up, turned and zipped. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, stared at the drain in the floor. “Okay.”
Tired of her. Or just plain tired. Or something.
Another minute of them being quiet. Then DeVaughn said, “Baby, when this is over, you and me, we can go anywhere we want. There are some tournaments in Florida. There are some up in Connecticut. Or, shit, up in Tunica all the time.”
“Florida would be nice. I like Pensacola. I went to Panama City for Spring Break my junior year.”
“Yeah. Florida. You know it. Soon as we take care of this. Soon as that Lafitte motherfucker is dead.”
He sounded like he didn’t believe it. Sounded like he thought they’d be in jail, like she’d gone and thrown the whole plan into the blender, killing those car guys.
She stood and walked over to him, put her palms flat on his back and leaned in close. Chin on his shoulder. “You mad?”
He let out a ragged breath. “At you? No, baby, no.”
“Tell the truth.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“You got turned up over that. I don’t know. I mean, I want to kill this motherfucker, no doubt about it, but, I didn’t think...what I mean...” Wiggling now, popping one fist into his other hand. “One and done, you know? Didn’t think there would be collateral damage.”
“Don’t call it that.”
“What?”
“Collateral damage is what army dudes say to make it like they ain’t killed the wrong people. What you need to say is they were necessary kills. What I did was get rid of two witnesses.”
&nbs
p; “Shit, girl, we left my car next door! They’re gonna know! And we need to get Lafitte done with so we can get the hell out of here.”
“Florida?”
“The fuck was I thinking, Florida? If we’re lucky, we can hop a flight to France or or or Cabo or something. We can’t go to Florida. Shit, unless we plan on swimming to Cuba after.”
She swung DeVaughn around by the shoulders. “Look at me. I’m good. Paris. We do this, we go to Paris, you teach me to play cards, and we kiss this shitty country goodbye.”
He shook his head, blinked a lot. “It’s not that easy.”
“It is. You got credit cards. You got a bank account. I did you a favor.”
He couldn’t help but grin. “Aw, goddamn. What is it about you?”
Someone started banging on the door. “Scuse me?”
Melissa shouted, “I’m sick! I got diarrhea! Going to be awhile!”
Then she bit her lip and lowered her chin and took DeVaughn by the hands. “Come on, come here.”
“What, baby?”
“Come here.”
She pulled him over to the toilet, gave him a shove and sat him down. She pulled up her dress slowly. “Your turn.”
“I said I’m not in the mood.” But he was still grinning.
“Who gives a shit if you’re in the mood?” Dress above her waist, she shoved the thin material of her panties aside, fingered her pussy. Went knuckle-deep with her middle finger. Moaned. “What mama wants, mama gets, and we’ll worry about you later.”
“Aw, Melissa, you ain’t being fair.”
She pulled out her finger and forced it into his mouth, past his teeth. “Fair? You think it’s fair to leave me hanging? Or do you want me to go let one of the cute BGM niggas loosen me up first? Give you time to think about what’s fair.”
His eyes widened. Tried to talk around her finger. “Bee-th.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that.” She curled her finger on top of his tongue.
“Oo. In-saith-a-bull.”
She straddled him, started rubbing her crotch on his. “Let’s get these pants wet. See how you like it.”
Because it didn’t matter if he was in the mood or not. She would make sure as fuck he wasn’t bored.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rome wasn’t dead. That didn’t make him feel any better.
Wyatt was, but Rome had only figured it out from what they weren’t telling him. They weren’t talking to him much at all, and when they did, as if he was an infant. Worse, an old man. Worse still, a middle-aged man who must look to them like a mentally-damaged pity case.
He tried to speak. Knew the nouns, verbs, adjectives, conjunctions, and even the right tones to signify questions, demands, sadness, anger. But when he tried to make them go from head to mouth, it was spit, drool, and some sort of honking. Like retarded people. Shit, he was retarded people.
If not, he would’ve said I’m a fucking FBI agent. I was with fucking Homeland Security. I almost had Lafitte dead to rights. I was out there saving your asses from terrorism while you were still in high school, before you decided college was too hard and that a shitty less-than-one-year nursing assistant degree would be enough for you.
Spittle. Drool. Could barely lift his hands to wipe it off, so he had cold drool all over his hospital gown and bandages, which most of the barely-nursing assistants ignored. On purpose. At first he thought it was because they knew what he thought of them. Then, because he was black. But the final realization was worse—they hated drool and hoped the next barely-nursing assistant would clean it up.
The crash was on TV. Some photos of him were in the rotation, official ones, a couple of candid ones from conferences or on vacation. Someone from Desiree’s family must have handed those last ones over to the media. He wondered if there was a reporter in the hallway or waiting room hoping to see him. One of five survivors out of sixty-three. The co-pilot survived. A four-year-old survived. But a voice actor and a self-made multi-millionaire who owned a carpet franchise in eight states died.
Wyatt was dead. Desiree was still dead. Most likely, Rome’s dream of dying alone in a cabin by the lake was dead, too. He might never be alone again, might need help to clean up his drool the rest of his life.
And he didn’t dare ask why the blanket was flat next to his leg where the other one was supposed to be.
*
A knock on the already open door. He must have been standing there a few minutes already, but Rome hadn’t noticed. He was too busy concentrating on the heart monitor, wondering if he could speed it up or slow it down at will. Just when it seemed to be working, something would make it jump or dip the wrong way.
Rome almost didn’t recognize Shane Stoudemire, the man who had once been his superior at the FBI in New Orleans. Now he was, what, Rome couldn’t remember. Climbing the administrative ladder, certainly. More than a Special Agent, more than a supervisor. The last time he and Rome had spoken had been after the shit had gone down at the prison, all the evidence pointing back to Rome. Got his ass chewed nice and royally. From this one, the royal dickhead. Fed Head. Rome wished, oh wished, the worst sort of sex scandal to take this piece of cow shit down.
Instead, here he was, standing in the doorway, a disgusted but polite smile on his face—Jesus, Rome needed a mirror—pretending to be concerned. Of course it was pretending. The guy had never shown a real emotion in his life, had he?
“Buddy? You awake over there? Have they got you on the good stuff?”
Rome stared. He wondered if they had told Stoudemire that Rome couldn’t talk. Wondered if Fed Head would try to make him anyway. So Rome kept his mouth shut. Except he couldn’t. Instead of the hard, silent stare Rome was going for, he had forgotten he was all neck-twisted, lips moving involuntarily, drooling, the sound of his breathing—wet steel wool.
Stoudemire walked to the end of the bed. He wore golf clothes, his idea of day-off casual wear. A cap with TriCounty Financial on it. A thick watch. He gripped the rail at the end of the bed like he was gripping the back of a chair at a meeting, lording over the other agents. “They say things are going to get better for you. All signs pointing skyward. And the prosthetics these days, seriously, you’ll run faster now than you did at Quantico.”
Stoudemire gave Rome’s left and only foot a shake.
“And don’t worry. Government health care, it’s the best. You won’t have to worry about a thing. They’ll even fix your cabin up so you can get around easier. Widen the doors, install bars, ramps, toilet.”
If he could have gotten out of bed right then. If he could’ve strangled his good buddy Shane Stoudemire.
“I was sorry to hear about Wyatt. Good man. I talked to his brother yesterday. Good man. Sounded like you two were off on some kind of adventure.”
Did Rome’s eyes get wider? Could he stop them from doing so? Could he try?
“Fishing? On the Gulf? Swordfish?”
Rome blinked. Tried to nod.
“You know, as soon as they found what was in Wyatt’s carry-on, we got a call. The photos, the rumors, all of it. And it made its way to me pretty fast. I still have an alert on Lafitte if anything comes in over the transom, mainly to make sure you’re staying out of it. But you were never going to stay out of it, no matter how much we told you to leave it alone. I get it. I really do.”
No you don’t, and you never will, you condescending—
“I really hope they’re wrong. I hope you’re not so brain-damaged you don’t register what I’m saying. I hope every word is loud and clear deep inside, brother.”
“Mmnuu.” No, not now. Not like that.
“Very good, very good.” A pat on the leg. The leg. “So which one was Batman, and which one was Robin? Look, I get it. I wish this was easier. But Lafitte’s really good. Really good. And you are not.”
Rome breathed heavier, and he couldn’t help if it came out as pants and grunts. Fucking awful. Fucking ridiculous.
“You are a failure, a burnout, a drunk, and a
suicide risk. Now you can’t even kill yourself. So listen, something for you to chew on.” He pulled the chair over and sat real close to Rome’s head, leaned in. “Yes, somebody found him. And he showed up again on the Gulf Coast a fucking month ago, and caused more damage in one or two days than most hurricanes cause. The only reason you didn’t hear about it was because we kept the lid on. You’ve been drooling all over yourself for a month, man.”
Rome closed his eyes. It was one of the very few things he had control of on his body. They’d already caught the bastard. What was Stoudemire leading up to?
The douche kept going. “He killed a teenager first thing in the morning, injured another one badly. They didn’t know who they were fucking with. He was sleeping in a truck full of vitamins, protein shake mixes, and a shit-ton of anabolic steroids, so there’s that. Then he stole a car, stole some motorcycles, crashed the motorcycles, but he was just getting started.”
Rome remembered trying to lure Lafitte down South when he had disappeared the first time, joined up with those bikers. Instead, he ended up having to fly to Sioux Falls because the whole thing was a major fuck up. His wife followed him on a separate flight, and they had a short reunion before she took things into her own hands. She was going to kill Lafitte herself in a hotel stairwell. He got her first.
Stoudemire: “You know Ginny Lafitte, right? And by the way, I always assumed you fucked her. Did you fuck her, Franklin? No comment? Okay.”
Jesus, that poor...already half-crazy by the time Rome met her, hoping she could help get Billy to come home. Bait on a rat trap. But it turned out the motherfucker had done more of a number on Ginny’s head than anyone realized. Some serious mental gymnastics. Girl went and tried to kill herself. And from what he’d heard, she never stopped trying after.
Stoudemire raised his fingers to his lip like a Japanese schoolgirl. “Oh my, you noticed my faux pas? I said knew, as in past tense, as in—”
“Muuah-thuk—”
“Almost dead. They saved her, but she’s a vegetable. Big ol’ potato now. Lafitte wrapped a leather belt around her neck and hung her on a coat hook behind the door of her hospital room. Just. Like. That.”
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