by Ace Atkins
She smiled at the boy. “I appreciate what you did.”
He nodded. “But you won’t come?”
“How’d you get all that money?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain,” he said. “But some ole buddies of mine sure have set me up.”
She touched his face and kissed his thin lips. The boy had poured nearly a quart of aftershave over himself. “What happened to Gowrie?”
“Parchman Farm.”
“He get the chair?”
“He killed a lawman,” Ditto said. “’Spec so.”
The boy looked sad and clumsy, fumbling in the pocket of a new snap-button shirt for some cigarettes and lighting them with shaking fingers. But he smiled anyway, trying to look loose and cool on the hood of that brand-new Dodge.
“You won’t come?” he asked.
Lena shook her head. She smiled at him.
“I was glad to know you.”
“You ever hear what happened to that soldier that got Gowrie?” Ditto asked. “I wanted to apologize for thieving his ole truck and stealing them guns.”
“He get ’em back?” she asked.
“Don’t know.”
“That old Ford wasn’t worth much.”
Ditto finished the cigarette and stomped it out in the gravel, walking around the side of the new Dodge and pulling out a big pink gorilla. The ape was so large it was bulky to carry, at nearly half the boy’s size. “You are still calling her Joy?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the sun coming out behind the clouds.
“I sure am,” Lena said, checking her watch, scooting off the truck. “I got to go. I’ll let her know you brung this.”
For all Quinn’s complaints about becoming a Ranger instructor, riding the damn desk was a hundred times worse. As a platoon sergeant, there were always forms and paperwork and details to keep track of. But sitting in front of a computer all day, working on other folks’ shit, was a little slice of hell. He’d crack his office window at Benning with a brick and could smell the Chattahoochee River from where he sat, wanting so much to get on his boots and hike far into the Cole Range till he dropped from exhaustion. But he still walked with a limp, and the doctors there in Columbus said he might always keep it.
The sling was off, and he was able to head to the range and shoot. He taught weapons classes to the kids coming in, and they’d ask him about that limp, hearing that Quinn had been at Haditha and made several trips into Afghanistan.
He’d tell them he fell off a bicycle and leave it at that.
The only good thing about riding the desk was that most your weekends were free. And he’d found Columbus, Georgia, to be a pleasant old town. They had a big wide boulevard along the Chattahoochee, with brick storefronts that reminded him of movies from the thirties and forties.
He often met other older Rangers at bars there, leaving the topless joints and roughneck spots on Victory Drive for the younger men. They’d drink beer and raise a little hell.
Sometime in early March, Quinn got a phone call at his apartment on base, and he drove through the gates at Fort Benning into the downtown. He dressed in civilian clothes, starched khakis and a pressed blue button-down. His hair had been barbered the day before, and he had even pulled out a pair of brown cowboy boots his mother had sent him for Christmas, the card coming from her and Jason.
Jason back with her now.
Quinn walked into Ruth Ann’s, a favorite diner of the men at Benning. Ruth Ann’s had been there for decades on Veterans Parkway, about the only place in town that could serve a breakfast as good as Jean Colson’s.
Lillie Virgil got up from the booth and hugged Quinn tight. She’d worn her curly hair down, with snug blue jeans and a loose white tunic with all kind of designs.
“No gun belt today?” Quinn asked, taking a seat across from her.
She shook her head. “That drive’s nothing. When are you coming home?”
“Summer,” he said. “I promised to see Jason on his birthday. I bought him a Ranger T-shirt from the PX and some toys. Would you bring them back for him?”
“Lots been going on since you left,” she said, smiling. The bright afternoon brought out Lillie’s natural glow, little makeup and plenty of freckles. She had little gold hairs on her arm and wore silver bands on her wrist.
“You ever get tired of wearing that uniform?” he asked.
“Do you?”
“I’m not wearing one.”
“Haircut gives you away.”
Quinn smiled. “Can you stay the night?”
Lillie looked at him. She smiled a bit and shook her head. “You know I’ve been running for sheriff?” she asked.
A waitress came over, and they ordered a couple of burgers and Cokes, extra fries and some onion rings. When the old woman walked away, Quinn said he’d been keeping up with all the Jericho news from his mother. “She likes to talk.”
“You know there’s never been a woman sheriff in Mississippi?”
“No kidding?”
“Don’t shit me, Quinn,” she said. “You can imagine the rumors going around the Square.”
“That won’t matter.”
“How do you figure?” Lillie said.
“Because that county would be lucky to have someone with your experience,” Quinn said, looking up only a moment to thank the old woman for the Cokes over ice. “You helped bust up forty years of corruption about to be carried on by Wesley.”
“I’m going to lose,” she said. “It’s already done.”
“Against who? Leonard?”
“Johnny Stagg.”
Quinn took a sip of Coke and leaned back into the diner’s booth, stretching out his arm on the backrest. On the wall next to him hung a picture of a boxer from sometime in the Depression named Lamar Murphy, the Red Irish Kid. He had intense eyes and a good stance. Quinn figured on him being a good scrapper.
“He let go of the farm and land,” Quinn said. “I kept the parcel. He can’t have it.”
“You okay with him being sheriff?”
“What kind of experience does he have?”
“It’s an elected position,” she said. “Most sheriffs in Mississippi never started out in law enforcement.”
“You’ve got a college degree,” Quinn said. “You were a cop in Memphis and how many years down in Tibbehah? You know everyone.”
“Stagg has money.”
“God, I’m sorry, Lillie. I really am. You want to get piss-drunk tonight?”
“Maybe,” she said, meeting his eyes. “If you’ll consider why I drove five hours to see you.”
“I should have called you,” he said. “God knows, I wanted to.”
“Be quiet for a second,” she said, grabbing his hands across the table. “You should run. You can beat Stagg so damn easily.”
“I got ten years till retirement.”
“You think Tibbehah County can stand ten more years of Johnny Stagg in charge?”
“Not my problem,” Quinn said. “The Army is my career.”
“I noticed you’re still giving to that leg where you got shot.”
“I know men who lost part of their legs and still serve,” he said. “You know, I’ve been in since I was eighteen. Most of my time here at Benning. You can’t just walk away from that.”
“You wouldn’t be walking away from anything.”
“I can’t.”
“Just consider it.”
The hamburgers came, and they ate for a long time without talking, only Lillie asking for the ketchup and a couple napkins from Quinn’s side of the table. “Can you stay the night?” he asked again.
“Why?” she asked.
“I like seeing you.”
“Anna Lee is pregnant.”
“What does that have to do with us?”
“Plenty.”
That kind of soured things for a bit before Quinn walked Lillie to her Jeep, Lillie saying it would probably be best if she turned back around and headed home. “I got two church services to make tomorrow. Plenty of hands to
shake.”
“You can beat Stagg,” he said. “People respect you. No one respects him.”
“It’s done.”
“I can’t quit, Lillie,” Quinn said, hugging her again and stepping away. “It’s not possible.”
“How’s that desk?”
“It makes my ass hurt, sitting all day.”
“You think all the troubles we got end with one shitbag who set up camp? Gowrie is one of many.”
Quinn reached for her Jeep door and opened it. He could smell her clean shampoo smell as she moved in close.
“Think about,” she said.
Without warning, Lillie leaned over and kissed him hard on the mouth, got into the Jeep and slammed the door. She backed out, Quinn paralyzed where he stood, smiling. She rolled down the window. “I won’t stop trying with you.”
Quinn smiled and waved, watching her pull out onto Veterans, turn west and disappear, his mind working over the possibilities.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Colonel George Reynolds, USA (Ret.), for his support, stories, and friendship while serving at Camp Phoenix in AFG, and also to my buddy Jason, former saw gunner and fire team leader, 2nd Platoon/ Alpha Company of 3/75 Ranger Regiment, for telling me a hell of a lot about Quinn.
As always, appreciation to my family: Doris and Charlie, Paige and Jim and the boys, and Angela and Billy. Thanks also to Tim Green for twenty years of support and friendship.
And to the Putnam team of Neil Nyren, Sara Minnich, Michael Barson, Claire McGinnis, and Ivan Held.
Of course, nothing would be possible without my tough and loyal agent, Esther Newberg.
And a decade of thanks to my friend David Thompson, a brilliant and funny true pal who is gone way, way too soon. You are greatly missed.
ALSO BY ACE ATKINS
Crossroad Blues
Leavin’ Trunk Blues
Dark End of the Street
Dirty South
White Shadow
Wicked City
Devil’s Garden
Devil’s Garden
Infamous