The Sinners

by Ace Atkins

  “Unless that driver, Boom Kimbrough, comes to.”

  “He won’t be talking for a long while,” Ray said. “You got to give Hood and Taggart that. They sure know how to lay down the damn law.”

  “Fists ain’t brains,” Fannie said. “Fuck me, Ray. Those peckerwoods are gonna get us all marched into the courthouse in Oxford to explain how we run illegal pussy in five states and supply the blacks in Memphis with their chronic and OxyContin.”

  Ray stepped an oxblood loafer up on the edge of the terrace, looking out across the river to Arkansas. A long bank of dark clouds rolled in from the west. He straightened the cuffs on his seersucker suit in a pinkish hue. “I think it’s gonna rain.”

  “And we got a damn shit storm on our hands, if we don’t handle it,” Fannie said. “This whole damn corridor’s been shut down because Sutpen Trucking fucked up, from 45 to 55 and on over to the Delta. I appreciate the old boys’ club law of rewarding every damn crook with a swinging dick. But this bullshit never happened until Wes Taggart decided to put his feet up on my desk and started blinding his brain with more free cooze than he could handle.”

  “He’s screwing your girls?”

  “Two at a damn time.”

  “Can’t be having that.”

  “You know, Ray,” Fannie said. “I don’t really give a good goddamn, if he’d do his job. But when he starts acting like a bitch, throwing a little temper tantrum and going after my fucking sheriff’s buddy, we better step back and consider that maybe Buster White doesn’t understand this neck of the booger woods like we do.”

  Ray nodded, turning to see Taggart and Hood emerge from the elevators by the Skylight Lounge and head out onto the open terrace. Both of those boys looked more worn out than normal, dressing like they’d just left a shit-shoveling competition down in Yalobusha County. Ray placed his right hand in his pocket and waved them forward. J. B. Hood had on a SUN RECORDS ball cap with that gray ponytail sticking out the back. Both of them in jeans and dirty T-shirts, hotel security probably thinking they were headed on up to the roof to fix an AC unit.

  “They did it,” Taggart said, shaking his head. “Feds busted into Sutpen’s an hour ago, harassing our people, saying they have warrants for me and J.B.”

  “For what?” Ray asked.

  “That goddamn sheriff thinks we tried to kill his nigger friend,” he said. “And he’s got some kind of smart-mouth woman Marshal with him. She’s got some outstanding warrants on J.B. that go back about fifteen fucking years. Some bullshit about him running some kind of pyramid scam on some old folks.”

  Hood didn’t say a word. He just hung back, checking out a couple college-age girls leaning against a rail in summer dresses kicking up with the wind. Hood’s lack of respect wasn’t wasted on Ray, who looked across at Fannie and simply lifted his chin.

  “Next shipment goes through the old airfield we own in Tibbehah,” Ray said. “I don’t want you boys going close to Sutpen’s until we can get our lawyers to pan for some gold in this shit show.”

  Taggart nodded, getting his redneck ass called on the carpet, while Hood kept on watching the young girls, wiping his greasy hands on the thighs of his jeans and repositioning his ball cap lower in his eyes. Without them seeing, Fannie reached back and ever so lightly touched Ray’s back, feeling the cool, dry material of his seersucker jacket flapping in the wind. He knew Fannie was there for him and for the whole goddamn Syndicate. The wind whistled briskly over the river and across the terrace of the old hotel.

  “Y’all make this work,” Ray said. “Hear me? Jesus Christ Almighty. Just get it done and get our asses moving again.”

  23

  Ray decided to stay over in Memphis, getting a suite at the Peabody, where they could sit and dine in private, discuss details, without anyone listening in. Fannie knew the score, Ray bringing up the champagne and chateaubriand, moving on to the sitting room after for brandy and cigars, not giving a damn about the hotel’s smoking policy. They’d talk business and old times, until he get bored with both and he’d stand up to refresh his drink, moving behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders. He’d start to massage her until her head dropped back and he’d kiss her full on the mouth. Times like these went on and on, going back twenty years, when her titties were a little higher and you could bounce a silver dollar off her ass and hit the fucking moon.

  They’d done it again and Fannie awoke sometime around midnight, both of them naked and sleeping like dead folks. She crept her way off the bed and to the closet for a robe, making her way back to the sitting room and finding a half bottle of Moët & Chandon Rosé. She refilled her glass and moved to the window to stare out at the ballpark, the Redbirds playing a late game, and the bright lights blazing down on Union Avenue.

  She heard Ray stir from the bed and, being an older gent, head to the bathroom. She drank a little, looking out at the city lights, as he came into the sitting room and poured out some whiskey. He sat down in a big overstuffed chair, sinking into the cushions with his drink, his silver hair mussed and wild.

  “I didn’t plan on that,” he said.

  “Of course you did,” Fannie said.

  “Of course I did,” Ray said. “Christ, that was good.”

  Fannie toasted him with her champagne glass and joined him in the little grouping, sitting in an identical chair. She enjoyed being back in a civilized place, being around some fine furnishings and service. It was nice to know she could just snap her fingers and have another bottle sent up or have her suit brought down to the cleaners for a pressing.

  She looked down at the trail of clothes—her black bra, black panties, Ray’s white boxers—leading to the bed.

  “We should probably stop this,” Ray said.

  “Why?” Fannie said, crossing her legs, robe opening up just a bit.

  “I’m twice your age.”

  “What if I said you haven’t slowed down a bit?”

  “I’d say you were blowing sunshine up my ass,” he said. “In a year or two, I have some action like we just had and you’ll be standing over my grave. God, Fannie. The things you do. You just kind of get me going and find a way to hold me there as long as you want.”

  “Aw, shucks,” Fannie said. “How’s the whiskey?”

  Ray toasted her back. It was dark in the suite, a little light shining through the curtains from the downtown buildings and the ball field. Ray fingered at his gray mustache, wiping away the whiskey, giving her a long, wistful smile. “I don’t like this business.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “And I don’t trust those boys,” Ray said. “Not one goddamn bit.”

  Fannie lifted her chin to listen, taking a breath and sitting up straighter in the chair, the robe falling off most of her left thigh. Ray noticed, taking a long swallow of his bourbon.

  “I think Taggart might’ve tipped off those guys who hijacked that truck.”

  Fannie didn’t react, only listened, looking down at those tiny bubbles fizzing to the top of her glass.

  “He was the only one knew the route,” he said. “Mr. White’s people told Taggart and Taggart only. He beat up that black truck driver to throw us off. Hell, the driver didn’t even know which direction he was headed twenty minutes before he was hit.”

  “Damn,” Fannie said.

  “Keep that to yourself,” he said. “OK? Mr. White would shit a brick. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

  Fannie sipped the champagne, playing with the sash around her waist.

  “You didn’t see or hear anything?” Ray said. “When he was at Vienna’s? Talking about those trucks and where they were headed.”

  “Wes didn’t say much to me other than to go fetch him a drink or a girl.”

  “Bastard,” Ray said. “Fucking redneck bastard.”

  Fannie nodded, pressing her lips together in thought, and told Ray to stop worrying ton
ight. All their problems would be right there in the morning where they left them. She pulled at her sash and opened her robe, setting down into the big plushy chair, arching her back and spreading her legs wide. A perfectly trimmed red landing strip between her thighs.

  “Oh, God,” Ray said. “I think one fine day you just might kill me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Quinn didn’t get back to the farm until late, hitting the little bridge over Sarter Creek, with Hondo meeting him at the road, barking to announce his arrival. The lights were on upstairs and he hoped Maggie hadn’t waited up. He knew she worked another day shift tomorrow, trying to bank up her hours before taking off five days for their honeymoon. He parked his truck and squatted down to rub Hondo’s ears, Hondo seeming a little confused and inquisitive as to why he’d been left at home all damn day.

  But today was pretty much all Tupelo. After they couldn’t find Taggart and Hood, the feds produced a warrant based on information Boom had already given them. They opened up trailers and cargo bays, blocking the chain-link fence while they interviewed every last employee. By the time Quinn and Lillie left, the docks were swarming with men and women in black shirts that read either DEA or FBI. They hadn’t found a thing besides a lot of empty offices and vacant rooms that looked like they’d been recently cleared. The special agent in charge who’d come down from Oxford wasn’t pleased and let it be known to Quinn.

  Lillie whispered to Quinn that the man could go fuck himself and took off on the search for J. B. Hood, learning he may be back in Memphis.

  Quinn walked up the front steps with Hondo, the porch glowing with the multicolored Christmas lights that stayed up all year. Several new plants and freshly planted flowers decorated the ledge, Caddy and his mother getting ready for their rehearsal dinner.

  The front door was open. Quinn pulled at the screen door, trying to be quiet walking into the house. Although he was pretty sure Hondo had woken up everyone in a five-mile radius.

  He set his keys in a ceramic bowl in the entryway and unclipped his gun and holster from his belt. Looking up the staircase, he saw Maggie headed down, looking sleepy-eyed and beautiful in one of his old T-shirts from Camp Rhino in Afghanistan. He’d helped liberate the airfield as a young Ranger back at the very start of the war.

  Quinn smiled at her, Maggie walking up to him and sliding her arms around his neck, kissing him hard on the mouth.

  “I tried waiting up.”

  “I had some business to tend to at the office,” Quinn said. “County bullshit doesn’t stop while I’m away. Wish it would. You’d think someone could stop trying to rob filling stations without a getaway vehicle.”

  “Reggie found them?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Quinn said. “And we had to get them processed before I could leave. That and we had a water line bust in the jail showers. I had to get a plumber up at midnight.”

  “How’d it go in Tupelo?” Maggie said, looking up at him. She wore her hair down and loose, a long strand covering her cheek and mouth.

  “Terrible,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  “The men who beat up Boom were gone,” Quinn said. “And knowing we were coming, they trashed the place. I don’t think we left the feds a thing and that made the special agent in Oxford pretty upset.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Quinn nodded. “How’s Boom?”

  Maggie gave a weak smile and slowly let go of his neck. She swallowed and reached for Quinn’s hand. “He’s still not awake,” she said. “That’s not good. But not unexpected, given what his body’s been through.”

  “He’s been through worse,” Quinn said.

  “I’m sure he has,” Maggie said. “But the human brain isn’t built to take many blows like that.”

  “What’s the doctor say?”

  Maggie’s eyes wandered over his face as she held his hand and led him toward the kitchen. She sat him down and Quinn leaned forward in the rigid chair, snatching off his ball cap and tossing it down on the floor. He hadn’t slept for nearly thirty-six hours, always priding himself on not needing much to get by. He thought back on the empty raid and those boys slipping loose after what they’d done. Why the hell they’d blame Boom for the Pritchard boys’ doing was beyond him.

  “Are you OK?”

  Quinn didn’t answer, feeling something like nausea and heartache pass through him. He heard the screen door open and thwack shut, Hondo wandering into the kitchen, looking up at Quinn and licking the tears from his face before Maggie could see them.

  “We can postpone the wedding,” she said. “I hope you know that.”

  He nodded. Maggie reached into the refrigerator for a Coors and popped the top, setting it before Quinn.

  “Damn, Quinn,” she said. “You look like hell.”

  “I need some sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow I need to call on the Pritchards. They’ve stirred up too much trouble.”

  “I thought you had the uncle in jail?”

  “Bailed out the very next morning,” Quinn said. “His nephews paid ten grand cash to get him out.”

  “They must really love him.”

  “Or they recognize a fellow member of their species.”

  Quinn looked down at the cell phone, at a text from Reggie saying he’d gotten everything squared on the plumbing. The inmates could finally get showered in the morning. He drank down half the can of Coors and set it on the table, looking up at Maggie. Standing there in his threadbare T-shirt, long bare legs, and hair flowing over her shoulders, she was a welcome sight.

  He reached for her long fingers and pressed her hand to his cheek. Maggie smiled, her freckled pale skin slightly flushed from the sun, her mouth bowed and pouty. She pulled him to his feet and kissed him. Quinn felt unsteady on his boots for a moment, the way she’d always made him feel, with his heart racing and his breathing grown quick. He kissed her some more, Maggie reaching back and smoothing his short hair, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “It’s gonna be fine,” he said. “Boom will be fine.”

  He followed her upstairs, where Brandon had fallen asleep in their big bed. He was dressed in pajamas and clutching an old WWE figure Jason had given him. Quinn recognizing the ugly little toy as The Undertaker, one of Jason’s all-time favorites. Maggie bent down to pick him up and carry him down to his bedroom.

  “He can stay,” Quinn said.

  “Are you sure?” Maggie asked.

  “Of course,” Quinn said, sitting at the edge of his bed and taking off his boots. “We’re a family now.”

  Hondo trotted upstairs and jumped up to the foot of the bed, circling a few times and making himself comfortable. He yawned and looked suspiciously up at Quinn with his two different colored eyes, not sure if he was going to have to move from his usual sleeping spot.

  “All of us,” Maggie said, switching off the lamp, leaving the room in shadow.

  * * *

  • • •

  Tyler and Cody kept to their business, replacing their worn-out 640-horsepower with a Battenbilt 867-horsepower, an all-aluminum, absolute beast of an engine. They’d been running strong all damn night on Red Bull, pills, a few joints—what they called a hippie speedball. The weed mellowed them out but sometimes made them lazy as fuck. The Red Bulls kept their energy up and they finally got the engine into the car, priming the new oil pump before that first start-up. You better get oil pressure right off or you were screwed.

  They had the big bay doors open on the garage, blasting some AC/DC CD that they’d found in some of the shit their momma had left. “Tailored suits, chauffeured cars / Fine hotels and big cigars . . .”

  Cody was kind of dancing around the engine as he worked, both of them excited as hell about this new motor they had shipped all the way from Rocky Mount, North Carolina. Cody promised Tyler tha
t he could race this weekend down in Loxley, Alabama. And after all the damn shit they been through, he couldn’t wait to get back behind the wheel.

  “You think Uncle Heath might want to take a look?” Cody asked.

  “If he ever gets back from dropping off that damn whore at the titty bar.”

  “She wasn’t too bad,” Cody said. “Never seen a woman eat that much in my whole life. She ate two Hunt Brothers Pizzas from the filling station and a half gallon of ice cream.”

  Tyler pulled on the joint and passed it to his brother when he stood up from working on the engine. Cody took a long draw.

  “I think she was on some shit,” Tyler said. “She had them real red, glassy eyes. Kept on telling me about how she’d seen a UFO when she was a toddler. Said she’d drawn this spaceship with crayons and her momma got real scared ’cause she’d seen the same thing in her dreams.”

  “Uncle Heath knows how to pick ’em,” Cody said.

  “Sure does,” Tyler said. “Said she was absolutely, one hundred percent positive that aliens had visited down in Shubuta, Mississippi. I mean, if you were a higher fucking life-form, why the fuck would you fly to Shubuta? From a million light-years away.”

  “That’s an evil goddamn place,” Cody said. “Gives me the creeps every time we roll through.”

  Tyler admired the way their car was taking shape again. They’d replaced most all the side panels with decals from their sponsors and a big #17 on the side. Cody handed the joint back to him, that AC/DC shaking the whole damn shop as they heard the growl of a big truck pulling up outside.

  The engine went silent and a door slammed. Cody looked up at Tyler and then screwed on the carburetor filter. With its new engine and most of the chassis covered, the car looked sleek as hell. Tyler couldn’t wait to get her out on the track, racing and drifting, lap after lap.

  Tyler looked up at the old Valvoline clock on the wall, coming up at one in the damn morning, as Uncle Heath wandered into the shop. Cody turned down the music and leaned against the workbench, a big screwdriver in hand, watching Heath head toward their car.