by Ace Atkins
Skinner turned his pale blue eyes to Quinn, his jowls loose and sagging.
“I’m the sheriff,” Quinn said. “Not a preacher.”
“I’m et up with cancer, Sheriff,” Skinner said. “Only the Lord knows how much time I got left. But in that time, I’m gosh-dang sick and tired of bending to the wills and ways of evil. I don’t like that Brock Tanner and he doesn’t like me. I’m sick to my stomach at the filth and immorality that’s come here. And believe it or not, I feel compassion for the Mexicans who lived here in good faith, only to get rounded up like cattle and shuttled over to Louisiana, leaving the little children behind. Folks owned that company knew right what they were doing.”
Skinner began to cough some more. Quinn sat up straighter in his seat, studying the old man’s face as he hacked into his fist.
“Sorry to hear you’re ill.”
“Ha,” Skinner said. “Appreciate you saying it. But I know how you feel about me, and can’t say I blame you. I tried to run roughshod over your mission back here at home. I know now you studied on things seriously, a true military man looking at the best course of action.”
Quinn nodded. The church had that pent-up library smell of old hymnals and Lysol, the faint trace of ladies’ perfume from the Sunday service.
“And as a military man, I’d like to offer you a little intel, son,” Skinner said. “Yes, sir. I may not have much time, but by God, I’m gonna do my best.”
Quinn waited, the air-conditioning blasting through the sanctuary, nearly freezing where the two men sat. Quiet and cool, the air humming through the ductwork overhead, rattling the wilting flowers on the altar.
“Fannie Hathcock’s got a big party coming to town,” Skinner said. “Folks from Jackson flying up to enjoy the hospitality at that big new place on Choctaw Lake. I can imagine what kind of barnyard acts will be offered, along with a river of whiskey flowing from the devil’s own hand.”
“What’s that to me, Skinner?”
“The governor will be the honored guest,” Skinner said, his pale blue eyes flat and impassive. “Figured someone might want to catch that SOB with his pants down around his ankles.”
* * *
• • •
Fannie was alone.
She’d driven out into the county to the series of Quonset huts by the old airfield, most of them stuffed to the rafters with stolen televisions, jewelry, truck parts, and tires. But one of the huts, the second from the far end, is where she made nearly all of her money. That’s where she’d set up the servers for the online sex trade, working cribs in the back rooms of Vienna’s, several units at the Golden Cherry, and hundreds of remote locations from Memphis to Los Angeles. Any girl who wanted to be part of Fannie’s team just had to sign up, turn on her laptop or cell phone camera, and welcome in the prying eyes of the big wild world of perverts. Fannie could’ve never imagined working without even having to leave her apartment. But she had housewives, college students, broke-ass immigrants, and a few has-been names in the porn business. Ashlyn Fox. Silvia Steele. These women put in maybe one or two hours of work and sometimes pulled in a few thousand a day. One of her VIP stars might make ten, fifteen grand for a private show. Damn, the perversion of men was an unlimited commodity.
Fannie sat there in the control room, servers softly humming in the dark, the dozens and dozens of screens on the wall flashing images from bedrooms and bathrooms all over the country. She had eighteen domain names under her control, eight shake joints, and two historic bars in the French Quarter. Fannie sat there in a cheap spinning chair and pulled a half-empty bottle of gin from her purse.
She poured out a good swig into a red Solo cup and looked up and around at all those girls, all those pretty faces and a few ugly ones. Black, white, brown, yellow. Skinny and fat, blonde, brunette, redhead, doing things on camera that Fannie used to do as a teenager out back of cut-rate motels in Gulfport and Biloxi for less than fifty bucks. She’d wander home, dirty and degraded with skinned-up knees. Sore, with a busted lip and a bruised coot, having to go back and do it again. And again. As she tilted the gin up to her lips, she realized she didn’t have any more of a feeling for these girls than folks she’d see on a television sitcom or the silver screen. They’d chosen their dirty, crooked path and Fannie had helped them make some money from the privacy of their own homes.
She lifted her eyes to the security monitor, seeing Midnight Man standing outside her waxed white Lexus, leaning his fat black ass against the passenger door. He was locked and loaded with a big-ass pistol on his hip, worried that some kind of bad end would come to his meal ticket. But she’d assured him everything was gonna be just fine. Miss Fannie had come a little undone earlier, getting too sloppy and drunk, firing one of her girls who’d fallen off the big brass pole, the one that stretched up to the catwalk, and busted her collarbone.
She was fine. Miss Fannie was fine. There was no goddamn way Sam Frye paid any mind to Caddy Colson. Sam knew that girl was flat-out crazy, coming to her saying those things about Mingo. Who on earth would ever believe that Fannie Hathcock would’ve stood by and watched a boy, one she valued and treated like her own son, get killed? Fannie seeing him now with those two faceless, shadowed men, up on the levee getting his brains blown out. A backhoe sputtering to life before he’d even dropped down to the mud. No way. No way Fannie would stand by and order that done. No way a professional man like Sam Frye would see that happening, see her driving him up to that levee, to those shadow men, lying to his face that everything was fine, they were fine. After all, it was that tub of whale shit Buster White who made it happen. He killed Mingo. Right? He killed the kid and told Fannie to ask no questions.
Her hands, manicured red nails, and lovely body wrapped in lace from La Perla up in New York City were clean and spotless and blameless. But goddamn, why did her hands shake so on that red Solo cup filled with straight gin? Why did her stomach feel hollow, sloshing with a belly full of alcohol, Fannie not having eaten in two days? Why the fuck did she let Midnight Man come home with her and sleep out on her couch? And why did she feel like a big hand had reached into her chest and was crushing her heart? Fannie reached up, touching the ruby locket around her neck, a gift, an heirloom from her lovely, sainted grandmother, who’d run the most successful cathouse in Alcorn County for nearly three decades.
Fannie looked up at all those screens, all those faces, all those naked bodies, closed eyes and mouths gagging on one more digital dollar. Fannie felt like she was coming loose from her skin, standing up, knocking the chair over and heading to a trash bucket.
She got down on her knees and started throwing up. Choking and coughing, she got to her feet, pushed open the metal door out to the gravel lot. Midnight Man backed off her car and walked over to the driver’s side.
“You OK, Miss Fannie?” He put his big paw on her little shoulder.
Fannie stared into his big, broad dark face and nodded.
“Maybe I should drive,” Midnight Man said. His voice nothing but a croaked whisper. “Until you feeling better.”
* * *
• • •
“Heard that Fannie is hosting a pool party for some good ole boys flying in from the capital,” Jon Holliday said, meeting Nat in the woods and out of the moonlight, high up on that fire road. The Big Woods and the Tibbehah hills stretched out far, inky and deep. No “hi” or “hello,” just Holliday starting to talk. “And that maybe Vardaman himself may show up.”
“You think he’s that damn stupid?” Nat asked.
“You bet,” Holliday said. “I think it has something to do with that poultry plant. They’re trying to limit fallout from bringing in prison labor. One of his buddies is in deep shit for making that call. Immigrant labor in jail. For-profit prisons trucked in to do the dirty work. Lot of local folks down here aren’t pleased. Won’t take much to connect all this back to Vardaman and his good ole boys. At least Johnny Stagg had th
e damn sense to keep his business under the table and pretty much off the books.”
“Vardaman’s too damn egotistical to care,” Nat said. “Who’s gonna call him on it?”
“In this state?” Holliday said, pulling at his graying beard.
He was a good-looking man, about her height, which was a little under six feet. He had a shaved head and a brushy beard and a damn road map of tattoos that she could see on both arms. She knew he’d been Special Forces in the Army, longtime veteran of the FBI, did a couple years’ undercover work here in Tibbehah County and was largely credited with bringing down Johnny Stagg alongside Quinn Colson.
“We’ve entered a golden age of stupidity and corruption,” Nat said. “If I were Vardaman, I’d stay way the hell away from Fannie Hathcock. What’s he need that woman for? He got his money. He got elected. You think he’d be done with all those country-ass crooks.”
“You’ve heard the same as me.”
“That he’s got special needs?” Nat said, smiling. “Oh, yeah. I’ve tried to talk to Fannie about that, making sly little jokes here and there. But if she knows that man’s into something kinky, she’s not saying. She’s open as hell about the drugs. Talks about the trucks coming and going as if she’s the goddamn manager of the Walmart. Pills, weed. All the same. But on the kinky shit she plays it real close. What’d you hear?”
“I know,” Holliday said. “But can you believe I’m embarrassed to say?”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“Because you’re a person,” Holliday said. “Vardaman isn’t far removed from stepping out of the barnyard.”
“Holy damn hell.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Holliday said. “Can you get close to where those boys will meet?”
“I can try,” Nat said, shifting from one leg to another, not finding it easy to work all night in platform heels, and walking out some dark, country road to meet Holliday made it even worse. “Fannie has a poker room in the back of that lodge. She doesn’t allow anyone in there besides Midnight Man and herself. If those good ole boys want private company, that’s done in their rooms or out at the pool. But she keeps that poker room sacred.”
“Can you get in beforehand?”
“Maybe.”
Holliday reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a black box no larger than an ice cube. He tossed it to Nat and she caught it in midair. She’d used similar ones in a ton of criminal cases up in Memphis, some phones in pens and others in smoke detectors or clocks. There were smaller units but few with better audio and video. She wasn’t sure what she could get, but she’d damn well try.
“You said Fannie has been off her game,” Holliday said. “Maybe this is an ideal time.”
“Caddy Colson, the sheriff’s sister, busted in her office the other night,” Nat said. “Raising holy hell. Blaming Fannie for something that happened to her kid. I heard she slapped her right across the face.”
“Her son got mixed up with a girl marked by some human traffickers,” Holliday said. “The boy broke free but Colson and Lillie Virgil had to track down the girl. They arrested two brothers who were running kids.”
“Damn,” Nat said. “You talking about the Ramos Brothers?”
“Yep,” Holliday said. “And I think they’re gonna cooperate once all this comes together.”
Nat played with the black cube in her left hand, whirling it end over end in her fingers. When this was all over, she was going to take a long hot shower, change out of these trashy hoochie-mama clothes and tall-ass heels. She hoped to hell she’d never have to come back to Tibbehah County again.
“What are you thinking, Nat?”
“Wondering how men who got that much money smell that damn cheap.”
“Is it getting to you?” Holliday said.
“If we bust that woman on her worst damn day, when supplies are low?” Nat said. “Shit. We’ll still be legends. Nobody seen this much drugs moving north since the goddamn eighties and Barry Seal’s crazy ass.”
“Southern arrogance.”
Nat nodded. “At its goddamn finest.”
* * *
• • •
Caddy had agreed to see Donnie once Jason was asleep, and at midnight, his phone buzzed. Donnie dozed on his daddy’s couch and jostled awake to his “Gimme Three Steps” ringtone. Old Luther snored to the back half of The Sons of Katie Elder. Donnie did his best not to wake him, the old man cradling a worn-out leather Bible in his lap. He grabbed his car keys and slipped out the side door, taking Caddy’s call as he cranked the gold GTO and pulled out.
“I knew you’d come to your senses.”
“Donnie.”
“Don’t say nothing,” he said. “Not on the phone. Don’t trust these damn phones. Can you slip out to my place?”
“Slip out?” Caddy said. “I’m a grown-ass woman.”
“I got a bottle of tequila and more of that Acapulco Gold.”
“I don’t drink. How many times do I need to tell you?”
“I’ll leave the front gate and door unlocked.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” she said. “We’re sleeping over at Momma’s.”
“Then you have no excuse,” he said. “Come on.”
“You really think that’s wise?” Caddy said. “Considering what we discussed.”
“For you, Caddy Colson?” he said. “I’m willing to take my chances.”
Donnie was standing at the sink in his Airstream about thirty minutes later when he heard the old truck rumble up. He peeked out the curtains and then quick-footed his way over to the couch. He lay down like he was chilling out and watching TV, some movie on called Moonrunners about a couple bootleggers over in Georgia when the revenuers still gave a shit. Damn, those were the days. His granddaddy and Quinn’s granddaddy raising fucking hell on the back roads of north Mississippi.
The screen door opened and Caddy walked into his trailer. She wouldn’t look at him as she moved toward him, staring at the floor and away from his gaze. The trailer was tiny inside, not a lot of personal space, and Donnie hung back just in case she decided to deck him again.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Donnie said. “If you don’t want that tequila, I got some cold beer and Kool-Aid. Sorry, that’s about it.”
She shook her head, looking so damn pretty in faded Levi’s and a little white peasant top with embroidered roses like Mexican women wore. Her hair seemed even shorter than last time he’d seen her, buzzed up on the neck and the sides. Shoulders and face sunburned, those cute little freckles spread across her nose and cheeks.
He stood up, wanting to kiss her hard on the mouth. Caddy shook her head and told him to sit.
“All right then.”
“I don’t want you to come out to The River anymore.”
“Listen now.”
“Enough,” Caddy said. “OK. Enough with the bullshit. I shouldn’t have hit you. But damn, Donnie. Screwing Fannie Hathcock? Why the hell would you do that? It’s so damn two-faced, you coming out to The River and helping me with the families and then heading out to the titty bar at night, getting a private dance from that crazy woman up in her chicken roost.”
“It’s not what it seems.”
“Oh, right,” Caddy said. “You’re some kind of damn Secret Squirrel special agent, working for the government while tooling around in your daddy’s gold GTO and listening to CCR. Come on. You can lie to me. But just don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”
“I swear, Caddy,” he said. “I swear it’s the truth. Why else do you think they let me out of jail? For all the shit I pulled, I should be in jail for the rest of my life. No. I was brought back here to get in with the folks that got your brother shot up. I’m working something right now that will be the end of it. Something good. But I need you to trust me. At least for now that I’m doing the right thing.”
&
nbsp; “Who let you out?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you none of this.”
“And I shouldn’t be so damn stupid to come over here and listen to more of your horseshit.”
Donnie nodded, understanding.
The trailer was a tidy little space not much more than his recliner and TV, a kitchen and a bed against the far opposite end. Besides some vinyl and a record player, he only had the slot for poor old Chi Chi, a shellacked armadillo, laying on his back and holding a bottle of Lone Star.
The jalousie windows were open, and in the silence between them they could hear the sounds of the cicadas out in the fields beyond the old movie screen. He smiled at Caddy, knowing he could trust her with anything. “Quinn ever talk of a federal agent by the name of Holliday?” Donnie asked.
Caddy’s eyes widened and she tilted her head.
“He came out to Beaumont not long after Quinn got shot,” Donnie said. “He told me what happened and who was responsible. I’ve been working with him and some other folks since I got back. We’re gonna tear down that mean-ass woman’s playhouse. I promise. I’m all in. But I don’t want to lose you while I’m doing it.”
“Don’t you lie to me,” Caddy said. “OK? Please don’t lie to me.”
“I may be full of shit,” Donnie said. “But I’d never break your heart, Caddy. I’ve loved you since we were kids.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve fucked up plenty and I’m doing my damn best to set it all straight,” he said. “Just stick with me, OK? It’s all gonna work out. We can’t tell Quinn or anyone else what I’m doing. But I swear to you we’re gonna get the folks who tried to kill your brother.”
“You better,” Caddy said, wiping her face with her hand.
“And when this is over, I’m going to work for the rest of my life to make you happy,” Donnie said, reaching around her waist and pulling her close. “How does that sound?”