The Baddest Ass (Billy Lafitte #3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright information

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  All The Young Warriors

  Also by Anthony Neil Smith

  The Baddest Ass

  a Billy Lafitte novel

  Anthony Neil Smith

  Copyright information

  Published by Blasted Heath, 2013

  copyright © 2013 Anthony Neil Smith

  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.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  Visit Anthony Neil Smith at:

  http://www.blastedheath.com

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-908688-48-4

  Version 2-1-3

  Chapter 1

  West didn't join the Aryans to protect himself from the Blacks. Shit, he grew up in Detroit—black food, black music, black friends. He never had a problem with the Blacks. He joined the Aryans to protect himself from the Whites. No fence-sitting motherfuckers up in here. Max security. You fucking kidding? Try coming in all level-headed and friendly, that'll make everyone want to hurt you. Go be a bleeding-heart liberal open-armed faggot outside the walls if you want, but inside it all comes down to the color of your skin.

  Sort of.

  There were pariahs of all shades. They didn't have an umbrella at all. They didn't even like each other.

  It was bad enough already that West had killed his black dealer's sister, the one who looked mostly spic anyway, killed her because he was choking her while fucking her. Held down too hard. And, like, no fucking way West knew she was fifteen. Not built the way she was.

  Word is already out—once inside, West is a microwave burrito: two minutes away from getting nuked. Prize of the month, worth, shit, worth like five other newbies. And he's big news in this new joint, not even half-filled yet. Shit, the blacks don't even have a cellblock—not that they were supposed to be separated by race like that, but yeah, it happened. They had been staying in the gym. Contractors finished the gym before the cells and are still here working in the winter after the convicts had arrived. So yeah, it's all this new paint odor getting them high while they talk about creative ways to fuck the new guy.

  Too bad West is skinny and his face is not meth ugly.

  The Aryans, that was going to be his rescue. This guy Al wasn't going to fuck West. No, the man said, getting up with West as soon as his guard escort was gone. Always a circle of whites keeping watch over them, Al said—eyes looking in, eyes looking out. Al said you don't build loyalty by raping some hot piece of meat soon as he walks in. But what a man chooses to do, now that's different. So, you know, if you ever feel—

  West's like, Fuck no. Like, get your fucking hand off my leg.

  Al tells West if he wants in, he's got to do some cosmetic surgery to this femme fucker, former Aryan, sold out their white lieutenant to a black who'd been slamming him in secret. Al doesn't bother saying what would happen if West said no.

  They're thinking, like, a broken piece of tile sliced through both cheeks, give the faggot more room in his mouth for black cock, since he's being protected by a big-ass Black named Ri'Chess. Get it? Fucking rap names, fucking initiations, fucking guys getting turned out just like that fucking TV show, the one where the boy genius escape artist somehow kept his asshole from getting bloodied. In two different prisons! Even a Panamanian pit of hell. Just like all those prison movies, too. Just like all the stories West heard about prison guards—guys in here keep calling them “cops”—turning their eyes away if the price was right or the convict was shitty enough.

  So when the Aryans say, "Scar that cocksucker", West is going to scar that cocksucker. Decides to do it while they're all leaving dinner. He makes sure some Whites have his back before he slips up behind the guy, fistful of hair, dig/slice left, dig/slice right, drops him while he screams and ragdolls to the tile, then West books it out of there before the cops get wind because after this, everyone's going to lockdown anyway.

  West keeps his mouth shut. The Aryans keep their mouths shut. The Indians, them from the Native Mob, that's like talking to a wall anyway, don't even think it. Shit, the Blacks, they tight-lipped, too, and them being all jammed up in the fucking gym because the fucking cells are cramped and reserved for the even worse than convicts like West, hot as balls, smells like balls, even though it's fucking ice outside, that shit ain't cool. But everyone keeps their mouths shut and sweats it out.

  With that, West becomes a trusted white. Gets a tat. It gets infected. He spends three days in the infirmary to get the fever and pus out. Al makes another pass at West in his weakened state, but West pwns him in front of his gang. Pwns him bad. Like, bends over and slaps his own ass, singing, "This the closest you ever beeeeee. Get yourself some Jesus and love some pussy."

  The Aryans, man, they laugh and nod and say, "Amen" and "Hallelujah" even though a third of them are guilty of it—started out getting it from Al or, shit, from Blacks before Al stepped in, took them on, and was at least fucking sweet about it, you know? Not like you were Al's bitch all the sudden. It was just something you did, something you didn't talk about to everyone else. It was a bad dream. And most of those third, to wipe the memory as best as possible, ended up fucking someone else younger and newer on the totem. That's the game: favors and protection in exchange for a man's needs. More bad dreams.

  Except those Spics, few that there are here. Very few of them drift over that line. Catholics. The Blessed Virgin Mary watches them close, Hey-Zeus looking over her shoulder.

  Anyway, West fucks that shit up. The whole gang, right there, laughing and braying and telling Al, "He got you good. Just funnin' with you."

  But they know.

  Al gives the nod to the one Lakota he'd been with, who knows someone else up the chain, who isn't unfriendly with the Blacks, whose friend over there—they took a class together—pass the nod along to Ri'Chess himself.

  They come for West after the count at Lights Out.

  Startled awake by two black men, one wide and one made of granite. One blacker than the darkness with bloodshot eyes, and the other lighter like copper with stab scars across his arms and chest like ancient runes. You don't see Blacks just waltzing into the White bunks without either a war coming on…or permission. And West knows which it is. Fucking sold out. Fucking should've known better. Don't care what color he is, if someone offers protection, the price is always too goddamned high.

  West is shaking too bad to scream, but even if he could, he wouldn't. Screaming will bring cops and lose him whatever cred he's built up. Not like it fucking matters, since the cops have to be in on it for it to happen at all. West does as he's told. He gets up and walks sandwiched between the soldiers through too many bunks where West feels the
open eyes of fellow Aryans who'll never ever admit to cutting him loose, giving back a little stink eye himself. Some "I'll remember this, motherfuckers. Fucking right." Like they ain't seen that look a thousand times already, but they understand West still has to pose. A man's got nothing if he can't posture.

  Ri'Chess is holding court in his bunk. Only man in the gym who had cleared both top and bottom bunk for himself, put up double-thick sheets on all sides, and was left the fuck alone by cops and cons. The granite soldier with the old scars parts the sheets to find Ri'Chess sitting like Buddha, watching Jimmy Fallon on a Macbook. Looks clear, like cable. He even has a copier/fax in there.

  He extends his fingers. "Have a seat."

  The Granite Man puts pressure on West's shoulders, easing the boy down, nice and slow. The bunk is soft. He has a mattress cover, nice satiny sheets. Once West is opposite Ri'Chess, mirroring the Buddha squat, that weird-looking Frankenstein soldier closes the sheets. West can see the two soldiers' silhouettes by the TV light.

  "Fuck they call you?" Ri'Chess says.

  Dry mouth. "Um. Uh. West."

  "Something like a motherfucking cowboy or some shit?"

  "No, it's my name. West. Last name's West."

  "Like I said, motherfucking cowboy shit."

  The fuck do you say to that?

  Ri'Chess says, "You want to make this problem go away? Tell me it was all Al's idea. Al can take the bite. Maybe someone over here will, uh, look after you, know what I'm saying?"

  Not a fair offer. Always a trap. West looks away. "I'm not a rat."

  "Smart boy. Good boy. Nigga could like having him a bitch with sass like that cleaning his bunk. Sweet bitch."

  West's cheeks are on fire. "I ain't nobody's bitch. I'm Aryan. You're all like motherfucking monkeys, man. Surprised you can even talk in sentences. You must got white in you somewhere."

  Ri'Chess laughs the whole time West goes off. Some other blacks listening in, obviously, and they start up. Whole place starts up. What are they thinking? Laughing like that's going to bring the cops in.

  Maybe they want to. Just going to gut West and leave him and let the cops clean up.

  So do it already. West balls his fists. Flexes all his muscles, thinking if they try to cut him, he can make himself hard like armor, like Iron Man, like a flesh wound is as bad as it would get. They try to slit his throat, shit, going to drown in his own blood, nothing he could do about that, but then it would fuck up the bunks. Ri'Chess looks too proud of his little hotel suite to let that happen.

  "Got a proposition for you."

  West blinks. Gut feels sick after all the clenching.

  Ri'Chess keeps on. "Got ourselves a man needs to be dealt with. You know? Like, permanent. He needs to be got."

  West knows what's next. It's a white man. If West wants any protection at all, he has to kill a white man. And even then, the blacks ain't promising anything yet.

  "What do I get if I do it?"

  "You get to be left alone."

  Shi-it. "You can't promise that. Bullshit, motherfucker."

  Ri'Chess sinks down, takes a breath. That fucking Buddha vibe. Guy is a sea of Zen and shit. "Let me ask you. You acted a fool and got your white ass thrown our way. You know why? You stopped being scared, thought it was going to be easy. You've got to be scared and smart. You wasn't neither."

  "I'm not scared. Not scared of any—"

  Boo! Granite outside, punches the sheet. West nearly falls out the other side, bangs the back of his head into the frame. Scrapes his scalp bloody.

  They laugh, laugh, laugh. West so scared he's about to piss his pants and he's so angry he's got Chuck Norris fantasies running through his head—taking out all the niggas with one roundabout kick in slo-mo, yeah, fuck yeah.

  Not happening.

  Ri'Chess grins while his soldiers keep giggling like they at a slumber party.

  "Not scared, boy?"

  West cracks his neck, hold his lips hard. "Just on guard, that's all. You ain't told me my prize yet."

  "You ain't done anything yet."

  "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 k
ill 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.