Steve still banging.
Piece of motherfucking ass!
Isaiah still seething. Writhing. On his back now, full roll going on.
Steve still banging.
Going to FUCK YOU UP! You hear me? BGM for life, motherfucker! BGM—
Steve went down hard on his back. Took Lo-Wider a second to figure out what was going on. Lafitte had grabbed the kid’s ankles from underneath the truck.
How the fuck—
Lo-Wider could’ve sworn—
Steve kicked and scuttled his way out from under the truck. Lafitte rolled out and hopped up before Steve could flip himself over. Lafitte grabbed him at the waist, a fistful of oversize shorts, and lifted him like a sack of potatoes.
“Who sent you? Who’s been watching me?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”
“But you BGM for life, ain’t you? You following orders, ain’t you? Who sent you?”
“I don’t know, please, please, I wasn’t going to do nothing, please.”
Lafitte dropped Steve, who let out a whoosh of air and a yelp. Lafitte stepped over to Isaiah and knelt beside him. Isaiah was out of his mind with pain. Rocking back and forth. Cradling his hand. Lafitte reached in, grabbed him by the crushed wrist. The scream that came out of Isaiah was enough to make a man piss his pants.
“Who sent you? Tell me. I know who it was. I want to hear you say it.”
“Is, is, is.” Deep, rattling breath. “Is, is, is...oh God, fuck, Jesusjesusjesus.”
Lafitte squeezed a little tighter. “Say the fucking name already!”
Steve had gotten up and launched himself for Lafitte’s back. Wrapped a forearm around his neck and got him in a sleeper. Lo-Wider knew better. Sleepers never fucking worked. Wrestling was fake. It was all fake. Learned when he was thirteen.
Lafitte, red-faced, stood. Steve had a few inches on him, bent him backwards. Steve tightened more and more, cutting off Lafitte’s pipes. Lafitte hooked his fingers on top of Steve’s forearm, but he couldn’t pry loose.
Steve’s eyes, left right left right, looking for help. Isaiah near tears, fetal position. Lo-Wider, no way. Not worth it. He stood where he stood and shook his phone. Ring, motherfucker, ring.
Lafitte planted his feet and opened his mouth wide and let out a scream and wrenched himself forward, lifting Steve off the ground, over Lafitte’s head. Lafitte reached back, took the kid’s leg, and sent him over, hard, headfirst onto the pavement. Lo-Wider heard the loudest eggshell crack he’d ever heard, and Steve went limp on his back except for herky-jerky in his legs, arms. There was a lot of blood.
“Shit, no, shit, no.” Lafitte swallowed air and crawled over to Steve. Slapped his face. “Shit, no, shit, wake up kid. Shit, wake up.” Held a palm in front of Steve’s face. “Shit!” Leaned his ear to his chest, listened. “SHIT! SHIT!”
Started two-handed pumping Steve’s chest. “No no no no. Goddamn it. Not now.”
Lo-Wider watched. Wasn’t getting it.
Lafitte shouted over his shoulder. “You! Fat kid! Got a phone?”
Lo-Wider too stunned to answer.
“You fat fuck, do you have a fucking phone? Get an ambulance. Get a fucking ambulance now. Right the fuck now!”
Lo-Wider looked at the phone in his hand. He’d forgotten how to use it. It was telling him he had a missed call. Shit. DeVaughn, finally. But too fucking late. He dialed 911 and was all “Something bad happened. Real bad. Just...hurry up.”
They wanted to keep him on the phone. Wanted details. Wanted his name. Wanted something more than “Send a fucking ambulance.” But that was all Lo-Wider had for them. Said, “I need 911. I got two of my friends. One dead. One might be dead.” For real to him now.
Lafitte was still pumping Steve’s chest. Still chanting “Shit.” And then, ear to the chest again, he went slack. He gave up. Whispered “shit shit shit.”
He pushed himself onto one knee. Waited. Hard breaths.
Even Isaiah had calmed down enough to say, “Why you stop? What you doing? What? Keep doing it, man. Keep doing what you was doing. Come on, man.”
Lafitte ignored him, grimaced, held his left arm tight against his body like maybe Steve had hurt him some after all. Sirens on the air, closer and closer. And they weren’t just the EMT sirens. Lo-Wider could tell. Lafitte could tell, too. Isaiah turned his sights to Bossman Steve and was all, “Hey, wake up, white boy. C’mon, now, we having fun is all. Steve. Steve. Steve. Wake up, now. I said wake up. Listen to me, boy, I said to wake up!”
Lafitte turned and walked over to Lo-Wider, who was about to piss his pants, and he started crying immediately and said, “I swear I didn’t. I never told them to.”
Lafitte shook his head. “It’s DeVaughn, right? DeVaughn Rose still around, isn’t he?”
The shitty cell phone in Lo-Wider’s hand rang and buzzed again. Two times. Three. Lafitte plucked it out of Lo-Wider’s grip. Easy. Looked at the name and number displayed. Then back up at Lo-Wider.
“Listen, we was only supposed to watch. We weren’t supposed to mess with you none. I swear.”
Lafitte slipped the phone into his back pocket. The sirens were louder. The number of looky-loos had grown. Many of them had their own phones up filming this. Lafitte turned to his truck, then started looking around at the other cars in the lot. Lo-Wider knew what he was thinking. Didn’t take him even half a minute to finally hold out his hand, palm up, and he didn’t even have to speak. Lo-Wider fished his key from his pocket and handed it over. “It’s the Monte Carlo over there, behind the gas station.”
Lafitte took the key and said, “Thanks,” and jogged towards the car. Lo-Wider watched him go. What was that shit, saying “Thanks”? Like Lo-Wider was really helping because he wanted to. Like he had a choice. Motherfucker was breathless, too. If it had been a fair fight, Lafitte would’ve been done, man
The motherfucker hopped into Lo-Wider’s grampa’s Monte Carlo and revved it up. He was gone in seconds, blending in with the traffic on 49, heading up to I-10, as the first cops were hauling ass into the parking lot. It killed Lo-Wider to do it, what was necessary. His two friends, pretty good friends, one dead, one real bad off, suffering. He hated to do it. The cops came to a stop. There was an ambulance coming, too, right behind them.
One of the cops stomped over to Lo-Wider while the others swarmed the two on the ground, some stupid racist motherfuckers with their pistols out, aimed towards Isaiah. Not a one bothering to aim at Steve. They swarmed the Muscle Max truck, too.
The cop, a lady cop, with a thick braid, was in Lo-Wider’s face saying, “You, did you see what happened? Did you call this in?”
Lo-Wider shook his head. “I don’t even have a phone. I was using the bathroom in Waffle House.”
After telling her a few more times, she moved on to find a better witness. Lo-Wider started for the gas station. He was going to need a ride and a new phone. Finding new friends would be a lot harder. Lo-Wider sniffed and tried not to look back.
He mumbled, “BGM for life, motherfucker.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The thing was, DeVaughn didn’t even know somebody was calling. Didn’t know his phone had shut down. Too busy with Melissa in the shower, which turned into exactly what he thought it would. Then after, her putting her stank-ass diner clothes back on, and DeVaughn shaking his head, saying, “No, girl, this won’t do.”
After cutting the call from Lo-Wider when Melissa stepped into the bathroom, he had held the button down too long, shut the whole thing off. Then they spent so long in the shower that by the time they got out, they were in a hurry to get moving. He picked up the phone, glanced at it. No light for a missed call or an email, so he shoved it into the front pocket of his gray chalk-striped slacks and escorted Melissa down to the front and waited for the valet to get his Caddy.
“So first we get you dressed fine, like you deserve. Then I’ll take you out for some real good food. You like seafood? You’re from here, you ought to.
”
Melissa liked it a lot. Fried catfish. Hush puppies. Boiled shrimp. She slapped her rump. “I like it so much, I’m surprised this right here ain’t turned into scales yet.”
They laughed. They were laughing all morning, laughing at nothing, touching each other constantly. It wasn’t anyone else’s business. So they hit the mall and first had to get her some pretty panties, pretty bras. DeVaughn was surprised to see how much sexy could fit into a size twenty-eight, but it was a good surprise. He sat in the chair outside the waiting room while she tried them on. And finally she said, “I can’t come out there in this.”
“Then how am I going to see?”
“You come in here.”
He looked over at the salesgirl nearby, not bad herself, who grinned with her heavy red lips and fifties glasses and didn’t say a word. DeVaughn went into the changing stall, a tight fit with Melissa’s girth and his long legs, and he watched her try on a whole bunch of different panties and bras and they were all nice—the thongs were best, but the boyshorts, they cupped her just right. And she had cleaned up real nice, too. Even though she’d used the same soap and same shampoo as he had and no perfume fog, girl smelled clean. When he was getting so hard it hurt he finally said, “Shit, buy them all” and tried to hide his erection as he followed her out to the counter. He paid in cash from his roll. It was a fun way to pay, made people wonder.
Outside the store, he pulled his phone from his pocket again. Still no lights, no missed calls. He was about to give Lo a wake-up call, lazy-ass teenagers, when Melissa told him JC Penney’s had great dresses for fat girls, and she grabbed his hand, walking fast ahead of him, an excited kid heading for the toy store.
This was nice. This wasn’t his usual day, but it was nice. Lots of his mornings were either just getting to bed after all night games, or getting up late, or Xbox, or a run along Beach Boulevard to keep himself in as good a shape as possible, considering his recent lifestyle adjustments. Those young bangers, they didn’t have to do a goddamned thing to stay toned. Now that DeVaughn was creeping ever closer to forty, he felt it. Shit, not even his daddy lived to be thirty-four. Complications from diabetes, they told him. Not going to happen to DeVaughn, uhn uh. No way.
Another thing was, walking around the mall holding hands with a white girl in Mississippi? Not so big a deal anymore. Bunch of middle-school girls were doing it all around him. Lots of the high-school girls in shorts showing off their business, draped over black guys like they wanted you to know it. Maybe their daddies didn’t know about it, but you could bet your ass their mommas did.
Of course DeVaughn had had himself some white women before, but this girl, today, man, she made him feel different. They’d hooked up one night. Only one. He was getting pissed at himself for acting a fool. Had to be cause of Lafitte. Had to have made the difference.
Melissa sure enough was right about Penney’s. She picked out some sharp-looking retro dresses, bright and tight. Splashes of green and white, some orange, some Indian-type designs. All of them mid-thigh, showing off her curves. DeVaughn’s favorite was black with a rectangle of deep red making up most of the front. He shook his head like Damn! when she modeled it outside the dressing room. She twirled, lifted her knee, shrugged one shoulder. The dressing room was next door to the kids’ clothes, and some of the white mothers shopping with strollers or noisy toddlers on leashes were giving them the evil eye. But that made Melissa show off even more.
While she ducked in to change into the next one, DeVaughn checked his phone one more time. Still no lights. Shit, what were these guys thinking? He had to call Lo-Wider now. It was damn near two in the afternoon already. He slid his thumb across the screen. Got no response. Did it again. Fucking phone.
He pressed the power button. Waited. Instead of the photo of him holding up his prize money from his third place win in Pensacola, he got the “wake up” screen.
Panicked. “Motherfucker.”
A bit too loud, because a white mother shushed him and pointed to her kids who were giggling and weaving in and out of the racks. Probably already knew all these words, the way they acted.
Things could be so fast now, these phones, these pads, these computers, but didn’t it feel like a goddamned eternity waiting for this motherfucker to come back on. DeVaughn paced around the aisle. Shit shit shit.
Staring at the phone. Willing it to work. And there was his own smiling face and the nine-thousand, seven-hundred and forty-five dollars he’d picked up after twenty hours and getting his trip sixes beat by a full house. And then all the little app icons. And then the damned thing buzzed and lit up and there were eight missed messages, all from Lo-Wider.
He listened to the messages—pleas at first, then frantic cursing, then hardly anything. The last one was road noise and nothing else.
All he’d wanted the boys to do was watch Lafitte and follow him if he went somewhere. Okay, so DeVaughn hadn’t called Shack or Crocker for back-up, too distracted by Melissa’s big ass in the shower, but still, all they had to do was watch. This wasn’t about no attack. He had plenty of time for that. He had to find out where Lafitte’s woman was first. He couldn’t tell the boys, couldn’t tell these baby-bangers doing his errands for pay, but this was some very personal and intense shit. Wherever Lafitte’s woman was, DeVaughn needed to be. Lafitte had to be heading at some point. The man don’t show up on his home turf with the whole fucking nation manhunting him unless he’s going to see his crazy ex-wife. That just don’t happen.
And all this time, he’d been at the mall, shopping like a bitch. Shopping for a bitch. What would the Mobsters say about it?
A couple of other missed calls, but not a number he knew. No messages with them. He did a quick reverse search, saw it was a gas station next to the parking lot where Lafitte had parked. DeVaughn guessed it was Lo-Wider, finally getting tired of no one answering the cell phone.
He dialed Lo-Wider’s number. Rang four times, went to voicemail. He hung up, called back. Four more, and voicemail again. Shit, that is stone-cold disrespect right there. Another hang-up, another dial-back. This time, he answered on the second ring. More car noise. Barely a grunt for hello.
“I’m sorry, Lo, I’m sorry, listen, my phone, it shut down. Listen, tell me where you are, I’ll be there. I’m on my way to the car, I promise.”
No answer.
“You can’t be mad at me, son. I’ve got business to do. Lots on my mind. If y’all had done what I’d asked.”
Then Lo cleared his throat and said—wait, this wasn’t Lo-Wider. “DeVaughn, I’m still here.”
Hadn’t heard the redneck cracker’s voice in years. He’d never forgotten it, but shit, live in his ear once again.
“Jesus, Billy.”
“I’m still here. Next time, how about you and me? Leave your niggers out of it.” Hitting the –er hard.
And that was that. The call was cut.
“You okay?” Melissa’s voice behind him.
He turned. Worried lines around her mouth, eyes. The dress, purple with dots, not so good. He dug into his pocket. “Something came up. You want those, I’ll leave you some money. I’ve got to go.”
“What? What came up? What do you mean?” As if he hadn’t said a thing about money or dresses. As if he’d broken her heart.
“I can’t say. It’s real personal.”
Melissa’s lips got tight and she looked away, towards the tween section. “Oh, I get it. Seriously. Fuck it, I’ll go home. I don’t want the clothes. I don’t want the money. Fuck.”
Bitch be getting mad. Made DeVaughn pause. Made him think. “No, it ain’t like that. It ain’t like that at all.”
“It’s always like that.” The tight lips gave up and she let out a sigh. “It’s okay. It’s fine. It was a nice night. It was really nice.”
She was thinking about calling the boyfriend again, thinking about the fight she was going to have. Thinking about the sort of cocksucking she was going to endure to make things right after the same ol’
same ol’. And here she’d thought...yeah, DeVaughn read every word of it in how she blinked her eyes, a little misty.
“Listen, I mean it, listen.” He touched her chin, got some eye contact going. “You and me, okay? We good. I want you to buy those dresses, all of them except this ugly ass polka dot shit. You too fine for polka dots. You go back to the room, play some slots, whatever you want. I promise, baby. I promise.”
Held her eyes, held a fingertip under her chin. Jesus, and here he thought he’d learned better. Don’t be falling for no pussy. Especially white pussy. You fall, you break your neck. But, goddamn, they all say that but then they all end up falling at some point too. He said her name. “Melissa. Please.”
She finally wiggled her nose and her lips, pouty. Still blinking. “You know, fuck this.”
He had hoped she wouldn’t say it. Like a steak knife in the throat. He cleared his. “Alright, listen—”
“No, wait, I’m not done. I’m saying fuck this macho, got to deal with it on your own, hiding your business from me bullshit. If you’re really telling me the truth and this is different? Then I’m coming with you.”
He shook his head. “You don’t want to get into all this now. Come on. Next time.”
She laughed. Nervous, angry laugh. The steak knife had slipped from his neck to his balls. “No, uhn-uh, no. You want to be with me, you really want to be with me—”
He was already nodding.
“Good. Then be with me. Literally. LIT-ER-RA-LY.” Licked her tongue on those last few. Let him get a lingering view of it.”
He swallowed. “Damn, baby.”
“What was it you told me about reading people? Play the man, not the cards?” Melissa stepped closer, her toes touching his alligator skins. “I don’t care if this lasts one more day, or a week, or until Christmas, or the next ten years. The deal for today is simple. Don’t treat me like a slut, alright, and I won’t treat you like a playa and we stick together this one day. One day.”
She could have taken the words right out of his mouth. It was some sort of magic and shit. As soon as his phone call had ended, he had felt sick to his stomach all the sudden. She must’ve felt the same, because she nailed it. They needed to be together today for some reason. No matter the code, no matter the reason. He grinned.
Holy Death Page 4
