by Ace Atkins
“Oh, yes, sir,” Stagg said, standing near Cobb’s La-Z-Boy. Ringold was listening but checking out the integrity of the walls, pushing at what was left of the roof with a stick. He had on his military pants and boots, and a padded blue jacket with a leather patch on the shoulder. Stagg couldn’t see the gun rig he wore but knew it was close at hand.
“I commend you on your faith in both the Bible and that Wild Turkey,” Stagg said. “But I don’t give a goddamn how you think everything’s meant to happen, Larry. What I care about is shit you’ve squirreled away in your damn safe, names and numbers that might incriminate me and some fine folks in Jackson.”
Cobb looked up. He stared at Stagg with those little narrow pig eyes.
“What?”
“I know you and Jesus got this all figured out,” Stagg said. “But maybe you need some help.”
“I don’t follow,” Cobb said, putting down the Wild Turkey and hitting the lever on the La-Z-Boy to bring his head up and his boots back to the ground.
“You need some fucking help holding Mickey Walls’s nuts to the flame,” Stagg said. “Because I know you. I know how you do business, and things you’ve let slip in our conversation. I know you keep records, documents of transactions. Foolish shit that I’ve warned you about. While you are one smart fucking squirrel, you ain’t clever. And if your records and your account books talk about things that should never be mentioned, me and you and lots of other folks might be headed into some federal courthouse.”
Cobb snorted. “You think a fucking thief cares about some stupid ledgers?” he said. “Mickey wanted my money. You know I won my court case against him. We settled out for a hundred grand. He come back to get the money from my safe. Whatever else is in there, he’ll burn.”
Stagg looked to Ringold, who’d sidled up by his shoulder. Cobb stood, using a lot of help with the armrests to get to his feet. “You willing to trust Jesus on that one?”
Cobb moved his hand over his white whiskers, stumbled on over to the edge of the room where the floor dropped off, and stood there, staring off into the trees and the lookout over his lumber mill, smoke billowing from one of his outbuildings. A lot of bright heat on a cold morning.
“Who’s he talking about?” Ringold said. “Who is Walls?”
“Shit,” Stagg said. “Let’s go. I’ll tell you everything you’ll need to know.”
• • •
What you got there?” Uncle Peewee said, hunkered over a laptop on the kitchen table since they got back to Gordo. He’d been switching from looking at titties to a swingers’ dating site, where he went by the handle JUSBANGINU. Man had been using a damn picture of George Clooney for his profile pic.
“Nothin’.” Chase was watching ESPN, drinking a Coors Light, and thumbing through some of those fancy books he’d found in the safe, along with the gold watch and earrings he’d took. He didn’t have to ask nobody about it. He’d just done it. They’d worked the same as Kyle and deserved the same kind of reward.
They were in Peewee’s trailer. He had four of them on a quarter acre in Gordo. Chase and his momma lived in one and Peewee rented the other two. The good thing about family was that every time the power company came to turn off the juice, Peewee would run a cord out back of his bathroom. That’s what family was all about. Chase stopped reading and looked at the big gold watch on his wrist, shaking it. Wouldn’t keep time worth a shit.
Chase looked up, hearing Peewee’s hard breathing behind him. “That ain’t yours.”
“Ain’t yours, neither.”
“Where you’d get that?”
“It don’t matter,” Chase said, trying to ignore him. That peckerhead radio host from Birmingham was on TV, talking about how the Tide was going to put a whooping on Ohio State at the Sugar Bowl. That was a bad sign. Every time that peckerhead started to run his mouth about knowing things, it went the other way. God damn it.
“That was in the safe,” Peewee said. “I seen it.”
“Shit.”
“What else you get?”
“Nothing.”
Peewee slapped the Coors Light out of his hand and came around the couch to look down at him. Peewee trying to look tough in a pair of pajama bottoms and his Duck Dynasty T-shirt. He gave Chase a mean look while scratching his balls, blocking the TV set, the peckerhead on it running down a list of why Saban had a superior mind to Urban Meyer. Chase loved the Tide, but the TV man was giving Saban a good old-fashioned reach-around.
“Give it me.”
“No, sir,” Chase said. “It’s mine.”
“You better give me every fucking thing you took out of that safe except the money,” Peewee said. “You hear me?”
He raised the back of his hand up just like his momma used to do, back when she gave a shit. Chase’s Coors Light had bled out on the floor, leaving a big stain.
Chase looked up at him, knowing this was the time when lines had to be drawn. Peewee’d got to figure Chase was his own man. He’d done the job same as him. Peewee was no high-dollar safecracker. He was just a cheap thief.
“Hand it over.”
“I said hell no.”
For a second, he thought Peewee was damn pissing on him but then could smell the odor from the lighter fluid. The son of a bitch had squirted that shit all over him and was now standing above him flicking on his Zippo and looking down at Chase, wild-eyed.
“Yes, sir,” Chase said, and snatched the fancy watch off his wrist.
“What else?”
“I got some big earrings,” he said. “I stuck them in the back part of my commode.”
“Go get them.”
Chase stood up, smelling all that lighter fluid soaking into his clothes and skin. Peewee snatched the book out of his hands, flipping through the pages and seeing all the amounts, dates, names. A hell of a lot of them under the heading Vardaman.
“And this?” Peewee said. “You take this out to the trash barrel and burn it. You hear me? Why the hell you’d take it?”
Chase shrugged, seeing some of the lighter fluid soaking into the yellowed pages. “’Cause it was there.”
“I can turn that money,” Peewee said. “And I’ll run the risk to do it. But I ain’t getting burned for no watch or earrings. Don’t ever take no souvenirs from a job. You understand? Unless you got a fence you can trust. This ain’t no goddamn time to be testing relationships.”
“Why?”
“You recall shooting a lawman?”
Chase dropped his head, nodded. Peewee handed him back the book but kept the watch. Chase noting Peewee slipping the gold and diamonds on his own fat wrist.
“Burn those books,” he said. “Bring me back everything else.”
• • •
At the Carthage Volunteer Fire Department, Lillie Virgil found Eddie Fudge making chili.
“I’m calling it five-alarm chili,” Eddie said, opening the top of the Crock-Pot in the back kitchen. The department was nothing more than a metal shed, situated right next to an Assembly of God church.
“I figured you would,” Lillie said.
“It’s some bold stuff,” Eddie said. “Some folks can’t handle it. Especially women.”
“You know women, Eddie,” Lillie said. “We faint when there’s heat.”
Eddie was tall and thick, bald and bearded, and had taken to wearing ball caps too small for his head. He had on a white one today that told folks With a Body Like Mine, Who Needs Hair? He and Lillie had been in the same class at Tibbehah High. And when he wasn’t out playing assistant fire chief, he fixed heating-and-cooling units. Sometimes he drove a school bus. “I used my own habaneros, a whole bottle of Louisiana hot sauce, and an entire cup of chili powder.”
“And that’s how you came by the name,” Lillie said. “Clever.”
“Want a taste?” he said, slipping the wooden spoon out of the pot and of
fering her some.
“Actually, I’m looking for Kyle Hazlewood,” she said. “He wasn’t at his house. Figured he might have stopped by here to play cards or wax the fire engine. Or whatever you boys do on your off days.”
“Had a brush fire last week,” Eddie said. “I know y’all think we just sit around and play with our hoses. But we got to be on call. You know how much I’d like a cold beer right now with this chili? But you never know when that cell phone’s gonna ring.”
“Don’t I know it,” Lillie said. “But Kyle. Have you seen him?”
“I haven’t seen Kyle since that brush fire,” he said. “Why? Something a-matter?”
“No,” Lillie said. “Just had a quick question for him.”
Eddie sipped from the spoon. “Wow. Ho-ly shit.”
“Hot?”
“As two nekkid women in a pepper patch.”
Lillie grinned. “That your own?”
“Nah,” he said. “Fella over in Eupora told me that one. You can use it, if you like.”
“Appreciate it,” she said, turning back to the door. “Stay out of trouble, Eddie.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lillie shook her head and headed out of the kitchen and into the main shed, where they kept their four-wheel-drive fire engine, the red paint and chrome gleaming in the fluorescent lights. Lillie’s boots thumped on concrete as she headed to the door. As she walked, a big tangled contraption set in the corner caught her eye. She’d been at accident scenes enough times to recognize the Jaws of Life and the compressor that worked it.
She got down to one knee and saw it was splattered in fresh mud and had several deep scratches in the paint. She called back to Eddie. “When did y’all get these?” she said.
Eddie came out, small bowl in hand, and walked over to see what Lillie was talking about. “Summer,” he said.
“Y’all been training?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I don’t know what they’re doing out. Someone’s been fucking around with them.”
“Why would anyone fuck around with the Jaws of Life?”
“Shit, someone probably used them as a bottle opener,” he said. “They should have put it back where they found it. What if we had an emergency situation?”
Lillie nodded. “You ever had to use them?”
“Did some training couple years ago in Hernando,” he said. “Hadn’t used these. But they’re pretty much the same thing.”
“And they’ll open anything?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Eddie said. “Those pinchers can tear apart anything metal. Why?”
“I’m going out to my vehicle to get a camera to take some photos. OK? I’ll be right back.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just thinking, is all.”
“Do what you like,” he said. “You sure you don’t want some chili to go?”
“Only if you tell me how hot it really is,” Lillie said.
“Two rats fucking in a wool sock can’t generate this much heat.”
“Wow,” she said. “Make it to go. Some things are starting to come together for me.”
21.
Jason Colson brought Quinn a cheeseburger and fries, chocolate shake on the side, from Sonic.
Quinn was sitting in a hard chair next to Kenny’s bed at the hospital. He’d been out of surgery for an hour but was still asleep. Both Kenny’s folks had been killed in the tornado. He had a sister in Columbus, but she hadn’t made it to town yet.
“Thanks,” Quinn said, his legs stretched straight out before him, boots crossed at the ankle.
“What’s the word?”
“He’s going to be fine,” Quinn said. “But if Lillie hadn’t found him, he would have died in that ditch.”
“Jesus,” Jason said, standing by Kenny’s bed, Kenny off in dreamland. “Any idea who shot him?”
“He hasn’t been conscious,” Quinn said. “But Lillie’s working on something. She’ll find who did this.”
“Is it true these bastards ran a fucking bulldozer through Larry Cobb’s house?”
“It was a backhoe,” Quinn said. “But, yes, sir.”
“Hate to say it,” Jason said. “I knew Larry back in high school and he wasn’t worth a shit back then. You know that mill was his daddy’s, and his daddy’s before him.”
Quinn reached into the sack and grabbed the cheeseburger and started to eat. Old habits of sleeping and eating when you can. Jason took a seat in the other free chair. Behind him was a framed Bible verse and a chart on how to measure your pain, 1 through 10. Blue was no pain. Bright red meant you hurt like a bitch.
“First, Caddy,” Jason said. “Now Kenny. How you holding up?”
“Fine,” Quinn said. “Nothing’s wrong with me. Appreciate the lunch.”
“Your momma called me,” Jason said. “First reaction was that something had happened to you. I don’t like getting calls like that from your momma. We haven’t exactly been on good terms since I came back. I don’t think she really wanted me back in Jericho.”
“You don’t say.”
“I know, I know,” Jason said. He was wearing his STUNTMAN UNLIMITED jacket, red satin, along with a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate. It read Skoal Bandit Racing. “Hard to imagine. But I do think that woman will come around.”
The last part surprised Quinn and he glanced up at his father. Jason shrugged. “Thought about riding over to Tupelo tomorrow. Check on Caddy.”
“You can’t,” Quinn said. “Not until she’s got that shit out of her system in detox. They also like to separate her from the family so she can focus and get with the program.”
Jason nodded, sitting wide-legged on the chair, both father and son staring at Kenny, all shot-up and in la-la land. He had a lot of scrapes on his forehead and a busted lip from being in that ravine. A nurse came in and checked his vitals, saying hello and then turning to leave. Jason Colson appraised her backside on the way out. He raised his eyebrows.
“I guess you get used to this kind of thing,” Jason said. “Folks getting injured. Shot-up.”
“Some,” Quinn said. “But usually we just tried to get them to the LZ and the hell out of the shooting.”
“You lost a lot of buddies?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Been over there, what, eight, ten times?”
“Thirteen deployments,” Quinn said. “Ten years.”
“Long time,” Jason said, stroking that goatee, thinking on things. “I’ve lost some buds, too. Mainly drugs. Alcohol. One of my best friends—this was even before you were born—jumped off a nine-story building, doubling for George Kennedy. The sorry thing was, he’d already filmed the gag but went back to reshoot because someone had broken his world record. You know, for height. That’s the ego we had back then. He landed the son of a bitch perfect, but the fucking air bag split and killed him. I can’t even recall the name of the picture. I know Lee Majors was in it. We went on to work together for a long time on Fall Guy.”
“Caddy and I met him,” Quinn said, eating some fries. “Out on one of our L.A. trips.”
“He was big shit back then,” Jason said. “Women wouldn’t leave his ass alone. I think they believed he had a bionic pecker.”
“That would do it.”
Jason smiled, nodding over to Kenny. “I’m glad he’s gonna pull through,” Jason said. “Always liked Kenny. I could tell how much respect he had for you. I think he’d walk straight through hell if you told him to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You think Jean might let me pick up Jason later today?” Jason said. “I wanted to show him a reel of some of the gags I did in Gator and Cannonball Run. I think he’d get a kick out of it.”
“Knowing his granddad is crazy?”
“You ever turn down a dare, son?” Jason said.
“No, sir.”
Jason winked at him. “We just don’t have it in us.”
• • •
Sorry, buddy,” Mickey Walls said. “We’re closed.”
“That’s OK,” the man said, stepping into the warehouse behind the Walls Flooring showroom. “I don’t need any flooring.”
“Then what can I help you with?” Mickey said. “Like I said, we’re closed.”
“You Mickey Walls?”
The man was medium height and medium size, pretty much an unremarkable human being except for a big sprouting black beard on his otherwise hairless head. He wanted to say maybe he’d seen the fella somewhere, someplace. He looked familiar as hell.
“Yeah,” Mickey said. “If you’re gonna try and serve me with papers, why don’t you take the day off. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not the law,” the man said.
“Oh yeah?” he said. “Then who are you?”
“I work for Mr. Stagg,” the man said. “How about we take a little ride?”
“I’m good right here,” Mickey said, standing tall in his shop. The ceiling raised up fifty feet in both directions, stacked with finished and unfinished hardwoods, rolls of laminate, and fine, high-traffic carpeting. Mickey didn’t know what else to say, as he looked at the fella, who seemed as serious as could be, and so he lit a cigarette and fanned out the match. He tucked the cigarettes back in his shirt pocket and waited.
“This isn’t a request.”
“I don’t have no truck with Johnny Stagg.”
“Didn’t say you did,” the man said.
“If he wants to talk business, let’s do it another day,” Mickey said, smoke shooting out the side of his mouth. “We’re fucking closed.”
The man smiled like an old friend of the family and opened his coat to show a shiny blued pistol of impressive size. Just as fast, the man closed his coat. Oh, hell. Here we go, Mickey thought.
“What’s your name?” Mickey said. “You never told me.”
“That’s right.”