The Broken Places

by Ace Atkins

  Esau kept on staring at Dickie where he’d spit whiskey all over the wood floor. He turned back to Becky in her red top and Daisy Dukes and said, “Sure thing, baby. Grab what you want. Keep it if you like.”

  “I couldn’t do that, Esau,” Becky said, reaching up high, giving the men a good gander at her best features as she clasped on the necklace and earrings. “That would be very tacky.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ tacky ’bout you, Becky,” Bones said.

  Dickie just rubbed the stubble on his head and sniffed at his glass again. He screwed up his face at the smell of the whiskey and shuddered.

  Caddy met her mother out by the boat ramp on Choctaw Lake. Jason was playing on a jungle gym set in a thinned oak forest, while Jean sat on a park bench reading a book by June Juanico about the summer of ’56. Jean thumbed her place in the book and stuck it back inside her purse. She shook her head. “She says she never had sex with Elvis, you believe that?”

  “No.”

  “I think she would have stayed with him, too, if it hadn’t been for Natalie Wood,” Jean said. “Natalie just wouldn’t leave Elvis alone. Not that I blame her, but she was so open about it. Right under June’s nose.”

  “Momma?”

  “Yes, baby.”

  “How come you’ve never asked me much about Jamey?”

  “I didn’t think you wanted my opinion.”

  “But you being quiet always means you don’t like it.”

  “I like Jamey just fine.”

  “But you don’t like me being with him?”

  “Is that what you are now?” Jean said, somehow still managing to smile and wave to Jason as he made his way up a rope ladder. “With him?”

  “Don’t you know it?” Caddy took a breath. “I love him.”

  Jean nodded. Her eyelids fluttered a bit, and she bit her lip. Being subtle had never been part of her momma’s skill set.

  “Nobody in my entire family wanted me to be with your father,” Jean said. “Jason Colson was ten years older, Hollywood trash, and wild as hell. He chased me endlessly, flying me out to California. Can you see me back then, in Hollywood? I about gave your grandmother a heart attack. Come to think of it, may be what killed her.”

  “That’s not true,” Caddy said.

  “Who’s to say?”

  “She had cancer.”

  “They never did like your father,” Jean said. “But you know that. You remember how awful the holidays were? Remember how she used to hide your daddy’s Jack Daniel’s and cigarettes and turn her nose at all his stories about being on the set with Burt and making those racing movies?”

  “I remember you talking about Cannonball Run.”

  Jean nodded. “I once smoked a joint with Jack Elam and Adrienne Barbeau.”

  “Mom.”

  “Well, I did.”

  Caddy rolled her eyes. “I think Jamey is in trouble.”

  “This have something to do with the Bundren girl?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Oh, Lord. What did he do now?”

  “Nothing,” Caddy said. She placed her head into her hands. “Why would you say it like that?”

  “Is it another woman?”

  “No,” Caddy said, knowing she’d said it too harshly. Jean was silent. When Caddy looked up from her hands, Jason was balancing himself on top of the swing set. Caddy raced over to him, telling him to get his butt down this instant, pointing to the ground. Jason smiled and leapt down into her arms. Not for a moment did Jason think she wouldn’t be waiting to catch him.

  Caddy walked back and took a seat by her mother on the bench. The lake was still and smooth, oaks and old pines reflected off the surface. A couple old men were way out in a johnboat, fishing for crappie.

  “Some men came to see him today,” Caddy said.

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know,” Caddy said. “But they scared the hell out of me. One of them punched Jamey in the stomach.”

  “What did Jamey say?”

  “He said not to ask and not to tell Quinn.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Momma, please,” she said.

  “Well, it sounds to me like he’s gone and gotten himself into some more trouble.”

  “More trouble?” Caddy asked. “How could he get in more? What happened before was a lie.”

  Jean bit her lip some more. She nodded, holding back whatever it was she wanted to say.

  “Go on,” Caddy said. “Say it.”

  Jean shook her head, pulling the paperback and a pack of cigarettes from her purse.

  “I’m worried,” Caddy said.

  “Talk to Quinn.”

  “I told you, I can’t.”

  “You can’t stop some men from being stupid,” she said. “A particular kind of man will run just about the time he’s feeling settled. They’re all like that.”

  “Oh, Momma,” Caddy said, standing, whistling for Jason to come on. “Just who are we talking about again?”

  • • •

  One year on the job and Quinn had finally gotten things settled in his office. He’d finally had the painted letters for SHERIFF HAMP BECKETT scraped from the door and replaced with his name. On his wall, he’d hung a photo of his platoon after they’d hoisted the flag at Haditha Dam. There was also a framed flag that his friend Colonel George Reynolds had presented him from Camp Spann in AFG, and old photos of Quinn fishing with his uncle and a couple more of Quinn with Jason. Lillie had once asked if he had any pictures of his father. Quinn had just shook his head and said, “Not anymore.”

  Quinn opened his door and walked out to the gun rack. He unlocked the safety bar and pulled a Remington 12-gauge from the wall. He was locking up the rack when Ophelia Bundren walked in from the front desk, Mary Alice not even giving him a warning.

  “You got a minute?”

  “Just about to take a ride,” Quinn said.

  “Expecting trouble?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Nope, just checking it out,” he said. “Got a couple new guns in last week. Most of these guns were a lot older than me.”

  “Fresh guns?”

  “Something like that.”

  Quinn walked to his office and held his door wide. Ophelia, looking awkward in a black skirt and blazer with nametag attached, took a seat. She nodded to the open door, and Quinn closed it.

  “That will really get people talking,” she said.

  “Are you hearing that, too?”

  “I guess Jericho doesn’t have a hell of a lot else to do.”

  “Heard we may be getting a new pizza place, too.”

  “Big-time,” she said. She smiled at Quinn, and Quinn smiled back. He sat at the edge of his desk, shotgun lying crossways behind him, Beretta attached to his belt.

  “How’d it feel?” Ophelia said, looking at the neatly hung pictures.

  “Combat?”

  “No,” Ophelia said. “Being so far away from home.”

  “You get used to it,” Quinn said. “After the second or third time, it’s all the same.”

  “You get to know many locals out on patrols?” she said. “Sheepherders and kids. Winning hearts and minds.”

  “Not really our job,” Quinn said, moving the gun slightly.

  “What did you do?”

  “I guess it was sort of like housecleaning,” he said. “Making it safe for someone to move in and do their jobs.”

  “Winning hearts and minds.”

  Quinn nodded. “Of a kind.”

  Ophelia took a quick breath, her knees together, black department-store shoes set close together. “I found someone who can help us,” she said. “There’s a man who saw what happened that night. With Jamey. He saw him arguing with my sister. He says he saw Jamey chasing her down the highway.”

  “Ophelia?”

  She nodded, hands in lap.

  “Dixon was convicted and spent time in prison for killing your sister,” he said. “He can’t be tried again. He was pardoned. That’s it. It’s o
ver.”

  “I’m not bringing this stuff up to get Dixon. I’m doing this for Caddy. You do realize how much time she and Jason are spending at that phony church? You do realize that Dixon is living with them?”

  Quinn set his jaw. He nodded.

  “I want you to meet with this man,” Ophelia said. “You get him to talk to Caddy and tell her what he saw.”

  “Doesn’t matter. She won’t listen.”

  “My insides were ripped away when my sister died,” Ophelia said. “Dixon in jail was the only thing that let me sleep and breathe, and now the son of a bitch is out and is the town hero. Jesus, Quinn.”

  Quinn set his boots on the floor and walked to Ophelia and put his hand on her shoulder. She was sitting just as still and proper but was now crying. Not much, just a little bit, more shaking than anything.

  “OK.”

  “You’ll meet with him?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  Ophelia wiped her eyes. “Sure,” she said. “Please.”

  “But I already know,” Quinn said. “Caddy believes what she wants.”

  “You can’t bury what’s inside of you forever,” she said. “That rage will come out. He still has it in him. I see the way he looks at me.”

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “It’s more in the way he stares.”

  “He does that again, and you let me know.”

  Ophelia nodded. “Just what we need, you beating the hell out of Dixon for me,” she said, sort of laughing. “That will really get people talking about us. Half the town is already planning on our wedding.”

  “Rather hear about you planning a wedding for me than something else.”

  “I always figured to see you the other way,” she said. “I have helped bury eight boys from here. I kept on waiting for you.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Ophelia Bundren gave Quinn a very serious look, pulling her dark hair from her face. Her eyes were very large and brown; they didn’t speak for a few moments. “You could never do that, Quinn Colson.”

  She left the door open and walked away. Ten seconds later, Lillie poked her head in the office and said, “Y’all have a quickie?”

  Quinn stared at her. He nodded. “Yep.”

  “I knew it.”

  Quinn waited for whatever it was that Lillie wanted.

  “Just got a call from the sheriff in Monroe,” Lillie said. “They found that cook from Eupora.”

  “And the money?”

  “Didn’t find much on him,” Lillie said. “Someone had shot the bastard in the center of the head and dumped his ass in the back of a ’68 Chevelle.”

  “OK.”

  “Aren’t you gonna ask about that Chevelle?”

  “Sure.”

  “Stolen maybe a mile from Parchman Farm,” Lillie said. “Owner of it was knocked in the head and tied up by some convict named Esau Davis. Ever heard of him?”

  Quinn drove with Lillie out to the Monroe County line, where they met the sheriff at a defunct gas station right off the highway. He was an old man named Cecil Locke, who had been in law enforcement longer than Quinn had been alive. He wore a uniform not unlike the one Andy Griffith used to wear on the television show, stiff and khaki, completed with a fresh shave and pomaded hair. He greeted them both with a handshake, asking Lillie about her daughter and what could be expected in the next football season for Ole Miss. Most people knew Lillie had been a star shooter for the Ole Miss rifle team.

  “So we got a couple convicts loose?” Lillie said.

  “Three,” Locke said. “Third one is named Richard Green.” He slipped some reading glasses from his pocket and read a printout. “He had four years into a twenty-year stretch for manslaughter. This was his second visit to Parchman. Once for statutory rape and for armed robbery.”

  “And the other two?” Quinn asked.

  A couple trucks blew past on the highway. Dirt and gravel scattered.

  “Esau Davis would be the leader of the three,” Locke said. “Or should be. Six-four, weighs two-fifty, and has bright red hair. Y’all should have gotten his picture. He looks like that fella selling Bounty paper towels. He was in for ninety years for two armed robberies and killing a security guard at a Best Buy outside Jackson. Don’t know much about the black man, Joseph Magee, other than folks call him Bones. Uglier than dog shit, and good at stealing cars. Of course, this only what they got caught doing. Sure they done a lot worse.”

  “They killed Mr. Highsmith in Eupora,” Lillie said.

  “Looks that way,” Locke said. “Real pretty car. Man who owned it drove right over from Tutwiler, got down on his knees and started talking to it like it were a baby. Mad as hell when he saw all that blood in the trunk. Didn’t matter, sat and waited for the state folks to process it out and took it home. Y’all have any other car thefts around the truck stop?”

  “No, sir,” Quinn said. “If they stole a car in Tibbehah County, it hasn’t been reported.”

  “Can’t think of another reason for them doubling back if they were headed east and out of state.”

  “You see anything that ties them to this area?” Quinn said.

  Locke shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “First thing I checked. Just got off the phone to the superintendent at Parchman. He was madder than hell. He’s shut down the whole prison. Everybody inside is on lockdown; all privileges are being withheld. I can tell you if those boys get turned back to prison, they won’t find no welcoming committee.”

  The windows were broken out in the garage; an old Sinclair Oil sign hung crooked from a pole. A logging truck with an empty trailer rattled past.

  “Anything else?” Lillie said.

  “Superintendent said Davis and Magee were buds,” he said. “Doesn’t show up on the records anywhere, but it seemed to him they’d known each other before. He said some federal man had come to talk to both of them maybe two years back about a few bank jobs. But he didn’t get nowhere.”

  “Did he know much about the jobs?” Lillie said.

  “I got a call into a Fed in Oxford,” Locke said. “I hear something of interest and I’ll shout.”

  “I bet they got some family in this area,” Quinn said. “Only reason I can think of them sticking around.”

  “Or maybe they left something special?” Lillie said.

  “Good to know about those bank jobs,” Quinn said.

  Locke nodded. They all shook hands. The old man hobbled back to his car, hung on his door, and shouted to Lillie, “Can you really hit a half-dozen clay pigeons before they hit the ground?”

  “Want to see?” Lillie said.

  “Next time I’m in Jericho,” Locke said, tipping his hat. “It would be a pleasure.”

  • • •

  “Why don’t we just go out to that bass pond now,” Dickie Green said. “Get it over with. I like this place, it’s sweet as hell, but I’d just as soon head on before someone finds us.”

  “The hunting lodge belongs to Esau’s friend,” Becky said. “Hadn’t you been listening?”

  “Sure,” Dickie said. “But sounds like you is coming into this conversation kind of late.”

  Esau left them talking to each other like that by the swimming pool while he and Bones drove out into Jericho. It was nearing four o’clock. They got stuck behind a school bus heading into town from the high school and nearly tried to pass when Bones pointed out a state trooper hidden up in some brush. Esau kept it on forty all the way into town, hugging the Square, the Laundromat, and the offices to a newspaper. There was an old movie theater all boarded up and a check delay business. All shithole towns had a check delay run by the greedy bastards. Before he got sent back to prison, Esau lived off that shit, getting nearly twenty percent stolen for an advance on his pay. About the best days he’d known before robbing banks was when he had his truck running and didn’t have to walk up the road to buy beer and a Little Debbie snack cake for supper.

  “Well, hell,” Bones said.
<
br />   “What?”

  “Ain’t that her?”

  “Who?”

  “Dixon’s woman?”

  “Yes, sir,” Esau said. “Ain’t you the eagle eye.”

  “I never forget a tight ass,” Bones said.

  Esau slowed the Tundra as they took a third lap on the Town Square, watching the woman they’d seen at Dixon’s church. She was holding the hand of a little black boy and some shopping bags, and walking into a flower shop. Esau found a parking spot and killed the engine but left on the radio. The truck’s owner had kept some good old David Allan Coe in the CD player, “If That Ain’t Country.”

  “Pass me a beer,” Esau said.

  Bones stuck one in his palm from a foam cooler they’d bought at a bait shop. The gun they’d stolen sat in the folds of the seat between them. They both lay back in their seats, sipping beer until Dixon’s woman and the black boy came back out. The boy balanced a big display of flowers, and they walked clockwise on the Square to an old Honda and drove off. Esau kicked the truck into gear and followed, keeping the Busch between his legs. He punched up the lighter and set a cigarette in his lips, damn well feeling like a human being again.

  The woman drove north of the town on Main Street, passing by a good amount of big old pretty houses with big old pretty porches, many of them with those historic markers out front saying they hadn’t been burned during the War. Esau figured there must have been a mess of rich folks in this old town before it all turned to shit.

  The Honda turned left down a road called Ithaca and stopped in front of a smaller house, a brick ranch with flat boxwoods and holly. He kept driving, window open, hand with cigarette hanging out the window. The little boy ran out of the car with the flowers, the blond woman following slower, closing the car door and turning her head just in time to see Esau and catch his eye.

  Esau just gave her a simple nod. She looked like she’d just swallowed some glass.

  “Back to the hunt club?” Bones said.

  “Yep,” Esau said. “I’m out of beer.”