by Ace Atkins
“Miss Fannie wants to see you,” said a gorgeous black woman with a big, bouncy afro. She had high cheekbones, large green eyes, and the longest legs he’d ever seen. Whoever she was, she looked too damn good to be working it down in Tibbehah County. “Up the spiral staircase and to the left. Can’t miss her.”
“Hard to miss Fannie,” Donnie said. “Say, what’s going on tonight? Y’all offering free draft beer and chicken wings?”
“Oil wrestling,” the woman said. “Or as you country boys call it, rasslin’.”
“Y’all sure do draw in the true sports fans,” Donnie said.
“That big table behind you flew in from Shreveport. Rotary Club special,” she said. “Got bets laid down and everything.”
Donnie turned back and watched a crew of gray-heads in cowboy hats with half-nekkid women sitting on their laps. The men had dollar bills fanned out in their hands like a deck of playing cards, the women taking turns trying on their hats.
“Those old coots should be ashamed of themselves,” Donnie said.
“Hmm,” the woman said. “You really think so? Step inside Vienna’s and you leave any shame at the door.”
Donnie looked the woman up and down and took in a deep breath, shaking his head. “You seem too damn smart for this side hustle,” he said. “What’s a quality woman like you doing in a place like this?”
“Upstairs to the left, Mr. Varner,” the woman said, winking. “Fannie doesn’t like it when you’re late.”
Donnie nodded and stood up, his legs aching and feeling a bit wobbly. He’d been sitting in front of that main stage for the last two hours, showing up early after Boom turned him away from Miss Jean’s house, deciding to have a few cold ones till he met up with Fannie Hathcock. It still chapped his damn ass how Boom had treated him. If he only knew the shit he’d been through since getting back to Jericho.
As he moved on past the old coots in the cowboy hats, Donnie pulled a shot of tequila from an old man’s shaking hand. The old fella didn’t seem to mind, as his bald head was buried between the biggest set of titties Donnie had ever seen in his life.
Donnie tossed back the tequila and set the glass on a table before taking the spiral staircase, round and round through that weird red light, up to Fannie’s office.
Fannie Hathcock wasn’t at her desk but instead at a little grouping of purple velvet chairs and a sofa. A big man Donnie hadn’t seen before, a muscle-bound Indian with long black hair pulled into a ponytail, was sitting with her. His black eyes turned to Donnie as he entered, looking cool as an ice cream social in a black suit and skinny black tie, Fannie Hathcock laughing at something he said while holding a tall glass of champagne.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Donnie said.
“No interruption,” she said. “This is Sam. Sam, this is Mr. Varner.”
That big Indian nodded in his direction. Big silver rings on his fingers and a belt buckle inlaid with turquoise. Sam. Hell of a name for an Indian.
“Smells good in here,” Donnie said, taking a seat with them, a round glass table between them. “What is that, patchouli?”
“Pussy and cash money,” Fannie said, opening up a silver case and extracting a skinny brown cigar. “Best scent in the world. Midnight Man said you wanted to talk some business. What’s on your mind, doll?”
“You sure get right to the matter,” Donnie said, crossing his legs and pulling a pack of American Spirits from his shirt pocket. “Well, I just met up with some fellas out of Memphis who say they represent the interests of Marquis Sledge. Y’all might have heard of Mr. Sledge. He runs a string of funeral homes and jerk shacks down in South Memphis. Ring any bells?”
“Maybe,” Fannie said, tilting her chin and blowing smoke up the ceiling fan. Sam the Indian didn’t answer, still and silent as if made of ancient cypress.
“Well,” Donnie said. “I’d like to know if I can throw in with them.”
“You want me to vouch for the character of a bunch of thieves?”
“That’s about the tall and short of it,” Donnie said, blowing out a big cloud of smoke. “I just wanted to know if Marquis Sledge and his people can be trusted. See, I’m taking one hell of a risk as I’ve only recently been released from incarceration and have little or no interest in returning to watch my cellmate read poetry on the commode. Man preferred the works of Lord Byron to Emily Dickinson. Or so I was told. I kind of like being here, among civilized people drinking good liquor and watching nekkid women wrestling in hot oil.”
“Oil wrestling is only once a month,” Fannie said. “Always on the last Saturday.”
“Y’all know these folks?” Donnie said. “Or should I be watching my damn back so as not to get cornholed?”
Fannie wet her lips, cutting her eyes over at Sam the Indian, and then back to Donnie. The woman had on some kind of fancy-ass, short silver dress, the hem riding up high on her shapely pale legs. “Sam?” she said. “You mind leaving me and Mr. Varner for a moment? We need to have a heart-to-heart.”
Sam didn’t say a word, only stood, looking even taller and meaner at full height, walking from the room and out the door without a glance back. Guess everything couldn’t be said straight and true out in the open. Donnie took his warm seat and leaned back in the comfortable leather, hearing the pulsing music from down on the floor, the DJ promising that the oil wrestling match would start shortly. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” playing loud and proud.
“And just what does that fella do for you?”
“He’s on loan,” Fannie said, taking a long drag on her cigar, sharp green eyes taking him all in, mouth popping into a big O as she exhaled a smoke ring. “Makes sure everyone plays fair up in north Mississippi.”
Miss Fannie kicked off her fancy high heels and stretched her million-dollar legs up on the glass table. Her toes so perfect and manicured, little nails painted a lovely shade of red. “Yeah, I sent Sledge your way,” Fannie said. “You said you need guns. Right? Isn’t Sledge gonna get you guns?”
“Enlighten me,” Donnie said. “Just how do you profit off this here deal? A woman like you doesn’t set something in motion unless there’s something in it for her.”
Fannie nodded and wiggled her cute little toes, tilting her head at Donnie as if seeing him for the first time. “Mr. Varner,” she said. “Would you mind standing up, removing that T-shirt, turning your pockets inside out, and dropping those blue jeans for a moment?”
“Come on now, Miss Fannie,” Donnie said, winking. “Got to talk a little dirty to me first.”
Fannie smiled and shrugged, reaching down for what Donnie first assumed was her lighter, but instead pulled out a fucking framing hammer. “You get naked right here and right now or I’ll be knocking your goddamn nuts from here to Natchez.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Donnie said, taking off his shirt and unbuckling his pants. “Yes, ma’am. All you had to do was ask. Damn if you didn’t make it crawl up a little.”
* * *
• • •
Quinn was back at the farm making supper for Brandon, Maggie again working late at the hospital. He had three nice size pork chops, butchered local in Tibbehah County, frying them up with butter and Tony Chachere’s in a black skillet. Some fresh turnip greens and field peas simmered on the back burners. Brandon sat up high on the kitchen table as Quinn worked, thinking how funny it was that Quinn slipped an apron over his pressed khaki shirt. Even funnier, as it had been Miss Jean’s and said I LIKE PIG BUTTS AND I CANNOT LIE.
“Why do we have homework every day?” Brandon said. “Even the weekend. I hate homework. That’s for old kids.”
“I thought you’d finished up.”
“No, sir,” Brandon said, shaking his head. “I have to read some book called Brave Harriet. It’s about the first woman to cross the English Channel in an airplane. That was more than a hundred years ago. Who cares?”
“Sou
nds like a tough woman to make that crossing,” Quinn said.
“I don’t know,” Brandon said. “Haven’t finished it yet. But I figure she makes it across. I guess it’d be a sad story if she crashed in the water. No one likes reading bad endings.”
Quinn forked a pork chop out of the skillet and onto an old green Fiesta plate, adding a lot of field peas but only a small portion of turnip greens. Brandon hated turnips of any kind but tolerated the greens if they weren’t cooked too long.
“Can you believe people had just started flying a hundred years ago?”
“This house didn’t have electricity or indoor plumbing sixty years ago,” Quinn said. “You’d have to read by kerosene lantern. Folks went to bed early and got up early.”
“That would stink.”
“I think I’d like it,” Quinn said. “No telephones, either. You raised, shot, or grew what you ate. No television.”
“What?”
“Yep,” Quinn said. “My uncle didn’t put up a television antenna out here until the nineteen seventies and that was only to watch Gunsmoke and Mayberry R.F.D. My Aunt Halley also loved watching the morning show out of Tupelo. They had a country band that would kick off the day fronted by Buddy and Kay Bain.”
“You stay out here a lot?” Brandon asked, picking up the pork chop and turning it over in his hands. When he decided it was cool enough, he nibbled a bit off.
“My daddy wasn’t around,” Quinn said. “And my mom worked liked your mom. Aunt Halley and my Uncle Hamp looked out for me.”
Brandon ate some more and Quinn fixed his own plate and sat down across from his son. Brandon had a wide, pleasant face with lots of freckles across his nose and cheeks and wild, straw-colored hair, looking like Huck Finn from an old paperback. Quinn had gotten back from Memphis just in time to pick him up, about two hours after the Ramos Brothers were transported to 201 Poplar in Lillie’s Charger. The man Jason said went by T-Rex was taken for medical treatment on his sliced-open foot, a concussion, and several broken ribs.
Real shame, Quinn thought as he sipped reheated coffee from an old chipped Fillin’ Station mug.
“When are you and Momma gonna decide on a name?”
“It’s a long list,” Quinn said.
“How about Halley?”
“That’s on the list.”
“Or Harriet?” Brandon said. “You know she’s gonna be brave.”
“Sure,” Quinn said. “Why not?”
The front and back doors were open, letting in a soft, warm breeze from the front pastures. The radio above the refrigerator playing Mississippi Public Broadcasting, a show based out of Oxford called Highway 61. This night’s show dedicated to the old-time songs of the late, great Jimmie Rodgers, the yodeling brakeman.
Quinn still had on his khaki shirt and Levi’s, his boots left by the front door. He hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours but figured he’d catch a little rest once Maggie got home. Jason was safe and so was Ana Gabriel. Caddy said Jason had cried when they brought the girl back to The River, hugging her tight and apologizing for letting those men take her away.
“Momma says she always knew I’d be Brandon,” Brandon said. “On account of her friend who got killed. I guess you know all about that.”
“Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “I do.”
Quinn had gotten up to get some more coffee when he heard a car pull up outside. He walked to the wide front porch, meeting Reggie Caruthers as he climbed up the steps. Reggie had his hat off and had a pained look on his face. Quinn’s stomach sank.
“Hector Herrera has been shot,” Reggie said, shaking his head. “He was stopped by Tanner and his chief deputy. They claim they pulled him over for speeding and he got out of the car raising a pistol.”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
“Nope,” Reggie said. “Just left the hospital. Herrera’s dead, Quinn. Those boys wanted him shut up for good.”
* * *
• • •
Caddy often thought of Mingo and prayed that perhaps he was still out there and alive. She recalled his quiet ways, long black hair, and gentle smile, knowing he shouldn’t work for a woman like Fannie Hathcock but not knowing much else. He was just a kid when he disappeared, not long after he tried to help Caddy and Boom find two lost girls, Tamika Odum and Ana Maria Mata. He was who’d first told her and Lillie Virgil about the underage girls, many who didn’t speak English, trucked through Fannie’s compound out at the old airfield. Lillie and Quinn were about to shut everything down when Mingo just up and disappeared. That had been what? Two, three years ago? There was little doubt who’d been responsible.
Caddy steered her old GMC out the front cattle gate of The River, wiping the tears from her cheeks, white-knuckled on the wheel toward town. She couldn’t sit back anymore and wait for Brock Tanner or the county supervisors to do any damn thing. The past couple years, she had pushed down what likely happened to Mingo and those girls. Swallowed it as something she couldn’t change—not yet—and moved on.
But now that evil woman could’ve killed her son. Her son. It was too damn much.
She drove on up to the Square and then east along the highway, passing Sonic and Piggly Wiggly, aiming her truck right at the colorful lights of the Rebel Truck Stop. The old truck sprayed gravel into the Vienna’s Place parking lot, where the pink and blue neon blazed in the late August twilight.
She was dressed in ragged jeans and Jamey Dixon’s old flannel shirt over a tank top. Jamey had been on her mind constantly after he appeared to her these last two nights, once in her bedroom and another time at The River’s barn after she and Jason got back from Byhalia. Jamey’s spirit had tried to make her feel calm when she called Vienna’s a den of iniquity, a black hole that swallowed children and lost souls. Jamey only repeated the words she’d known he’d say: Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. Caddy was sure she’d seen him, damn well knew it, with his long brown hair and beard, smoking a cigarette. His entire body seemed to be made of fading gold light and smoke. He’d been there. Right?
“That place needs to be burned to the ground.”
Hatred stirs up strife, but love covers all offenses.
“Not this time,” Caddy said to the figure in the spinning dust and fading sunlight slowly receding from her view. “No, sir. That bitch almost got my son killed.”
Caddy jumped out of the truck and slammed the door closed, marching toward the front doors of Vienna’s. A busty woman with pink hair worked the entrance in a short black robe. “You here for the oil wrestling?” the woman said. “It’s amateur night. We pay out five hunnard to the winner.”
“I’m here to see Fannie Hathcock.”
“Is that a fact?” the young woman asked, hand on hip, showing off her goodies under the robe. “You’re looking a little old to be working that pole. Maybe ask Fannie about a gig as bartender.”
Caddy didn’t answer as she shoved past her into the hazy blue and red light and looked up to the glowing white box of the woman’s office in the rafters. The main room was jam-packed, two topless women coated in oil flipping each other around in a kiddie pool. Everyone was on their feet watching the action as Caddy’s boots banged up the spiral steps.
* * *
• • •
“Are you satisfied?” Donnie said, grinning, tucking his key chain and his wallet back in his blue jeans. His red Take Off Grill T-shirt tossed over his pointy-toed cowboy boots on the floor. “Or do you need me to bend over while you pull on a pair of rubber gloves?”
“I’m satisfied,” Fannie said, pouring herself some champagne out of a fancy bucket. “You can never be too careful. I know Sledge. And I know all about that man who came to see you, Akeem Triplett. I don’t care how many touchdowns he made at State, don’t you ever mention my name to any of those folks.”
“Not one damn word,” Donnie said. “Glad to hear y
ou’re making a little off this deal, Miss Fannie.”
“Baby,” Fannie said, taking a sip from a tall crystal glass. “I profit from every damn thing in Mississippi. Do we have a buyer? Or not?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.”
“And who’s that?”
“Some good ole boys meanin’ a lot of harm,” Donnie said. “You know those weirdos who marched in Oxford last summer to save the Confederate monuments?”
“The Watchmen,” Fannie said.
“I don’t care to get too damn political,” Donnie said. “If they think a truckload of AR-15s is gonna help the South rise again, good on them. I just want to get my cut.”
“You sure you’re OK with that?” she asked. “I heard you and Sheriff Colson used to be friends.”
“Long time back,” Donnie said. “When we were kids. But had a bit of a falling out after he arrested me and then testified against me in federal court.”
“Y’all don’t talk?” Fannie asked.
“Once,” Donnie said. “On the town square. Why?”
“I just don’t want you to get cold feet on the deal.”
Donnie grinned and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “No, ma’am,” he said. “Not at all. Fuckin’ over Quinn Colson will just make the deal that much sweeter.”
Fannie took another sip of champagne and nodded Donnie over to a little rolling cart filled with about every damn kind of liquor known to man. He poured himself a little shot of Patrón Silver and was about to propose a toast to Fannie when he turned to see Caddy Colson marching straight into the office. She was out of breath and sweating, wearing a dirty tank top and an old flannel shirt. She pointed her finger right at Fannie and opened her mouth, but then looked over to Donnie standing there shirtless and shook her head like he was the sorriest bastard she’d ever laid eyes on.