by Ace Atkins
“How much they runnin’?”
“I can tell you it ain’t just Granddaddy’s ole family farm.”
“How do you know?”
“Neither one of those useless shit-for-brains work,” she said. “They’re running a race team on what? They don’t have sponsors. They drive a nice Chevy Silverado, got a bunch of four-wheelers, couple boats, and a WaveRunner for when they head to the Coast. Where’s all that coming from?”
“Sounds like Memphis to me.”
“You’re damn right, kid.”
“Working with the new crew,” he said. “Probably that goddamn Marquis Sledge.”
“They’re growin’ something we can’t.”
“I’ve had it,” Ordeen said. “And I don’t mean no disrespect, Miss Fannie. But, whoo-wee, that shit is good.”
“How good?”
“Like that ole Meow Mix,” Ordeen said. “Your damn pussy ask for it by name.”
“Girls like it?”
“Everybody like it,” he said. “What we getting from your people in Mexico ain’t shit but dirty twigs. You told me to speak free, Miss Fannie. And I’m gonna speak free. What y’all truckin’ in is weak-ass. The Pritchards’ shit is dank.”
“Can you find out how big?”
“Ain’t no way to find out without getting on their land,” he said. “And there ain’t no way gettin’ on their land without gettin’ your ass kilt.”
“You can’t get killed if they’re not around.”
“Can’t be too damn sure.”
Fannie reached into her purse and handed Ordeen a racing bill announcing the thousand-dollar purse for the winner of the 19th Annual Possum Trot Special, with special guests the All-American Skydiving Team and eight-year-old wonder Miss Lucie-Ann Chisholm singing the National Anthem.
“What’s this shit?”
“While the Pritchard boys are away,” she said.
“You sure?”
“I need to know what I’m dealing with here,” Fannie said. “Every man has a price and I don’t want to pay any more than I have to.”
“You gonna buy out their asses?” Ordeen said. “Again.”
“Sure,” Fannie said, rubbing out her cigarillo under a stiletto. “Something like that.”
* * *
• • •
The VFW Hall, just north of Jericho, was one of the few places Quinn could have a couple drinks and not get the Baptists all over his ass. He sat at a corner table, well away from the Saturday-night catfish-and-hush-puppy buffet, sharing a little Wild Turkey that Luther Varner had brought in. The older man was weathered but hard, with ramrod straight posture and a silver crew cut. He sported a faded skull tattoo on his right arm, the skull’s helmet reading USMC. Varner had served in Vietnam, and now, besides running a little convenience store, helped Quinn out on occasion.
Varner refilled both their coffee mugs with a little more barrel-proof Rare Breed. “See if this don’t put a little wobble in your gobble.”
Quinn took a sip and nodded at the older man. Two paper plates of cleaned catfish bones sat between them. The corner jukebox played Charlie Feathers singing “I’ve Been Deceived.”
“Wish ole Donnie could make your wedding,” Varner said. “He thinks the damn world of you, Quinn, and is sorry as hell for all the mistakes he’s made.”
“You’ll be there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for nothing,” Varner said, raising his mug at Quinn. “You talked to your old man about things?”
“I haven’t heard from my father in more than a year,” Quinn said. “I heard he’d gone back to that horse farm in Pocahontas. I also heard he went back to L.A. and was living out back of some big-time producer’s house.”
Varner took a long pull. “Darlene drove down from Nashville last week,” he said. “Brought those grandkids with her. Funny how those things work out. Me and my wife raised her and Donnie just the same, but, I’ll tell you what, kids just come out the way God wired them. Got one child who’s a solid citizen and another in a federal pen. Lord help me.”
“He’ll be coming up for parole sometime,” Quinn said.
“Try ten years,” Varner said, pulling out something from his back pocket. “But he’s taken up leatherwork while he’s there. Made me a damn fine wallet for Christmas. Just look at the stitching on it. Built in a little hidden compartment in back as some kind of joke. Just like the way he’d smuggled them guns.”
Quinn nodded as Boom Kimbrough walked into the cinder-block building, greeting the old white woman who ran the buffet. The old woman placed four large pieces of catfish and countless hush puppies on a plate, patting him on the back as Boom headed their way. Quinn stood up as Boom set down the meal, giving him a welcome hug. Varner winked at Boom and shook the silver hook.
“We got started without you,” Varner said. “Can I pour you a bit?”
“Staying off that brown liquor,” Boom said. “Might have a beer. Been a long-ass day. I drove all the way back from Texas.”
Quinn walked up to the bar and got Boom a bottle of Bud. When he sat back down, he caught Boom telling Varner about the drive to Amarillo and back. “Ate at this place called the Big Texan,” Boom said. “Ole-timey restaurant with a big-ass dinosaur out front. They had this steak on the menu that was seventy-eight ounces. I shit you not, Mr. Varner.”
“One of them deals that if you eat it, it’s free?” Varner asked.
“Yes, sir,” Boom said. “But that means you got to eat all that fat and gristle or it was all on you.”
“Don’t seem worth it,” Varner said.
“Damn, Quinn,” Boom said, turning toward him. “What the hell happened to your eye?”
“The King of Pop.”
“Damn right,” he said. “Popped you right in the fucking eye.”
Through the window, Quinn could see the mobile road sign out front, a flashing arrow pointing to tonight’s BIG BUFFET and a special appearance by TUPELO’S OWN “COUNTRY QUEEN” KAY BAIN. Boom picked up a whole piece of fried catfish and started eating, tail first. Quinn reached for his whiskey, feeling relaxed and happy, glad to be back in company of his good friends. Charlie Feathers was replaced by Johnny Cash singing “One Piece at a Time.” The familiar, steady, driving drumbeat reverberating off the cinder-block walls and over the scuffed checkered linoleum floor.
“How’s your momma and them?” Boom said, setting down the empty skeleton and picking up a second piece of fish.
“Momma’s been getting on me about the wedding,” Quinn said. “Wants to invite half the county. Says if I don’t find a band quick, she’s gonna sing all the Elvis hits on a Walmart karaoke machine. And I’m pretty sure she means it.”
“What’s your sister think about all this?” Luther asked.
“Caddy’s got her hands full out at The River,” Quinn said. “She’s been taking in some of the migrants, making sure they don’t get hassled by Ole Man Skinner and his folks wanting to call ICE on them. She knows her law, I’ll tell you that much.”
“That’s one curious old cocksucker,” Mr. Varner said. “I’ve known Skinner my whole life and can’t figure out what makes that man tick. He got out of being drafted on account of sayin’ he’s got flat feet. Now he’s wearing that American flag lapel pin and leading the Veterans Day Parade. I didn’t say a word about it, but it didn’t set well with me.”
“He’s bringing back old-time values to Tibbehah County,” Quinn said.
Varner looked at Quinn dead-eyed and said, “Right.”
“Maybe he can get us old darkies back working in the fields where we belong,” Boom said. “I heard he said this county was better before the Civil War, that we had better families and stronger traditions then.”
“What I can’t figure, amongst many things,” Varner said, drawing on the whiskey, “is if he’s all for these family value
s, the Christian way, why the hell doesn’t he try and pass some new ordinances? Get rid of the titty bar and all those hot pillow joints. This county is known as the armpit of Mississippi, a trucker’s wet dream, and no one seems to see any shame of it. Most of all, the man could put some teeth in them old laws and make your job easier.”
“Can’t figure it out myself,” Quinn said. “I enforce the laws. I don’t make ’em.”
“That Fannie Hathcock got somethin’ on his old ass,” Boom said, pointing a hush puppy on a hook right at Quinn. “Some real sick shit.”
“I always took Skinner as a horsefucker,” Varner said. “What happened is that he put his old dick somewhere it didn’t belong and that Hathcock woman’s got pictures. Ain’t no other reason why she got him by the cojones.”
“Some folks think The Rebel and Vienna’s are the only things keeping Tibbehah going,” Quinn said. “Skinner may change his tune if we can get some more business around here. Maybe when Vardaman’s business park finally opens up.”
“I still say he’s a horsefucker,” Varner said, turning up the coffee mug and finishing the whiskey. He reached for the bottle and said, “Reload?”
Quinn nodded and Varner refilled his mug as Boom pushed away the catfish, waving off another helping from the women working the line. He picked up his beer and twirled it in his hands, mouth pursed, something turning over in his mind. Quinn had known Boom so damn long that he could always tell when something was bothering him. He’d get a lost, faraway look in his eyes. All Quinn had to do was watch him from across the table. Boom knew it, looked at him, and just nodded back.
“You all right?” Quinn said.
“Fine and dandy,” Boom said, tilting back the beer and taking a long pull. “Just fine and fucking dandy.”
5
Ordeen waited until dark.
He parked his electric-blue Nova a half mile down the road from the gate to the Pritchard land, where he’d found an old filling station that had long since gone out of business. The place was falling in on itself, nothing but broken windows and toppled concrete blocks, with kudzu and shit climbing all over it. The Pritchards and most folks in Tibbehah knew that HERE KITTY, KITTY ride, and he sure as hell didn’t want anyone talking about seeing his ass. Ordeen wanted to get in and get the fuck out, take some cell phone pics of what he saw, and get on back to Vienna’s Place. Ain’t no way he could turn down a request from Miss Fannie. You do that once and you end up like ole Mingo. No one had seen that boy since last year.
He jogged on down the road, cutting into the piney woods whenever he saw headlights coming fast on him. He’d lay down in a ditch or behind a tree, sweating like a motherfucker, his heart beating fast as hell. Damn. He had no reason to be scared of them two peckerwoods except for a few stories he’d heard about that land. He’d heard they ran booby traps, trip wires and shit, all around their property. He heard they had some mean-ass dogs, pits or Rottweilers, roaming free and ready to tear a man’s dick clean off. One nigga even told him that he’d been on the land, delivering a truckload of cow shit for those boys’ crops, and he saw all kinds of video cameras and high-tech shit around their house. That spread was legendary, and Ordeen figured maybe half that shit was true. Just to make sure, he’d wear his hood up, slide on through that land and see just how much weed they was growing down on the farm.
At the turnoff, he hopped the cattle gate, watching his feet for wires and looking up into those tall pines for cameras, and headed down a curvy dirt road, rocky and potholed, in the moonlight. It was bright as hell, what the old people called a Buck Moon on account of that’s when you first spotted new antlers on a deer. He kept moving in the ditch, just in case he heard someone headed his way. Ordeen knew Miss Fannie was right about those boys not missing a race, but what she didn’t know is who they might’ve left behind to watch that land. If they was running an operation as big as she believed, someone would be keeping an eye out, maybe making night rounds with them mean-ass dogs.
Ordeen followed that curving sandy road, walking for about a half mile. Every fifty feet, there were bright yellow signs reading NO TRESPASSING. One hand-painted sign nailed to a tree showed a sloppy ole skull and crossbones with the words IS THERE LIFE AFTER DEATH? KEEP COMING AND YOU’LL FIND OUT! But Ordeen kept on coming. It was warm that night, the day hitting ninety, and he’d about soaked through the thin navy hoodie. He’d want something to hide his face if what they said was true, especially with this damn Buck Moon shining high as hell and silver, keeping everything in a bright white glow. He kept his ears open for dogs. If one came on him, man, he’d shoot any animal with his Glock 9 and wouldn’t think twice. Ordeen never liked dogs. One bit his ass when he was a kid and he hadn’t trusted them since.
He didn’t know how far he’d come from the road when he saw the artificial light coming through the pine trees. He walked on, making out the shiny metal roof of a house or a barn. He could hear crickets or a damn owl someplace, and bullfrogs making a racket out in the creek. The Glock heavy in his side pocket as he reached for the hood to cover his face, stepping onto the lonesome dirt road and heading toward all that bright light.
Two telephone poles stood between an old one-story farmhouse and a big metal barn. He listened for animals and didn’t hear a thing. He looked for cameras and thought he spotted something on a telephone pole but couldn’t be too sure. He turned back to the front porch of the house, the place dark as hell, not a single light on, as he headed toward the barn and a big sliding door. The door was cracked, the chain cut with a lock hanging loose.
Maybe he wasn’t the only son of a bitch in Tibbehah who knew them Pritchard boys were gone to the races.
He looked inside and saw a couple trucks, a race car up on a jack, tilted sideways, nothing under the hood. Outside, he’d seen some boats turned upside down on blocks, a couple of them WaveRunners, a Polaris, and three four-wheelers. Rednecks sure as hell loved their toys. Ordeen squeezed through the sliding door, careful not to make a sound in case whoever had come was still around. The barn was big, metal, and about thirty to forty feet high, with a concrete floor splattered in little grease spots. A big-ass workbench waited down at the end, small lights on over the tools, lots of banners and stickers for car parts. Two long shelves held a bunch of gold trophies and plaques, checkered flags, and what looked to be dozens of pairs of satin panties. A big framed poster said IF YOU AIN’T ON THE GAS, I’LL BE KICKING YOUR ASS.
He turned around and listened. A mangy little dog had come in after him, sniffing the ground, and headed over to a couple big silver bowls by the tools. He made a racket lapping up some water, turning to Ordeen, looking him right in the eye, and burping. Ordeen kept searching but found nothing but engine parts, axles, bald tires, nudie calendars, and a half-dozen shotguns. If someone came in to steal some shit, they sure left some good stuff behind. Looked like the Pritchards got lucky. Maybe he scared off some thief.
Ordeen checked out two refrigerators loaded down with about a hundred cans of Keystone Light, and studied a big wall of old photographs. Pictures of the Pritchards when they were boys, running go-carts, winning races, sitting in the booth of a Waffle House with some skinny white woman who looked to be their momma. The thought struck Ordeen as odd. He never thought of those Pritchard boys having a momma. Come to think of it, he’d heard they’d been on their own since they’d turned sixteen, like a couple of feral animals. He started to wonder if Boom Kimbrough might tell his own momma he’d seen her boy in Tupelo. His momma knew about his work with Miss Fannie and said she could only pray for him. But what else could he do? Ain’t nothing else to do around here except stock shelves at the Walmart or flip burgers at the Sonic, neither holding a goddamn bit of interest for him.
Ordeen heard the cool hum of the fluorescent lights over the tools, the inside of the barn dimmer than under the moonlight. He headed over to a bank of switches and cut on a few, a row of them lighting up by the door and an o
ld jukebox over in the corner coming to life, the bright spinning lights and blare of the music just about scaring the shit out of him and the dog. The dog raced out the door, the jukebox wailing out a song about being the only hell his momma ever raised. Goddamn rednecks.
Leaving everything as he’d found it, he headed on back outside, and found a place on the other side of the barn, out of the glow of the pole lights and that camera. He stared out into the field and saw acres and acres of corn, coming up higher than his shoulder. The barn was up on a slight hill and he could see deep into the drop, all the stalks colored with the bright silvery light. He’d heard the Pritchard family was known to grow a little weed between those rows, and he spent the next thirty minutes walking down a few dozen rows, not seeing a damn thing but corn. He zigzagged the crops, trying to find some weed growing tall, but only found row after row of Silver Queen in the moonlight. Walking and walking but not finding jack shit.
Ordeen started to cuss himself, running out of breath, when he saw an ass crack of light coming from inside an old barn, rotten and leaning so hard it looked like it just might fall. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks, or maybe that big moon was shining light into the mouth of it. He walked toward that sliver of yellow light, pulling open a busted-ass old door and moving into the soft brown ground, smelling the old hay and manure and rotten leather. The light seemed to be coming from inside a stall. He pushed open a swinging door and saw some old wood feed bins, light shining up from the goddamn floor.
Ordeen looked down in the hole and saw a little ladder and a series of white lights headed deep into a dirt hole.
He took a long breath. “Well, goddamn.”
* * *
• • •
Hondo met Quinn at his truck and trotted behind him as he headed up the steps to his farmhouse and through the front screen door. Inside, he could hear Tammy Wynette singing “I Don’t Wanna Play House” as the door slammed behind him, Maggie listening to her little portable record player in the kitchen. She was at the sink, up to her elbows in suds, scrubbing clean a plate and putting it on the rack. “You just missed Caddy,” she said. “I tried to get them to stay for supper but she said she had to get on back to town.”