The Revelators

by Ace Atkins

  “You’ll get everything,” Bentley said. “Don’t you see? Money to help these illegals, money to finish construction, and hardworking folks, locals, back to work. Just let me handle the politics.”

  “Politics?” Caddy said, catching Bentley by the wrist. “What are you talking about? This isn’t about politics. This is about decency.”

  Bentley’s face tightened, his left eye twitching a bit. He gritted his teeth and turned his head back toward the unfinished building. Last year it had been a dream of theirs, a joint project that Caddy figured would be up and working by now. There was going to be a community center for after-school programs and continuing education for adults. A new place that would help them expand outside the shadow of that old Southern barn. “I heard you were seeing some Mexican fella named Herrera,” he said. “Before you say anything, you might want to check into that man’s background. He was arrested dozens of times in Georgia and Texas. He’s not just some crazy socialist, he’s more like a communist. He’s a radical.”

  Caddy let go of his wrist and stepped back. She looked at gangly Bentley Vandeven, all wrinkled and haggard at not even thirty years old, coming to her not with hat in hand for forgiveness but with a bunch of busted-up, half-hearted promises.

  “Hector Herrera is a good man,” Caddy said. “Not that it’s any of your damn business. But no. I’m not seeing him. I’m working with him. Can’t a woman be in the company of a man, on the side of the same damn cause, without people talking?”

  Bentley, face split in shadow and light, turned his head away from the skeletal frame on the hill and back to Caddy. His face flushed and sweaty, trying to calm himself without much success. The wind chimes tinkled again for a second and then settled in the still, unmoving heat. “Just promise me that you’ll keep away from him for a while,” he said. “He’s a bad dude that’s in with some bad folks. I just don’t want to see anything happen to you. That’s all.”

  Caddy watched Bentley step back away and turn toward the stairs, his head down and sulky, running smack-dab into Donnie, who was headed up from the barn.

  “Interrupting something?” Donnie asked.

  Bentley shook his head and tried to walk around Donnie. Donnie stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

  Bentley looked away and then back at Caddy before shaking his head. “Another damn convict?” he asked. “Well, no one can say you don’t have a type.”

  Donnie placed his hand on Bentley’s shoulder and looked him right in the eye. “Kid, if you don’t want to leave Jericho with your teeth in your front pocket, I’d say it’s best to get your ass back in that slick little car of yours and pedal it back to Oxford or Jackson or whatever little monogrammed world you live in. You ain’t welcome down here.”

  Bentley knocked Donnie’s hand off his shoulder and headed back to his sports car, Donnie walking up on the porch to stand shoulder to shoulder with Caddy. They watched Bentley pull on a pair of sunglasses hanging from his rearview and fishtail out from The River.

  “What did ole junior want with you?” Donnie asked.

  “He wanted to warn me about the company I keep.”

  “Huh,” Donnie said, grinning. “Are you listening?”

  “Nope,” Caddy said, turning and heading back into the office. “Not one damn bit.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Sam Frye drove the Chief from the casino way the hell out in the Rez to an old cotton gin they used to unload trucks from Memphis and New Orleans, sometimes sending the repackaged goods on over to Atlanta. Three eighteen-wheelers were parked outside the big silver metal building, where a white man in a straw cowboy hat hopped down from a cab and approached Frye’s big black car. He had on a bright yellow T-shirt and shorts with cowboy boots that came up to his knees, his lower lip thick with snuff.

  “That’s him?” Sam Frye said.

  “Yes,” Chief Robbie said. “Creekmore. He’s a true and authentic idiot.”

  It was late in the day but still hot, the back of his dress shirt damp with sweat. Chief Robbie walked ahead to greet and shake hands with Creekmore. The man grinning like a moron, pumping their hands, and saying that it was hotter than Hades up in that truck cab. He kept rambling on about the deal he’d just made on the televisions and how the Chief wouldn’t be so lucky next time. “Yes, sir,” Creekmore said. “If my warehouse wasn’t so damn filled, I might’ve kept them around until Christmas. That’s when you make your real money, people with no credit getting real desperate for that big-screen experience. Bowl games and such.”

  “What is it you wished to say?” Chief Robbie said.

  Creekmore closed his left eye and nodded. “Sure do like you, Chief,” he said. “You always getting right to the point. And is this Mr. Sam Frye with you? The man I’ve been hearing so much about. Damn, he sure is a big ole boy.”

  “You told Pinti that you had news for us.”

  Creekmore nodded and nodded, and then turned his head and spit. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes, sir. I sure do.”

  The men waited. Sam Frye standing, arms across his large chest, sweating through the white shirt, listening to the cicadas buzzing far out in the trees. He could feel the sun on the back of his neck as no one spoke for a long while.

  “Figured what I know might be worth something to y’all.”

  Chief Robbie stood still. He said nothing.

  “I mean, we’re friends and all, but a man’s got to eat,” Creekmore said. “You know I didn’t make a penny on this here deal with the televisions. Bought them from some blacks up in Memphis, sold ’em to you for what I got ’em for. They was headed for some Walmarts over in Nashville. Sweet-looking picture on ’em. I set one up last night in my tool shed and watched two nekkid women going at it like there wasn’t no tomorrow. Good Lord, it was like they was standing there right with you. They called that picture Russian Invasion Three. Yes, sir. That’s what they called it.”

  Sam Frye said nothing.

  “What I done is worth something,” Creekmore said. “Come on now, fellas. Mr. Sam Frye, I know you don’t know me from Adam’s house cat, but the Big Chief can vouch for me that I’m a man of honor and integrity. I’ve been doing business down here on the Rez with you folks since I was a teenager. Used to haul moonshine this way in a ’63 Coupe de Ville with a ragtop and whitewall tires. You could fit a damn swimming pool in that trunk, and Lord knows you people sure do like to drink.”

  The comment was ridiculous and offensive. Neither Sam Frye or the Chief cared to reply.

  “OK,” Creekmore said. “OK. How about this? I’ll tell you what I heard and what I done and then maybe you make a little offering to the Curtis Creekmore Society. I stuck my dang neck out going against one of the meanest, craziest damn women in the South. Done it for y’all on account of you being such good customers.”

  Sam Frye shifted on one foot to another. A fly buzzed across Chief Robbie’s forearm and he swatted at it.

  “See, Mr. Sam Frye, you got a U.S. Marshal bird-dogging your ass,” he said. “She says you not only killed my dearly departed pal Wes Taggart but also shot Quinn Colson four times in the back. If she wasn’t a woman, I’d say she had herself a big old throbbing hard-on to bring you in. You get what I’m saying to y’all?”

  Sam Frye looked to the Chief. He shrugged. He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, feeling the baking heat out in front of the cotton gin. The afternoon sun glinting off all that bright silver metal. The words CHOCTAW PROUD faded and worn on the corrugated tin out by the loading docks.

  “But y’all listen to what I done,” Creekmore said, putting a little hand over his mouth to giggle. “I done told them you’d thrown in with Miss Fannie Hathcock and that you was staying out at her brand-spanking-new pussy palace up on the lake. See, the way I figured is, I’d give you a head start and good old warning about watching your back. Ain’t nobody wants to see you strun
g up for taking on Quinn Colson. That smart-mouth bastard had it coming, you ask me.”

  Chief Robbie nodded and toed at the ground with his alligator boots. “OK,” he said.

  “That’s it?” Creekmore said. “Y’all sure are cheap. Damn, I wish I was still working with that boy Mingo. He was a good kid. Always looked out for me and treated me fair and square. Damn shame. Boy never saw it coming.”

  Sam Frye reached out and grabbed Curtis Creekmore by the upper arm. “Hey,” Creekmore said. “Hey, now. What the damn hell?”

  Sam Frye shook him like a wild dog with a squirrel. “Where did you hear this?”

  “Goddamn son of a bitch,” Creekmore said. “What are y’all doing?”

  Sam Frye slapped Curtis Creekmore hard across the face, knocking the tobacco from his mouth. Spit and blood ran across his cheek. “Where did you hear this?”

  “Everybody knows them good ole boys took him out,” Creekmore said. “Wadn’t me. Shit. I didn’t have a damn thing to do with it.”

  Chief Robbie reached out and grabbed the man by the front of his yellow T-shirt and lifted him off the ground and tossed him far into the weeds. Sam Frye reached him first, kicking and punching Creekmore. Chief Robbie kicked at the man’s ribs with the pointy toes of his boots. They worked on him until he was bloody and cowering like a little child in a ball, protecting his head and his private parts. The man breathing heavy, waiting for the next blow. It felt good, both of them working together again as a team. They hadn’t lost a step.

  “What do you know about Mingo?” Sam Frye said.

  “I heard it from an old boy who worked direct for Buster White,” Creekmore said, trying to catch a breath and wiping his lip with the back of his hand. “Said they took that kid somewhere down near Kosciusko, shot him in the back of the head. Used a backhoe to bury him up under a levee of some sort. Y’all didn’t know about that? Hell, you didn’t have to mess me up to get to it. I think you cracked two of my damn ribs.”

  “Why?” Sam Frye said. “Why did they do this?”

  Creekmore got on all fours, spitting blood and snuff onto the ground, looking like an animal, crawling around and searching for his straw cowboy hat. He finally stood, placing it on his head, his face bloody and puffy, one eye nearly closed. He seemed to seek dignity in the situation but failed.

  “I don’t know, man,” Creekmore said. “I swear to Christ, I don’t know. I sure liked that kid.”

  Chief Robbie reached into his wallet, pulled out several hundred-dollar bills and tossed them at the man’s feet. Sam Frye walked back to the car, started the engine, and turned the AC to full blast. He could feel the vein throbbing in his temple.

  “You deserved answers,” Chief Robbie said. “Now you’ll never know why they killed your boy. I am sorry.”

  Sam Frye didn’t answer as he yanked the wheel and U-turned the car back to the casino.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Hold still,” Maggie said.

  Quinn was on the front porch of the farmhouse, seated in an old metal chair as Maggie sewed up a gash on his head. She had the windows and front door open, the turntable in the salon spinning The Essential Tom T. Hall and “The Year That Clayton Delaney Died” as she worked and dabbed off the blood with a cold, wet towel. He figured it would stop bleeding, but halfway home from Tupelo, holding an old rag against his head, he knew he’d need some stitches.

  “Doesn’t have to be pretty,” Quinn said. “My hair will cover it.”

  “As short as you keep your hair?” Maggie said. “I don’t want anyone saying that Maggie Colson did a half-ass job sewing up her husband’s head. Now sit still and let me finish it up.”

  “Reggie got slashed with a knife over at the Club Disco this summer and said Raven sewed him up so nice and neat you couldn’t even see the scar.”

  “You want me to stick you with this needle?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then sit still and be quiet.”

  It was that in-between time in late August, right after sundown but before night when everything was lit up in a fine, hazy gold. The soft light fell over the cow pasture and the meandering creek, now completely dry. The cows had wandered out from under the oaks and pecans, getting some relief from the heat, swatting their tails at flies. The air smelled of dried manure and brittle brown weeds, a trumpet vine with bright orange flowers growing wild on the cattle guard.

  “Damn,” Maggie said. “You might need some staples on this one. Just what exactly did they hit you with?”

  “A metal pipe.”

  “How many of them?”

  “Three,” Quinn said. “There was a fourth guy. But he didn’t do much but talk.”

  “That’s the one pulled a gun?”

  “Yep.”

  “What would you have done if Lillie hadn’t shown up?”

  “Curtis Creekmore wouldn’t have shot me,” Quinn said. “He’s a crook. Not a killer.”

  “You seem pretty confident about that.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said.

  Quinn reached for his coffee mug filled with Jack Daniel’s and took a long pull. The best thing about not being on the job was being able to drink when he felt like it. Nobody felt comfortable having a sheriff with whiskey on his breath. But a sheriff on temporary leave was something completely different.

  He set down the mug as Maggie held his head tight in her hands, surveying the work. “I’d say that’s a fine and professional job,” she said, removing her latex gloves. “I take both cash and credit.”

  Quinn reached for her hand and pulled her onto his lap. Her pregnant body weighed heavy on his legs but felt solid and strong, her hair worn loose and long down her back. He leaned in and kissed her neck, hands against her tight belly. She had on her scrub pants and a man’s tank top, the material nearly busting at the seams.

  “Don’t you think it’s time to get off your feet?”

  “Another week.”

  “You don’t have to look out for anyone but Brandon and this baby,” Quinn said. “Tibbehah County can take care of their own for a while.”

  “Might say the same for you,” Maggie said. “No need for you to do what you’ve been doing. Although you seem to want to keep that to yourself.”

  “Just poking around,” Quinn said. “A little recon helps with the boredom.”

  “What if I told you I’d like you to quit for a while?” Maggie asked. “Until the baby comes and then for a while after that.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “And I can’t take off time at the hospital until I’m ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Quinn kissed her again on the neck and moved his hand down her inner thigh. She didn’t speak as he inched his hand upward, moving his lips down her neck, goose bumps raising on her skin. “You know that makes me crazy.”

  “Yep.”

  “Then how come you’re doing it?”

  “I like you when you’re crazy,” Quinn said.

  “We have to meet your momma in an hour for dinner.”

  “I know.”

  “My head hurts, my feet are swollen, and I have to pee every ten minutes,” she said. “Does that sound sexy to you?”

  “Talk a little slower,” Quinn said. “I like the sound of that husky voice.”

  “Damn, you are hard up, Quinn Colson,” Maggie said, pushing up off his legs to stand and bending down to kiss him on his hurt head.

  “Worth a shot.”

  “Well, it does lower blood pressure and helps you sleep.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And even boosts your immune system.”

  “See,” Quinn said. “I’m just trying to do what’s best for the health of my family.”

  Without another word, Maggie headed back into the house, screen door thwacking
closed behind her. Quinn stood up, hearing her feet on the steps leading up to their bedroom. He reached down and drained the rest of the whiskey as the cell phone began to buzz in his pocket. It was his momma, probably wanting to remind him again about meeting at the El Dorado for supper.

  He didn’t have to take it, but if he didn’t, she’d just keep on calling and calling until he answered. He picked it up on the fourth buzz.

  “El Dorado in an hour,” Quinn said. “I haven’t forgotten, Momma.”

  “Did you pick up Jason from school today?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, he wasn’t at football practice,” Jean said. “Coach said he never showed up after school. You think your sister would’ve let me know if he was sick. I’ve been calling her for the last half hour and can’t get her to pick up. I’m worried sick, Quinn. And I’m too damn old for that mess.”

  13

  The van had stopped a few times that night, at gas stations along the interstate that circled Memphis, where Angel led the girls back and forth from the bathrooms. He had a gun now and seemed real proud to show it off on his belt, continuing to give Jason mean stares and shoving him a few times. Jason didn’t fight back, waiting for the right moment, waiting for a time when he could grab Ana Gabriel and they could run off. When they’d stopped earlier, he’d seen a Memphis police car and tried to get their attention, but the patrol car had hit the flashing lights and drove off into the darkness. Angel slapped him in his head and told him if he tried that again, he’d shoot him in the leg. Angel was just a damn kid, but talked to him like he meant it. Jason knew he would shoot him.

  It was dawn now, a light gray and blue, as cars and trucks zoomed down the nearby highway. Both the driver and Angel were out of the van, and through the front windshield, Jason saw them talking to a tall black man with long braids down his back. It was early and already warm, but the man was dressed in a full-length coat, like dusters in old Westerns.

  “What are they talking about?” Ana Gabriel said.