The Redeemers

by Ace Atkins

  “But you speak for Stagg?”

  “I do.”

  “OK,” Mickey said, shaking his head. This day had been so damn fucked-up, what was one more thing. He wondered how he’d gotten on the wrong side or the right side of damn Johnny Stagg. “Why not?”

  The man drove a jacked-up blue Ford Raptor, a truck made for off-roading and mud-riding. As they walked out into the cold, the man put on his ball cap and set his sunglasses on top of the brim. The big engine revved with a growl and they were off into the cold and gray. Mickey didn’t have time for this kind of shit, worrying and trying to think just what he had done to piss off Johnny Stagg. He’d done some work for Stagg last year, but he’d done a solid job, as he did on all things. Like his business card told folks, If You Don’t Like It, We’ll Make It Right.

  Whatever he did, he’d make right and then get on with his day. He had checked email and showered at the warehouse. He had a fresh change of clothes and a razor. He called Tonya eight times and left eight messages. She’d yet to call back.

  “You had a busy night,” the man said.

  “Just got back from the beach,” Mickey said. “I got a damn hangover that won’t quit.”

  “Good for you,” the man said. “But not as bad as your pals.”

  “What pals?”

  “The ones who drove a backhoe into Larry Cobb’s house and took his safe,” the man said, driving slow and easy around Jericho and turning on toward two signs pointing to Choctaw Lake.

  “I heard about it,” Mickey said. “Don’t have nothing to do with me.”

  “I’m not the law,” the man said. “And I’m not here for a debate. Some other things were taken besides money.”

  “I said, I don’t know nothing about—”

  “Shut your mouth and listen,” the man said, taking the Raptor up to fifty, sixty, as the little houses started to spread out. They passed a cemetery and then a few farms and Mr. Randolph’s smithing shop. “There were two books.”

  “I said—”

  “Shut up,” the man said, just as easy as a man saying a prayer over supper. “We don’t care about the money. We don’t care what you’ve done or your trouble with Cobb. Just get us those books and we’re good.”

  “How?”

  The man stopped the big old truck on a dime, tires squealing and burning on the road. The big engine idling on the blacktop under the gray skies, bare trees, and endless rolling hills with muddy cows. “Get out.”

  “Here?”

  “Get out,” the man said. “Before I take offense.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Mickey said. “I don’t give a good goddamn.”

  But then he caught the man’s eyes and there was such a depth of fucking meanness that about the only thing to compare it with was a cottonmouth rared up. Mickey didn’t like it. But he shut his mouth and grabbed the door handle. He stepped down from the truck.

  He waited for some instructions or an idea of what to do next. But the man just reached over and pulled the door closed, U-turned on the big country road, and hit the accelerator back to town. A plume of black smoke left behind like a nasty insult to all Mickey had been through today. Son of a bitch.

  He looked at the sky and shook his head. He started walking back to town, to his business and his cell phone. About a mile down the road it started to rain again. And, man, was it cold.

  • • •

  I don’t know if some scratched-up tool is enough to roust Judge Lackey for a warrant,” Rusty Wise said.

  “Eddie Fudge said they’d never used them,” Lillie said. “Not even for training. The things were dirty and moved from where they’d been kept. He was sure of it.”

  “You want to make that play on the word of Eddie Fudge?”

  “Cases have been made on far less than the likes of Eddie Fudge,” Lillie said.

  They sat together in her Jeep Cherokee, where they’d met up by the Big Black River. The river looked cold and muddy, slowly moving under the big Erector set–looking bridge, while they talked in the heated car. Rusty kept on checking his cell phone while they spoke and Lillie was about a second away from snatching the thing out of his hands and tossing it into the water.

  “I want to bring him in,” Lillie said. “I can talk to him while you work on the warrant.”

  “I want to be there,” Rusty said, scratching his cheek. “And then I’ll decide about that warrant.”

  “Kyle Hazlewood has a tool shop behind his house,” Lillie said. “If I’d stolen that safe, that’s where he might have taken it. I’ll try and get a look-see when I call on him.”

  “And if he doesn’t go peacefully?”

  “Then we’ll know even more.”

  “OK,” Rusty said, still looking down at his cell phone.

  “Can I ask you something, Sheriff?” Lillie said.

  “Shoot.”

  “What on earth is so fucking important to be texting about right now?” Lillie said. “You forgotten Kenny almost bled out in a ditch last night? Not to mention a major fucking burglary with almost a million bucks floating out there.”

  “Heck, Lillie,” Rusty said. “Just telling my wife I can’t make lunch. My mother-in-law was driving up from Meridian. She’d baked a chocolate pie for us.”

  “Well, thank the Lord you’re on top of things,” Lillie said. “You wouldn’t want to have a chocolate pie emergency.”

  Rusty looked embarrassed. And more than a little pissed-off. Probably no one at the insurance office ever talked to him like that. But Lillie truly didn’t give a shit. “I’ll call Art and have him come out with me,” Lillie said. “Unless you want to pick up Kyle with me.”

  “’Course I do,” Rusty said. “Let’s go.”

  “Mickey Walls was lying out his ass this morning,” Lillie said. “Did you see how he was sweating?”

  “Story checks out,” Rusty said. “He couldn’t fake being down there on the coast. We got his credit card receipts, and surveillance shows him coming and going at that condo. They sent stills.”

  “Couldn’t have been any neater than if he planned it,” Lillie said. Jesus, Rusty was the most trusting bastard she’d ever met. “He might’ve been giving Tonya Cobb the high hard one, but he’s part of this shit. Screwing that woman doesn’t make him clean.”

  “Lillie,” Rusty said. “Do you always have to talk that way?”

  “Does it make you nervous?”

  “It just doesn’t have to be like that,” Rusty said. “You can get across the same point without using that kind of language. I’d prefer not to hear words I wouldn’t want used in front of my pastor.”

  “Hmm,” Lillie said. “What kind of nice words would you like me to use for shitbags running loose in our county, sir?”

  “Durn it,” Rusty said. “I don’t know. That’s not the point.”

  “This is a tough business, Sheriff,” Lillie said. “We don’t talk like it’s a fucking church picnic. Shooting and robbing is dirty and nasty. I come at these boys hard as they come at me. Comprende?”

  Rusty Wise put away his phone and shuffled in his seat. He didn’t open his mouth.

  “Why would Mickey Walls lie about talking with Kyle?” Lillie said. “Unless he had something to hide.”

  “Maybe he’s nervous.”

  “I want those cell phone records, too,” Lillie said. “Those dumb bastards probably been burning up some airtime. Fucking scheming. But we need more before we can get a warrant.”

  “Lillie?”

  “If you don’t like the way I talk, you don’t like the way I am,” she said. “Are you in or not?”

  “OK,” Rusty said. “Let’s go. But one thing first.”

  “What’s that?” Lillie said, cranking the engine and making a U away from the dirt patch by the river.

  “Can I just please text my wife first?�
�

  “She’ll save you some pie,” Lillie said, taking the Cherokee to up around seventy without the lights or flashers. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

  22.

  Surprised to hear from you,” Quinn said. “Don’t you ever take a day off?”

  “Been a little busy in Tibbehah,” Ringold said. “How’s the deputy?”

  “Better,” Quinn said. “When you called, I was at the hospital and he was awake but pretty out of it. Thought I was his momma for a little bit. And then he kept on talking about some dog they used to have and how he could really hunt.”

  The men had parked their trucks off the Natchez Trace and had met at the steps heading up to the top of the mounds. Ringold had been there when Quinn had arrived, smoking a cigar and reading a plaque about the first archaeological dig on the site back in 1992. He seemed very into a section about intrusive burials and the history of the Chickasaw Village.

  “You got some Indian in you,” Ringold said. “Don’t you?”

  “Choctaw,” Quinn said. “On my mother’s side.”

  “I can see it,” Ringold said. “High cheekbones. You got a hard face.”

  “Appreciate that,” Quinn said. “Goes with the head.”

  They got to the top of the mound and surveyed the wide-open acreage. From the top, you could definitely see the spots where the village had stood, a wide common area, which Quinn had read was a market, situated in the center. Ringold puffed on his cigar, “So what are you hearing about this mess from last night?”

  “Shit, I figured Stagg’s involved,” Quinn said. “Right?”

  “He about shit a brick when he heard Cobb had been robbed,” Ringold said. “Had me track down Cobb on his way back from Tunica and set up a meeting. Stagg wanted to know what else was in the safe besides the money. Never really seemed to care about the amount of cash, only some bookkeeping he knew Cobb had stashed.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Looks like it,” Ringold said, blowing some smoke.

  Quinn stuffed his hands in the pockets of his uncle’s coat. His ball cap set low on his head, no longer TIBBEHAH SHERIFF but one he’d picked up in Columbus, Georgia, for Auburn University. Quinn had always been an Auburn fan while at Benning.

  “This is what you’ve been talking about.”

  “If this is going to work,” Ringold said. “If we’re going to take down Stagg’s ass for more than dealing drugs and guns, we’re going to have to know his money connections. I’ve been working for him for two years now and he plays that shit close. I really don’t know what he talks about with that old trooper, but it’s something with that crook Senator Vardaman. Lots and lots of money, after the twister. That’s when the real money started funneling in. Reason I got assigned in this godforsaken shithole.”

  “You’re talking about my home,” Quinn said.

  “It needs to be fumigated.”

  “I tried,” Quinn said. “There’s nothing that Southerners hate more than self-examination.”

  “We can nail Stagg’s ass,” Ringold said. “So damn close.”

  “If you haven’t heard, I’m no longer sheriff.”

  Ringold’s cigar was about out. He studied the dead end and then used the heel of his shoe to scrape off the ash, setting what was left inside his coat pocket. He stood wide-legged, with his arms crossed over his chest. A little bit of his gun-hand wrist poked out and you could see the beginnings of all that scrawling tattoowork.

  “You know a man named Mickey Walls?” Ringold said.

  “I heard Cobb fingered him for the job,” Quinn said. “I’m not so sure. Those boys have been in a pissing contest for the last year. Walls was married to Cobb’s daughter and there was some bad blood after the divorce. I never made Mickey for a thief.”

  “You better think again,” Ringold said. “It’s him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Dumb bastard told me as much,” Ringold said. “We had what you’d call a come-to-Jesus session. I told him he’d better come up with all of Cobb’s bookkeeping or his ass was on the line.”

  “He deny it?”

  “He tried,” Ringold said. “But it’s him. If he didn’t do it himself, he knows who did it. I just want to find those books. We get some names and we can really go to work on some money transfers and Stagg’s accounts.”

  “And then you can ride off into the sunset?” Quinn said.

  “Never figured to stay around here forever, Sergeant.”

  “There’s more to the place than the ugliness,” Quinn said. “Maybe someday I can take you out hunting and fishing and you can know more than just that goddamn truck stop. Get out on Choctaw Lake and out into the National Forest.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Folks like Stagg and Cobb haven’t ripped all the guts out of the place,” Quinn said. “There’s still a lot left.”

  • • •

  Mickey told Kyle he wanted to meet up at the First Baptist Church basement, down in the rec room, where they held Bible study and used to show Christian movies on Wednesday nights with microwave popcorn and Diet Rite. Mickey recalled seeing a movie a long time ago called Years of the Beast where folks are trying to scavenge like wild animals while the Antichrist is running the show of hypocrites. That thing scared the ever-living shit out of him. Mainly because his momma told him this was what the world would be like when he was her age. She said the world would become lawless and wild and that he’d have to fend for himself.

  Right now, the rec room just looked kind of junky. The walls were made of old paneled wood, and the carpet was a threadbare green industrial that looked to have been laid about fifty years ago. It was so spotted and soiled, it looked like some kind of topographical map. If he’d known things had gotten crummy, he would have put down some new stuff for free. Hell, he would have been glad to do it. If he got through this thing, that was exactly what he was going to do. He’d lay wall-to-wall for free.

  He pulled out a tape measure from his pocket and started looking at dimensions and was nearly done about thirty minutes later when Kyle showed up. The man didn’t look happy, sweating and out of breath. He didn’t say hello and shake Mickey’s hand, only looked at him and said, “God damn, they know it. God damn, they know.”

  “Who?” Mickey said.

  “The law,” Kyle said. “I went down to the fire station for lunch and Eddie Fudge told me damn Lillie Virgil had just left. He was minding his own damn business, making chili, and she started asking all kinds of questions about why the Jaws of Life were out and who’d been using them.”

  “The jaws of what?”

  “The goddamn Jaws of Life,” Kyle said. “I had to borrow them from the firehouse to open the safe. I didn’t have time to put them back or get them cleaned up. Lillie Virgil saw them. She took note. Eddie Fudge told me so.”

  “Fuck Eddie Fudge,” Mickey said. “He doesn’t know shit. And so what if you did use them things? If they can’t find the safe and can’t find the money, it just won’t matter. What did you do with the safe?”

  “Dumped it out in Choctaw Lake,” Kyle said, waiting a second to burn another damn cigarette. “And hell, no. Nobody saw me. I know a road on the other side of the county that nobody uses. Ain’t nobody gonna find that safe.”

  “Do you always have to smoke?” Mickey said. “I mean, son of a bitch. Kids play down here and shit.”

  Kyle looked at him through a cigarette haze as if he were talking in another language. “I don’t like this,” he said. “I don’t like none of it. I hadn’t gone home. I don’t want to go home. If Lillie was sniffing around the firehouse, then she knows me and you are connected. And if she knows that, she’s gonna want to pull me in and start asking questions. God damn that stupid shit for shooting Kenny. If he hadn’t shot Kenny, I don’t even think people would be looking that hard. I think folks might j
ust be thinking that Larry Cobb got what he had coming. But, god damn, you don’t shoot a cop. I see that damn kid again and I just might kill him.”

  “Kenny’s gonna live,” Mickey said. “We got bigger shit to worry about.”

  “Bigger than Parchman?” Kyle said, blowing smoke out his nose. “I doubt it, man. I seriously doubt it. My asshole is already clenching up.”

  “Johnny Stagg.”

  “What?”

  “Stagg and Cobb do business,” Mickey said, waving the haze of smoke out of the way. Light streaming in from the little windows, high in the basement but ground-level outside. “There was something in that safe. Some kind of fucking records that got his panties all in a twist. Something that could cause trouble for him and Cobb. You need to get it and bring it to me. I’ll wait right here.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Mickey said. “What the hell you mean, no? I just got to ride around with that crazy bald-headed motherfucker that works for Stagg. You know the one with the big beard and all them tattoos? That son of a bitch is a card-carrying psychopath, I shit you not. He said he was gonna roast my nuts if I didn’t give them back what they want.”

  “The boy took it,” Kyle said. “Your boy Chase that shot the cop. He stole a Rolex and some earrings and took those books. They’re real books. Two of them. Like old-fashioned leather ledgers they got at the courthouse. I didn’t see much interest in them. I was going to burn them. I don’t know why the hell the boy took them other than just to be a real and true retard.”

  “Shit.”

  “You bet.”

  “Now I got to drive over to Gordo and roust their ass while I got Johnny Law breathing down my neck.”

  “They pull you in again?”

  “Just once,” Mickey said. “I’m not going back without a lawyer. They don’t have shit on me. They know my damn story checks out.”

  Kyle didn’t say anything. He smoked down that Marlboro and started a new one. The basement was dark, musty-smelling, and cold. Mickey tried to recall a few scenes from that old movie he’d watched. He thought maybe one of the characters was a college professor and another a hippie or a Jew. The Antichrist was kind of like the president, but more like a king. He had a nice pin-striped suit and wore a carnation in his lapel. If he’d been black, Mickey would’ve figured maybe the End Times were right here and now. What was the world coming to?