by Ace Atkins
Nat wandered through the great room and back to the opening by the staircase, pushing in through the heavy oak doors decorated with stained-glass peacocks that led into the poker room. The green felt of the tables now covered over with black leather, surrounded by a dozen or so heavy leather chairs with brass nailhead trim. Ashtrays set about the side tables and along the bookshelf. Yeah, this is where the cigars would be lit, the whiskey would flow, and the men would get down to business.
Nat searched the bookshelves loaded with bottles of Pappy, Blanton’s, Glenfiddich, and Johnnie Walker Blue. She was looking for the right place to slide in that little black cube Holliday had passed her. A good spot to take it all in but also in a spot where it wouldn’t be seen or moved. In the middle of all the glass decanters and old leather-bound books, some decorator had propped up a framed photo of an old Civil War general, bearded and grim-faced, eyes black and dead, something like a phantom as he stared out at Nat. Put a red baseball hat and some blue coveralls on his grizzled ass and that son of a bitch would look right at home changing her damn oil.
She scooted the gilded frame over and found the perfect nook for the cube. Yep, this would do damn nicely. Only the smallest sliver of space between the books and the antique portrait.
Nat turned the unit on, slid it into position, and headed out of the poker room back into the lake house, where no one had noticed a damn thing.
23
Donnie never left the big Quonset hut out on Fannie’s airstrip after he rolled through the gates in the UPS truck at dawn. Midnight Man and some rough old dude named Carl had met him, Carl being one of the Byrds, a family of thieves who’d gotten busted running chop shops back in the eighties. Carl hadn’t said much, just grunted and took the keys of the Peterbilt and drove off into one of the other cavernous warehouses, most definitely to cut that semi into a million different pieces. Donnie had helped unload the trailer, Midnight Man working a forklift maybe even better than the late, great Deshaun, setting the boxes from Red River Arms into a separate trailer that he’d take to where Ole Man Coldfield and his boys in gray wanted to meet. Finally, Donnie had found a shower and a cot in the back of one of Fannie’s warehouses to get some sleep.
Damn, what a shitshow.
Rerun died not long after they crossed the state line and Donnie dumped his body behind a burned-out barbecue joint somewhere around Guntown. If he’d had time, Donnie would’ve given him a proper burial. But all he could do was place Rerun’s Carhartt cold-weather mask down over his face and say the quickest prayer he could: “Sure do appreciate you killing those motherfuckers before they killed me. I didn’t know much about you other than you was kinda fat and liked hot wings. A white man who wasn’t a bigot and associated with black folks. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those crushed in spirit. Sorry, dude, that’s all I got. And I got to go. Amen.”
Donnie had been awake for a day and a half when he finally laid on that cot in the warehouse and closed his eyes. He didn’t wake up until Akeem Triplett himself shook him by the shoulder. Akeem looking down at him, cool and reserved in that white satin suit, black shades, and little toothpick tucked at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s about game time, Donnie Varner,” Triplett said. “You ready?”
“Yeah, man,” Donnie said, pushing himself up off the cot and looking down at his cell phone. “You coming with me or what?”
“I don’t think they’d dig someone like me at that Cracker Barrel convention,” Triplett said. “No, sir. You unload those guns, get that money, and meet me back here. We’ll take care of the split then. Cool?”
“Cool.”
“Sorry with all that shit back in Memphis with Tyrell,” Triplett said. “Motherfucker got greedy and tried to slice your ass out of the deal.”
“Hadn’t been for Rerun my ass would be dead.”
“Deshaun,” Triplett said. “Damn. That’s my heart, man. I loved that boy. Can’t believe he’d stab me in the back and throw in with fucking Tyrell. I shoulda known better. Talked about it with Mr. Sledge. Mr. Sledge offered his apologies for the lack of hospitality in South Memphis. When we split that money up, you’ll get part of Rerun’s cut, too. Cool?”
“Cool,” Donnie said again.
The warehouse was cavernous, the guts of the building filled with floor-to-ceiling heavy-duty metal shelving like they had at a Costco. Crates and boxes filled with appliances, car parts, commercial grade tools, and electronics. Earlier Donnie had marveled at all the shit that runs through Tibbehah County, so many damn tractor-trailers hijacked and sold through Fannie’s little operation here. He had to admit he was impressed.
“You nervous?” Triplett said.
Donnie shook his head, stood up and reached for the fresh T-shirt he’d found in the warehouse. The brown UPS uniform he’d been wearing was covered in Rerun’s blood. This shirt was white and advertised Pap’s Place. WHERE CATFISH IS KING AND JESUS IS LORD.
“I used to get real nervous before kickoff,” Triplett said. “I’d be keyed up as hell before that whistle blew and I saw that ball flying high in the air. Soon as it hit my hands, all that shit was gone, adrenaline pumping, running full the fuck out with all those boys trying to take my damn head off. Wasn’t the action making me nervous. It was not being able to do something about it. Once it was game time? Shit, man. It was on.”
“I don’t trust these folks,” Donnie said. “Real squirrely group of white boys.”
“That’s why we’ve arranged for this shit to go down in a controlled environment,” he said. “I don’t give a shit what that crazy old man say. You tell him to meet you out back of the Rebel Truck Stop. They got this truck wash for big rigs that you can just roll in and out of. Make this thing as easy as going through the drive-thru at Mickey D’s. You hear what I’m saying?”
“I don’t know if the Watchmen will go for that,” Donnie said. “I kind of get the feeling they want me to deliver to the furniture store.”
“Damn Zeke’s Value City.”
“Yep.”
“Fuck that shit,” Triplett said. “They ain’t getting no home field advantage. We do this in Fannie Hathcock’s world, those motherfuckers ain’t gonna know what to expect. But they know what happens if they try to grab those guns and not pay. Shit, man.”
“But you’ll be close by.”
“You know it.” Triplett took out the toothpick and winked at Donnie. “Tonight, they got half-price beer, chicken wings, and UFC fights on the big screen over at Vienna’s Place. Yeah, me and my boys will be real close by in case some shit goes down. But let’s hope it all goes smooth, you know. No bullshit. No lies. You get that goddamn money and meet us back here. I’m told we can even order in a little talent to keep us busy while we count cash. I heard that Miss Fannie has a few cases of some damn Dom Pérignon somewhere back here.”
“I’d settle for a cold six of Coors Light.”
“Let me ask you a question,” Triplett said. “You ever tried to hit that?”
“Hit what?”
“Oh, hell,” he said. “You know. Miss Fannie.”
“No way.”
“Smart man,” Triplett said. “I’d be half afraid that woman’s pussy got some sharp teeth down there. Rip my pecker clean off.”
“I don’t know about all that,” Donnie said. “That woman’s got more twists and turns on her than Six Flags Over Georgia. Figured she might be one hell of a time.”
“I heard this story, don’t know if it’s true or not, that Fannie Hathcock done fucked a man to death.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Triplett said. “I don’t care how good she looks. You better keep your ass away from that. I’m just saying.”
Donnie nodded. Akeem Triplett offered his fist and Donnie bumped it back.
“Like Coach used to tell us,” Triplett said. “You either demand some respect or expect defeat
. Which way’s it going to go?”
“It’s cool,” Donnie said. “I’m ready.”
“You ready to hit it like a black man?”
“Come on now,” Donnie said. “Shit.”
“Say it,” Triplett said. “I want to hear you say it loud and proud.”
“I’m ready.”
“To what?”
“Hit it like a black man.”
“I said loud and proud.”
Donnie yelled, the words echoing through the expanse of the big tin warehouse. Triplett grinned big as Donnie’s cell phone began to chirp, one of the numbers the Watchmen boys were using this week.
He looked to Akeem, nodded, and accepted the call.
* * *
• • •
“Bentley Vandeven,” Boom said, sitting behind the wheel of his big jacked-up Chevy, Quinn riding shotgun. “That’s the whitest damn name I ever heard in my life. Never did like that dude. Big teeth and big hair. Had him a real frat boy attitude.”
“He came through,” Quinn said. “Stood up. Said it took his daddy four scotches before he started to talk about the Watchmen. Bentley said his old man was finished with all those people, called them white trash out of the hills. He said whatever support they gave in the last election was over. The good ole boys doing all they can to keep them far away from Vardaman.”
“They don’t think goddamn J. K. Vardaman is white trash come to town?” Boom said. “Shit. That motherfucker smells like chicken shit and kerosene, same as Johnny Stagg.”
“Johnny Stagg, J. K. Vardaman, the Watchmen—all of them come from the same place,” Quinn said. “Me and you been fighting them ever since we came home.”
“Been here long before me and you were born,” Boom said. “And they gonna be around long after we die.”
“That’s a hard take,” Quinn said.
“Do I lie?”
Quinn and Boom had parked on the far side of the Confederate cemetery under the rusted West Jericho Water Association tower. Bentley’s daddy said that the Watchmen were back doing business in Tibbehah County, just to thumb their nose at Vardaman, working a big gun deal through some old man that collected Civil War memorabilia and ran some kind of two-bit museum. Quinn knew straight off they were talking about Zeke Coldfield, a crazy old coot often called the town’s unofficial historian and keeper of the flame, with his furniture store next to a Confederate graveyard. More than five hundred soldiers were buried there, a few fine old homes in and around Jericho serving as hospitals for those wounded at Corinth and Brice’s Cross Roads and the Second Battle of Jericho. It was a barren, stark place. The rows of headstones in the flat field a solemn reminder of what had happened in America not that long ago.
“What do they aim to do with all these guns?” Boom said.
“Doubt they even know,” Quinn said. “This whole thing started as some kind of fanboy movement for Vardaman. But now it’s out of hand.”
“Out of hand,” Boom said. “Shit. That’s all you got to say about it?”
“Vardaman doesn’t need them anymore.”
“Now that the killer from the Rez is dead, they’re the only ones left who set you up.”
“Nope.”
“You talking Fannie?”
Quinn nodded.
“Y’all ain’t ever gonna catch that mean-ass bitch,” Boom said. “No way. Y’all might take down these crazy folks and maybe Vardaman, but we’d still be stuck with Fannie Hathcock. Might as well get a historic marker for Vienna’s Place, the jewel of U.S. Highway 45.”
“We got Stagg.”
“Stagg fucked his own damn self,” Boom said. “Doing business with morons like ole Larry Cobb. That man ever gets out of prison, I promise you he won’t make the same mistake twice. Unlike a dumb son of a bitch we both know.”
“Donnie?” Quinn said. “Thought had crossed my mind.”
“A big gun deal in north Mississippi? Donnie Varner’s crazy ass gotta be involved,” Boom said. “What are the chances?”
“Maybe we go and talk to Donnie.”
“Man wouldn’t say shit if his mouth was full of it,” Boom said. “I love Donnie. You love Donnie. But hell, man. You can’t trust his ass. Never could.”
“If this damn deal is as big as they say, someone’s been tipped off.”
“Who you thinking?”
“Big money, stolen goods.”
“You talking Curtis Creekmore?”
“He lied to me and Lillie before,” Quinn said. “He owes us something.”
“Who would’ve thought Bentley Vandeven would actually come through?” Boom said. “Rich white boy trying to make good in this world.”
“If the damn rednecks ever realized how much the rich despised them.”
“Better catch up,” Boom said. “My folks figured that shit out a long time back.”
* * *
• • •
Two hours later, Curtis Creekmore walked out of the Waffle House picking his teeth and patting his belly after polishing off a T-bone steak, two eggs sunny-side up, and a side order of hash browns scattered, smothered, and covered. Yes, sir, it was gonna be a hell of a fine day in Tupelo. He had a shipment of Stihl chain saws and weed eaters coming in from Birmingham, some Milwaukee tool sets in from Columbus, and some jumbo Bluetooth speakers from Mobile that would be just right for a pleasure boat on the Tombigbee.
“Hello, shithead,” Lillie Virgil said.
“Damn, woman,” Creekmore said, jumping back three steps. “You’re gonna give me a goddamn heart attack sneaking up like that.”
“And the world would be a brighter place,” she said.
“I’ve gone straight, Miss Virgil,” Creekmore said, swiveling the toothpick in his mouth. “Yes, ma’am. Got right with the Lord. Found me some of that old-time religion. Like ole Peter said to Jesus, I don’t have silver or gold but what I have I’ll give to you.”
“Damn, Curtis,” Lillie said, leaning against her Charger. “Could you be any more full of shit?”
Creekmore couldn’t help it, starting to snicker himself. Lillie Virgil knew what side she was on and he knew what side he was on. It was like two players from opposing football teams meeting outside the arena. Yes, sir. He figured that he and that woman Marshal had some mutual respect going on.
“You’re pretty goddamn stupid, Curtis, if you think you can hand off some bullshit to me without retribution,” Lillie said. “What did I say?”
“You said you’d let me go if I told you where to find that big Indian,” he said. “And I told you. Isn’t that how y’all blasted his ole nuts across Choctaw Lake? Oh, I see. You come out here to give me some kind of citizen reward. No, ma’am. I’m fine. I don’t need no recognition. Just glad to assist.”
“You lied to me and Quinn Colson,” Lillie said. “Sam Frye wasn’t hanging out at Fannie’s lake house. He was headed out to kill that woman.”
“Hell, I don’t know all the particulars,” he said. “I gave you what I got. That’s the best I can do.”
“I need more,” Lillie said, stepping up. She patted his cheek like he was nothing but a boy. “Or you’re coming with me to Memphis.”
“For what?”
Lillie reached into her pocket and began to read out a list of charges that went clean back to 1993 and things he’d been accused of that he’d long since forgotten about. He figured some of those charges had gone off the books with time being what it was, statute of limitations and all. But Lillie Virgil was here for her goddamn pound of flesh right out of his narrow country ass.
“Someone is running guns in Tibbehah County.”
“Ha,” Creekmore said. “Someone’s always running guns in Tibbehah County. Every man, woman, child, and critter is armed in that place. I heard the goddamn possums carry derringers.”
“Someone is running guns tod
ay or tomorrow,” Lillie said. “They were stolen from a UPS facility in Memphis. You might have seen it on the fucking news given that you own a million TVs.”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “Don’t know nothing about that.”
Creekmore grinned, knowing damn well Donnie Varner was back in business, whether he boosted them guns or not, and had turned them back around to sell them to old Zeke Coldfield and his band of Confederate soldiers or whatever the hell they were. Creekmore kept grinning, working some gristle out of his back teeth with the toothpick. Maybe if he acted cool and stupid, she’d get back in that Dodge and leave him alone.
“Turn around,” Lillie said. “Hands behind your back.”
“Really?” he said. “Right in front of a fucking family-friendly place like the Waffle House?”
“Where and when?”
“Oh, shit.”
“Where and when?”
Creekmore stood back from his truck, letting out a long breath and weighing his options. Staring back at that big tall woman in the mirrored shades, he knew he didn’t have too damn many. Not unless he wanted to be trucked up to Memphis tonight and deal with a whole list of charges going back to when he’d been running electronics for old Johnny Stagg and his two-bit Dixie Mafia.
“OK,” Creekmore said. “OK. Can you at least give me a damn second, woman? Let me make a couple phone calls.”
“Don’t screw me, Curtis,” Lillie said. “I promise you, you sure aren’t my type.”
24
Donnie and Midnight Man had unpackaged all the guns and reloaded them into a Little Debbie delivery truck. Little Debbie under that wide-brimmed straw hat painted on the sides, grinning to the goddamn world that she had AMERICA’S NUMBER ONE SNACK CAKE. Donnie had chosen the truck special out of several in Fannie’s warehouse, pretty sure that old Mr. Coldfield would nearly shit his pants thinking about Swiss Rolls, chocolate cupcakes, and AR-15s to kick off the Third Battle of Jericho. Yes, sir, that would be too good to resist, Donnie thought, punching up Jon Holliday’s cell on his ride into Jericho.