by Ace Atkins
She nodded, blowing smoke from the side of her mouth. He’d been a big help since her right-hand man, Mingo, had turned on her and, as a result, fell off the face of this Earth. Ordeen now managed the bar and took care of her personal errands. He helped in the count room and was trusted to make pickups and deliveries. She trusted him, and Fannie didn’t trust anyone.
“Good,” he said. “Some motherfucker just threw up all over Damika’s titties. She in the locker room, crying, getting her nekkid ass cleaned up.”
“What’d you do with the guest?”
“Tossed him out,” Ordeen said. “Did I do right?”
“You did,” Fannie said. “Does he need some attitude adjustment? ’Cause I’ll get out my framing hammer and knock that pervert senseless.”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “He was real sorry about it. Said he’d hit the buffet at the Rebel and ate a dozen fried pies. Midnight Man’s back there with the Purple Power and a garden hose.”
Fannie nodded, ashing the cigarillo. The goddamn hospitality business. There was a time when working with gentlemen meant custom suits, Sazeracs, and deluxe suites at the Roosevelt in New Orleans. Now it was fuckin’ Chicken Strip Saturday. That’s what happens when a girl hits forty, even though she still had the mouthwatering tits and natural red hair, with just the faintest crow’s-feet forming around her eyes whenever the Botox needed a refresh.
“I’m going to need you tonight,” she said. “How about you go on over to the Rebel and get something to eat? We just put the country-fried steak back on the menu. Johnny Stagg’s momma’s recipe. Or so he says.”
“Stagg wasn’t a bad man,” Ordeen said. “He treated me fair. Paid me on time.”
“He was a crooked and twisted old motherfucker, Ordeen,” Fannie said. “You think he would’ve ever trusted you the way I trust you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Since Mingo ran off, you really stepped up, kid,” she said. “Maybe old Johnny Stagg wouldn’t be in federal prison right now if he’d trusted you with more than just cleaning toilets. He got sloppy as hell, trusting those shit-for-brains rednecks out in the county to keep his secrets. We keep a tight circle of trust. Me and you. You keep that going and there’s no stopping you, kid.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ordeen said. “What do you need me to do?”
“We’ll talk later in private,” she said. “I need to know more about some folks giving me an ass ache.”
“Those goddamn Pritchards again?”
Fannie nodded, replacing the cigarillo back in her wide red mouth. “They’ve busted up our agreement.”
“I knew it,” Ordeen said, grinning. “I never did trust those motherfuckers.”
4
There was nothing in the world like flying around a dirt track at a hundred miles an hour with only a steering wheel and a prayer between you and the goddamn wall. It was a mud-flying, death-defying, corn-dog-smelling race against the pack and yourself. Tyler Pritchard knew that if you didn’t beat yourself, you’d get your ass ate up real quick. Every week was about counting down the hours until you were back on the track, the minutes spent taking apart your car and putting it back together. He and his brother Cody could build a car blind, from the transmission to the tailpipe. Both of them worked on the car and whoever was flat-out crazier that week would drive it. Someday, they hoped they’d get up to Oklahoma and race the Chili Bowl on the sprint track. But right now, they were late-model boys, about to run a twenty-lap on a third-of-a-mile oval track in Columbus, Mississippi, known as the MAG.
Tyler was the taller of the two, bald-headed and brushy-bearded, with the build of a Russian basketball player. Cody was short and thick, with a full head of brown hair, and, truth be known, probably the better racer of the two. It wasn’t so much on account of him fitting better in the car as it was mainly ’cause the boy was born without a lick of sense. He was all speed and snatching up that checkered flag. The kind of man who’d be shot out of a cannon with a smile on his face.
Cody kicked back in the long, empty trailer, smoking a little weed to calm his nerves before that first race. He had his fire suit unzipped, and sat bare-chested in a folding aluminum chair with his shades on, listening to some country music. If the rain didn’t stop soon, they’d be calling off the whole Possum Town Grand Prix.
Tyler finished up grooving that last tire and slapped it back on the hub, zapping on the lug nuts. He walked to Cody and reached for the weed, took a long hit, and handed it back. The music on the earbuds was turned up so loud he could hear a little bit of Luke Bryan singing “Light It Up.”
“Man,” Tyler said, ripping a bud from his brother’s ear. “Why do you listen to that shit? That ain’t country. Sounds like a lot of nigger music to me.”
“Why don’t you eat my ass,” Cody said, snatching back the earbud. “I’m sitting here trying to cool out, go through the fuckin’ race in my mind, get everything set, every straightaway and drift, and you got to mess with me.”
Since Cody got to drive, Tyler got to party. He’d already seen those two hot things from Lucas Oil hanging out there in their tight tees and Daisy Dukes. One of them gave him the eye when he walked past, the girls digging his big, wild mountain man beard and his sleeve tats. One of his arms was a damn history of dirt track racing from Jack Boggs to B. J. Parker and on to Bud Lunsford and Carl Short. He’d had most of his tats done at the parlor in Jericho and a few down in Gibtown, Florida, where they raced when the weather got cold.
That was it. That was their life. Tyler and Cody Pritchard didn’t hunt or fish or give two shits about SEC football. Ever since they could crawl, both boys wanted to go real fast. Tyler once broke his arm in two places going down a big ole hill in his Radio Flyer, hitting a pothole and bucking up about ten feet in the air. When his momma saw his arm hanging all crooked, she began to scream. But, goddamn. It sure was worth it.
“Hey, monkey nuts,” Cody said, standing up and stubbing out the joint for later. “How about you run and get me a hot dog before the race starts? Or some boiled peanuts. I’m hungry as shit.”
“There’s a cheeseburger in the truck, fuck brain,” Tyler said. “I picked it up on the ride down while your ass was sleeping. And you call me monkey nuts again and I’ll make sure to loosen one of them wheels.”
“You do that and I’ll gut you in your sleep.”
Tyler toyed with his beard for a moment, breaking his hand free with a long middle finger.
“How’s the track?” Cody said, hopping out from the long black trailer and looking up into the spitting skies. “Slick?”
“Wetter than an otter’s coot.”
“You seen him yet?”
“Yeah,” Tyler said. “That bastard’s here. Drove in about five minutes before he’d get his ass disqualified. Damn. I hope you blow that motherfucker’s doors off tonight.”
“You know I will,” Cody said. “If he rubs my ass once, I swear to God I’m gonna punch that fucker right in the face. I don’t give a shit if he is sixteen years old.”
“He’s a dirty little shit,” Tyler said. “Booger Phillips. What the hell kind of name is that?”
“I heard his folks thought he was some kind of retard,” Cody said, looking out across the pit at the dozens of race teams who’d come from all over the state and Deep South. Little tow-behind trailers to big fucking eighteen-wheelers. Low-money and high-dollar—they were all here at the MAG on race night. Lights glowed from all the trailers, and the smell of cigarette smoke and burning oil blew across open lot.
“Did he used to eat his boogers or something?” Tyler said.
“All the damn time,” Cody said. “He ate ’em like they was chocolate-covered raisins. I never liked that midget. He’s got no business being on a man’s track.”
“Me and you got started that young.”
“Yeah?” Cody said. “Well, me and you were different. We com
e from a racing family. Everyone still knows Charlie and Uncle Heath. If you come from dirt royalty, like me and you, you start early. If you’re just some little sawed-off bastard from Florida, it’s best to stick to go-carts until your pecker grows. He hadn’t even got his dick hard yet.”
Tyler walked over to their truck, a big-ass white Chevy, unhitched from the trailer, and opened the driver’s-side door still thinking about being a kid and going to all those races with their stepdaddy.
“Where the hell you goin’?” Cody said.
“Make us some gas money,” Tyler said. “Unless you think you’re really gonna win?”
“Hell, yeah, I’m gonna win,” Cody said. “Did you see the damn Lucas Oil girls are here? I win and they’ll be presenting me with that big-ass check. I’ll tell ’em one for me and one for my brother. We’ll buy ’em a steak dinner with all the rolls they want over at that Logan’s Roadhouse. Get them panties wet talking about flying wild and fast and take their sweet little asses back to a Motel 6.”
“Those girls don’t give a shit about boys like us.”
“Says you, monkey nuts.”
“Goddamn right, says me, fuck brain,” Tyler said. “Last time you won, you tried to steal that girl’s bikini top on your victory lap. Remember? She had on that Confederate flag bikini and kept on calling us the Duke boys? Your dumb ass nearly got us arrested. No, sir. No thank you. Go check on that wet track, see about race times. I’ll be back.”
“Don’t forget my damn boiled peanuts,” he said. “And get me a Coke, too.”
Tyler drove on out the security gate and behind the grandstands. It was still early, but the fans were already crowding toward the ticket booths, cars and trucks jammed end to end in the wide, grassy acres of parking. He picked up his cell, driving with one hand and texting with the other, letting Levi know where to meet. He drove real slow, his eyes on the rearview searching around for any police. He’d seen one cop up by the ticket booths and another by the entrance, but out in the parking lot it was just speed freaks and good ole boys sipping iced-down beer before they waved that green flag. Off to the west, he could see the skies starting to clear, a beautiful bloodred-and-orange sunset forming through the clouds.
He turned on the wipers just as he got a text back, Tyler searching through the lot for Levi’s cherry-red ’69 El Camino. That boy had refurbed it himself, slapping on sweet white racing stripes and those SS stickers. That thing had a 454 V-8 under the hood that could move like a scalded cat.
Tyler parked far down the dirt road, Levi standing by the ride drinking a cold one with a tall-ass blonde in a black T-shirt and tiny jean shorts. She wore black boots up to her knees, and the T-shirt had been tied up high around her titties. Tyler parked beside them, keeping the engine and the AC running. He got out of the truck and looked over at the El Camino and the girl. He stroked his long beard, thinking on the night’s race, the deal, and now this smoking-hot piece of ass.
“This here’s Rhonda,” Levi said. He was a beady-eyed, narrow-faced peckerhead with thick eyebrows and a weak chin, sunglasses up on top of his MONSTER ENERGY cap. “She came all the way from Indiana to promote those Hoosier tires. Ain’t she something?”
“Are we gonna get high or not, Levi?” she said. “I can’t face these toothless motherfuckers with a clear head. They put their damn filthy hands all over me.”
“Sounds like you don’t care for Mississippi,” Tyler said, noticing her shirt read DISTURBED. When she turned to the grandstands, motors growling and gunning, he saw a nice little dreamcatcher tat at the small of her back. “What makes Indiana so damn high-dollar?”
Levi laughed and shoved a fat envelope in Tyler’s hand. Tyler didn’t flinch, taking the money and sliding it down the front of his Wranglers. A Glock 9mm tucked in the rear of his pants just in case someone tried to interrupt their business. He looked over at the fine-ass girl and then Levi. He tilted his head, looking at the lights above the grandstands, the sunset off to the west, and spit into the dirt. “Maybe we should do this later.”
“She’s cool,” Levi said. “Ain’t you, Rhonda?”
“Yeah,” the girl said. “I’m fucking ice cream. Now, where’s that killer fucking weed you’ve been talking about all day, Levi? Or was that just your dick hopping out of your shorts while singing me a damn slow jam?”
Tyler pulled at his beard some more and studied on the situation. Levi wasn’t the type to fuck him over and this girl didn’t look like no cop. If she was a cop, then he’d gladly let her frisk the everliving shit out of him. She placed a hand to her bare waist and chawed on some gum, not really thrilled with the whole situation. “What’s that shit on your arm?”
“Legends of Dirt,” Tyler said.
She laughed, nearly spitting out her gum. “Yeah,” she said. “That sounds about right for deep down South. You boys are country as hell.”
Tyler smiled with pride and walked over to the panel of the truck bed and pushed into the magnetic catch, a hidden panel popping open to a medium-sized lockbox. He pulled out a half-dozen gallon bags of Pritchard family weed and handed them to Levi like a delivery boy from Papa John’s. Levi zipped open the baggie, put it his nose to it, and inhaled deep. “Good Lord Almighty.”
Levi passed it to Rhonda. She sniffed deep but didn’t look impressed at all. “Smells like dog shit to me,” she said. “What makes this shit so damn special?”
“Try it,” Tyler said. “I ain’t had no complaints yet.”
Rhonda shrugged, still holding one bag as Levi slid the others under the seats of his El Camino, looking around to see if anyone noticed the little transaction. But there wasn’t anyone within a hundred yards paying a damn bit of attention. The sun had gone down now and the track was lit up in that beautiful bright white glow. Tyler could hear the motors starting up, purring and and gunning, burnt rubber and smoke drifting over their way. He knew he needed to get on back before the prelims started.
“You think Cody’ll beat that smartass kid Booger Phillips tonight?” Levi asked.
“Hell no,” Tyler said. “But he’s sure as shit gonna try.”
“Why’s this say ‘Thunder Road’ on it?” she said, not listening, just studying the baggie. “What the hell’s that mean?”
“It means it’s gonna blow your damn tires off,” Tyler said. “I done left my card with Levi in case you’re wanting more. He knows where to find me.”
Levi just stared as Tyler walked around to the driver’s side of the truck, knocked her in neutral and hit the gas, glass packs growling. As he drove off, he could tell that wild bitch was interested, Rhonda studying that sweet-ass THUNDER ROAD label and looking in his direction.
Women just couldn’t shake them Pritchard boys.
* * *
• • •
Fannie and Ordeen stood inside the center of the truck wash, out back of the Rebel, Ordeen unloading the cash he’d picked up from Tupelo and handing it over to Midnight Man. Midnight Man would make sure the two big crates of bills went through Vienna’s Place. Ordeen did right, but, damn, if Fannie didn’t miss those Born Losers. When Wrong Way and the Losers did the money run, you knew sure as shit no one was going to fuck with those boys. Even state troopers were known to squirt in their uniforms just a bit.
“How’d we make this kind of cash?” Ordeen said.
“You really want to know?” Fannie said. “That might make you complicit in this little arrangement.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “I’m up to my damn neck in this shit already.”
“Mexico,” Fannie said. “We got a nice deal worked out with some muchachos down there. Before things got settled, those boys had tried to bust their way into Mississippi and up to Memphis. You ever hear that story of how Craig Houston lost his fucking head? It got to be a real sloppy deal, before the borders were drawn. Now none of ’em get up this way unless they want to pick some sweet potatoe
s and collard greens.”
Ordeen nodded. Midnight Man, who was so black she could barely see him behind the wheel of his truck, backed out of the truck wash and drove off into the night. The big bay door closed behind him. Now it was just Ordeen and Fannie, the concrete floor wet, the hoses still dripping off the walls. Everything echoed and pinged around them. It was as humid as the basement of hell.
“You got it all figured out, Miss Fannie,” Ordeen said. “I respect that.”
“The thing about those Mexicans is, they know a deal is a fucking deal,” she said. “It’s all that Latin honor and big-dick shit down there. But the fucking rednecks around here? These rednecks don’t give a shit about honor anymore. You make a deal with a man one day and the next he’s trying to stick his dick down your throat. You know what I mean?”
“You talking about those Pritchard boys?”
“Just good ole boys meanin’ us a lot of harm.”
“You say they’re back on it?”
“I don’t think they ever stopped,” Fannie said. “One of them, the tall one with the nasty-ass beard and smart mouth?”
“Tyler.”
“Yeah, Tyler,” she said. “That son of a bitch told one of my girls that growin’ weed was a goddamn family tradition and he just couldn’t help himself. I guess his uncle had been some big swinging dick around here a hundred fucking years ago. I don’t go in for any of that Hank Williams, Jr., bullshit. In fact, I fucking hate Hank Williams, Jr. I have people in Alabama who know for a goddamn fact that Hank Williams, Jr., didn’t come from Hank Williams’s loins. I heard that Audrey fucked so many servicemen she should have been given a Congressional Medal of Honor.”
“Miss Fannie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t know none of those people.”
Fannie nodded. “Those Pritchards are cutting into the bottom line,” she said. “Goddamn them to hell. We had a fucking deal.”