Holy Death (21 page)

The whole time. He’d known the whole time. Probably didn’t need no doctor either. Probably wasn’t going to keep his promise to Melissa. DeVaughn was fucked.
Fuuuucked
.

He sunk back into the seat, phone loose in his hand, his fucking foot throbbing. Knew damn well his jaw was swelling up. Motherfucker. Lafitte killing his brother was one thing, but if the motherfucker dared even look at Melissa wrong...

His phone vibrated two short times. He took a look. A text from Melissa:
Heart doctor

“Stop, stop driving! Pull over there.” He pointed at the back of what used to be a Taco Bell, now painted white and blue and serving gyros. The driver hit the brakes too hard and skidded, got some horn attitude from behind, and pulled into the lot across two spots.

“Don’t turn off the engine,” DeVaughn said. “Leave the air on max. We’ve got time to kill.”

He looked down at the phone and willed it to buzz again.

*

M
elissa scrolled through names, said, “So, you need the address? Start at the top?”

Lafitte shook his head. He was driving one-handed, his left hand flat on his chest, all of him hunched close to the wheel. “Call them up, one by one. Ask if they’re in today. First one who’s not in, we look up his home address.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a hospital?”

“I don’t want a hospital.” He wouldn’t look at her. She was glad of it, since his face straight-on was the stuff of nightmares right now. But she had to remember, he knew her every move. “Hospitals mean I’m outnumbered. Hospitals mean I get caught. The fuck do I want with a hospital?”

“They’re also where you get fixed.”

“What about the doctor’s office? Why not there?”

“Same thing. Too many people. Too little control. I need a fucking doctor. You can be his nurse.”

Melissa scrolled through. “You trust me? To just pick one?”

“No, girl, no. I don’t trust you one bit. I trust the deal we made. I trust you believe me when I say if you fuck it up somehow, I’ll kill DeVaughn. Might be a legion of cops descend on me at the hospital, but some way, somehow, DeVaughn would still die by my hand.”

She did believe him. She sure as fuck did.

“Now, start calling doctors.”

*

I
t was a long-ass time, sitting in that parking lot, smelling that sauce, tzatziki sauce, and the grilled meat smoke. DeVaughn’s stomach growled. He should’ve eaten at Waffle House when he had the chance, but he was still getting over the dead bodies at the car lot. He wasn’t mad at Melissa for it. Them men had to be dealt with. But seeing them lying there, all dead and shit, it wasn’t the same as he imagined standing over Lafitte’s dead body would be. A jungle beast. A real prize. Something majestic. Not lumpy in a golf shirt and khakis.

The driver and friend tried to talk real low, like they didn’t want to bother DeVaughn. One of them clicked the radio back on, picked up where it left off, a good beat. DeVaughn didn’t know it. Sampled saxophone riff.

“Hey,” he said to the driver. “Let me ask you. You know why I left, right? Why I left Mob?”

The driver shook his head. “Man, each his own. I do what I gotta do.”

“But seriously.” To the passenger. “You’ve got to know, right?”

The passenger was younger, maybe too young. Had a lot of spic in him. He had a goofy smile. “I never heard of you til this morning. You look like you get
paid
, bro-ham. Dollar bill, y’all.”

The driver fought the giggle, then let it go. “Hold up, hold up, you ain’t even shaving yet.”

“Women like it smooth.”

“You crazy, man.” Then he turned to DeVaughn. “My brother knew your brother. Man, I’m sorry. I heard about it.”

DeVaughn nodded. “Because, you know, there are times in a man’s life...you can’t carry that stuff around day after day. You want to compete at the level I compete at, you’ve got to let it go. You’ve got to, what, like,
meditate
. Clear your mind, try to read your opponent without him reading you.”

The passenger shook his head. “I prefer dice.”

“You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“I know. Don’t listen to him.” The driver looked in the rearview, caught DeVaughn’s eyes. “We cool.”

The phone buzzed. This time, a name and address.

“Alright, time to finish this.”

Passenger: “You know it.”

DeVaughn grinned but didn’t let the kid see it. Eager beaver. Reminded him of...hey, where’d Lo-Wider get off to, anyway?

*

I
t took four tries. The first one, kids all over the yard. A couple of moms. Too much. The second, in a gated community, a rent-a-cop in the booth giving them a staredown as they drove past too slowly. The third, nobody home.

Melissa texted the first two names and addresses to DeVaughn, but after those went bust, she wrote,
Wait. Working on it
.

They pulled up outside the house of the fourth, passed it, turned around, and parked on the opposite side of the street. It was an older neighborhood, not far from the beach, lined with ancient twisted oaks that had survived storm after storm, even Katrina. They looked painful, as if riddled with arthritis. They made the last of the daylight disappear, the darkness full-on now. Lights from the windows shone yellow, blurred. Lafitte blinked, rubbed his eyes. He was fading. It could be he was dying. Melissa had no idea. It didn’t matter. DeVaughn would come and get her, and by then they would finish off Lafitte because her promise was shit. It was the only way she could live with herself, making sure DeVaughn got his revenge.

Lafitte took deep breaths, grunted, and finally got out of the car. He shoved both guns into the back of his jeans. Melissa walked around the front, following as Lafitte lumbered up the walkway. The house had a New Orleans vibe—stairs up to a wide front porch with columns. Everything white, only a little purple and gold in cushions for the outdoor furniture. The door was tall and looked heavy. Hanging plants with flowers overflowing, same kind her grandma had. Purple petunias, pink geraniums, sweet and syrupy, like childhood.

Lafitte knocked on the door as if with a hammer, then leaned on it as if it had taken all his energy, let out a long breath. He waved her over with his chin. “Do the talking.”

“What?”

“It’s an emergency. Do the talking. Get us inside, at least.”

Someone was coming to the door. They could see the shadow through the heavy glass, hear the footsteps on the wood floor inside. Melissa grabbed Lafitte’s shoulders and pulled him upright as the man inside peered out the windows, unfocused and warbly.

He said, “Yes?”

Melissa shouted back, “I need help! My brother! He’s having a heart attack! I need a doctor!”

Quiet. “How do you know I’m a doctor?”

“Across the street! Your neighbor said! She said you’re a doctor! Are you? Can you help him? Can you? Please! It’s been half-an-hour!”

The doctor opened the door while she was still talking, focused on Lafitte. “Can he walk?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Lafitte pressed his hand against the doc’s chest and pushed him back inside the house. He pulled out one of the guns, and the doctor retreated, hands up. “Oh god, oh god. Wait, wait.”

“You’re Joshua Groff?”

He nodded. “Please.”

“You’re a cardiologist?”

Another nod. “Please.”

Lafitte held the gun loosely in his right hand, the fingers of his left still spread across the doctor’s chest. “Yeah, alright. You’ll do.”

*

B
y the time DeVaughn’s crew rolled to a stop behind the Lincoln in front of Doctor Groff’s house, the weak streetlights were glowing, and even more front porch lights. A quiet night in a rich, white neighborhood.

DeVaughn checked the text again to be sure. Melissa had added,
Think BL having heart attack
.

Seriously? What the fuck was a doctor going to do about it at his
home
? Did they all carry special “un-heart attack” shots for emergencies? DeVaughn remembered his dad had heart problems in his forties. Lafitte wasn’t that old yet, was he? Then DaVaughn’s dad died from a massive stroke at forty-nine. No one had ever explained what the deal was. His dad smoked all the time. Or maybe the stress at work did it. He had a hard job, Momma had said. Devaughn couldn’t remember what it was, except Daddy wore overalls and smelled like Pine-Sol all the time.

Whatever. Blink the memory away and be patient. Think about the pain in your foot. The driver turned and asked what to do.

Hurt to talk. “Turn off the engine and sit tight for awhile.”

“Need back-up?”

DeVaughn shook his head. “Shit, I’m surprised you’re both still here. Figured One O Four would want you to bring me in. I got a lot of BGM killed today.”

“You kidding?” The passenger waved his phone. “He already texted. Said to do everything we can to help you get this son of a bitch. Got all sixty-three remaining BGMs ready at your command.”

“Jesus.”

“It ain’t a DeVaughn Rose thing no more. It’s family. BGM for life.”

“Yeah.” DeVaughn felt the weight of it. “BGM for life.”

He held to the phone tight, waiting for Melissa’s next buzz. Doctor Groff’s front porch sure looked inviting. A man could really enjoy a warm evening and a cold drink on a front porch. Yes he could.

––––––––

W
hen Stoudemire came back to Rome’s hospital room the next morning, he was all business again. Suited up instead of casual. His silk tie must’ve cost him a cool hundred bucks. He smelled like expensive cologne, which didn’t smell any better than cheap cologne. He took his seat beside Rome’s bed and sighed.

“I’ve got to finish quickly. I have to fly back to Washington.”

“Why?”

An ever-so-slight sneer. Stoudemire sucked on his teeth. Awful sound. “I know you’ll find out anyway. Janice must have told someone about us, a friend, maybe. The friend, I don’t know, some uggo who got jealous, or some guy who hadn’t gotten as far as I had with her, went and told her SAC. I’m getting called back to Washington for a meeting. A fucking meeting. Waste of time.”

“But..Lafitte?” Hard to put more than two words together, still. He’d have to push harder during therapy. “Lafitte?”

“Yeah, Lafitte...I’ve got forty-five minutes. Here it is.”

*

F
irst, the hospitals. No luck.

Then, the free clinics. Still no luck.

Doctors’ offices? Nope.

Veterinarians? Negative.

When the FBI wanted to, it could move at lightning speed. And goddamn it, did it ever want to. Lafitte, back home on the Coast, hobbled, with blood on his hands, literally. He would get the death penalty this time, if he made it that far. More likely, death by cop, right here, right now.

Stoudemire, Janice Moore, and Captain Delaney were each on their own phones, talking to three different sources, all at once. It was cacophony in the car. They were driving aimlessly. No one had a lead. No one had the Lincoln yet. No one had an idea.

After another wasted call, another report of nothing-fuck-all-nothing, Stoudemire hung up and rubbed his temple. He really wished Delaney wasn’t here. A blowjob from Janice would have been great right then. It would’ve helped him think. He thought he had her on the hook. His suggestion for dinner had gotten a “We’ll see” and a smile. Still, if only the cop wasn’t in the backseat...

How did Lafitte think? As much as Stoudemire hated Franklin Rome, he was the one guy who knew how Lafitte thought. After their first tangle, Rome had been smart to finagle a transfer to New Orleans. Almost had the bastard, too. Knew which bait to use. But then it went to shit. Everything involving Lafitte eventually did. It was inevitable. It had been fourth and inches in Sioux Falls, cornering Lafitte and Steel God in a hotel, one second left on the clock. And then Lafitte had killed Rome’s wife. It didn’t matter that they’d caught him and thrown him in jail. It didn’t matter that Rome had gotten a lot of the credit, since further investigation showed he had gone rogue in a bad way. All of it was moot once Rome had sent that bitch Colleen Hartle into the prison for revenge and instead had stirred themselves a prison riot, a dead boy, and Lafitte on the run again.

But goddamn if he couldn’t get inside Lafitte’s white trash mind. Kind of amazing, actually. Still, he threw Hartle under the bus, and got himself a terribly nice severance package because, well, he knew too much. He’d played a smart game. He’d lost badly, but goddamn, he was the best sore loser Stoudemire had ever seen.

One phone call to Rome. Just one. Might save him hours. Might save lives. But all that invalid could do was drool at him.

Fuck Franklin Rome. I got this.

“He’s not going to the hospital.” Mumbled it. Janice heard, stopped talking. Stoudemire looked over at her. “Well, he’s not, right?”

“I’ll call you back.” She ended her call, as did Captain Delaney in the back. He pulled himself closer, chin on top of the passenger seat.

Stoudemire said, “He won’t go to a clinic. Won’t go to the ER. So, where?”

“Drugstore?”

Stoudemire shook his head. “The employees would trip the alarms instantly. And there are cameras.”

Delaney said, “There are cameras everywhere.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

It was so clear. This was kind of easy. Fuck Rome again. “He won’t go where the doctors work, but how about where they live?”

Janice said, “Why would he do that?”

“He’s not looking for surgery. He’s looking for a diagnosis. Instructions. Someone to tell him what to do next.”

Delaney went
hmph
, then, “Then how do we find out...”

Stoudemire looked at Delaney in the rearview. “Yep. All of them.”

*

R
ome tried to laugh. Sounded bad.

Stoudemire cleared his throat. Then, “He hadn’t shown up at any hospitals, ERs, or clinics, but we knew he wouldn’t. We had to cross them off the list. We called as many heart doctors as we could, and ended up with four who didn’t answer the phone, and three more who sounded suspicious.”