The Baddest Ass (Billy Lafitte #3) (5 page)

West clicks randomly, not even aiming for his log-in icon. "I'm done. Either by those guys or on my own. I can't take it, man."

Lafitte keeps at his own work for a few minutes. West wonders if he gives a shit. Wonders if this is his brush off, same as Steve got.

Then Lafitte says, "If they could kill you, they'd have done it by now. The worst they can do is make you feel bad. You're not going to die up in here."

West lifts the mouse, a puddle of sweat under it. He shakes the moisture off, but splatters his screen. Breathing through his nose to keep from throwing up. "Oh God."

"I'm telling you, man. Just cool it. Think of the long haul."

But all West can think about is another beating, another rape, another week in his cell alone, never knowing when someone might walk in on him. Jean Robert with Garner waiting outside the door. Not again. He can't. He's done.

West slips the screwdriver from his sock. Eyes on Steve. Fucking perv. Greasy fucker. Show those motherfuckers up, man, show them what he's really made of. Grease and blood. Hear him cry. Hear him beg. They would leave him alone. Damn right.

He whips around and launches the screwdriver, thinking he'd get Lafitte deep in the armpit first. A good vulnerable spot. Then he'll move on to the neck. Sees it in his mind like it's already happened.

But he can't get his arm swinging without a shout, and he's still inches away when Lafitte grabs his hand mid-flight like it was a crumpled ball of paper.

He yanks out of the big man's grasp and stumbles off his chair, tangled and frantic, trying to get back up as Lafitte rises, all Zen master calm and shit. West pushes himself up and waits for the cop to beat him or tackle him from behind, but there's nothing. He looks back to see Cooker and Steve holding the cop back, Cooker whispering into his ear. The cop nods, backs off and crosses his arms.

West turns to Lafitte, man just standing there. "Drop it and we'll call this a misunderstanding. Water under the bridge."

West shakes his head. "Fuck you, man. This sucks!"

"Do this, it gets worse. Like they're going to let the fucking hitman live. Son, they're playing you."

Tune him out. Tune him out. Just his ass on the line, that's all. Go low, aim for the thigh. Artery. Stab and twist. There ain't no shot at the neck any more.

West lunges, closes his eyes. He feels his arm go slack, muscles weak. Drops the screwdriver and it clatters on a keyboard. Lafitte's got him in a sleeper hold and West is kicking and straining and can't breathe and and and

Lafitte's voice in his ear: "Jesus, kid, I was so hoping this wouldn't happen."

Then Lafitte's hand reaches across West's face, grabs hold, and there's pressure and his neck is twisting—

And then West is dreaming. He knows it's a dream, feels like it, one where you know it's all wrong but you can't wake yourself up. Trapped in the dream. But the goddamnedest thing of all is that in this dream, he's still in prison.

There are only three cars in the visitor's parking lot. Someone had plowed the ice and snow off, barely, but another half-a-foot has already taken its place. This is a brand new prison in the middle of nowhere in what used to be a North Dakota soybean field. It's not even finished, that's what she'd heard, but so many jails across the country were overcrowded that they gladly sent the cons over anyway and shoved them in wherever while the construction guys kept going until winter forced them to stop.

Colleen Hartle pushes the door of her SUV against the bastard wind, slips out of the car and jumps out of the way as the door slams itself shut. She wore the short leather boots today. Maybe she had expected a parking garage or something underground. Good thing she didn't go for the high heels, and the day-to-day work shoes wouldn't suit for what she had planned today. She was only dressing up more the past eight months, pant suits and fashionable blouses and a shiny black leather belt on which she usually clipped the pancake holster for her pistol. Well, not today. The pistol is under the seat and would stay there.

She'd quit the Yellow Medicine Sheriff's Department and hounded Agent Rome until he pulled some strings—not that he had much pull after what happened—to help ease her way into a job as an agent for the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.

They fast-tracked her training, took her on with certain conditions—she would have to endure a sort of "apprenticeship" period that other more experienced applicants didn't require. Colleen was sure that one reason for that was her direct superior realized the girl had a temper. He watched her face flush as he told her everything she didn't know and how quickly she would need to learn it. He leaned back in his chair and gave her something about how he'd seen a big spike in women agents after
Silence of the Lambs
, way back when, but then it slackened off. Smiled. Asked her what movies she'd seen lately.

She wondered if he was the type that wanted a blowjob or a spanking. Either way, what a douchebag. And no, he wouldn't get either from her.

Didn't she work hard to prove the asshole wrong? But wasn't that the point of him being an asshole, too? Just another few months away from the "probationary" being dropped from her ID.

So she takes a personal day—lies about her mother being sick or needy or whatever—and drives way the hell out here because something has gone wrong. Very fucking wrong.

*

In the prison entry hall, she shakes like a wet dog and hands off her coat to a guard. Young guy. Doing his time in hell before getting a patrol job in Fargo, most likely. Where else, right? Unless you're some sort of weirdo who loves being surrounded by plenty of nothing all the time.

She stamps her feet, still too much snow. Leans against the wall and pounds the side of each boot until the crushed snow falls off in sheets. Finally sends her ID through the glass. Driver's license. The picture isn't her, but her younger, prettier sister. The name isn't either one of them. Rome gave it to her. Traces back just far enough to keep anyone from digging deeper. She signs in. Says the reason is "personal".

Guy at the desk—bald, thick, and with glasses that looked like they were squeezing his skull—says, "Friend of yours?"

A shrug. "We used to date. My baby daddy."

It doesn't matter what her story is. If it takes fucking the nigger to get what she wants, she'll fuck him. That's how bad it has gotten. This is why she doesn't sleep at night anymore.

The only way to keep the prison staff from officially recording the conversation is to pretend she's his lawyer, or pretend she's his girlfriend. A conjugal visit—not allowed in most Federal prisons, but this one must be trying some sort of pilot program. Rome was the one who suggested it when they'd heard what happened. They were lucky the prison made an exception for Colleen, not being his wife and all. Much easier to trace a marriage license than an illegitimate kid. It took Rome less than a day to set it up. And to think he used to enforce the law. To think Colleen is now almost as dirty as Lafitte. No, never.
Nev-ah!

Even though the guards aren't supposed to, they probably tape these "family visits", too, she knows damn well. But at least then she can be close enough to the man to whisper, keep things more private. She'll hate every moment of it. The man is all fat, all gangsta attitude, all woman-hater. She's hoping to get out before it goes too far. But if not, then it's still worth it. She can soak in a tub later and scrub her pussy with Lava soap.

Another room, one that still smells like drywall dust and fresh paint. A couple of women guards give her the once over, make sure she's not hiding drugs or weapons or cash up her holes. It would usually be humiliating as fuck, but she's got a one-track mind. And these women—soft-voiced, very patient and gentle with her—are wondering what sort of life Colleen must've lived to end up getting strip-searched so she could fuck a convict. She would bet that at least one of them goes home tonight and rubs one out while thinking of doing the same thing. It's quiet condemnation. Well, fuck that, both of them, even the one making eyes. Colleen was tired of being called a dyke. That's not her at all. One time, maybe, in high school, but Nate fell in love with her for being the tomboy cop. Plenty of men wanted a run at her. Today she's glammed out in bright red lipstick and nails and fluffy hair. Under the clothes she's wearing a thong, a lacy bra, thigh-highs.

This one on her left, going through her pockets, clears her throat. Thin, short hair, brunette long neck. She got to see Colleen take it all off. She liked what she saw. Colleen takes deep breaths, counts to five between inhales/exhales. Thinks about yelling at Rome when it's all over. Thinks about him possibly looking sadder than last time she saw him. The man is a ghost.

After she's been spread and spread again, they check inside her mouth and turn her clothes inside out, sliding their latex-gloved fingers along every seam. She sits in a hard plastic chair and crosses her arms and legs and shivers and waits. A few minutes later the women are done and they tell her to get dressed. She does, fast, and wonders how much this is worth going through to the real wives and lovers.

She's taken to another waiting room. The snow that had ringed the bottoms of her pants has melted and gone wet against her stockings. A man in a suit stands talking to a guard. Lawyer. Talking about how it's the best smelling jail he's ever been in, at least. The guard talks about some other cool stuff they've got—computer back-ups, face recog, paint and floors that are easier to clean. They've even got inmates working on computers. High-tech training, you know, for when they get out. He can't keep a straight face saying it.

She tunes them out and tries to not feel so nauseous. Glances around. It's a bright room. The chairs are padded. Nice lighting. Magazines and coffee tables, even a corner with some children's toys. They look brand-new, untouched.

The only other people in the room are a boy around ten, sitting on the edge of his chair, head down, arms folded—maybe he hasn't outgrown those toys, but he sure as hell isn't interested—and an older woman with him. Maybe a grandmother, even though she still has a smooth face. Has to be older than she looks. A shock of white through her nearly jet black hair, in a simple up-do. She wears a long denim skirt, a long blouse, no jewelry, no make-up. Like a Mennonite woman, but more modern, stylish. Those are mall-bought clothes. She holds her hands in her lap, hums barely loud enough for Colleen to hear. A quick nod when she notices Colleen looking at her. The humming, not sure, but like a hymn. When the boy takes a kick at the chair across from him—something cracks—the woman hisses so sharp the guard spins his head nearly three-sixty and the boy shrinks like a popped balloon.

Who are they here for? Boy's father? Woman's son? Grandpa?

Then one of the women guards comes over to Colleen and motions with two fingers
Get up,
and Colleen does. The guards turns and walks and Colleen follows, one more look over her shoulder at the humming Jesus lady and wonders if she'll still be humming when it's time to leave.

*

She's tired of being cold but she shouldn't be. She was born and raised in the cold. How can this place feel so much worse than the blizzard coming on strong outside? Colleen crosses her arms so tight her biceps stretch and burn. The guard and Colleen walk on industrial beige carpet down a narrow hall, solid doors with narrow windows on the left. Guess if you fuck cons, you shouldn't expect privacy. Outside the fourth door is a male guard, white and beefy, young. Doing his best to hold that lazy cop face from movie posters. Colleen bets he'll wash out within a year. He'll be full of excuses, saying it's not fair or he didn't want to hurt anyone or his wife asked him to quit—she so won't, not in this economy.

"He's ready?"

The young guard nods. "Cocked and loaded."

"That's inappropriate."

Sighs through his nose. "I apologize. I do. I didn't mean anything."

"Listen," she says to Colleen. "Anything happens, you need to say ‘Help'. It's better to try to keep the noise down, like moaning or shouting, but ‘Help' will get us in there mighty fast."

"Like, you don't listen, right? Isn't that wrong?"

"It's all computers now. It's not the same thing. You want to be in there without any help at all?"

"He's not going to hurt me."

"These guys, don't count on it. They're not the same as they are at home. They're…shit, Nick, what do you think?"

"Animals." Young guard's drawl is pretty phony. Kid's parents bought him a new pick-up soon as he got his license, right? But he still thought he was working class. "Smart animals. They want to be the meanest dog in the junkyard, but they've got to know when the man with the leash isn't looking."

"Sweetie."

Colleen turns her head again to the woman guard. An old chain-smoking aunt. Tired, tired, tired.

"You don't have to do this, you know. You can do anything you want. This is your last chance to change your mind."

If only this was real life, Colleen thinks. Any other day she would say
Thank you
to this
angel
, trying to save girls like the one she's supposed to be today. But all she feels is annoyed. How dare the bitch, right? Who is she to—enough, enough. Smile.

The young one unlocks the door, swings it open and steps in first. Colleen follows, mental blinders to the guy sprawled on the loveseat. There's a sink, a toilet, a thin divider screen between it and the rest of the room. No mirrors. On a shelf near the queen bed with dark brown sheets—better to hide the stains—are some towels, a few packets of condoms, and a small bottle of lube. Box of tissues.