by Ace Atkins
“I’ve been watching you drink for the last ten minutes,” Quinn said. “And trying to solicit teenagers to go get in your truck.”
“Oh, hell,” Pritchard said. “Just having me some fun. Besides, ain’t you the law in the county? You ain’t the law in Jericho.”
“I’m the law everywhere.”
“Well, goody for you,” Pritchard said. “How about you just sit down and share a beer. I’ll tell you some stories about your beloved old Uncle Hamp that would make a goat puke. I have to admit something. The other day when I said I used to dream about killing him? I said I was kidding. Well, I wasn’t kidding. I would’ve loved to have been the man who pulled that trigger. Real sorry that son of a bitch did it himself.”
Quinn didn’t react. Folks like Pritchard got off on it. They liked to see people’s nerves as loose and jangled as their own. The man looked drunk as hell, red-eyed and smelling of whiskey even from several feet back. Quinn just stared at him, waiting, before he said, “You didn’t seem to have any trouble shooting Lyle Masters.”
“Who the fuck is Lyle Masters?” Pritchard said, not giving a damn and reaching into his sack for a beer. He drained the whole thing and tossed the can at Quinn’s feet.
“Goes by the name Wrong Way,” Quinn said. “You shot him in the leg and then your nephew Cody ran over those boys’ scooters. If I were you, I wouldn’t be showing my face in public for a while. The Born Losers have a long memory.”
“Fuck me,” Pritchard said. “Those boys can come on and try and git it. I’ll shoot that fella again. In fact, I’d fucking love to.”
Quinn watched the small, wiry man, hunched over on the bench, as two girls in short shorts, tank tops, and flip-flops walked toward the gazebo. Pritchard followed them with his eyes, tongue licking at the side of his mouth like he was savoring some forgotten flavor. “They sure do grow ’em up good in this town,” he said. “I close my eyes and think what it must be like to taste one of them. Must be like spreading apart an Oreo and licking out that cream fillin’.”
“Come on.”
“Come on?” Pritchard asked. “You taking me in for what?”
“Public drunk,” Quinn said. “And for attempted murder.”
“I didn’t attempt jack shit, Sheriff,” Pritchard said. “Use your fucking head. If I wanted to kill that mongrel, I would’ve shot him right in the damn head. Ain’t nothing but a warning shot. Besides, I got my dang rights. Those boys rolled up into the Walmart lot looking for trouble. They threatened my little nephew. They threatened me. All I was doing was trying to get back to my fucking property and eat some ice cream on the porch. I’m gonna enjoy my damn summer, relaxing and loving every damn minute of life. I didn’t go twenty-three years in Parchman to have some damn criminals on scooters try and tell me what I can and can’t do. I got my rights. Way I see it is, it’s you that’s done wrong. Ain’t you supposed to keep the fucking peace?”
“You got that gun on you right now?”
“Fuck, yeah,” he said. “Or ain’t this America? I have my damn rights.”
“Not as a felon,” Quinn said. “Raise your hands. And stand up.”
Pritchard shook his head. It didn’t look like he’d shaved in the last few days, more stubble on his face than on his head. His brown little mouth hanging open as he breathed, all ragged and slow, like he was thinking on his options. Heath Pritchard wasn’t a quick thinker. But he looked like he had a slow burn on some mean ideas. Quinn watched every movement, waiting for him to go for the gun or try to run for it. Either way, he wouldn’t get far.
“Can I at least finish my fucking beer?” he asked.
“Give me the gun.”
Pritchard smiled, trying to look all coy and funny, smiling a little bit. “Shit,” he said. “How about you try and come get it? I can’t have Hamp Beckett’s little damn nephew harassing my ass on the Square. Taking away my damn rights.”
Quinn nodded, took a long breath to steady himself. “Two seconds.”
“Till what?”
“Till I knock you on your ass, Pritchard,” Quinn said. “Grab that gun and put you under arrest.”
Pritchard wet his lips, sticking the empty can back in the paper sack. He stretched his arms out on the bench, like everything was cool and easy, and began to watch a car circling the Square. A bunch of young girls hanging out a truck window, yelling to some boys who’d parked down at the gazebo. “Damn youth is wasted on the young,” Pritchard said, grinning with yellowed teeth. “Am I right?”
Quinn snatched up Pritchard’s right arm, yanking him to his feet, and forced him down onto the walkway. He took a little .32 from Pritchard’s back pocket. The man strong as an ape, trying to wrestle his arm free, but Quinn already had a knee to the man’s spine, finding cuffs on his Sam Brown belt and clicking them on Pritchard. “Goddamn motherfucker,” Pritchard said. “You goddamn piece of shit. I knowed my rights. Don’t you touch me. Don’t you dare touch me.”
Quinn reached for his phone and called in to dispatch.
“Can’t a man protect himself in this town?” Pritchard said. “You just as dirty as your damn uncle, looking out for a fucking motorcycle gang. Those turds working for the fucking Dixie Mafia.”
Quinn got down on his haunches to speak more privately with Heath Pritchard. Some of the kids on the Square, stopping their socializing, began to pay attention to the free show. Quinn waved a few back, speaking in a low, direct voice.
“This has to be a record,” Quinn said. “You’ve already shot two men since you’ve been out.”
“Two?” he said. “What the damn hell. You’re a fucking crook just like your uncle.”
“Two of my deputies are headed to your place right now,” Quinn said. “You wouldn’t happen to have a twelve-gauge lying about?”
“A twelve-gauge?” Pritchard said, laughing, face flush to the concrete path. “Everybody in Mississippi has a twelve-gauge. More common than a damn Walker hound. What kind of man doesn’t want to protect what he’s got?”
Quinn took off his ball cap, curved the bill in his fingers, and set it back onto his head. “Is that why you shot Ordeen Davis in the back?” he said. “That’s how this whole damn story started. Right?”
Heath Pritchard didn’t answer for a bit, as Quinn heard the sirens coming up on the Square.
“Naw,” Pritchard said. “This goddamn story started before you had your first wet dream. Back when your dead uncle sided with fucking Johnny Stagg.”
* * *
• • •
I hope you understand this is the way it’s got to be from now on,” Wes Taggart said, sitting at Fannie Hathcock’s desk, counting down Fannie’s money. “Me and J.B. can handle the shutdown. You can head on home early, maybe get you a little more beaut sleep.”
That last little bit wasn’t meant as an insult, more of a gentle tap on her ass as they sent her on back to Cordova, where she kept a mainly empty three-bedroom condo. Wes Taggart didn’t even look up from her glass-top desk as he ran a handful of sweaty one-dollar bills though the counter, the cash smelling of cherry body lotion and cigarettes.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Fannie asked.
“Not at all,” he said. “Me and Wes run a lot of clubs in our time. Beer joints, titty bars, even a seafood restaurant in Mobile. Don’t you worry a bit. We got this thing.”
“That’s awful nice of y’all,” Fannie said. “Working so hard like this.”
Taggart stacked the cash, wrapped it in a paper band for a hundred, and then scooped up another big handful, his eyes tilting up at Fannie from beneath that stringy brown hair. It looked like he hadn’t changed his goddamn style since 1979. Basic boy’s cut, running down to his eyebrows and hiding his ears.
Fannie smiled down at him. “J.B. told me you’d grown a little fond of Twilight.”
The cash counters shuffled through the pile in a q
uick whir, Taggart grabbing the neat stack and wrapping another hundred. “She’s a nice young lady,” he said. “Just trying to give her a little direction and advice.”
“Did she tell you about her two babies?” Fannie said.
“She told me some of it,” Taggart said, scribbling down some third-grade math notes on a legal pad, leaning back in Fannie’s leather chair, nodding. “She’s a tough young lady. She told me she wanted to be a marine biologist one day. That girl sure has a thing for dolphins.”
“Don’t I know it,” Fannie said. “I saw the tattoo.”
“I have to hand it to you, Fannie,” he said. “I been in thousands of strip clubs. Me and J.B. both. But we both were saying how you got some of the finest-looking girls we’ve ever seen. All of them clean, polite—”
“Young,” Fannie said. “Fresh.”
“Not a damn dog among them,” he said. “I’m gonna talk to Buster White and tell him what a damn fine job you’re doing. You sure got an eye for talent. It’s not just that you bring those fresh faces. The things those girls do? Holy moly. The way they work that pole I’d have thought I was in Vegas at that Circus du Soleil.”
“That’s sweet,” Fannie said. “I do my best.”
Taggart leaned back farther in that chair, the springs squeaking and popping, and placed his dusty pointy-toed boots up on the glass, nearly knocking over a pile of twenties J. B. Hood had gotten from the three registers at the bar. There were coffee cups filled with cigarettes and ash, a half-eaten hamburger and cold fries in a Styrofoam shell. For some damn reason, the man had brought up a suitcase, living down here for the last two days, washing up in the girl’s changing room and sleeping on the office sofa. Something in the air had changed. Instead of Dunhills and Chanel No. 5, the office smelled like man funk and cheeseburgers.
“I’m glad you’re OK with the new arrangement,” Taggart said, hands behind his head, his arms muscled and veiny. He had a hawk nose, looking like it had been busted a few times. “Me and J.B. worried you might give us some pushback after that first night.”
“Well,” Fannie said. “Y’all sure did surprise me. I wish Buster or Ray had given me a little warning.”
“I think there’s some good opportunities for you in Memphis,” he said. “We’ve just took over some of Bobby Campo’s old properties. I checked out that old club on Mount Moriah. It’s a little dusty, got some black mold in the kitchen. But the carpet’s not too worn out and it still has those birdcages where the girls can dance and put on those lezzie shows. I also spotted this old Pyrtle’s fried chicken joint on Poplar that might could get converted.”
“I appreciate you looking out for me,” Fannie said. “I know we all just want to make sure the boys are happy.”
“Don’t you know it,” Taggart said, ashing the cigarette on the cold cheeseburger. “I can already see where me and J.B. might make some improvements. First thing I’d do is knock out that old wooden bar and put in something a little more modern, with some mirrors and neon. I’d also expand our VIP room. I don’t have to tell you that’s where the churn really happens. Get those boys in, fleeced, and back out on the floor.”
“Might have some trouble with the locals on that one,” Fannie said, smiling, her cheeks starting to ache. “They shut down the lap dancing for now.”
“We can take care of that,” Taggart said. “We heard about the Baptists around here. They might be right with the Lord, but there ain’t a man alive that can’t be trapped with good whiskey and pussy.”
“Amen to that,” Fannie said.
Fannie took a seat on the edge of the glass desk, watching Taggart writing down more figures and raking up another big pile of crumpled cash to the counting machine. The cigarette hung from the side of the mouth, making him look like a Marlboro Man gone to seed. She’d checked up on Taggart from some friends in Tupelo and over in Birmingham. He was a pretty simple man, too. Got into some trouble a while back in Alabama cruising the shopping malls with a circuit judge who had a modeling studio in his basement.
Fannie watched as two of her girls, Twilight and CoCo, walked up the spiral staircase and peered into the open door. Twilight favored Britney Spears before the bitch went crazy and shaved her head. Big brown doe eyes and natural titties so big she had to order special bras from the internet. CoCo was tall and black, her skin like milk chocolate, with a lean, athletic body, small titties, and wide hips. The best goddamn dancer at Vienna’s, she could pick a man’s pocket while hanging upside down and humping the pole. Both of them had on matching pink bikinis and tall, clear plastic heels.
“What’s this?” Taggart said, dropping the money in his hands and pulling the cigarette from his mouth.
“A little prize,” Fannie said. “You’ve been working two days straight.”
“I know your rules, Fannie,” Taggart said. “And I gave you my word.”
“Consider it work,” Fannie said. “Since you and J.B. are wanting to open the VIP room back up, you might want to take it for a little spin. There’s only one way to experience it, see how we might make a few improvements to your liking. Maybe see things from a man’s perspective?”
If fucking Wes Taggart had been a dog, he’d have been slobbering all over her desk. He eyed those two girls, black and white, smooth skin and long legs, like they were a couple of T-bone steaks. Fannie looked to CoCo and gave her a little secret wink, CoCo walking all sexy and confident in those six-inch heels over to Taggart and sitting right in his lap. Twilight joined her, standing behind him and rubbing his shoulders. As if caught awake in a dream, Wes Taggart shot a mean look up at Fannie. “Come on, now,” he said. “You think I’m that dumb?”
“What’s that, Wes?”
“I gotten my lap rode thousands of times,” he said. “I can’t be controlled by my pecker.”
“You’re a smart man, Wes Taggart,” she said. “You got me there.”
“Then again . . .” he said.
“Never hurts to make friends with the bossman,” Fannie said, watching as the girls pulled Taggart up to his feet, his cowboy boots sliding off her glass desk.
“Leave me to the count,” he said, getting to his feet. CoCo started rubbing him between his legs, priming his old cowboy pump, being led away down the spiral steps and into the VIP room. He gripped Twilight’s ass, right below the tattoo of a dolphin flipping in front of a sunset.
“Let me know about those improvements, Wes,” she said.
After they left, Fannie felt like her face was frozen from all the fake smiling. She walked back into the office, shut the door, and reached for the beat-up Samsung phone he’d left behind. It was one of those cheap-ass, pay-as-you-go phones, something to bust up and toss out when you’re done. Fannie used them, everyone in the Syndicate did. They liked that they couldn’t be tracked and traced by feds, and were seldom kept beyond a week or two. So damn short that Taggart didn’t even bother to set up a passcode.
She sat down at her desk, cleared a spot in the mess, and began to scroll through the dumb bastard’s messages.
17
Boom had been on the road for five hours, from Houston, after waiting nearly a day at some crummy-ass Motel 6 across the road from the warehouses. They’d loaded him up at eight at night, the rig fueled and ready to roll, and he hit Baton Rouge at midnight, stopping off to piss and grab a cup of coffee, then back on the interstate. He’d heard from Nat Wilkins twice already, saying they were all over Sutpen’s and would bust in right after he made the delivery and got off the property. He was damn glad all this shit was about to be over, but, man, he sure would miss the road. Nobody was gonna hire a one-armed driver that had worked for an outfit with its name all over the news.
He’d probably have to go back to the County Barn, make good with Skinner, and work under his people, fixing trucks, changing tires, hauling in broken gravel spreaders and backhoes. He’d done it before and would do it again. Th
e dashboard of his truck glowed a gentle blue, Boom checking out his speed, rpm’s, fuel, making some mental calculations on where he’d stop next, although the damn computer would remind him every step of the way. His blue dot moving along the GPS on Interstate 10 through Louisiana.
He liked this part of the country, loving just the sound of the names the places he’d passed through in the night: Turtle Bayou, Rose City, Lake Charles, Breaux Bridge, the Atchafalaya River. He liked those big road signs, too: GOD BLESS TEXAS, BLUE LIVES MATTER, TIGER TRUCK STOP (SEE A LIVE TIGER!), SURPRISINGLY SMOOTH C.C.’S COFFEE, VISIT LARRY FLYNT’S HUSTLER CLUB, EVANGELINE MAID BREAD, and YOU CAN’T HOLD HANDS WITH GOD WHEN MASTURBATING. That last one being a good one, always making him laugh, lots of billboards being put up by God or folks who thought they were talking direct with Jesus Himself.
All that landscape, bright lights, and color so different from when he was driving trucks in Iraq. The trick driving back then was not falling asleep or running off the damn road because you didn’t see nothing but sand and desert, only your lights shining twenty feet ahead. The driving into nothing, heat and the horizon, did shit to your head, your perspective, and direction. Nothing but talk between you and your boys keeping your mind alert, letting your ass know you were still on Planet Earth.
Right outside McComb, Mississippi, birthplace of Bo Diddley, the burner phone they’d given him started to buzz in his pocket. He picked up, hearing that gravelly countrified voice of L. Q. Smith telling him to cut on over to Interstate 20 when he hit Jackson, that there were some highway patrol stops around Grenada and that they needed him to keep on to Okolona, where he could refuel and wait around for the new drop-off location.
“What about Tupelo?” Boom asked.
“You’re not going to Tupelo, son,” he said. “Not tonight.”
“Where am I headed, then?”
“You’ll know when I know,” Smith said. “Just don’t drive that rig nowhere near Sutpen’s. We got some feds on our ass. Spotted two of them bastards taking pictures not far from our gates.”