Holy Death (20 page)

When it was over, Stoudemire sat, sipped his water, stared at the paused screen, Lafitte pulling the girl into the car.

“Have we figured out the girl yet?”

“A few possibilities,” the police captain said. “We have a witness.”

“A witness to what? The shootout?”

“He was in the SUV with Lafitte, in the backseat. Gunshot wounds, some burns. He says the girl’s name is Melissa and DeVaughn only met her last night.”

Stoudemire nodded. He stood, thanked the security people, and turned to the police captain. “Where is he?”

*

L
o-Wider was curtained off in the ER. He was crying light and low. The police captain and Stoudemire stepped past the guard, through the curtain, and found this kid handcuffed to the hospital bed. He was too wide for it, indeed. He was having a hard time balancing. He was all bandaged-up, especially the side of his head, a banger Van Gogh.

He looked at the cops and moaned a little louder. “I didn’t mean anything. I was, I didn’t, I mean, I didn’t do anything.”

Stoudemire smiled. “Sure you didn’t, man. We’re not up here for that.”

Lo-Wider rattled the cuff. “Come on, man.”

“For your own safety. Listen, you’re the man right now. You’re the guy. Tell us what you can about Billy Lafitte, about DeVaughn Rose, and this girl, what was her name?”

“Melissa,” he said before Stoudemire was even finished. “Melissa. That’s all I know. I think she worked at a truck stop. DeVaughn is crazy bout her. She’s crazy, man, she’s stone shit crazy.”

“So why does DeVaughn—”

“Lafitte killed his brother, man! Shit, no wonder you can’t catch Lafitte.”

The police captain grabbed his phone, stepped out. Stoudemire heard him say, “See what you’ve got on DeVaughn Rose, or see if he has a brother, back in Katrina.”

Stoudemire remembered this a little, something Rome had figured out about Lafitte and Asimov shotgunning a gangsta back in the day.

“What did Lafitte say?”

“He told me he was going to kill DeVaughn.”

“Anything else? Serious, man, this could be your ticket to a free ride.”

Lo-Wider started to shake his head, do the, “I done told y’all” shit, but then said, “He’s hurt bad. His hair grease caught on fire. He’s burned up, and, and, someone stabbed him, too, and, and, um, I think he’s sick, too. He’s acting sick.”

“Sick how?”

“Sick, like, I don’t know. Sick like my grampa gets sometimes. All hunched up.”

Stoudemire gave Lo-Wider a pat on his foot, then stepped out to find the police captain still on the phone. He said “Hold on,” and pulled it from his ear. “Found him. Shabazz Rose. Unsolved. But, man, it was Katrina.”

Stoudemire nodded, but was thinking about something else. Then he said, “I want to see his parents.”

“DeVaughn’s parents?”

“No, this fire. Lafitte’s parents.”

“Step-parents?”

“The fuck do I care? If they took him in, they might as well be his own blood. They should probably get tarred and feathered.”

He called Janice, told her to pick him up out front. He waited for her inside the front doors, too hot to wait outside. Hard to believe he used to live down here, working the New Orleans branch. Never again. He was a D.C. lifer now, right up until it was time to retire to New Mexico.

*

R
ome was exhausted after an hour of the story. Piecing it together on his own, a step or two ahead of where Stoudemire was going with it, took a lot of energy, especially when Stoudemire started on all the reasons he wanted to retire to New Mexico—“And the desert really isn’t as hot as New Orleans, they tell me. Especially at night.”

Rome waved off the rest, at least for the night. “Tired.”

Stoudemire stopped talking and stared out the window. Rome wondered why he didn’t get the hint. Time to go. The whole story, this giant tease, and he was at Stoudemire’s mercy. The only way he was going to find out what happened next was to let the prick tell it his way.

Jesus, that blowjob pic. And for some reason, Rome had thought Stoudemire was a closeted gay. Rome wanted to laugh out loud. That would hurt. So he held it in. Still, Rome fell asleep thinking, once he got better, he would go find this Agent Janice and ask for the real story. Maybe he could even use it to get back on at the FBI. Maybe.
Maybe
. Maybes babies. Maybe rabies. Maybe someday...

*

R
ome had to wait until nearly two p.m. the next day before Stoudemire showed up again, considerably less cheerful than before. It had been an excruciating morning—physical therapy, speech therapy, a bland lunch, an hour alone with the TV playing a rerun of a game show he was sure he’d already seen in 1987. Waiting was intolerable. It would have to be this way for a long time, wouldn’t it?

Stoudemire didn’t bother with taunting. He cleared his throat when he sat down and said, “The parents.”

“St-t-tep-parents.”

“Shut up, Frank.”

“Sthere a...prow-blum?”

Another throat clearing. “Fine. It’s fine.”

Liar. Terrible liar. Fucking liar
.

What did he have to lose? “Lie. Er.”

Stoudemire looked away, out the window again. Rome tasted the apple juice from lunch coming up in his throat again. He burped. “Hear. Me? Lie. Er.”

Stoudemire shook his head. “Why am I even bothering?”

Rome didn’t say anything. Should he apologize? He needed to hear the rest of the story. He was
dying
to hear it. “Please?”

A firm nod from the prickly agent. Rome settled back on his pillow and closed his eyes.

*

H
e found Lafitte’s step-parents at a neighbor’s home, still exhausted after a visit to the ER for Jimena’s burns, minor, and for possible smoke inhalation. Manuel had come home only a few minutes after Lafitte had head-butted the cop and taken off, two patrol cars in pursuit. The cops left at the scene were pissed off, so when Manuel came home and ran into the yard towards his wife, they tackled and tazed him.

“I expect an apology,” Manuel said to Stoudemire. Even at the neighbor’s house, there was a Biloxi cop standing at the archway between the kitchen and the dining room, where the couple sat alongside Stoudemire and Janice. The smell of aloe vera and coconut oil swirled around them. “This is ridiculous.”

“Well, you do realize it was standard procedure. They had no idea—”

“Stupid,” Jimena said. She seemed too cold, hugging herself, a man’s flannel shirt draped over her shoulders. “You talk as if the cops are stupid. Or , ah, ah, robots. They knew. They were full of piss and vinegar. All because of Billy.”

Manuel shushed her, laid his hand on her arm. Stoudemire watched him. A sad man, looking as if he had aged ten years in one hour. All the reports had shown a less-than-stellar relationship between Lafitte and his stepdad. Some might say Billy had learned a lot of his baddass bullshit from Manuel, made even worse by his hating Manuel.

But Jimena, she was the key. Stoudemire could tell. She had changed her husband’s mind about life in general, about his stepson. About God and right and wrong.

“Billy’s hurting,” he said.

Manuel shushed again, barely a whisper this time. Jimena looked down at the table and nodded.

“He got burned, I know. And something else. I’m right, right? There’s something else wrong with him.”

Manuel said, “He’ll be okay.”

“You aided and abetted, you know. This is how you get your life back. You tell me what I need to know and we won’t shove a hook through your lips and hang you out for bait.”

Jimena barked a laugh. She unleashed a wave of Spanish. Stoudemire caught some of it—“Snakes, all of you, poisonous snakes,” and “Fuck the police! Fuck them!” and “Santa Muerte will protect him.”

Manuel sighed. In English, “She nearly killed him.”

Jimena wagged her finger. “Not her fault! Not her fault! He’s still alive, is not?”

Stoudemire sat back in his chair and waited it out. He turned to Janice. Another wink. This time she grinned. Going to be a good night, he could tell.

Manuel said, “They won’t catch him.”

Jimena seethed in Spanish under her breath. Stoudemire didn’t catch any of it. She looked at the FBI agents and said, “What is it we have to tell you?”

“What’s wrong with him? Who else could he go to for help? A way to get in touch—”

“No,” Manuel said. “He’s not stupid enough to keep a phone. We have no way to contact him. He won’t come back.”

“He was stupid enough to try killing his wife earlier today—”

“Ginny’s alive?”

“Barely. Not exactly what you’d call ‘and well’, but breathing.” Stoudemire’s eyes lingered on Manuel an extra second. Why would that surprise him? Why didn’t the ‘attempted murder’ part shock him? “He was stupid enough to come home at all. He’s nothing but stupid, and he’s going to die if we don’t get to him first.”

Jimena crossed herself. In Spanish, “God willing.”

“Or he’ll kill someone else, like this girl he took hostage. Or innocent people out on the road. He’s done it before. He kills without thinking. You know I’m right.”

Jimena shivered. Hugged herself again, rocked herself. Manuel stared at the table a long moment. Tapped his fingers on it. Tap tap tap. The air conditioner switched off. The sounds of the neighborhood seeped in. Kids playing on the street, only hours after the fire and the escape and all the cops, as if it had never happened. Manuel dug into the front pocket of his jeans and brought out a small bottle, set it on the table in front of Stoudemire.

“There’s no one else to help him. He’ll never get in touch again. That was the last time I would ever see my boy.” Trying hard not to cry. Trying real hard. Brick of a face.

Stoudemire picked up the bottle. He knew what it was but wanted to be sure. Very small print on the bottle. He opened it, took a peek inside. Tiny white pills. Nitro.

Stoudemire said, “Thank you for your time.” He meant it.

*

T
he plan was falling into place. But Stoudemire told Rome about it in a pissy voice with a pissy face.

Rome concentrated really hard and asked, “Why you mad?”

“Mad?”

“Pissy?”

Stoudemire glared at him, then looked at his watch. Seriously. Big hunk of a watch. When he looked up again, it was a pissy face showing off a pissy grin. “Maybe I’ll tell you tomorrow.

He got up, walked towards the door, flipped off the light, and left.

Rome shook his head. “Prick.”

––––––––

L
afitte had been preoccupied with the gun and with Melissa’s flailing feet kicking him in the face. She’d lost a flip-flop at the garage. Kicking Lafitte’s skull hurt her toes. He didn’t notice she was dialing DeVaughn, praying he would answer. Several times. And finally, she saw he had picked up. She shoved the phone between her legs, up her dress, kept them loose so DeVaughn could hear everything.

Lafitte got the gun away. She told him how DeVaughn was going to kill his ass. Then he said, “I need a doctor.”

Was he serious? Melissa said, “Sure, I’m a doctor. Here, give me the gun and I’ll cure you.”

Damned if Lafitte didn’t grin in spite of himself. “Cute.”

It was the first time she had gotten a look at him close-up. He was a mess. If there was anything appealing to him, it was hidden under burns, blisters, and scars. His hair was greasy, matted, and she could’ve sworn it was smoking. His hands and one arm were wrapped in duct tape. Loose skin on his face, neck and arms, angry and red underneath.

“What you need a doctor for?”

“I’m not feeling so good. If I promise not to hurt you, will you help me get one?”

“Fuck you. I hope you feel even shittier.”

“How about this? I won’t hurt DeVaughn either.”

Whatever smartass remark she wanted to drop on him got frozen on its way out of her mouth. Not killing DeVaughn. Not that he
could
kill her man, just sayin’. Not that Lafitte had an ounce of DeVaughn’s cold-bloodedness. But to not even try...

“Keep talking.”

“You know why he wants me dead?”

“You killed his brother. You and some other cop.”

Lafitte nodded. “Yeah, we did. He ripped us off on a drug deal. We were pissed off, and he was going to get the BGMs on our ass, so we found him, shot him, and dumped him into a ditch full of shit and mud and trash from Katrina.”

She hoped DeVaughn had heard every word.

“Which one?”

“Hm?”

She said, “Which one of you shot him?”

“Paul had the shotgun. But fuck, I might as well have done it myself. The fucker tried to cheat us. I didn’t flinch. Paul shot him in the chest, then walked up real close and shot his teeth out.”

Melissa’s mouth went dry. She couldn’t swallow. She licked her lips, then said, “You’ll leave him alone? You’ll let me go and leave DeVaughn alone?”

He nodded, slowed down. He had gotten a lot of distance between them and the casino, heading north into the piney woods, looking to get lost down twisty two-lane roads. Melissa looked out her window. She could feel the vibrations of DeVaughn’s voice against her thighs. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but knew it had to be,
Hold it together, baby. Lead me to you. Keep him talking. I’m coming to save you
.

“Where are we going?”

“You tell me,” Lafitte said. “Pull that phone out from your legs, hang up on DeVaughn and find me a doctor.” He leaned over, spoke directly to her lap. “You hear me, DeVaughn? Loud and clear?”

When Melissa didn’t reach for it, Lafitte did. Reached between her legs. She clamped her thighs together hard but he already had his hand around the phone and twisted his way out again. Shouted at it, “Your brother deserved it and I would do it again if I had to.”

Ended the call. Handed the phone back to her. “You got three gee?”

She punched up a browser and said, “Like, a hospital?”

Lafitte shook his head. “A cardiologist.”

*

W
hen Lafitte hung up on him, DeVaughn let out a howl and then started slapping the driver’s head.

“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

The driver ducked and covered. “Hey, hey, hey!”