Holy Death (6 page)

“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.

“Girl, leave all the diner shit in there and change into the red one.”

Melissa looked good when she smiled. Made up for the harsh parts of her. “I’m going to need some shoes.”

––––––––

S
oon as Lafitte closed the phone, he winced and held his breath a good long beat. Then, shit, thought about DeVaughn. All this time, and that piece of shit was still hounding him. Lafitte had never forgotten when he and Paul shot down DeVaughn’s brother, sure enough. Remembered every moment. The little bitch had betrayed Lafitte and Asimov to their own kind—cops. Probably would have sold out DeVaughn, too, if they hadn’t shot him. Guess it didn’t matter to DeVaughn. Blood was still thicker.

The shit message on the truck stop wall—DeVaughn. Son of a whore had found him somehow, something the whole FBI couldn’t do.

Not as bad as he thought. DeVaughn was just one guy, maybe with some baby bangers doing his dirty work. But DeVaughn himself still banging? Sad, man. Sad.

Another wince. The pain was subsiding. His head cleared and he thought
I’ve got to get this car off the road
. Fast, fast, fast.

Up ahead, a rest area. A nice big one, too, teeming with semis. Teeming with SUVs. He pulled in and parked far down the line, where people took their dogs to shit. He had forgotten that Mississippi rest areas were little antebellum oases, with white columns and honeysuckle, surrounded by a pine forest.

He stepped out and closed the door. No need to wipe it down. Cameras everywhere these days, the parking lot full of them. It was hard to get lost anymore, and sometimes the best way was to stand outside, stretch, yawn. Hide in plain sight. At first. So he did. His shirt was soaked. His shorts were clinging, chafing. He needed full lungs of magnolia-scented air. Two. Three. Then he scoped his choices.

A little car. There was a Fiesta, a Focus, a Corolla, a Kia, another Kia, a Honda hatchback. He couldn’t trust the newer ones—GPS gadgets and satellites and computers able to track his ass all over creation.

A pick-up truck? The only one here had flames on it. Back-window stickers, Calvin peeing on a Chevy sign, something else he didn’t recognize, probably about hunting. Educated guess. Big tires, too. No, not worth the trouble.

None of those SUVs, either. Just...no.

Which left the old man standing next to two touring motorcycles.

Wide, clunky, built for old people who weren’t RV types. They had always wanted motorcycles, but couldn’t afford them until they retired. By then, they had lost sight of what made them love motorcycles anyway, except for the part about seeing the country. So they bought “touring” bikes and hit the road and met up with thousands of other retirees with touring bikes, and they wore leather jackets and chaps and communicated via hand signs that made them feel like part of the club, even though it was bullshit. It was the retired people’s club, if it was anything. Steel God had laughed it off once—“It’s mutual masturbation, two fingers at a time.”

These bikes, Jesus. One was tan and red and had deep red saddle bags, while the other, the one the man was right next to, was a little sleeker, black and silver, but it was just another touring bike with sharp corners. All flash, no substance.

It was Lafitte’s best way out of here, too.

The bikes were a good fifty yards away. Lafitte did a quick search for the other bike’s owner, found her as she opened the door to the main building.

Let’s get this over with.

Lafitte walked over to the old guy with a smile on his face, shaking his head. “Now that’s some mighty fine road machine right there.”

The old man, startled at the voice, straightened up and laughed and said, “Thank you kindly. It’s a great way to see the country.”

“Are you a lifer? Been riding all your life?”

“Oh, no, no. A whim, really. I bought these a couple of years before I retired. A good five years ago. All they did was sit in the garage.” He shook his head. “Until one day, I couldn’t stand them getting dusty anymore. Now we’ve put four thousand miles on them the last six months.”

The old man was wrinkled enough to be, what, seventy? He was thin but strong enough to handle the bike. He wore brand-new jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, Indian motorcycles logo, tucked into his waistband. Lafitte could take him, but it would be tough in a stupid way. He couldn’t overestimate.

Then the old man started pointing out specs. “Thirty-five miles to the gallon. Eighteen-hundred cee-cee, six cylinder—”

“Yeah, listen, I don’t care.”

The old man gave him a shit-eating grin. “Excuse me?”

“I’m going to steal your bikes now. And you’re coming with me.”

The wife was on her way back. She was probably the same age as the man, but looked Vietnamese with jet black hair under a New Orleans Pelicans cap. Lafitte grinned and waved at her. She waved back.

Lafitte said, “You’re going to be nice and quiet and we’re all going to leave together on your bikes, okay?”

The old man was already backing away, turning to his wife. “Hey, Tish—”

“No, wait.” Lafitte stepped closer, reached out to the man. “Don’t be stupid. I can take you with me right now, us two only, and I can break your neck and toss you in the ditch, or you can let me ride your wife’s bike with her riding with me, and I won’t kill either one of you, I promise.”

The old man’s cheeks grew red. The wife was still oblivious, walking up to her husband saying, “What is wrong? Are you okay? What is wrong?”

Lafitte gently placed his hands on each of her shoulders and steered her from her husband’s side before he could fuck this up any more than he already had. “We’re going for a little ride, is all. I’d like to see how you bike feels.”

“Okay.” She looked over her shoulder. “But I ride with my husband?”

“No, you can ride with me.”

“No, I ride with my husband.” She tried to twist from his grasp, but Lafitte held on and guided her to the bike.

“No, it’s okay, really. You ride with me.” He reached over for her helmet, handed it to her, and he climbed onto the bike. Damn, this felt good. Now he was a wall keeping her apart from the old man, and she was not as fit as her husband.

The old man stalked around the bike and got his finger wagging in Lafitte’s face. “Now you listen to me, you...you...troglodyte. How dare you. How dare you.”

“Can we go, now? Hurry it up, please.” He grabbed the wife’s arm, and she let out a whine, but she grabbed hold of Lafitte and climbed on behind him. Lafitte said, “You’re making a scene, mister, and I’m taking your wife no matter what, so, let’s hit the road.”

“I most certainly am not going to let you—”

Lafitte vroomed the bike and it felt like an old friend shaking his hand. From his balls to his fingertips, goddamn, it had been too long. The old man’s face, beet red, his mouth, slack. Lafitte stabbed his finger at the man’s bike a few times. “Get on, get on, get on.”

The old man hustled, got to give him credit. Hustled into his helmet, hustled onto his bike. Tish held on tight, her bony hands poking him in the ribs. He looked back over at the security guard, who had his eye on them but hadn’t bothered to get off his cozy little perch and see what was up. Dumbass.

Lafitte walked the bike out of the parking spot, throttling up some noise, still waiting for the old guy to get his shit in gear. When ready, Lafitte gunned the bike onto the interstate ahead of a semi. He looked back. The old man was gunning it even harder to keep up. Guy was going to fight to win. That was enough to earn Lafitte’s respect. Of course it was a stupid thing to do. Old man should’ve run for the security guard as soon as Lafitte took off. Should’ve got the whole state descending on Lafitte’s sorry ass before he couldn’t even make the next exit. But love conquered all. Love made you stupid. Love. Fuck love.

Lafitte thought,
Good for you, old timer.

They headed east in a hurry.

––––––––

M
otherfucking embarrassment was what it was, DeVaughn having to go, hat in hand, to those motherfuckers in BGM to beg for help. He’d paid Lo-Wider and his boys cold hard cash, and they couldn’t manage to keep it straight, so what were these baby gangbangers going to do when it was just a favor? How much was this really going to cost him?

He met up with the new third-in-charge of the Gulf Mob—couldn’t even bother to send the number two—on a pier in Biloxi where these idiots had tied up rented jet skis. All wore baggy shorts, long white tees, a couple shirtless. The number three, who called himself One O Four because it was his junior high locker number or something, was covered in salt spray, arms crossed. Oakley sunglasses and a grill. Always behind the times, the Gulf Mob. Whatever was out of style, they stayed on that shit a good year or two longer. It took DeVaughn getting out of the gang himself to finally see it.

DeVaughn never really “got out.” Nothing official or shit. One day, he simply wasn’t there. He went away on a trip, stayed longer than expected, and by the time he got back, Black Gulf Mob had moved on. Fine with DeVaughn. Took a load off his mind.

So here he was in a suit, Melissa in a new dress showing off the goods, while the fools loping around on the pier acted like someone was filming this shit.

“My nigga!” Open arms. One O Four was shorted than DeVaughn. The motherfucker wanted a hug. What was up with hugging? Now DeVaughn’s shirt was damp, his coat was damp, and he smelled like cocoa butter and weed and beach stink. Melissa stood back. She had a Jackie Kennedy thing going on, her hands together in front, pleasant grin on her lips—bright red.

One of those bangers was playing hip-hop on his phone. The others were tossing in a phrase here and there. One O Four looked past DeVaughn at Melissa, put his thumb to his chin like he was inspecting a painting. “So what’s going on here? Are we talking or are you bringing us a gift?”

DeVaughn laughed. “Melissa’s a friend of mine. She goes where I go.”

“Shit, man, you’re supposed to keep this shit private in your barn, not drag her out in the light of day.”

Another banger said, “I’m blind, I’m blind!” As if looking at the girl had done it.

DeVaughn turned his head. Not a word from Melissa. She didn’t give up the grin. Stood still. He mouthed
Sorry
, but she blinked at him, like,
Not your fault
.

“I mean,” One O Four said, “that ass, I feel you, but, damn, son.”

DeVaughn nodded. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

“I feel you, I feel you. Just playing. So tell me what’s going on.”

“Asking for help, man. I had hoped I could talk to Bark about it—”

“Bark’s busy. Bark’s really busy.”

Bark was the one in charge these days. Been a lot of different ones in charge since DeVaughn was part of it. Wasn’t no cult of personality. Loyal to the colors but not to the man.

Bark was just another one.

DeVaughn lowered his voice. Hadn’t said this sort of thing in a long time. “
Glocks,
man. And some soldiers, man
.
I ain’t got a lot of time.”

One O Four: “Whatever you need. Long as you can pay for it.”