by Ace Atkins
Anna Lee said her good-byes, hugging Caddy tight. Caddy, wearing sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt, said, “God bless you.”
Lillie put a hand over her mouth, waiting for Anna Lee to move toward the door, Lillie not bothering to put a coat on over her heavy uniform top. Most of the folks who’d been there had left, leaving spaces in between Anna Lee’s little Honda and Lillie’s official Jeep Cherokee. Lillie walked with her to the car, stopping on the Colsons’ lawn, the entire house lit up bright and shining by old-fashioned multicolored lights over the dormers and squared around the windows.
“Don’t hurt him.”
“What?”
“Quinn,” Lillie said. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t know—” Anna Lee started but then realizing that she better stop. “Well, I guess. I guess you can think whatever you want.”
Lillie crossed her arms over her chest, over the silver star, and looked Anna Lee right in the eye. “You better be honest about your plans,” she said. “You want to fuck him, fine. But you leave him like you did before and I’ll come for you.”
“What?”
“I will whip your bony ass, Anna Lee Amsden,” Lillie said. “I don’t know what keeps on drawing y’all together. But he’s too goddamn good for you.”
• • •
Mickey Walls pulled into the gravel lot beside Calvary Methodist Church and killed the engine of his red Hummer. His headlights shone across the old graveyard, spreading out under a half-dozen old trees. Most of the headstones were from a hundred years ago, skinny pieces of rock jutting out of the ground, crooked and broken. Some of the stones had worn down to shards of what they’d once been, sun-bleached roses on the graves, a few little Confederate and American flags on sticks for the veterans. The cemetery was old, but people were still being buried there.
He sat there about ten minutes until a single headlight shone down the road and then turned into the little white church. The light went out, the door slammed, and Kyle Hazlewood was looking at Mickey from the other side of the passenger window. He knocked twice and Mickey reached over to let him on inside. “God damn, it’s cold,” Kyle said. “Why’d you want me to come way the hell out here?”
“You want us seen together?”
“Shit, people see us together all the time.”
“Yeah,” Mickey said. “But not the night before. I don’t want folks to think we’re sitting around plotting this thing with Larry Cobb.”
“Then what are we doing?”
“We’re plotting the damn thing,” Mickey said. “Right? Are we still good?”
“I don’t know, man.”
“Shit,” Mickey said. “I damn well knew it. I’ve been trying to call you all damn day and you wouldn’t answer. I knew you were backing out.”
“I ain’t backing out,” Kyle said, rubbing his thin beard, everything about him smelling of cigarette smoke. “Not yet. I just don’t know why it can’t be just you and me. Why you’d go and bring these Alabama boys into the mix?”
“’Cause I need ’em,” Mickey said. “I need one of them anyway. The other is just some kid, kin to the Sparks. He just follows his uncle around and talks about Alabama football. He also drank all my damn beer.”
Kyle didn’t say anything. He had on a pair of brown Carhartt overalls splattered with mud up to his knees. He even had some mud stuck in his goatee that he was picking at while he stared out into the blackness of the graveyard, not saying a damn thing. Thinking. Mickey let him think, let him take all the time he needed. ’Cause he sure as hell needed Kyle running the show. If not, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to trust someone like Peewee Sparks.
“Tell me again why you can’t be there,” Kyle said.
“’Cause Larry Cobb is going to point his finger right at me,” Mickey said. “You know that’s true. First thing he’s gonna say when he gets home from Tunica and sees his safe’s been busted is ‘Mickey Walls just fucked me in the ass.’”
“Yeah,” Kyle said. “I guess that’s true.”
“You damn well know it’s true.”
“But these other boys,” Kyle said, getting some more mud from his beard, letting down the window and flicking the dirt out onto the gravel, cold air coming on in the cab. “I mean, shit. You know.”
“Yeah.”
“God damn,” Kyle said, “I don’t know them from Adam’s house cat. You want me to work with a fucking Sparks and some kid. I don’t want to get back-shot for a few thousand dollars.”
“Ain’t a few thousand,” Mickey said. “It’s a million.”
“Could be a dang billion, but I can’t spend it when I’m lying facedown in the damn dirt,” Kyle said. “Why don’t we just lay off on this thing for a couple months, go at it again when Larry and Debbi are out of town for a while? Just me and you head on in there and take care of business. That way, we won’t have to work with no fucking criminals.”
“I see what you’re saying,” Mickey said. “But which one of us is going to crack up a five-hundred-pound safe? You got them talents? You see what I mean?”
“Yeah,” Kyle said. “I guess. But who the hell’s this kid? What’s he got to do with anything? That’s just another person in the mix knowing our business.”
“Sparks says the kid is learning to be a safecracker,” Mickey said. “He tails him around to get some on-the-job training. Like some kind of damn apprentice. Don’t worry, the kid won’t screw you. He’s dumber than shit. Thinks Bear Bryant is a bigger deal than Jesus Christ.”
“Hold up,” Kyle said, reaching into his overalls and coming up with a pack of cigarettes, pulling out a cowboy killer and lighting up. “Those motherfuckers are here?”
“Weren’t supposed to be,” Mickey said. “But, yeah. They came on over to my house. They want to ride by Cobb’s house tonight, check things out and lay out some plans. I’d like you to be there, too.”
“Man, I just got off a ten-hour deal down in Ackerman running PVC for a half mile. I don’t have time for that. Not now.”
“Tomorrow,” Mickey said. “It’s got to be tomorrow. The boys are here. Debbi and Larry are gone. I’m out of town.”
“I know,” Kyle said, blowing smoke out into the cold. “You’re gonna be doing tequila shots off Tonya’s big brown titties while I’m jacking around with a couple crooks at midnight. Just don’t seem fair.”
“We split it even.”
“You said that.”
“I’m only paying those boys ten grand.”
“Ten grand total or ten grand apiece?”
“Sparks wants twenty for the whole deal,” Mickey said. “I’m not splitting hairs with him. That’s why you got to be there. I don’t want him counting up that money. He’s got no idea how much is in that safe. He thinks it’s just some payroll or something from the mill. I want you to be there, shoulder to shoulder, when he gets the safe open. You grab everything in that son of a bitch—rings, jewelry, guns. Don’t matter. If you don’t get it all, it’s going to prove the folks who did this knew about the hidey-hole.”
“Shit.”
“Come on, man,” Mickey said. “That money is dirty as hell. He’s been cheating folks like me and you his whole damn life. Him and goddamn Johnny Stagg’s as thick as thieves. There ain’t no telling what all’s in that safe. Dirty, dirty money.”
Kyle nodded, not saying a word. He reclined the seat and lay back into the headrest, a cigarette held in his lips, staring up at the truck cab. The cold air blew into the cab from the cracked window, clearing out the smoke.
“It’s time for Cobb to get what’s coming to him.”
Kyle nodded.
Mickey offered his hand, and Kyle, head still tilted back, cigarette held loose, reached out to shake it.
“This is gonna change everything, man,” Mickey said. “Now, listen up. OK? This is how I
see things are going to need to work tomorrow night.”
11.
Quinn and his dad took little Jason to the barbershop early the next morning. Jean was dealing with Caddy, getting her packed for her time in Tupelo, and Quinn and big Jason thought the barber might get the boy’s mind on something other than worry. It was strange to watch Jason up in that spinning chair, head tilted down, as a new barber trimmed the kid’s curly Afro short and close to his head. Old Mr. Jim had been cutting Jason’s hair his entire life, but now Mr. Jim had sold off his business of fifty years to a somewhat younger man from Yalobusha County while he lived out his final days on oxygen, watching daytime television. The younger man had hired two women to work with him, and although Quinn had no problem with female barbers, the entire shop had changed. Most of the deer heads and mounted fish had been taken down. No more girlie calendars, and only one football schedule mounted on the wall. The shop was swept clean. The ancient couches and folding chairs had been replaced with newer stuff.
Jason giggled as the clippers touched the nape of his neck.
Quinn sat next to his dad. Across the way was Mr. Varner, who’d just walked in the door, bringing coffee to the new barber, whose name was Don. The two women who waited at their own stations for walk-ins sat in their chairs, reading magazines. One woman scowled at Mr. Varner, who lit up a six-inch-long cigarette and blew out the smoke. He was an old U.S. Marine and hadn’t changed his standard-issue haircut since his days on Parris Island and in the jungles of Vietnam.
“Boy’s grown,” Varner said, his voice gravelly from thousands of cigarettes.
“Yes, sir,” Quinn said.
“Almost didn’t recognize him,” Varner said, looking up to Jason in the chair. “Looked like a high schooler to me.”
Jason smiled. The elder Jason shuffled in his chair a bit, as he and Luther Varner had never been on the friendliest terms. Varner had always thought of Quinn’s dad as some kind of commie hippie. Jason’s stories of working stunts for Burt Reynolds and Hal Needham while seducing Playboy bunnies impressed plenty others but couldn’t have mattered less to Varner. Just the word California was usually enough for Varner to excuse himself from the conversation.
“How you been, Quinn?” Varner said.
“Getting along.”
“Big day.”
“Same as any.”
“To hell with this place,” Jason said, looking up from a copy of Car and Driver. “Damn supervisors making three times the sheriff salary. Tell me there isn’t something wrong with that picture.”
“You looking for work, Mr. Colson?” Luther asked, squinting through the smoke. He leaned forward on his weathered forearms, decorated with faded skull and dagger tattoos. “I hear you’re good with horses.”
“I am.”
“I know some folks who could use some help.”
“Appreciate that, Mr. Varner,” Jason said. Quinn hung back, watching the two old men ping-ponging over who had the right to hold court at the barbershop. “But Quinn and I have some pretty good plans for next year.”
“Oh yeah?” Varner said, blowing out some more smoke. “And what’s that?”
“Farming.”
“Farming, huh?” Varner said. “You and Quinn?”
“Yes, sir,” Jason said. “Watermelons, mainly. I’ve been doing my homework and know a boy over in Pocahontas who made out pretty good. Of course Quinn has enough land to do a decent bit of corn and cotton. But a watermelon farm is where I see us making a solid living.”
Luther Varner sat there on the couch, ramrod straight, and ashed his cigarette into an empty coffee cup. He kept speaking to Jason but looked to Quinn. “Well, I wish y’all the best with all that.”
Varner had done six tours in Vietnam as a sniper. He once told Quinn that slowing down, quitting fighting, and getting back to what he’d been before was the hardest part. If Quinn had asked, Varner would’ve jumped up at that very moment to fetch the nearest gun to join whatever fight was out there. The old man smiled some more at Quinn while the older Jason, dressed in a black T-shirt with a cow skull on it and a fringed leather vest, ran down the highlights of what he’d learned about watermelon production. “What folks don’t do down here but they do out west is rely on horse manure. I figure with me bringing in horses and getting going, that won’t be a problem.”
“I’m not sure about the horses yet,” Quinn said. “We might start with a few. See how it goes.”
“So you’re saying the secret to this business is horseshit,” Luther said.
Jason gave a wry smile, stroked his gray beard, and said, “Yeah, I guess that’s about the heart of it. Horseshit is pretty much how I make my way, Mr. Varner.”
Varner smiled and nodded. He winked at Quinn. Quinn didn’t say anything, knowing the old man could read his mind and knew that he wasn’t ready to put down the gun.
Up on the spinning chair, little Jason hadn’t been paying attention to their talk, making small talk instead with Mr. Don. Mr. Don asked him about what he’d gotten for Christmas and whether or not he was going to be starting T-ball in the spring.
“At the VFW, you were talking about some overseas work,” Varner said. “With your Ranger buddy in Tennessee.”
“That’s still on the table.”
“Not if y’all got a full-time farm,” Varner said. “My daughter has been running a farm for the last five years and hasn’t taken a single day off.”
Quinn nodded. The barber pulled the cape from Jason and shook loose the trimmed hairs onto the floor. Jason bounded out of the seat and waited for Don to offer him some candy and gum from his bucket. Mr. Jim had done the same when Quinn had been Jason’s age. Don seemed to be a good man, and despite the upgraded decor, he was keeping the same spirit of the barbershop.
“Everything tracking at the home front?” Varner asked.
“Been a rough winter,” Quinn said.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” Jason said, smiling and then taking his grandson’s place in the barber’s chair. His long gray hair hit down to his shoulders, his goatee long enough to be held in the old man’s fist.
Quinn moved over to beside Mr. Varner, picking up Jason’s magazine and glancing through it. Varner spoke to the ground, low enough that only Quinn could hear him. “I were you, I’d pack my bags come Monday and put Jericho in your rearview,” Varner said. “But do me a favor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You stumble on some good overseas work, let me know,” Varner said. “I sure do itch for it.”
• • •
Johnny Stagg met the Bohannon brothers, K-Bo and Short Box, at a hot-wings restaurant they owned off Elvis Presley Boulevard, about a mile from Graceland and next door to a twenty-four-hour car wash. The Bohannons were Craig Houston’s cousins and right-hand men, running the show after Houston’s head ended up in the truck bed of some Mexican cartel folks. “It was a shame what happened to Craig,” Stagg said. “He was a fine man.”
“Ain’t nobody deserve that shit,” K-Bo said. “Couldn’t even bury him right. Didn’t ever find the body. Just the gotdamn head.”
“Disgraceful.”
The brothers were twins. Identical. The only way Stagg could tell them apart was that K-Bo had a razor-thin beard and one earring. Short Box didn’t have a beard and had diamonds in each ear. Other than that, they had the same chiseled face, thick neck, and general stocky football player build. They even wore the same V-neck black T-shirts just to confuse folks.
“That’s what we got,” Short Box said. “Not gonna stop till we all dead. We in a battle.”
“It’s y’all’s world, too,” Stagg said. “These people are animals. Don’t have green cards, don’t give two shits for America. This is your home turf. I ain’t never making a deal with those fucking bean-eaters.”
“Craig worked with them,” K-Bo said. “You see where that shit g
ot him?”
Stagg nodded, knowing that it wasn’t his work with the cartel that separated his head from the rest of him. It was working with Stagg and his Mississippi connections instead that took out Craig Houston’s ass. Now he had the Bohannons, two of the meanest motherfuckers in South Memphis, when they weren’t making hot wings or waxing cars. Stagg figured they’d do just fine.
“You want some wings, Mr. Stagg?” Short Box said. “Best in Memphis two years in a row. We got our picture in the Flyer and everything.”
“No, thank you, sir,” Stagg said. “I got an ulcer. Me and spicy food don’t mix. Have to drink a glass of milk every night before bedtime.”
“Got some honey-glazed and garlic that will sit right with you,” Short Box said. “I can make up a fresh batch. Hey.” He pointed to the skinny girl watching TV behind the counter and snapped his fingers. The girl rushed up to the table, pen and pad in hand.
“This is our sister, LaTasha,” he said. “Say hello, LaTasha.”
She rolled her eyes at her brother.
“Appreciate it, miss,” Stagg said, grinning, making good with these two shitbirds. “But I got to get going in a minute. I just wanted to come on up and say hello.”
Short Box jerked his head at his sister and she wandered back behind the counter to watch a big-screen television roll some highlights from last night’s Grizzlies game. K-Bo was listening to, but half watching, the television, too. He slapped the table hard enough that Stagg flinched a bit.
“Damn,” K-Bo said. “Check that shit out.”
Stagg didn’t move or turn his head to the game, just kept on grinning, waiting for these two boys to get the full appreciation of why he’d make the trip. He hadn’t come up to Memphis since the trouble with those bikers. And he wanted to make sure the Bohannons weren’t tempted to throw in with all the Mexes buzzing about town. They threw in with the cartel, Tibbehah County and all Stagg had built wouldn’t mean jack shit.
“Have any of those Mex boys sought y’all out?” Stagg said.