by Ace Atkins
He fired up the cigar again, waiting for the Peterbilt to pull out so he might follow Creekmore to wherever he was headed.
Quinn was about to open the truck door when three men walked around the corner. All of them holding long pieces of metal pipe.
“He’p you with something?” asked the man in the center.
* * *
• • •
“Damn,” Akeem Triplett said. “I didn’t see that comin’.”
“You need to turn up the heat on them wings,” Donnie said, wiping his mouth with a fistful of napkins and downing his third bottle of water. “That wasn’t shit.”
“Oh, come on now,” Triplett said. “You cryin’ like a baby on that last one.”
“Bullshit.”
“I seen it,” Triplett said. “What do you say, Rerun?”
“Yeah, I seen that shit, too,” Rerun said. “You one crazy son of a bitch, Mr. Varner. Ain’t never seen a white man win that challenge. I tried myself no less than fifteen times.”
“I’ll take that T-shirt in a large and the hundred in all twenties if you don’t mind.”
Triplett laughed as he headed behind the counter and retrieved a shirt and some cash from the till. He sat back down and crossed his arms over his chest. He placed his sunglasses back on and looked direct at Donnie. “OK, then,” he said. “Rerun?”
Rerun studied Donnie’s face with his little beady brown eyes. He nodded both chins and then turned back to Triplett. “I like him,” Rerun said. “I think he’ll work out just fine.”
“You mind standing up and placing your arms over your head?” Triplett asked.
“Why?”
“Cell phone, too,” Rerun said. “Make sure you ain’t recording nothing.”
Donnie stood and laid down his phone, raising his hands. Triplett patted him down, making him empty out his pockets, hold up his shirt, and take off his boots. As he raised his shirt, Triplett took note of the .38 on a holster clip but didn’t pay it any mind.
“Clean?”
Rerun nodded and slid the cell phone across the table and Donnie caught it before it landed on the floor. “Feds got microphones these days smaller than a mouse’s pecker hole.”
“When can I see the guns?”
“Might be this Saturday,” Triplett said. “Might be the next. Got to be flexible, man. Depends on what we hear from Tyrell’s people. We heard you can drive an eighteen-wheeler.”
“From Fannie Hathcock?”
Triplett shrugged.
“Damn straight,” Donnie said. “Drove trucks all across this country and even over in Trashcanistan.”
“Can you get us one?”
“Maybe,” Donnie said. “How many guns you moving?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Triplett said. “All you got to do is drive us in, help us load up, and drive out.”
“Nothing’s that easy.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asked. “How about you and me take a little ride?”
Donnie and Triplett left Rerun at the Take Off Grill and headed on down toward Winchester and the airport. They drove past the signs for the terminal when Triplett made a U-turn and headed back in the opposite direction. He slowed at the gate of a big compound south of the airport and let his Crown Vic idle. He pointed up to a sign and the several big warehouses connected to the tarmac.
“You’ve got to be shitting me, man,” Donnie said. “You’re going to rob the fucking UPS warehouse?”
Triplett grinned. “I bet you look sharp in brown, Donnie Varner.”
* * *
• • •
Quinn had his arms raised and told the man to let him reach for his badge.
“Badge?” a new man said, walking out from the side of the warehouse. “You ain’t no more sheriff than I am, Quinn Colson. How ’bout you tell us what the fuck you’re doing over here in Lee County.”
Curtis Creekmore joined the three men holding the sections of pipe. He had on a T-shirt that read WALK BY FAITH and ragged jean shorts held up by a Western belt with a rodeo buckle. On his skinny left arm he showed off the tattoo of his recently departed cat wearing a cowboy hat and smoking a corncob pipe.
“Glad to see you’ve found the Lord, Curtis,” Quinn said.
“Damn straight,” Creekmore said, spitting onto the ground. “Working for the good folks at Petco delivering supplies all over the state. Dog food. Collars. Squeaky balls. All that shit. You trying to make trouble for me? Because this here is private property and these boys don’t care for you making trouble.”
“Can I grab my badge?”
“Do as you please,” Creekmore said. “But I already told them you ain’t the law no more. Not here. Not in Tibbehah. Not nowhere.”
Quinn lowered his hands. “How about you call up Sheriff Johnson and see if he can explain it all to you? I’m sure he’d be happy to sort out any confusion.”
Creekmore turned to spit and exchanged looks with the trio holding the pipes, trying to be tough. One of them palming the end of the metal every few seconds. “Your head’s got to be made out of fucking concrete, Colson. You ain’t being paid for all the trouble you’re causing.”
Two of the men walked up on Quinn, one of them swinging the pipe toward Quinn’s stomach. He caught the pipe, twisted it from the man’s hands, and punched him right in the throat. The man fell back as his friend came for Quinn, wildly swinging the pipe. Quinn ducked one of the swings and tackled the man’s legs out from under him, knocking him in the back and twisting his head into a choke hold. Quinn squeezed tight, the man smelling like the inside of a petting zoo, flailing in the dirt. Quinn trying to catch his breath, heart racing with sharp pains shooting up his back and down his legs.
“Come on, now,” Curtis Creekmore said. “Knock that shit off or I’m gonna have to shoot your ass.”
He pulled out a little pistol and aimed it at Quinn. Quinn slowly let go of the man’s throat as they all heard the distinctive snick-snick of a shotgun racking.
Lillie Virgil walked out past Quinn’s truck, pressing the barrel of her gun against the base of Curtis Creekmore’s head. “U.S. Marshal,” Lillie said. “Enough of this bullshit. Drop that pistol, Curtis. Or you’re about to meet your long-lost pussy, Mr. Whiskers, up in the sweet by-and-by.”
“Goddamn it, woman,” Creekmore said. “Why you always got to make this shit personal?”
Creekmore dropped the pistol. All the men raised their hands.
11
Clarence Skinner met Brock Tanner for lunch over at the El Dorado for what he’d told the acting sheriff was a matter of great and immediate importance. Skinner ordered the Speedy Gonzales, a beef taco and enchilada with a side of rice and beans, and a tall sweet tea to wash it down. He offered to treat Sheriff Tanner, but the man didn’t seem interested in the hospitality, saying he couldn’t stay long, looking down at his phone while Skinner chewed on some refried beans and patted his mouth with a napkin.
“My wife and I took a trip down to Ole Mexico on our honeymoon,” he said. “Lord, that was fifty-two years ago, back when you could drive down there. Before all those cartels and drug dealers and that mess. I recall drinking a cold Coca-Cola at a little cantina, all those brown little kids pestering you for a nickel, trying to sell you tickets to a bullfight. Bought me the fanciest sombrero you’ve ever seen. I think I still got it somewhere in my machine shop.”
Tanner was typing something on his cell phone. Skinner didn’t care for all that modern technology, people paying more attention to that little TV screen than what was going on in the world around them. He tried like heck not to get one of those new phones, finding a nice simple one that just made phone calls, with big old buttons so he didn’t need to reach for his glasses.
“Mr. Skinner, I don’t have a lot of time today,” Tanner said. “You said you’ve got an emergency?”
“
Well, sir,” Skinner said. “To be real honest, I’ve heard from some folks around town that your deputies have been spending an inordinate amount of time protecting and serving Miss Hathcock’s establishment on the highway. I know that woman is full of all kinds of wiles and charms, but I wanted to assure you, that isn’t part of your duties.”
“I don’t see how that’s any concern of yours,” Tanner said. “My job is to look out for the safety of all the businesses in the county. It just so happens that Vienna’s Place is the main draw off Highway 45. In my experience, at any place with liquor and music there’s bound to be some fights and trouble. Just doing the job that Governor Vardaman appointed me to do.”
Skinner cut off a little enchilada and forked a bite into his mouth. He chewed on it, letting a silence befall the table, making sure the young man knew the importance of his company. Skinner’s trademark pearl-white Stetson hung from a hook along the booth.
“I figured you and the governor would have discussed your job here,” he said. “You’re temporary until the state finishes its investigation into the lawlessness in the county.”
“That’s correct,” Tanner said, leveling his eyes at Skinner in a manner Skinner didn’t appreciate. His face swarthy and tanned, ears as large as that flying cartoon elephant, Dumbo. “But that investigation could last well into next year. Until then, I’ll do my job as I’ve been trained to do. If you have a problem with the way I conduct my business, we can discuss that at the next supervisor’s meeting.”
Skinner nodded and took a long sip of sweet tea. His hands shook a bit around the big plastic cup. He looked up to see ole Wade Spratlin and his wife Tammy walk into the El Dorado and greet Javier, making small talk about his float for this year’s Big Redneck Christmas Parade. Spratlin, who’d bought out the Cobb family lumber mill, had just been given the honor of being the grand marshal. Skinner made himself smile and wave at the couple.
“This is just a temporary thing,” Skinner said. “You do know that?”
“No, sir,” Tanner said. His face as flat and impassive as a poker player over in Tunica. “I thought I might stick around for the next election.”
Skinner smiled and nodded, trying to keep his voice low and even. “Well then, sir. How about you let me give you some friendly advice about Tibbehah County. Folks sure do love to talk around here, and if you plan on sticking around, I’d be right careful about the company you keep. Miss Hathcock ain’t from around here, nor does she have the best interests of this county in mind. In fact, I don’t ’spect to see that business keeping its doors open into the next year. We’re currently working on an ordinance that would ban and prohibit the kind of services she’s offering to truckers fresh off the road.”
For the first time, Brock Tanner grinned like a man holding all the cards, laying his long fingers flat on the table, about to rise, still looking Skinner dead in the eye. He clenched his teeth as he spoke. “If I were you, Skinner, I’d keep my old head down and start paving these shitty roads and let me take care of whatever Governor Vardaman wants doing.”
Without much thinking, Skinner just blurted out, “Quinn Colson is coming back. I have it on authority you and your thugs will be gone before Thanksgiving. Fill your damn pockets fast, Brock Tanner, because a reckoning is headed your way.”
Brock Tanner smirked and stood up in his pressed county uniform, gun on his hip and star on his chest. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and find out,” he said, before leaning into Skinner’s ear. “In the meantime, stay the fuck out of my business, old man.”
* * *
• • •
Before they could hitch Curtis Creekmore to a D-ring in the patrol car, Lillie asked the Lee County deputies to take his pals but leave him. “I’ll drop him by the fun house a little later,” Lillie said. “Curtis and I have a little catching up to do.”
“This woman’s crazy,” Creekmore said. “She’s gonna knock me in the goddamn head with that shotgun of hers. She’s done it before. I swear to Christ I’ll call up the folks at Morgan and Morgan if you don’t let me go. Pain and distress. Pain and distress!”
Quinn stood with Curtis Creekmore, hands shackled behind him, as they watched the deputies pull off and head down the road through the industrial park.
“They got your buddies on assault,” Lillie said. “But we didn’t mention a damn thing about all that shit inside your truck.”
“No,” Creekmore said. “I guess you didn’t. But holy fuck, Miss Virgil. Why do you have to be so damn mean? Why can’t you just call me up on the telephone and discuss matters like a couple of civilized white folks?”
“Damn, Curtis,” Quinn said. “I’d expect you to be a little more grateful. Be a real shame for a whole truckload of TVs to get lost on the way down to the Rez.”
“Yeah,” Lillie said, still holding her Remington pump. “Chief Robbie might just decide to turn your nutsack into a dream catcher.”
“That shit ain’t funny,” Creekmore said. “Let me tell y’all something. I ain’t your problem. I’m just plying my fucking trade. Y’all need to be worried about your own backyard down in Tibbehah County. That place makes Dodge City seem like goddamn Disney World. Fannie Hathcock does as she pleases with no one holding her leash. Did you know they found ole Buster White cut up like a damn Kenny Rogers rotisserie chicken and throwed into an Olive Garden dumpster?”
“No shit, Curtis,” Lillie said.
“You know all them new cops the governor sent to keep order are crooks, too?”
“Yep,” Quinn said.
“And y’all ain’t trying to do nothing about it?” Curtis asked.
“One asshole at a time,” Lillie said.
Curtis Creekmore looked from Lillie back to Quinn, shaking his head. He spit out the rest of his snuff, licking the tobacco off his teeth. He shook his head again as if he’d just witnessed the sorriest thing he’d ever seen in his whole rotten life. Quinn leaned against the truck, crossing his arms over his chest, waiting for Lillie to get down to it.
“When y’all used to harass my ass, I figured that meanness you inflicted on me was all about some kind of pent-up sexual energy,” Creekmore said. “Now that Sheriff Colson done got himself married and you moved on to become a big swinging-dick Marshal, that leaves me in a real tight position.”
“You sure did nail it,” Lillie said. “You glad that’s out in the open, Quinn?”
“It’s a relief,” Quinn said. “I’ve been praying on it.”
“Let me ask you something,” Lillie said, turning back to Curtis. “Who owns this operation?”
Creekmore snorted. “Who the hell do you think?”
“Might cause a real problem for you if we were to get a warrant to look inside on account of that shit you and your boys just pulled,” Lillie said. “Fannie just might blow her top.”
Creekmore didn’t answer. He did his best to look tough and indignant in handcuffs. Lillie walked up on him as Quinn continued to lean against the truck. Quinn having to grin a little bit, enjoying watching Lillie at work again, turning each little screw on Curtis Creekmore’s tiny brain.
“You know what?” Lillie said. “You might just be able to help us out a little.”
“How’s that?”
“We’re looking for a big mean Indian goes by the name of Sam Frye,” Lillie said, lowering the shotgun. Holding it in her right hand. “You think you might be able to point us in his direction?”
“Shit no,” he said. “I ain’t fuckin’ with that fella. He’s a goddamn red-skinned assassin.”
“No one has to know.”
“Go ask Chief Robbie.”
“We’re asking you, Curtis,” Lillie said. “For old time’s sake. And for us leaving you and your truck to head on down the highway.”
“Damn,” Creekmore said. “You really would enjoy seeing my nutsack turned into a dream catcher. Probably hang it f
rom the rearview in your Dodge Charger over there.”
“Probably.”
Creekmore swallowed and looked across the street over at the Sutpen’s Trucking Co. and then back to Lillie and Quinn. “Y’all know about Fannie’s new place out on Choctaw Lake? Where rich men drink fine old whiskey and get themselves a high-dollar pecker pull?”
Quinn nodded. The face of Sam Frye just starting to reassemble in his mind. He could still hear the fast pop-pop-pop-pop of the pistol, bullets flying into his back.
“Heard he might be layin’ low somewhere out there.”
* * *
• • •
Football practice was about to start and Jason was still in street clothes, hiding like some kind of criminal under the bleachers and carrying his heavy backpack. His heart thudded in his chest as he watched his teammates take the field, lining up to stretch while he waited for Ana Gabriel. She said that kid Angel would be driving up real soon and they didn’t have much time to jump in and hitch a ride down to Pine Prairie, Louisiana. Ana Gabriel not sure how or if they’d let her see her mother, but she had to at least try. Thinking on it, Jason knew he’d do the same thing if someone took his mother. He’d climb a fence or dig a tunnel to get her out.
“All of this trouble, all of this pain, caused by chickens,” Ana Gabriel said, dropping her purple backpack by Jason’s feet. “I was thinking about that. It’s all so silly.”
“My momma says there’s a lot of money in chickens,” Jason said. “Eggs. Meat. We eat chicken at least two times a day. Three if you count the eggs.”
“Señor Herrera spoke to us last night,” she said. “He says he has a lawyer who can get our families free of this. He says the blame is on the men who own the plant and wanted workers who wouldn’t earn a living wage. He says we were used by a broken, corrupt system.”
In the fading light of day, Jason smiled at Ana Gabriel. Her light brown skin and hair as dark as a raven’s wing. Her little ears were pierced with small gold hoops and she wore a purple tank top and blue jeans. Her white tennis shoes were spotless.