Holy Death
Authors: Anthony Neil Smith
HOLY DEATH
A BILLY LAFITTE NOVEL
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Anthony Neil Smith
Published by Blasted Heath, 2016
copyright © 2016, Anthony Neil Smith
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.
Anthony Neil Smith has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Cover design by JT Lindroos
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Visit Blasted Heath at
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ISBN: 978-1-908688-81-1
Version 2-1-3
Other novels by Anthony Neil Smith
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B
illy Lafitte is back... Back from the brink of death. Back on the Gulf Coast, his home stomping grounds, looking to reunite with his beloved one last time. Back in the sights of DeVaughn Lagrenade, a former gangbanger whose brother was gunned down by Lafitte and his partner during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Back in the mind of his biggest nemesis, Franklin Rome, who swings into Lafitte's orbit in a most unusual way. Throw in a wild-eyed waitress looking for some violent kicks, an ambitious FBI agent slithering up the administrative ladder, a wannabe bad boy on Lafitte's tail with a young psychopath in the passenger seat, and you've got the makings of a rumble that only a prayer to Santa Muerte might help Billy survive.
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I
dedicate this book to my friend and one of my favorite novelists, Les Edgerton. He showed up in my life when I wasn’t sure why I was doing this writing thing, and he showed me why I should keep going. His books
The Bitch
and
The Rapist
have kicked me into a higher gear, and I’m thankful for his support.
There would not be a fourth Billy Lafitte novel without Les.
Much love, brother.
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O
ne-thirty in the morning in a truck stop outside of Hattiesburg, Mississippi. A shout of
Goddamn!
from the men’s room made everyone turn, forks and mugs frozen in mid-air, until this trucker came out waving his hand in front of his face like whatever it was in there was the stinkingest goddamned thing he’d ever sniffed. Some of the folks in here, mostly men, mostly tired, and mostly white, laughed because they thought he was making a joke about his own shit, right?
But he kept shouting. “Goddamn! Any of you motherfuckers named La Fit? Anyone know what a La Fit is?”
“You mean Lafayette?”
“No, not Lafayette. There’s no ‘y’ in it.”
The tall black kid working the flattop said, “Spell it?”
“It’s L-A-F-I-T-T-E. That’s La Fit.”
Kid said, “I think it’s La Feet. Like, French or something, know what I’m saying?”
One trucker at the counter said, “Yeah, you’re right. It is.”
“So what the fuck’s a La Feet, then?”
The fat girl pouring coffee said, “Pretty sure it’s a pirate. Or a voodoo queen. I forget.”
And then there was some babbling about Jean Lafitte versus Marie Laveau and how anyone this close to New Orleans should know the difference, but the first trucker said, “I don’t think it’s some dead pirate. All I’m saying is someone took a handful of shit, smeared it on the wall in there, saying they’re looking for a Lafitte.”
“Serious?”
“I’m telling you, I’ve got to drop one mighty badly, but not in there. Not now. Shit, I’m going to the Arby’s down the road.” He high-tailed it for the door, dropped his copy of
Cigar Aficionado
on the floor, and let out a bad fart leaning over to get it. Then a grunt and “Sorry. I’ve got to hurry.”
After he was gone, a few guys went and took a look and came out either laughing or shaking their heads, disgusted. They snapped pics of it on their phones and showed them to the guys who didn’t want to look and risk losing their greasy breakfasts. The smell, they said. Holy shit, the smell.
The tall black kid working the flattop, called Alonso by the fat waitress, disappeared for a few minutes, then came back with a mop and rolling bucket, cursing under his breath until he reached fever pitch and shouted at the fat waitress “Ain’t nobody said nothing about cleaning up people’s shit!”
“Just shut up and get it done!”
“Can’t it wait until the next shift?”
“You want me to kick your ass then still make you do it?”
“Aw, fuck you, you fat bitch.” But he rolled the bucket towards the bathroom anyway.
Inside, there was a short guy looking at the wall. He wore khaki shorts and a pullover polo and cap with the name of the company he drove for—Muscle Max. The smell of the shit was as bad as the other truckers had said, and the texture was nutty, corny, thick. Sure enough, written in three foot-high letters,
WELCOME HOME LAFITTE
.
“Jesus.”
The driver said, “Mm hm.” Nodded. He had his bottom lip pulled in between his teeth.
“Got to be a crazy motherfucker who did that, you know what I’m saying?”
Shrug.
Alonso pulled the mop up over the bucket, let it drip. The driver didn’t move. “You mind? Need to take a picture first?”
The driver shook his head. Rumbled when he spoke. “I’m good.”
Before Alonso could say something else, the little truck driver was gone. Alonso got pissed some more. Probably that one there was the guy who done it. Alonso put up the plastic yellow “Slippery” sign with his free hand, right in the middle of the doorway, then slapped the heavy-ass mop against the wall and watched the water run down over the shit, turn brown, and stream towards the floor.
Alonso said, “Shit.”
*
T
he Muscle Max driver headed back towards his table, the remains of a catfish sandwich and fries on his plate, a half-empty glass of Mr. Pibb beside it. He tossed a twenty down, way too much for what it cost, and walked out without another word. The fat waitress named Melissa noticed. He hadn’t been very friendly to her, but not unfriendly either. She thought she had made him all mad, asking him where he was headed, asking if he needed a shower, because, yes, he sure as fuck did. At first Melissa wondered, too, if this was the guy writing in shit, but she was pretty sure he didn’t go to the bathroom the whole time until after another one had pointed it out.
Had he been offended because she was flirty? Not that she
was
, because she had a boyfriend, plus the guy’s skin color didn’t do it for her. She liked them black. Real black. Always had. Her current boyfriend was white, but just because, you know? If she didn’t have to be all
proper,
suppose that was the word, she’d go for the chocolate, and she didn’t mind if everyone knew it. So bring on judging from other white bitches in school—and black bitches, too—but Melissa was who she was, and her mamma said people are born to like who they liked, and were also born to weigh what they weighed, so if the little truck driver didn’t like her
vo-CAB-uh-lary
or her hairstyle or her big hips and big ass, then fuck that prick. Bet he was a racist. I mean, clean-shaven with no sideburns, his face hard as if it had been chewed up by a dog.
Still, he had also left her, like, an eight dollar tip.
She watched him out the window as he headed towards his delivery truck, black with gold letters on the side—Muscle Max, Peoria, Illinois—and a phone number. Melissa didn’t know what Muscle Max was, but that’s what the guy was driving, matched the shirt and the cap. Wearing shorts, too, tight because the guy had some muscle on him, and black sneakers, ankle socks. He couldn’t help what he had to wear to work. It didn’t match his chewed-up face. She thought about looking up Muscle Max later on the internet, but then there were a couple of guys with empty coffee cups, including one fine-looking black man all by himself at a table for the last hour, ordered coffee only, except he’d brought his own bottle of Patron silver along to pour in it. Didn’t look like no trucker. If she didn’t have a boyfriend at home, this one might have been a good sugar daddy. Sure enough was a Rolex on his wrist and the keys to a Caddy on his table.
“Come on, baby. I see you looking.” He waved her over, and when she got there, he wrapped his arm around her giant hips and squeezed her close. He pretended her sweat stink didn’t make his coffee and Patron back up into his throat a little bit, and she liked the effort. No way to avoid picking up the stench, not working here.
“The one who left, you didn’t happen to get a name, did you?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t say much except to order. Did you see which truck he was driving?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Another squeeze. “He hasn’t been in before, has he?”
“If he was, I don’t remember.”
“Mind topping off my coffee?”
She did, then pointed at the Patron with the coffee pot. “You going to be okay to drive tonight? If not, I could take you home.”
He smiled up at her, teeth like bricks of ice, even after all that coffee. “A fine offer. I appreciate it. I’ll let you know.”
Melissa smiled back and nibbled her bottom lip and went back behind the counter. When her odor finally cleared the table, he could swallow again and take a nice breath. He picked up his phone, called Lo-Wider, said, “You getting this?”
“I watched him climb up in his truck. I know it’s him, man, same one I seen, I know it.”
“Positive?”
“What I just say, DeVaughn?”
Okay, yeah, don’t micro-manage. DeVaughn said he was sorry and backed off, told Lo-Wider to follow the truck, call back when it stopped.
“Can’t Crocker take over, man? We
tired
.”
“Don’t lose that truck. Bump up more if you got to, but don’t lose that fucking truck.”
DeVaughn Rose hung up, licked his lips. He took another look at Melissa, who was watching the TV, dead-eyed bored, munching on Funyuns, washing it down with Diet Mountain Dew. Okay, if it was any other night,
any
other night except this one he’d been waiting years for, who knew? Something about this white girl. If he could’ve got her back to his place, let the bitch take a shower...
...but he was in a good mood. His prey was in the trap. Why shouldn’t he enjoy the rest of his evening? If she wanted to get picked up, he’d pick her up. He liked her eyes. He liked her shape.
This Lafitte—the motherfucker who shot his brother—him and that other cop, Paul Asimov, who was already dead, DeVaughn never thought he’d see the day. Really, not until that prison break, never thought he’d see the day. Until a young man named Lo-Wider had called on the way home from his mom’s place in Memphis last week and swore, just swore—
Swear. To. God. Jesus
—this dude he saw at Waffle House? Dead ringer.
Motherfucker.
So they did a little homework—careful, careful, so Lafitte wouldn’t spook like some goddamn deer. Next time he was out on a delivery, DeVaughn had some people watching. Friends, some newbie Black Coast Mobsters he dropped some cash on. The Muscle Max driver was working his way South, for sure. It was a long couple of days, waiting for him to dip down far enough into the Bible Belt for DeVaughn to be sure where Lafitte, if it was him, was going.
It wasn’t until Lo-Wider called and said he was on the tail of the Muscle Max truck south of Jackson that DeVaughn decided to get involved in person. Drove up to Hattiesburg, waited for the truck to pass, and got lucky the man needed to stop where he did, right here at this greasy spoon where DeVaughn paid that white beardy trucker hours to do what he did in the bathroom. Call it a homecoming gift. For the first time since it started, DeVaughn had been there, wanting to be absolutely sure, because he hadn’t seen Motherfucker in years, and if DeVaughn was going to do what he had been dreaming of doing every night since he saw his brother, unrecognizable, in a body bag after the water and bugs had had their way with him, it had better be the right motherfucker.
