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“Please, bro. I want to see her as much as I want to see her mother. Fuck off.”
“Speaking of her mother, you pick up any tricks from that firebug you bunked with?”
“Goodbye, sweetheart,” he says and starts to shut the door. My fist square into his mouth stops it. Ben Boothe crumbles to the floor spitting teeth. I step in, shut the door. We do it here then.
I’m not the kind of guy who minds beating up shitbags. Really, it’s not a problem. Hard to believe, but I’ll go months of back-to-back cases where I keep my hands to myself the whole time. Months.
And then a doozy like Delilah Boothe’s case crosses my desk and I am throwing down on fools left and right.
From the welcome mat inside his place, Boothe tries to explode up at me; prison brawl. Unfortunately for him, my right cross—exactly like my left cross—is just short of a freight train.
My knuckles connect just above his eyebrows. There’s something very satisfying about punching a man in his forehead. I can’t quite put my finger on it but I like it. I punch him hard. Wrecking ball hard.
Boothe’s neck freezes as I slug him. The combo of trying to explode up at me and hitting a brick wall with his face might have done a number on his spine. I think he pooped his drawers. He might have whiplash I hit him so fucking hard.
Boothe plops back down into a sitting position. Lays back. Moans so weakly he might be nine-tenths dead. Hands to his face. Stirs ever so slightly. Rolls to and from on his curved back.
“Where is your fucking daughter, Ben?”
His weak moan becomes a pained, forced groan. Hands to face he says: “I ain’t seen her in two weeks.”
That’s a start. Two weeks. Post disappearance. “Give me the rundown.”
Bloody hands move from his broken mouth to start rubbing his stiff neck: “She stopped by here. Wanted to live with me. I say no. If a broad is staying with me I’m fucking her. Period.”
Flashback. Ben’s pussy disconnect. File it away for later.
“Gives me the big you were never there for us as kids and now here’s your chance to make up for it. I told her to hit the road. I finally get outta prison for boning some lying bitch and now this? Gimme a break. Give me a fucking break.”
Ben rubs his face, fingers the new holes in his smile. Spits more blood, safely away from me. Good for him; he’s learning how it works.
“Keep talking.”
Hate-filled look: “Grubby little bitch says she’ll settle for money,” Ben snarls. Leans up on an elbow.
“You have cash? Just out of prison?”
“Of course I got money, pig.”
“You make her work for it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That means did you make her earn whatever measly cash you gave her?” I squat down beside him; make sure he can see the iron under my jacket. “Grape vine says you didn’t discriminate what you have sex with, Ben.”
He smirks, the kind that says hammer on the head of the nail. Through a blood-smile, holes in the tooth line, fattening lip, he leans away from me and says: “Fucking Darla.”
I stand. “Go ahead and answer my question.”
“That bore of a wife I used to let follow me around will say anything to demonize me.” He gets up. Shaky. Could be trembles from the punch; could be trying to get my guard down. Prison might have taught him that act. I re-position myself and keep an eye on his torso, hands.
“Truth?”
“Who knows? She said a lot of things. Some were true. Sure, I fuck whatever comes along ’cause I like pussy.”
This guy talks like a thread sewing. Weaves in and out; dodges everything.
“Who was this girl you were convicted of raping?”
