Holy Death (12 page)

The heat. It was the first chance he really had to enjoy the heat again. Clear sky, the sun piercing enough to make him squint, but the asphalt below soaking it up, then steaming it back at him. The sweat was a relief. Kaiser had no idea where they were going, but he led anyway, past the shopping center into an older neighborhood, past an apartment complex built in the eighties, looking as run down as a French Quarter warehouse from the eighteenth century.

It had been, what, fifteen? Twenty years? Hadn’t been down this street in nearly twenty years, and then only the one time. He had ended up having to get help from this guy buying a car, and was embarrassed to need it. Lafitte had written the guy off before then, and it wasn’t like he’d made an effort to come see Billy on his own. Maybe he didn’t even live back here anymore. It was a stab in the dark.

The neighborhood was deeper than Lafitte remembered. Quiet out, too hot for a lot of outdoors stuff. Only one kid mowing. He heard splashing from a backyard. Probably an inflatable pool. The grass was dying in too many yards, reminding him of fall in Minnesota, except here it was from drought. The heat was like a goddamned jungle. Every step, he watched waves of hot air rise from the ground ahead of him. Jesus, it was making him sleepy.

The house he was looking for, right where it used to be, where it had always been. It was brick, red. A ranch style. A one car garage, a little gated courtyard leading to the front door. In the driveway, and angled across the lawn, two cars—one Chrysler 300, and a Lincoln, early 00’s. Lafitte stopped to let Kaiser piss on the lawn before heading up to the door. All around the courtyard, ceramic frogs and a fish spitting water into a ceramic pond, a bench too small to sit on, but it didn’t matter because two potted plants, no flowers, took up all the space. Lafitte twisted the leash around his hand because he didn’t know what to expect, what races this dog might or might not like. He stabbed at the doorbell, a heavy, seventies ring to it, and then propped his arm on the doorjamb, asleep on his feet.

The door swung open, and the cool air was a revelation. The man standing there, another twenty years lining his face, well past sixty now. Puffy cheeks, acne-scarred chin and forehead, skin light brown. He still wore his hair swooped back, blow-dried, one big pomp with high sheen to it, but the darkness was a dye job, had to be. Lafitte remembered the old man had taken to
Miami Vice
in the eighties, Don Johnson’s signature look. It looked as if had anchored himself to it ever since.

Otherwise, he had a small beer gut, still had strong arms, shown off in a too-tight turquoise polo shirt, and he still wore a gold chain with a sailor’s cross. His jeans were perfect, a crease ironed into them, and on his feet were moccasins and no socks.

The look on his face, a little blank at first, before his eyes widened and he opened the door all the way.

“Son?”

Kaiser was cool with him, so Lafitte felt a big sense of relief and brushed past the old man’s shoulder into the house, heading for the nearest place to sit his ass down. He said, “I’m not your son, Manuel.”

––––––––

D
eVaughn washed his hands in the Waffle House sink and splashed a little on his face. Someone had tried the door knob and was now shuffling around out there, getting impatient, so DeVaughn slowed down. Make the fucker wait.

Eyes were red. Mouth was dry.

Shit, Melissa, man.

First, she was fucking crazy. He could tell from fucking her, but that was a good kind of fucking crazy. That was what all boys who’ve ever watched porn hoped for in a woman.

But, second, she was fucking crazy. Jesus, slapping gangstas and straight up murdering car salesmen, calm about it. Girl had devil eyes. Girl got off on killing. Girl wanted to fuck on top of bodies.

He dried his hands slowly, then his face. He opened the bathroom door. Fat white man in a beard and trucker cap turned like he was all mad, then looked away quick. Yeah, he’d better. DeVaughn stood in the open doorway an extra moment to piss the guy off more. Then made his way out through the swinging door to the dining room, smacked in the face with the smell of greasy eggs, greasy steaks, and old coffee. All Waffle Houses were the same. A few booths lined the kitchen, then the counter and stools, then a few more booths against the far windows, where his people were slumped all over everything. BGM soldiers on loan, none of them had real cred yet, some of them still in baggy jeans, the whole trend like clown pants now, DeVaughn thought. Six in all. Manspreading in the booths, and a couple barely staying on top of theirs stools, one on each side of Melissa. She turned left and right, left and right, lazily, ankles crossed, elbows on the counter, stirring a straw in her Mountain Dew.

At least Lo-Wider was there, too, relieved the cops had found his grampa’s Monte Carlo unharmed thanks to a security guard at a rest area. So he wasn’t so glum anymore. He was chowing down an omelet and grits. He was the only one eating. In fact, except for Melissa and Lo-Wider, no one else had even ordered. They’d all brought in their own bottles of Mountain Dew or tall boys of energy drink. The manager, he could tell, didn’t like this shit, and she kept glancing over, not ready to say it yet but close.

The kid on the stool to Melissa’s right was new. Saying, “Nigga
killed
his
wife
? Shit, why we chasing him, then?”

“He killed my brother, too. Good enough for you?”

Oh, snap, the soldiers giggling themselves into fits as new boy ducked his head and was all, “Shut up, bitches.”

The manager was now right near DeVaughn, on the opposite side of the counter. Tall, thin, white, and older. She had a man’s face if that man looked like a horse. Crossed arms. Cleared her throat.

DeVaughn sighed and pulled out his roll, peeling off forty and handed it over. “Whatever they want, on me.”

He sat in the booth opposite Lo-Wider, sideways and on the edge because the boy’s legs were trunks filling all the available space. The two on the stools plus Melissa turned his way. All the others, leaning closer.

“I don’t know where he is. What we need from you is to find him.”

Nothing.

“I mean, you know, some research or some shit. Hasn’t he still got a kid living around here? Or some sort of family? Something?”

“Thought you were gonna tell us.” One of the energy drinkers.

“What are you saying?”

The kid held his can so it covered his mouth, as if he was going to take a sip any second. “Like, didn’t expect homework.”

DeVaughn gave him a hard eye, hard as he could muster anymore. Poker made his eye look a lot less dangerous, a lot more
I know what you’re holding
, but these BGM’s, they didn’t even know what they were holding. It didn’t much work at all. “You know, if you’ve got something else to do.”

One of the others, named YP for some reason, said, “Boy doesn’t want to say he has a hard time with long words, like
the
and
what
.”

They busted laughing, and white people eating looked all mad. Made DeVaughn grin, shake his head.

It was Melissa who got them calmed. Reclined on the counter, arms resting on it, crossed her legs so the one on top was mighty high and her toe pointed and all Beyonce.

She said, “You’ve got to look up his whole name. William Lafitte. Middle name was, what was it, DeVaughn?”

DeVaughn told her.

“Right, yeah. Look it up.”

A few were already on their phones doing it.

DeVaughn gave her a look. “Thank you, baby.”

She smiled. He got warm.

YP was like, “Hold up, hold up, how old is he?”

“About, what, forty? Thirty-eight?”

“You heard if his mom’s dead?”

DeVaughn shrugged. Shit, he thought he knew this guy inside and out. Now he wondered if he’d really cared that his brother had died after all. Wondered if he gave a shit about revenge or if it was just obligation.

“Let me see.”

YP got up, showed his phone to DeVaughn. An obituary for Lafitte’s mother. Well, goddamn. A list of survivors.

DeVaughn winked at Melissa, towering over him right now like she was on a throne. Being a Queen came naturally to her. Too bad everyone else couldn’t see past the cellulite to realize.

“Finish up your drink,” he told her. “We’ve got someplace to be.”

––––––––

T
he afterlife sure enough sucked.

If that was what this was, anyway. Rome couldn’t figure out if time was passing or stopped or happening all at once. There would start to be a dream, maybe a dream, people he knew but who didn’t look like themselves, or sound like themselves, and then the scene would cut out and he would forget it instantly. Then a song, pounding, hitting him on the head like a bottle. Then, what, “Sir? Sir? Can you hear me? You’re going to be alright.”

From all around. From different voices. Cold then hot then salty then bitter.

Then it would start again.

And the fucking pain, shit, as if pain was everywhere. No body to pinpoint it on—left, right, up, down, pain pain pain the pure essence of pain—

This was Hell, the literal Hell of the Bible, the goddamned—he shouldn’t say that word, it was a blasphemous word, but if he was in Hell it was too late to blaspheme or repent or fuck it’s too HOT it’s too COLD it’s too TOO.

But then he forgot what he’d felt and there was another dream and he forgot his first dream and then it was TOO TOO TOO...

*

T
ime came back in strange ways. He was lifted up and set down again. It made him blink, made him see lights. People. Faces. Masks. Surgeons? One hovering, She was shoving something painful and plastic into his mouth. He tried to speak to her but all that came out were rocks and brake squeals.

“Oh my god, he’s awake!”

Then he forgot and there was another dream where he was having trouble talking to his wife. He was mad at her for something, maybe for dying, and wanted to shout at her but all that came out were more rocks, more brake squeals. She stood there with that face, the one the mortician reconstructed after the bullet had wrecked most of her first one, lips curling, finally saying, “Least I tried.”

*

R
ome was back in his cabin, although it seemed jittery, out-sized, as if the lake was rolling in right at his feet. He was sitting in his favorite chair, watching out the same windows. Gray skies, lamplight beside him. Next to him, in the chair no one ever sat in because he never had visitors, was Billy Lafitte. This was the Lafitte of when they had first met, Billy as an arrogant deputy-sheriff in Yellow Medicine County with a Gene Vincent pomp and a Johnny Cash sneer.

Lafitte said, “So where do we go from here?”

“Will they let me chase you across Hell?”

“Ask me again once we’re dead.”

“Hard to tell.”

“What about him?” Lafitte jerked a thumb at the windows. On the outside, lying on the glass as if it was horizontal, not vertical, was the wrecked, limp body of Wyatt. Not a complete view of him. More like a close-up.

“He’s dead.”

“You know for sure?”

“I think I do.”

Lafitte stood. He was carrying a mug of coffee. He walked over to the window, sipping and staring as if Wyatt’s corpse was not blocking the view. “You still know live from dead. You saw this,” he indicated Wyatt with the mug. “Right before you went under. You know dead. You know you survived.”

“Say I did. Now what?”

Lafitte turned. “I guess you and me can talk it out. I’ll say the things you’ve always wanted me to say. You can kill me a bunch.”

Headache. Rome rubbed his forehead. “It won’t mean anything.”

Shrug. “Something to pass the time, I guess.”

He sat again. The lake was in the window once more, waves impossibly high, impossibly loud.

Rome looked down. He was holding a coffee mug, too. He couldn’t read the writing on it. “I’m sorry, you know. I’m sorry I killed that girl of yours. The bass player.”

“Drew. Her name was Drew.”

“Yeah, if only...but it’s your turn. Say you’re sorry you killed my wife. Desiree.”

Lafitte smiled wide. “Shit, she was going to shoot me. I’m glad I killed that bitch. I’m glad I shot her twice. You should know by now, the only time you’ll get an apology from me is when I’m done with you.”

*

H
e’s flatlining. He’s gone.

No! How the hell—

Wait, he’s back.

Come on, Mister Rome, you survived a plane crash already, so don’t let me be the one to kill you.

––––––––

M
anuel fed Kasier half a can of cat food. Dogs don’t care. Dogs eat anything. Manuel put it in a bowl and set it at Lafitte’s feet. Kaiser started into it and pushed the bowl all the way to the wall.

Manuel sat beside Lafitte at the small round table in the kitchen, one made of aluminum with a vinyl top over cotton, stapled to fiberboard. It was dusty and covered in piles of unopened mail. Lafitte used a pile to prop up his elbow and his fist to prop up his face. Goddamn he was tired.

Manuel asked him if he wanted tea. Lafitte said no, but Manuel got him some tea anyway. Iced, too sweet, too weak.

“Your mother will love to see you.”

Lafitte shook his head. “She’s not my mother.”

“Well...” Manuel picked at a spot where the cotton was stringing out of the vinyl. “She still calls you son, I mean. That’s her way.”

“My mother is dead. Your wife is nuts.”

“And I let you in my home? With some dog? Not even a call after how many years?”

The dog had found the cat’s water bowl and was lapping as much as he could. Across the kitchen on the counter was a small flat screen TV, a talk show, one of those “You
are
the father!” things. The sound was low. The TV looked out of place, too modern for this kitchen, but Lafitte thought even a flat screen was old these days. Most people would use their iPads. Hell, even their tiny-ass phones.

Lafitte closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Manuel. I’m sorry. It’s been a bad, you know, decade.”