The Baddest Ass (Billy Lafitte #3) Read Online Free
Author: Anthony Neil Smith
this."
"Whatever."
"You calling me a liar?" Bowing up a little.
Lafitte pushes his tray away. "I'm saying you're supposed to kill me or someone's going to get to you. You check in and on day one, you strut right up to me. None of this waiting til I'm alone shit. So I figured you'll do it and be done with it and I can get some sleep."
West is on his feet. Everyone watching. Has to be a camera in this joint, too, so even more people watching. He flats his hands on the table top, wide, leans close to Lafitte, dangerous territory, he knows. He says, real low like, "I don't want to kill you, man. I just wanted out of there. I'm the one worried about being killed."
Shrug. "You, me, aren't we all?"
"I'm here to warn you."
Something like a laugh rumbles through Lafitte. Not much. "Thanks for that. I appreciate it."
"We cool?"
Lafitte lifts his eyes. Something's there, something sad. Sad for West? Sad in general? West can tell he doesn't like looking at people, like no matter who he looks at, he's still seeing the same dead face. "Sure. Cool."
West nods, slides his plate closer, the spot across from the biker, and goes to sit.
Lafitte says, "Get the fuck out of here. Get as far away from me as you can, and don't ever crowd my space again."
What's he going to do? West thinks about sitting. Really, gives him an excuse if Lafitte wants to start shit. West has the advantage. But that voice. It digs. It cuts without even getting loud. So West realizes this will take some time, because he doesn't want to kill this lunatic. He's got to figure out a way to get out of this and serve his time in peace and quiet. He lifts his tray from the table and starts off. No eyes watching now.
"Leave the food."
West stands there. Right on the tip of his tongue: Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you .
But the food smells ripe and his stomach twirls some more so he bangs the tray down and slides it over, walks away with, "I didn't want none of that shit anyway."
And he hopes ain't one of them fuckers saw how bad his hands were shaking.
Chapter 3
They come later. That cop Garner doesn't say a word, just points through the door. West is taking a shit and suspects Garner knew it when he led these guys over. Two of them, one black, one white. The black man looks older, maybe in his fifties. Lot of hair, frizzy. Has to be a snitch. The white man, one of those slippery, hard-to-pin-down ages. Could be twenty-five, could be forty-five. He wears the sort of metal-framed glasses guys stopped wearing in the '80s.
West covers his junk. "Jesus, what the fuck, man?"
The older man sits on the bunk. The slick one leans against the far wall. Garner waits outside, not even looking into the cell. Not good.
The old black man says, "You gonna kill this motherfucker or what?"
"What, I was supposed to do it there and then?"
"Why wait? We want him gone. You're the one. You do it."
West hates being pinned down like this. Wants to pace. Wants to lord over these assholes barging in. Taking a shit these days is a precious and tender thing for West, a thing he doesn't want to share.
The slick one mumbles, but West hears, "He gives us a bad name."
"The fuck, man? What eight-year-old did you fingerbang to get in here, anyway?"
"Eleven. She was eleven. She looked fifteen. Wasn't that how old yours was?"
The older con shakes his head. "No, no, cut that out. Doesn't matter. You checked in, Billy's not dead yet, and every day that's true is bad for you. That's the way it is."
West cramps. He can't let it go, though. They'll hear his gas, the splash, so he clenches and grinds his teeth. Goddamn, it's killing one of his molars, already ground away from four years of meth.
"I knew PC types were pussies, but goddamn, man. You're all scared of him."
"We're not . It's just not how it's done."
West almost stands, but his muscles won't let him, not if he wants to hold on. "What is this? Any one of you, uh, like, uh, you'd be a hero. You've had three fucking years, man. What
"Whatever."
"You calling me a liar?" Bowing up a little.
Lafitte pushes his tray away. "I'm saying you're supposed to kill me or someone's going to get to you. You check in and on day one, you strut right up to me. None of this waiting til I'm alone shit. So I figured you'll do it and be done with it and I can get some sleep."
West is on his feet. Everyone watching. Has to be a camera in this joint, too, so even more people watching. He flats his hands on the table top, wide, leans close to Lafitte, dangerous territory, he knows. He says, real low like, "I don't want to kill you, man. I just wanted out of there. I'm the one worried about being killed."
Shrug. "You, me, aren't we all?"
"I'm here to warn you."
Something like a laugh rumbles through Lafitte. Not much. "Thanks for that. I appreciate it."
"We cool?"
Lafitte lifts his eyes. Something's there, something sad. Sad for West? Sad in general? West can tell he doesn't like looking at people, like no matter who he looks at, he's still seeing the same dead face. "Sure. Cool."
West nods, slides his plate closer, the spot across from the biker, and goes to sit.
Lafitte says, "Get the fuck out of here. Get as far away from me as you can, and don't ever crowd my space again."
What's he going to do? West thinks about sitting. Really, gives him an excuse if Lafitte wants to start shit. West has the advantage. But that voice. It digs. It cuts without even getting loud. So West realizes this will take some time, because he doesn't want to kill this lunatic. He's got to figure out a way to get out of this and serve his time in peace and quiet. He lifts his tray from the table and starts off. No eyes watching now.
"Leave the food."
West stands there. Right on the tip of his tongue: Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you .
But the food smells ripe and his stomach twirls some more so he bangs the tray down and slides it over, walks away with, "I didn't want none of that shit anyway."
And he hopes ain't one of them fuckers saw how bad his hands were shaking.
Chapter 3
They come later. That cop Garner doesn't say a word, just points through the door. West is taking a shit and suspects Garner knew it when he led these guys over. Two of them, one black, one white. The black man looks older, maybe in his fifties. Lot of hair, frizzy. Has to be a snitch. The white man, one of those slippery, hard-to-pin-down ages. Could be twenty-five, could be forty-five. He wears the sort of metal-framed glasses guys stopped wearing in the '80s.
West covers his junk. "Jesus, what the fuck, man?"
The older man sits on the bunk. The slick one leans against the far wall. Garner waits outside, not even looking into the cell. Not good.
The old black man says, "You gonna kill this motherfucker or what?"
"What, I was supposed to do it there and then?"
"Why wait? We want him gone. You're the one. You do it."
West hates being pinned down like this. Wants to pace. Wants to lord over these assholes barging in. Taking a shit these days is a precious and tender thing for West, a thing he doesn't want to share.
The slick one mumbles, but West hears, "He gives us a bad name."
"The fuck, man? What eight-year-old did you fingerbang to get in here, anyway?"
"Eleven. She was eleven. She looked fifteen. Wasn't that how old yours was?"
The older con shakes his head. "No, no, cut that out. Doesn't matter. You checked in, Billy's not dead yet, and every day that's true is bad for you. That's the way it is."
West cramps. He can't let it go, though. They'll hear his gas, the splash, so he clenches and grinds his teeth. Goddamn, it's killing one of his molars, already ground away from four years of meth.
"I knew PC types were pussies, but goddamn, man. You're all scared of him."
"We're not . It's just not how it's done."
West almost stands, but his muscles won't let him, not if he wants to hold on. "What is this? Any one of you, uh, like, uh, you'd be a hero. You've had three fucking years, man. What
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