Hogdoggin'

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Desiree sat on the sofa, legs curled up under her, reading the paper. A take-home daiquiri in her hand they’d picked up on the way home. Without looking up she said, “Do we really have to watch this?”

  “I’m waiting for the weather.”

  “There is such a thing as the Weather Channel. On all day long.” She turned the page. Must be giving her husband a break tonight. Didn’t matter. Her sharpest barb couldn’t pierce his good mood tonight. Everything going smoothly with Lafitte. He’d drive over for another talk with Ginny Lafitte in the morning, make sure to tighten the net just so.

  Rome took a long look at his wife. He was thinking that by the time she’d finished that Rum Splash, she’d be plenty buzzed enough to maybe feel like fooling around. He didn’t know why this night would be any different from the plenty of others she’d been drunk. Sometimes she would tease but then shut him down at the last moment, daring him to press further. Tonight, though, in this mood, he needed something from her. He thought back to the image from earlier, rubber cock jutting out from its leather harness around her hip, electrical cord slapping the palm of her hand.

  He said, “I think we’ve caught a break in the case. Things might take a turn for the better.”

  “Mm hm.” She kept reading.

  “Enough to get us moved anywhere we want. Have you got any dream destinations in mind?”

  Shrug. “Here’s as good as any.”

  “Come on. Can’t you see I’m trying?”

  Finally got her to look at him. “Oh, I can see that. And you’d better keep trying too.”

  “What the hell else do you want from me? I’m wearing myself out.”

  Desiree folded the paper, set it aside, and untangled her legs. She scooted to the edge of the couch. “You still haven’t gotten it. It’s not about you and how tired you are. It’s not about making a list and checking it off. It’s about me being ready to forgive you because I feel you’ve really changed. Not some sort of process, none of that shit.” Stabbed her finger towards him. “I say when it’s okay, and if that takes until your goddamned deathbed, you’d better be happy about it.”

  Rome shook his head. Jesus, she was hot when she was hot, and it pissed him off that much more. He thought he knew her, but this wall she’d built between them, that’s all he ever talked to any more. The wall. He was feeling the wall grow thicker, another layer, feeling himself slipping farther out of reach. “Dee, babe, I…why haven’t you left? Is that what you want?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth before laughing. “You’d like that, right? You can hit me and then get rid of me and start over on someone else.”

  He was pacing, mixing up Desiree’s voice with the growling attack dogs on TV. A quick glimpse. Three dogs on one hog.

  “It was only that one time. A couple times.”

  “But it’s always been there, hasn’t it? Think of all the temper tantrums you’ve gotten to take out on criminals instead of me. All the times you raised your voice louder than necessary. And now I see how frustrated you get when I shoot down whatever acts of penance you lay down before me. It’s still there.”

  “That’s taking it too far.”

  “The best way to starve a fire is to take away its energy.”

  Rome thought, But you’re feeding it. His throat was thick, his whole body throbbing with his heartbeat. He walked over to the couch, reached out for Dee. “Stand up.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.” She tried to look away.

  “Just stand up, I said.” A little louder.

  She lifted her head, mouth open, no words coming. Another ten seconds. She stood.

  Face to face, maybe a foot between them. Rome looked his wife over top to bottom to top again. About to fucking explode.

  He said, “I want you to slap me.”

  “What?”

  “You want to know what it feels like? Do it. Slap my face. Give it a hard one.”

  She stepped back and planted her hands on her hips, dropped her chin. Posed with attitude. “Uh huh. I see what’s going on. I slap you, you can claim self-defense and lay hands on me. Not going to happen. I’m a lawman’s wife, remember?”

  “Babe, no. I promise, not one finger. Seriously, give me a hard one.”

  She flexed her left hand fingers. Tapped her foot. “I can’t. We’re not the same, Franklin.”

  “Bullshit. You say it’s always been in me? Even more in you. The difference is you like to draw it out in little games, being all passive-aggressive. You ain’t fooling anyone. It’s as if you’d raked my eyes with your claws.”

  “You wish.”

  “Yes, I fucking well wish! Now do you want to be a bitch or do you want to hit me? I’ll bet you’ve dreamed about it. Hit me, you cunt!”

  She did. Short fuse. He barely saw it coming, and it came hard. Left hand high on his cheek. A nail caught his skin, nicked it. He closed his eyes on impact and saw a bright flash, then green, then he opened them and inhaled like he’d been underwater too long.

  Dee’s devil mask dissolved. “Oh, Jesus, you’re bleeding.”

  “It’s fine, it’s nothing. Do that again.”

  She looked scared, more so than after the backhand that had started them down this road in the first place. He swiped at the blood from where she’d sliced him.

  Rome said, “Don’t make me say something worse. Just one more time.”

  The volume between both of them was swelling. The TV had moved on to really loud commercials.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Goddamn it, I love you, Dee!”

  Another slap. Screaming No. And another slap after that. Another. Then her nails scraped across his scalp as she grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him towards her. A vicious kiss, all teeth and lips. Smothering the breath between them, daring one or the other to break away.

  She finally pushed him off. “You motherfucker, I think I’ve got it now.”

  “Think so?”

  “That’s what you want?”

  “I want you.”

  TV commercials: loud arthritis medicine. Then loud soup.

  Desiree sat on the couch again, lifting her skirt as she did, knees high. “Take off my panties.”

  Rome got on his knees and crawled between her legs, pulled her panties down and off quickly. The pungent smell—sweat and sex and his wife—hit him full on. He hadn’t seen her pussy in so long, wanted to take a long look, but Desiree slapped him again then forced his head into her lap.

  “You know what to do, and don’t come up for air until I let you.”

  He said, “Yes, babe.”

  “Don’t talk.”

  Rome did as instructed, the cut on his face stinging as her wet thighs rubbed against it. Every now and then she’d push harder, smack him across the back, or call him a dog, a bastard, a motherfucking sicko, a piece of shit, but told him he’d better not stop.

  And he didn’t stop. And he was happy with the pain. And he was going to use Ginny Lafitte to help catch her ex-husband. And he was going to crawl on his hands and knees if that’s what it took to win back his wife.

  SEVEN

  Lafitte eased the rumbling chopper up Sheriff George Tordsen’s gravel driveway, almost too steep. He scolded himself. Not even stopping to think this might all be a trap. Not thinking to try Tordsen’s house first. Not calling first, for God’s sake.

  Not even considering the path behind him becoming clogged with squad cars as soon as he dismounted. Funny, really, to think that the two things a man will lose all common sense for are his family and sex. Like an instinctual drive to make kids with any piece of tail that offers it up for you, then jump into volcanoes if it would save the little monsters.

  Not to mention Ginny. Didn’t matter that they’d now been divorced more than a couple of years and hadn’t spoken since before he’d moved to Minnesota in the aftermath of Katrina.

  After his spectacular flame out, though, he’d come to see things differently. Especially
after his months with Steel God. Like it or not, Lafitte was a bad man who did bad stuff because he couldn’t help it. Maybe he felt shitty about it most nights, but that didn’t stop him for plowing on.

  No one waited in Tordsen’s front yard for him. The only vehicles other than his own were the Sheriff’s official SUV and his wife’s Outback. They lived on a bluff overlooking part of the Minnesota River Valley. Plenty of dense trees and jagged hills here, but out behind the house was a devastating drop into a sea of sawgrass, weeds, and a little trickle of creek feeding into the river. Lafitte sat on the bike and revved, waited, not sure what to do. Came so far for what, exactly?

  Tordsen must’ve heard the rumble. Hard to ignore. He stepped outside onto the front porch, leaned against a railing and crossed his arms. Lafitte let the noise go on another minute, not waving or smiling or anything like that, before cutting the engine and easing off the hog. He pulled off his helmet. His ears were hot and swelled. His temples throbbed. No wonder most guys in the club never bothered with helmets.

  Lafitte started towards Tordsen slowly.

  The sheriff said, “Could’ve called first.”

  “I was just thinking that myself.”

  “Let me guess. You stopped by the station, too.”

  “That’s why you’re top dog in the county.”

  Tordsen loosened up and came down to meet Lafitte, shook his hand, then pulled him in for a quick pat on the back.

  “Come on in for a beer.”

  Lafitte followed Tordsen inside, passed through the living room where Mrs. Tordsen’s wife sat in an overstuffed chair, a notebook computer on her lap, typing away. She took a quick peek at the visitor over glasses perched low on her nose, then another longer gaze. Lafitte nodded and kept on. Didn’t need any small talk. Wished he could’ve skipped this part too. Tordsen had been a friend when Lafitte really needed one, but that sort of generosity came with a price. You can’t have someone save you and then expect to ever see them as anything other than a savior, which makes you resent them, which makes you freeze them out. It was easier to be hated.

  In the kitchen, Tordsen handed a bottle of Coors Light to Lafitte, and they leaned their backsides against opposite countertops. Lafitte thought the sheriff looked thinner, a little pale. He hadn’t shaved in a couple days, at least. They took long sips of beer and waited for the other to speak.

  Tordsen went first. “Nate holding down the station?”

  “Yep. All grown up.”

  “Well, he’s got his head in the clouds. He never forgave you, been bucking my authority since day one, but never to my face. I’d guess that he’s already dropped the dime on you. Rome found the kid’s sweet spot, offered him help getting on with the bureau.”

  Lafitte grunted. “He bought it?”

  “Hook and line. I had to hear it from other deputies, of course. So I’m saying your cover’s probably blown already.”

  “So Rome’s still around?”

  The sheriff took a sip, held it in his cheek before swallowing. Looked to Lafitte like it hurt. Tordsen said, “Not around here. They yanked him quick. Goddamn, son, you did a number on him.”

  “He’s lucky considering the number he did on me.”

  “Anyway, they promoted him, but it was more to avoid a lawsuit than anything real. They made him promise to leave your case alone.”

  “Did it work?”

  Tordsen held out his hand, waved it so-so. “We’ll get to that soon, but no, not exactly. We weren’t sure you got the message. It was worth a try, though.”

  “I got it.”

  “Guess you won’t have a chance to see Layla. I could call her now if you—”

  “I’m not here for a reunion.” Lafitte dropped his head. He knew what was next.

  “Sure, I understand all that. I’ve just been thinking maybe we handled it wrong, and since you’re here again, you know. We can work at it. Better than running.”

  Hanging with Steel God hadn’t felt like running. Lafitte felt like he had sold his soul, but it was slightly more comfortable than looking over his shoulder every five miles.

  He said, “Afraid not.”

  Tordsen shrugged, sighed. Another long sip. Half through he gagged, dripped some beer. Pounded his chest. The cough was bad. His wife shouted from the next room, “Everything okay in there?”

  The sheriff’s pounding eased to palm pats and all scratchy he said, “Fine, I’m fine. Wrong windpipe. That’s all.”

  Lafitte let the man breathe a few moments. Tordsen tried to stop the coughs, cleared his throat, squinted painfully each time.

  “What have they done to you, George?”

  Tordsen shook his head. One more clearing of the throat, turned and spat in the sink. “I did this to myself, letting this heartburn get out of control. The store brand stuff didn’t help, but now it’s just crazy. I got the doctor to prescribe something stronger, but he said there’s a chance…chance of cancer.”

  “Jesus.”

  “In the esophagus, but maybe not. I’m going to Sioux Falls for tests next week. And even if it is, they can probably take it out before it spreads. Small beans.”

  Lafitte knew it was because of him. The Feds had made Tordsen’s life a living hell, and the odds were against him getting reelected. He would probably get pushed into retirement, barely enough to maintain. His wife would have to keep working as a teacher until the day she died. Tordsen’s rep was shattered, his health going downhill, all because he’d stood up for Lafitte. Hadn’t buckled at all. Lafitte might’ve hated him less if he had.

  “I’m sorry.” Lafitte stared at the floor. Tordsen kept quiet, probably expecting more. He wasn’t going to get it.

  “It’s okay. Like I said, it’s all on me. Should take better care of myself.”

  He left the rest unsaid, but there: Easier to do if you turn yourself in.

  They had both thought this would blow over in six months. Turned out the Feds were persistent, if stupid. Lafitte had hid in plain sight for over a year. Really changed his mind about government conspiracy theories—not these guys. No, too power hungry, selfish, and absolutely unable to put themselves in the shoes of a wanted man. Local cops could teach them a thing or two about that, if they gave a shit. Better to keep those sorts of trade secrets safe at home.

  Lafitte drained the beer, wiped his mustache with the back of his hand, and said, “Listen, George. Don’t take this the wrong way—”

  “Yeah, sure, I know. You want to get to your family, I know. They’re all okay, nobody’s hurt or anything.”

  The ache in Lafitte’s shoulders eased up for the first time in two days.

  “But it’s not good. They tell me Ginny isn’t all there in the head any more, really shaken up over Graham. Plus…” Tordsen shrugged. “Probably not what you want to hear, but she blames you.”

  Lafitte tapped his fingers on the empty beer bottle. He had hoped Ginny would have heard the truth about what happened. But what were the odds, really? It looked bad no matter what color paint you slapped on it.

  The sheriff kept on. “Your son’s a bit of a handful, I hear. Pretty tough on the playground.”

  “Good. Want him that way.”

  “Ginny doesn’t. She couldn’t take it, sent him over to her folks’ house to stay. It’s been about a month now since she’s seen him. Says he reminds her too much of you.”

  Lafitte squeezed his eyes shut. The last he saw Ham, barely out of his toddler years. Sweet kid. Squeezed tighter. No tears, not any more. Turn them into something else, take it out on some other son of a bitch, but don’t let Tordsen see you cry. “Sounds like a winner.”

  “I think they’re close to taking your little girl, too.”

  There it was, the anger. Opened his eyes and slapped the bottle down hard on the counter. Paced. “Well, goddamn, has anybody thought about helping Ginny? Instead of taking our kids away and leaving her alone to do god knows what?”

  “Hey, I’m only the messenger.”

  Lafitte g
ot in Tordsen’s face. “That’s the easy out, ain’t it? Bet her parents would say the same thing.”

  “You’re really lucky your mother-in-law bothered telling us at all. Why the hell else would she call unless she thought you could help?”

  “Because it’s a fucking trap is why!”

  Tordsen placed his fingertips on Lafitte’s chest and pushed him back, nice and easy, a good two feet. “In my home, a little respect.”

  Lafitte paced a bit more, slowing finally and mumbling, “Yeah, sorry, my bad.”

  Tordsen stepped in his path. “You might not be too far off, and that’s where Rome comes back in. The bastard’s supposed to be forbidden to touch your case, but he got himself sent off to New Orleans. And guess who he’s talking to?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Rome can’t touch your Minnesota case, so he’s found a way to sneak around on some old accusations that you and your partner killed some gang leader before you came up here. He’s already talked to the in-laws and Ginny. That’s what got Mrs. Hoeck on board, him threatening to hold Ginny accountable somehow. If you ever told her anything about it—”

  “I didn’t.”

  Tordsen looked Lafitte square in the eyes. “I was going to say I don’t need to know if you had anything to do with it or not, but I guess you just answered that. Jesus, son, you make it hard to help you.”

  “I don’t remember asking for all this. You’re the one who let me out of jail.”

  “You’re right, I did.”

  “Thanks for the beer.” Lafitte started for the door.

  Tordsen followed, waited until they were on the porch to say, “That’s it?”

  Lafitte was already off the steps, climbing onto the chopper. “What the fuck else is there? The only reason she called is to keep Ginny from going to jail. She thought I might be stupid enough to turn myself in if I knew about it.”

  “Are you?”

  He hadn’t thought that far ahead. If Rome had some sort of profiler on his team, that guy would say an arrogant ex-cop with a huge ego who’s out for vengeance would come charging in like a one man army. And he’d be right. The one thing they wouldn’t expect would be for him to blend into the background noise of America again. Only a callous asshole who was concerned about his own skin would go that route. He could do that, right? Give Steel God’s number a call and limp back to the fold. Drink his ex-wife and the two kids he barely knew out of his head. Pretend to be the type of guy he used to lord over, cut deals with, or beat at every pissing contest because he was the one with cuffs swinging from his belt.