The Revelators

by Ace Atkins

  Maggie smiled back at him. Maggie had the most wonderful, sly little grin as her hand rested on her jaw. Her pale green eyes lit up with love and intelligence, a little playful heat in her face. The freckles across her skin and her nose even more prominent with her cheeks scrubbed of makeup and reddish-brown hair twisted up high into a tight bun. Quinn knew that in a select little piece of real estate under her left arm was a simple scrawled tattoo that read BE HERE NOW.

  Quinn reached out and held her hand. He looked around the small cafeteria and spotted a large woman emptying out stainless steel trays filled with steaming water. The steam lifted and dissipated in big clouds under the fluorescent lights.

  “What you see right now, with me, isn’t everything,” he said. “I only need you to trust that I’m doing right.”

  “You and Boom.”

  “It’s more than just me and Boom,” Quinn said. “We’ve got help.”

  “I hope so,” Maggie said. “That new sheriff and his people are some bad seeds.”

  Quinn nodded. “I was just down at Perfect Circle Road, looking for something that Dana Ray might’ve left. I found a whole mess of bills, unpaid credit cards. No one had even gone out there to check on her. No one was even looking.”

  “Can you find her?”

  “Maybe,” Quinn said. “Lillie’s gonna help.”

  “Lillie will find that sorry little bitch.”

  “You bet.”

  “And then what?” Maggie said. “You, Boom, and Lillie. Just like the old days. You’re gonna hook up that busted-ass pickup truck to the establishment and bring it all down like a rotten old building? I’m not so sure that’s gonna work anymore.”

  “It’s more surgical than that.”

  A light flashed in Maggie’s eyes. Her black-painted fingernails cut down to the quick as she put her finger to her lips and smiled. “Holliday.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And others.”

  “This is it,” Quinn said. “The reason I came home. But if it gets rough, you and Brandon and the baby might have to head back south for a while. Can you stay with your momma in Mobile?”

  “Nope,” Maggie said. “No way in hell.”

  “Come on, now.”

  “Nope.”

  Quinn didn’t say anything. Maggie leaned back in her chair, hands on her stomach, watching Quinn. Their connection had been intense and personal from the first moment they’d come across each other, Maggie returning to Jericho trying to escape a bad marriage and find a semblance of normalcy in Tibbehah County. He reached out and cupped his right hand across her face, Maggie holding the look, her eyes so pale they seemed translucent.

  “I’m tired of running, Quinn,” she said. “I was too young to pack up my life and follow Rick’s sorry ass from base to base and across the country. This is my home, same as yours. We’re sticking tight through all of this. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving you. Not for one damn second.”

  “I wish you’d think on that.”

  “I know you do,” Maggie said. “But you always finish what you start. I just feel sorry for that dumb bastard Brock Tanner. Does he have any idea on how all this is going to turn out?”

  “Not yet,” Quinn said. “But he’s fixing to find out.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “You really live out here?” Akeem Triplett asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Donnie said. “High living and high style down in Jericho, Mississippi. This used to be the primo spot to watch John Wayne kill the bad folks while getting your pecker tugged. Long before they opened up that titty bar behind the Rebel.”

  “I used to go to the movies at the drive-in on Summer Avenue when I was a kid,” Triplett said, kicking back outside on an old metal lawn chair, that bug-eyed Lola up in his lap. “I saw I’m Gonna Git You Sucka there twice with my momma and auntie. Both of them laughing like hell when that dude puts on those glass pimp shoes filled with goldfish.”

  “This place shut down when I was in high school,” Donnie said. “Only folks who came out here were old folks reliving old times and burnouts flying high on acid and weed.”

  “Ain’t that a damn shame,” Triplett said, dragging on that joint. “You hiding from folks out here?”

  “Naw, man,” Donnie said. “Just a cheap piece of real estate to rent while I get my affairs in order.”

  “If you’re hiding from something, Donnie Varner, you sure as shit are an easy man to find.”

  “Who told you where to find me?”

  “Mr. Sledge.”

  “And who told this Mr. Sledge?”

  “Don’t know,” Triplett said. “Don’t care. Your name just came up is all. In regard to unloading a big ole mess of guns. I’m a businessman. Me and Lola was just checking on your ass to see if you’d like to do a little business.”

  Donnie nodded, burning down the last of his last joint. He handed it back to Triplett, the .38 now slid back on his Western belt and under his T-shirt spattered with mud and dust from working at The River. Thinking on it, he knew it had to be Fannie Hathcock who made the connection to this fella Marquis Sledge up in Memphis. She’d want to do a little business but keep herself clear of the whole situation besides getting a little cut.

  “OK,” Donnie said. “Ain’t no harm in me seeing what y’all got.”

  Triplett burned down the joint and flicked the last bit of it down into Donnie’s barbecue grill. He had his big hands stretched onto his thighs, nodding to himself as if just coming to some kind of decision. “See, it ain’t that simple,” Triplett said. “You got to go all in for this shit. I mean total and complete participation in a grand fucking adventure.”

  “A grand fucking what?” Donnie said. “So let me get this shit straight. Y’all don’t have any guns yet?”

  “No,” Triplett said. “But we will. Real soon.”

  “How many are we talking here?”

  “Oh,” Triplett said. “It’s a real mixed bag. Some AR-15-style weaponry. Automatic pistols. You know, forty-fives, nine-millimeters. All that shit. I’d have to check the grocery list but we’re looking at about four hundred fifty guns.”

  “Damn,” Donnie said, giving a low whistle. “That is a shit ton of guns, Akeem. Where does an old ballplayer like you acquire such an impressive stash?”

  “Are you in?”

  “In for what?”

  “That grand fucking adventure.”

  “Come on, man,” Donnie said. “Quit pulling my pecker and tell me what you’re thinking. If I can’t make the deal, I can help you make a few connections.”

  “Maybe you aren’t the man I’d hoped to find,” Triplett said, rubbing Lola’s pricked little ears. “The Donnie Varner I heard about was some kind of Southern wild man who’d do anything anytime and wouldn’t think twice about the volume of what I’m offering.”

  “I can’t make an offer on something sight unseen,” Donnie said. “The volume doesn’t bother me. I’m more concerned about quality.”

  “But can you move that much?” Triplett said. “Because when that shit hits, we got to move it fast and hard. Hit that honey hole like a black man.”

  “Oh, come on now,” Donnie said. “You’re planning to steal a bunch of guns and then you want me to fence that shit down in Mississippi?”

  “No,” Triplett said, taking off his sunglasses for the first time and looking right at Donnie. “I’m asking you to put a little skin in the game. I need you to help us steal them guns and then move ’em down to Mississippi.”

  “Son of a damn bitch,” Donnie said. “You’re kidding me? Right?”

  “What you think, country boy?”

  “OK, OK,” Donnie said. “Slow down. Just exactly who is us?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Quinn picked up Brandon from school and drove him to the launch
at Choctaw Lake to hunt for some fat lazy bass. Down at the landing, the boy helped loosen the straps on the trailer and then floated out with a paddle as Quinn jumped off from the shore and onto the jon boat. He started the little Evinrude motor and soon the two sat facing each other as Quinn worked a drop shot hook onto his line. The lake was big and wide, spread out like a misshapen pancake, more than seventy thousand acres built as a WPA project in the thirties.

  Quinn had grown up fishing the lake, as had his father and Uncle Hamp. It was a big part of life down in Tibbehah County. There were a half-dozen fish camps back onshore, along with two bait and tackle shops and a run-down old restaurant that hadn’t been open in more than a decade.

  Brandon was quiet and serious as he cast his line with deft and precision on the opposite side of the boat. He had a light, delicate touch that wasn’t common with most kids his age. The trick was going to be finding some deep cool water on a hot afternoon, but with a little patience and some time, Quinn figured they might have a little luck. Last week, he’d helped Brandon reel in a bass that weighed almost six pounds. As he worked, the boy looked almost afraid to breathe, worried he might spook the fish.

  “They can’t hear you all the way up here,” Quinn said.

  “I don’t want to take any chances,” Brandon said.

  “Sound doesn’t travel too good between air and water,” Quinn said. “Talk as much as you want. Just don’t jump around too much in the boat or drop anything. That ping will resonate down below.”

  Brandon nodded, serious. He had on Quinn’s old Auburn University ball cap, a worn-out trucker that he’d bought not long after he’d arrived at Fort Benning.

  “Everything all right at school?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Having any more trouble with that Byrd boy?”

  “No, sir,” Brandon said. “Not after I punched him right in the nose.”

  “Not sure that’s the best tactic.”

  “Isn’t that what you told me to do?”

  “Well, yeah,” Quinn said. “But your momma and me discussed it. May not be the best approach for the future unless you want to be heading to the principal’s office.”

  Brandon nodded again, his hair as light and blond as Caddy’s. At first glance, some folks figured him for a Colson. Maggie was more fair with her pale Irish skin, dark reddish hair, and freckles. A hot wind blew across the large lake, shuffling the trees and scattering ripples across the surface. The motor was turned off and the jon boat glided in a quarter circle. The sun high and hot over them as Quinn scanned the shore for pockets of darkness where the bass would be waiting.

  “What if he tries and gets me in trouble?” Brandon said. “He’s a real butthole.”

  “Someone like that will get himself in trouble,” Quinn said. “You can just stand back and enjoy it. I went to school with that boy’s uncle. None of those folks are right in the head.”

  Quinn pulled the brim of his ball cap down in his eyes, reeling in the line and casting it back to the same spot. He’d always found that if he repeated the same cast ten or fifteen times, that bass would finally take note.

  “I just get so mad sometimes,” Brandon said. “I don’t know why. I just can’t help it.”

  “I used to feel the same way,” Quinn said.

  Brandon was quiet for a long while, reeling in the line and recasting back in the same spot as Quinn had taught him. On the last cast, he had a little nibble but nothing solid and brought the rubber worm back to the surface, skimming the water.

  “What used to make you mad?”

  “Lots of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Quinn said. “Usual stuff. Trying to make myself known, that I was better or different than my father.”

  “Your daddy was famous.”

  “He used to be,” Quinn said. “He was good at some stuff but didn’t much resolve with his family. He couldn’t make a decision on whether to stay with us or head back to California.”

  “Why didn’t y’all just go with him?”

  Quinn thought about it, removed his cap, and wiped his brow. He readjusted the hat on his head, working the bill to shade his eyes. “I guess ’cause he never asked.”

  “My daddy is a bad man.”

  Quinn didn’t answer. He didn’t have much of a reply.

  “He robbed banks,” Brandon said. “He shot folks. Even killed a couple people.”

  All true. And a lot more of it, too. Quinn wanted to add that the son of a bitch had also blown up his favorite pickup truck. Something that he’d never be able to forgive.

  “Do you get mad at him?” Quinn asked.

  The boy thought on it, making a perfect cast big, wide, and deep into the expanse of Choctaw Lake, the boat slightly turning clockwise, drifting back toward shore. The air was dry and light, the sky an eggshell blue without a cloud in sight.

  “It’s not his fault,” Brandon said. “It was in his blood. His daddy was bad, too. At least that’s what he tells me. I guess I’ll be the same way.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “That’s why my mom wanted to have another baby with you,” Brandon said. “A baby with a good daddy so that she’ll get a good kid.”

  Quinn reeled in his line again. He scanned the shore for a large section of cypress trees and a wedge of darkness and shadow. The bass loved to hide in the darkness among the stumps and fallen logs. Quinn knew it could be a hell of a place to snag your lures, but if you could drag a line through it, you just might annoy the hell out of some big fish.

  Quinn moved over to start the little motor. He waited for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, find some words that would make sense to Brandon.

  “You are not or ever could be a bad kid, Brandon,” Quinn said. “And I promise, no one would ever replace you. I love you and your mother so much, I just want our family to grow. You guys are home now and nothing is going to change. I’m not going away. Neither is your momma. Your daddy is exactly where he needs to be. And you and me are pals. Everything I got is yours. Everything I know I want to pass on to you.”

  Brandon stared at Quinn and nodded, the fishing pole held tight in his hand, the rubber frog lure bouncing over the edge of the boat.

  “I know what it’s like to be lost,” Quinn said. “If it hadn’t been for my uncle, I might have ended up like your daddy.”

  “Don’t call him that,” Brandon said. “Not anymore.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep,” Brandon said. “I like this place. I don’t want to leave. I like the farm and this lake. I like having supper with your momma.”

  “That won’t end.”

  “Promise?”

  Quinn winked and started the little motor, seeking out a better spot to find those big bass that would fight like hell and bend your pole, making a young boy smile and laugh and forget adult problems and troubles that ruined the fun.

  9

  Fannie Hathcock had been less than impressed with the couple dozen girls they’d routed up from Biloxi via Houston. She didn’t know their ages, nor wanted to ask. Besides, she didn’t speak Spanish and didn’t have any intention to learn it. That’s why she had Nat be the go-between once they got the girls off those trucks and showered and cleaned up. It was their damn problem that they wanted to live in America so bad that they’d sign on for a tour of duty on the flat of their backs. But they were eager and worked cheap and after she got a good bit of use out of them, Fannie would send them on up to Memphis or on to Chicago. No shortage of folks who like some nice young tail from south of the border or from over in Vietnam. Fannie could arrange work visas, some hard cash, and a decent place to live. All the peanut butter sandwiches and lube they needed.

  She had to give herself credit for expanding into the internet market. She made more damn money from dipshits sending tokens to her girl
s online than a month of Sundays over at Vienna’s Place. She’d actually contemplated shutting down the bar for a while and building some cribs out on Choctaw Lake or somewhere out in the county to keep up with the demand. That electronic click and whir of tokens coming through online was sweet music to Fannie’s ears. All she had to supply was a laptop and an internet connection. At that very moment, she had all twenty-five rooms at the Golden Cherry livestreaming out on the worldwide internet to every hairy-backed, sweaty jerkwad with his pecker in his hand. Cash. Cash. Cash. Livestreaming peep shows for lonely men.

  Want me to take off my bra? That’ll be fifty bucks.

  Take off my G-string? How about a hundred?

  Dance around nekkid while slow-eating a banana? Now that, sir, is a special request for the discerning freak. How about an even thousand damn bucks?

  Fannie had to explain all this to Sam Frye in her office above Vienna’s Place in hopes that Chief Robbie might want to sign on for a franchise opportunity. He provided the space and she provided the girls. No johns. No drunken fights. No crotch rot. It was a fucking win-win-win. Sam Frye looked like an iron statue in the shadow on her office. Seated in a leather chair, legs crossed, and dressed in a funeral-black suit and skinny black tie.

  “No,” Sam Frye said.

  “What do you mean no?” Fannie said, tapping an unlit cigarillo against her sterling silver case. “Aren’t you even gonna think about it?”

  “These girls I just saw are too young,” Sam Frye said. “They don’t speak English. The Chief would not approve.”

  “What kind of language skills do you need to stick a cucumber up your twat?”

  Sam Frye shook his head. “These girls aren’t happy,” he said. “You keep them in that old motel like rabbits in a hutch. When do they eat? When do they use the bathroom?”

  “That’s the beauty of it all, Tonto,” Fannie said, winking. “They do it all on camera and get paid for every filthy moment.”

  “No,” he said. “I came here to discuss Takali.”

  “I know you boys think a carnival for fat fucks on the Coast is a brilliant moneymaker,” she said. “But there’s a better chance y’all are gonna fail. Too much competition. Too much overhead. I heard y’all were even thinking of bringing in that crazy bitch Paula Deen to fry up some fried chicken and fatback for those turds when they get through puking on a Tilt-A-Whirl or roller coaster. It all sounds like some kind of Country Bear Jamboree gone wild.”