The Baddest Ass (Billy Lafitte #3) (2 page)

"Whatever, can I go back to my bunk now?"

The blue light of the TV makes Ri'Chess glow. Makes West realize how many men are listening in, their shadows large and looming on the sheets.

"You're never going back."

West's throat turns dry and there's a rock in it. "Right. What, you think they won't notice I'm missing tomorrow?"

"How would you like protective custody?"

Magic. Fucking. Words.

Ri'Chess went on, "Because your child-killing ass just got loosed from your cage, you dig?"

West isn't cut out for this. Bar fights, some fun on Friday nights? Goddamn, he doesn't have
murderer
in him. A fucking accident was all. Someone he cared about, not that he could let on. In here, he had to be badass. The girl had to be a piece of ass, nothing more. And her age, finally getting floated around. All the shit about short-eyes getting the worst of it in jail? Kind of true. But only as an excuse to rain down terror without worries of retribution. If all the gangs agree the fucker gets fucked with, it's open season.

But when it comes to teenagers, well, not quite the same. Like none of these guys would've. Like they never would. Like they hadn't already. And West got lucky to be taken in before people knew.

Except now, that grace no longer covered thee.

"What've I got to do?"

Ri'Chess smiles. Cheeks all roly-poly. "First, you check in. Second, we get you the tools you need. Third, you get up on this motherfucker and end him. It's easy to do."

"Then why haven't you done it, it's so easy?"

"Because I got you now."

West grinds his teeth. The prison meth works on his nerves. Thinking, who's in PC? Got to be a snitch. That's where they put snitches. If he can check in there and the road is paved for him, then it's easy sailing.

"Got a name for me?"

Oh that smile, the TV blue on his swelled cheeks, the man got some sort of enlightened guru shit. Says the word. "Lafitte."

West says, "Holy shit."

Because no one thinks of getting Lafitte. That's not even realistic. He's a legend. Stone cold woman killer, cop killer, even killed Steel God, the unbreakable leader of the biker gang Lafitte rode with. And a goddamned traitor, too. Had conspired with homegrown terrorists, funneling them money from meth sales, that's what West heard.

"You want me to do Lafitte."

"The one and only. You'll be a hero."

Head shake. "I heard he's like a ninja. Can't even get close to him. He's got hands that'll rip your balls off, one tug."

"A man's a man." Ri'Chess glances at the TV. Some skinny bitch actress, making West get that catch in his throat and stiffen up. How's this nigga get a set-up like this? Sort of thing they give O.J. Simpson, not some guy thinks his name is Righteous.

"You do this," Ri'Chess' voice floats softly while West watches the actress, skirt too short, legs shiny and slick, laughing at something while the host stares at her tits, tiny as they were. West hasn't seen a woman except a cop or two in weeks. "You'll be king up in PC. Bet they'll give you a TV, laptop, might even let your boyfriend come see—"

"Fuck you, man."

"My bad, my bad. I know a pussy lover when I see one." A gentle laugh. All a joke. How can they plan to kill Public Enemy Number Three and laugh about it? Maybe that's all it was, setting West up. But a shot at immortality has to be better than thirty more years of
this
.

Ri'Chess leans forward, says, "I hear even the food is better."

West nods. Balls his fists. Yeah, he can do it. Lafitte, guy won't suspect a thing. West'll buddy up with him if he can. Do what it takes. He would be doing his country a favor, like the one who killed Oswald. Who was that? Rubies? Diamonds?

"Aw-ight." Getting into character. "I'm in. I'll do it."

Ri'Chess spreads his hands. "Excellent."

Nervous energy. "So what do I do? Got some bitch to shank? You can put out a rumor, right? Say Al is going to kill me? I'll turn on him, some bullshit like that."

Buddha shakes his head. "You don't know shit about shit. None of that's gonna get you there. You've got to be in straight up danger, son. I'm sorry about this, but remember the mission, you got that?" He snaps his fingers, calls for "Jean Robert!"

"What?"

But West can't say anything else because giant granite arms reach in, grab him under the armpits and pull him out the cold floor, bad tailbone bruise. But that ain't what scares him most. He looks up and sees a lot of black men with wide-open eyes and tight jaws saying all sorts of shit, and then he looks up at Jean Robert—the Granite Man, his skin faded, nearly blue in the light. Muscles hard and jagged thanks to the scars and tattoos. West is looking at every inch of him, because the Granite Man is naked. Not a stitch on him except where West can tell the docs stapled up plenty of bullet holes and knife wounds.

In the middle of all that Frankenstein meat, Granite Man's hand is wrapped around his brutally long, thick, bent to the right cock. Stroking slowly. Eyes on West the whole time.

West's not fast enough. Two guys grab his ankles and hold his legs up and out. One brings a boot down
hard
on his balls. And again and again. West cramps like he never has before. Doubles up. They've still got his legs. A kick to the knee. Nearly breaks. West closes his eyes and sees colors exploding. Kick to his ribs. Somebody rakes a sole across his face, fucking up his nose, lips, cheeks.

A kick to the head. Green explodes. More kicks to the nuts. Purple and blue and electric black.

So many, like hailstones. He's watched golf ball-sized ice bombs dent up his old Honda, put a hole in the windshield. This has to be the same feeling. Cracking, denting, bruising.

Then West feels his pants being pulled off. Goddamn, so baggy it's not even funny. Should've gone with a size that fit. He grabs at the fabric, tries to hold on. Someone takes his arms, holds them to the side. Pants, off. West opens his eyes. Watches a guy toss them across the room. Then his briefs. He squirms and shouts and wonders where the fuck the cops are.

A hand grips him by the back of the neck, forces him up on his knees, then down, down, down, face to the floor. He fights, but the guy's too strong. West scrambles, reaches for the sheets covering Ri'Chess' bunk. Pleads. The crowd mocks him. High-pitched, saying
Oh, Lawd, that faggot can yell, man
. Shakes off the hand on his neck to push on past the sheet curtain.

The TV light flashes on nobody. Empty. Ri'Chess not sticking around to watch.

Hands on West's shoulders, pulling him out. He grips the sheets, the bunk coming along with him, metal legs screeching on the floor.

Then, two hands on his waist, one yank and West is like a ragdoll. Sheets rip, leaves him with bent fingernails and scraps. He looks over his shoulder. Granite Man is on his knees, holding onto West's hips, pushing the slick head of his cock against West's cold bare ass.

What's his mom going to say when she hears about this?

Six weeks later, West checks out of the infirmary and into PC. Granite Man fucked him so hard it cracked West's kneecap, had to be pinned together. Weeks of physical therapy. His ass would never be the same again. He'd lost twenty pounds, and he was already a scrawny fucker. His hands shook all the time unless he balled up a fist. Only good news was all the tests for HIV came back negative.

But PC...wow.

Fewer people. Quieter. Fucking pervs, most of them, or snitches, so nobody said much. They were polite. The pervs weren't prison types. Mostly white, pudgy, older. Stereotype, yeah, but here they are. Like six of them. Maybe they aren't all pervs. The fuck if West is going to ask, that's for sure. So he watches them from his chair, the one he moved against the wall so no one could come up behind him.

So far, a couple of hours here, no sign of Lafitte. He's been told the man looks like an aging wrestler—bulky but getting flabby. Still has the moves, but it just goes to show how important the steroids were. The long biker hair had been cut and the beard had been shaved, and no one had taken a photo of him since the trial when he was still sporting it.

Which one of these guys will be giving him the tools? No one has approached him. He's got no clue. He's jumpy. He's blinking too much. He hasn't had any crank in...since...yeah. Just painkillers. All they do is make him stare because he can barely sleep anymore.

Barely.

He's startled when someone shakes him, so he yelps. A cop is standing over him. Square-headed cop with slicked-back hair. Big teeth.

The asshole says, "Welcome to the Hotel North Dakota."

West drops his chin to his chest.

"Getting settled in?" The cop looks like a preacher. Something about the hair.

"Yeah, it's cool."

"Got you a private room, of course. So you can sleep at night. That's good. Your prayers answered?"

"Guess so."

The cop nods. "Need anything, just ask. You won't get it, but it's funny."

He walks away, trailing some strong aftershave in his wake. West's chest hammers. He can't catch his breath for a minute, but at least he knows how he's getting what he needs.

*

The cop comes back before dinner. West is in his bunk, laid back, trying to quell the nausea. Should have gone away, right? Should've. Now it's just worse. Thinking about how a fucking prison guard is in on this. Like he has a choice now. Like, what could Ri'Chess have done if West got to PC and just...chilled, right? Not going to fucking kill nobody.

But then this
cop
, man, what the shit?

Cop's name is Garner and he's got veins around his temples that West watches pulse like some Superman villain. He pulls out a screwdriver. Or it used to be. The end has been pounded into a razor-thin shard. The shaft is a good foot long. Black tape wraps the handle.

Garner sets it next to West's thigh, and West barely lifts his leg, lets the weapon roll underneath him.

Garner nods. "Good boy."

"So if you want him dead, why haven't you done it yourself? Call it self-defense?"

The cop's eyes, too wide. Mouth like a devil's. "First, I don't know what you're talking about. Second, same can be said for you. Now, you've got work to do. Doesn't have to happen today, tomorrow. He'll be leery of making friends. But don't take months. Don't take a year. Get it done."

West slips his hands behind his head. "You had me fooled, man. Thought you was some kind of Jesus lover or something."

Garner smiles, and West wishes he hadn't. It's all gums, turning sharp at the corners. "Busted. Praise the Lord. This pays the bills, but on weekends I travel around, preach Revivals. Maybe you've got a taste of the Holy Ghost in you, picking me out like that. Where did it go wrong for you?"

West doesn't say what he wants to, that it wasn't because of any spirit in him. The thing about Garner was that he didn't look right. Not normal. The holy-rollers, they just can't seem to fit in. Everything they do and say looks and sounds wrong. And Garner's aftershave is burning his nose.

"My grandma." Everyone's go-to answer. "She tried to raise me right. It didn't take."

Garner says, "See? No better place to find those in need of saving."

"But why do you want to kill a man, then?"

Garner rests his hand on West's stomach. Sets off alarm bells. More cramps. But West stays still, doesn't know what happens if you try to fight a cop in PC. Especially the one bringing him a screwdriver. Garner slaps West's stomach flat, a little pop is all.

"You need some meat on you. Give you some protection. Right now, a shank would rip all your guts, your organs. There's no praying them back together. But listen, while we've got time, you and me can do a Bible study. Show you back to the path."

"Okay."

"Me and some of the fellows. The child molesters. Personally, I think it's hard for them to shake that demon. Wrapped its tail around their privates and won't let go no matter how much they repent. It's sad. So, tell me, what did you do to get in here?"

That soft, moist palm on his skin. The creepy eyes and veins and gums. West tells him, "They can't prove anything. I'm innocent."

"Good answer." Garner takes his hand away, looks over his shoulder. No one around. "The Bible says do not kill, but that means do not
murder
. And in this case, what we want is justice. A traitor to our country, to Christianity, and to our good sense of decency. Listen, I know what you did. I know it was an accident. But what this...thing...did to women and cops was...abominable. That's the word. God thinks he's an abomination."

"God told you that?"

"God showed us the opportunity. That was loud enough for me." Garner leans closer. Whispers, "Jesus was only one side of the Lord. He left the job of retribution to us."

West rubs his nose. That fucking aftershave.

Garner says, "At dinnertime, I'll point him out to you."

He starts to leave. West sits up. "What's he like? I mean, you know, right?"

Garner stops, puts his hand on the doorframe. "Honestly, if I didn't know better, I'd say he was one of us. That's how the Devil works, you know."