The Innocents

by Ace Atkins

When she didn’t answer, he saw she’d slipped into a big ole flowered number, bright blue and yellow. Wash wanted to tell her she looked like a g.d. circus tent, but everything with Milly had taken the dang piss and vinegar right out of him.

  “She loved you,” Charlotte said. “You know that, right?”

  “No,” Wash said. “She didn’t. And it ain’t till now that I understood why.”

  “Why?”

  “Her momma set me up,” he said. “Wanted me to be the one who ruined their life and I didn’t say no better. But now I can make things right. I’m gonna find who did this. I’m gonna get out there and walk every inch of this county till we get some answers. I’m gonna be somebody. I’m gonna be Milly’s daddy.”

  Charlotte stood by the thin aluminum doorway, feeling the heat come through cracks and all that talk and craziness echo off the metal siding. She looked to Wash, straightened the NRA hat on his head, and kissed him on the cheek. The door opened and right fast he saw the metal stand had been set up in his front yard. Dozens and dozens of reporters from all over the dang place had come to hear what Wash Jones had to say.

  It was about g.d. time.

  Wash stepped up, wiped something from his right eye, and opened his mouth.

  20

  What’s this?” Fannie said.

  “It’s a warrant,” Lillie Virgil said. “I think we spelled your middle name right. Belle. With an e?”

  “I know what it is,” Fannie said. “I just don’t know why you’re here.”

  “You had a young woman in your employ named Milly Jones,” Lillie said. “You might have turned on a radio or TV in the last twenty-four hours and heard someone set the girl on fire. She was eighteen, a cute little blonde, and someone’s kid.”

  “All you had to do is ask,” Fannie said. “We don’t need all this.”

  All this meaning Lillie, Quinn, Kenny, Reggie Caruthers, Art, and Dave shutting down Happy Hour at Vienna’s Place. Art and Dave watched the back door, the pulsing dance music gone silent, with Quinn, Reggie, and Kenny by the front. Lots of truckers made their way to the exit, Quinn checking their IDs, asking them questions, and making a list. The two girls who had been working the pole up front and the five girls in back who were getting up close and personal now gathered to sit on the main stage. They’d all slipped back into their bikinis and lingerie, wearing high heel plastic slippers that would break a regular woman’s neck.

  Fannie wasn’t pleased, her pale white skin turning a bright red from her collarbone up to her face. She had on tan slacks and a black lacy top open at the throat, showing off a sizable ruby on her neck. Her hair was a deep red and she had thick black eyebrows. She wore a great deal of makeup, with bright red lips and wide cat eyes. Her perfume was expensive and cut through all the smoke and sweat in Vienna’s. Her large chest heaved, sucking on a long brown cigarette. She ashed it and turned back to Lillie. “What do you wish to know?”

  “I wish to know a lot of things,” Lillie said, nodding at Quinn. Quinn nodded back, letting that nervous logger from Eupora through the front door to make his prayer meeting. “How about we start with her work schedule, any video you have of Milly coming and going, girls who shared her shift, and any special customers who might have enjoyed her talents.”

  “Our customers prefer privacy.”

  “Shame we had to meet head-on like this, Miss Hathcock,” Lillie said. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading about all the adventures you’ve had. You sure are a true and authentic American success story.”

  “I’m not ashamed of how I got what I got,” Fannie said. “But if you harass my customers, you’ll find yourself being served with your own papers.”

  “We have witnesses who saw Lyle and his scooter riders harassing Milly Jones not ninety minutes before she was killed.”

  “And what’s that have to do with me?”

  “Everyone knows that you and the Born Losers cast the same shadow.”

  “That’s a lie,” Fannie said. “Those boys are customers and nothing more. I’ve known Lyle for years, but I am not his employer or his friend. You need to get your facts straight before running off to some judge, trying to make things look good for all these cameras.”

  “The Losers left town this morning,” Lillie said. “We want to talk with them.”

  “I bet.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Fannie smiled big, lifted her cigar from the bar top, and took a long pull. “Lyle said you were wild about him. Said you busted into the Golden Cherry and gave him some hell. He said this was the second time y’all met and, each time, you keep on getting flirty.”

  “Bullshit,” Lillie said. “I wouldn’t spit on someone so nasty.”

  “I see it,” Fannie said, smoke floating in front of her face. “No need hiding it from me. Women love the feel of all that horsepower between their legs. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that works.”

  “Get up,” Lillie said. “Let’s go on up to your office and start digging.”

  Fannie cocked her head, strange and coy, lifting the long hair off her neck and pulling it to the side. She played a bit with the silver necklace around her neck, the pendant dipping down between her low-cut blouse and lacy black bra. Fannie noticed her staring and smiled even wider. “Down here, we sell whiskey and pussy,” Fannie said. “Up there, I’ll make a call to my lawyer.”

  “Fine by me,” Lillie said. “My assistant sheriff will make sure no one leaves this shithole until I’m satisfied.”

  “Take a look around,” Fannie said. “Might see something you fancy. I don’t make judgments on just what works for a woman. You’d be surprised how many ladies come here to get their fix.”

  “Work schedule, security tapes, and customer names,” Lillie said. “This is a homicide investigation. We can run it here. Or we can run it at the sheriff’s office. Might be a while before you open up again. For some country bumpkins, we can be thorough as hell. Not to mention it might be a pain having all those camera crews parked out front.”

  “You are a true piece of work, Sheriff,” Fannie said, scooting her butt off the barstool and brushing a shoulder past the taller Lillie, bumping her a bit. Smoke spewed from the corner of her red mouth. “Lots of pretty girls around here,” she said. “And bad boys.”

  “This won’t end well between us,” Lillie said.

  Fannie smiled. “I know.”

  • • •

  They came for him at twilight.

  Sammi was counting down the Gas & Go drawer in back, Miss Williams working the register after making up the barbecue and sides, when he heard the approaching growl of the motorcycles. He knew they’d come back but didn’t figure it would be so soon after the girl got killed. He hoped they’d have enough sense to ride far away from Tibbehah County until everything got settled. But, like he’d told Quinn Colson, being Middle Eastern in north Mississippi made him an easy target. Somehow, they knew he spoke with the law. And whether it was Nito Reece or a gang of sweaty, stinky half apes, they wouldn’t rest until he was in the ground.

  Sammi wasn’t his father. He didn’t smile and laugh when they made fun of his people or joked that he just might be a terrorist. He’d spent most of his life in this county, and had done everything possible to blend in, wear the clothes, talk the talk, never wanting to be different. But he looked different, sounded different, ate different food, and prayed from a different book than most.

  He jammed the day’s count into a bank bag and zipped it closed. He punched up the combination on the safe, slid the money inside, and pulled out a .357 Magnum. He tucked the gun into his sagging blue jeans and let his Memphis Redbirds tee hang down low. He pulled the ball cap down in his eyes, walked hard out of the back room and through the store—Miss Williams asking him about needing some more hot sauce—and headed out into the hot, fading light.

  The bikers rode in circle
s around the Gas & Go, gunning their engines, lurching up close to him, one riding so close, the handlebar gored him in the ribs and knocked him to the asphalt.

  The leader of the group rolled up fast, setting his front tire between Sammi’s open legs and revving his motor. He had on wraparound sunglasses and no shirt, leaning into the handlebars. His black hair set into twin braids like he was Willie Nelson or something. “You kill that girl for Allah?” he asked, sort of whispering it.

  “What?”

  “I said you killed that girl for Allah.”

  Sammi’s heart was up in his throat, his mouth dry, but he was aware enough to lift his right hand up under his long shirt. He felt his way under the material like it was a poncho, getting a good grip on the gun, waiting for Lyle to move that tire an inch.

  “This is America,” Lyle said. “We don’t like you burning up white girls. We can’t have no goddamn jihad down south. Some of my brothers got killed over there in Iraq. Your people setting up bombs in the ground, scattering their asses all around the desert.”

  Sammi swallowed and said, “I’m Syrian, you idiot.”

  “Syria, Iraq—what’s it matter?” he said. “You all think alike. Y’all won’t rest until you have every dumb son of a bitch sitting on a little carpet and praying five times a day. Let me tell you something. I only pray on Sunday. And sometimes not even then. What you did to that girl ain’t even human.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “What?”

  “What’s her name?” Sammi said. “Say her name.”

  Several of the bikers had crawled off their Harleys and stood over Sammi on the ground. Two of them held big sticks, another had a long length of chain. They were sunburned and smelled like that cattle truck that stopped by every morning for a tank of diesel. Some of them called him a sand nigger and a goddamn Arab. All of them saying A-rab like it was two words.

  “She was my friend,” Sammi said. “Don’t bring this here.”

  “Hey now,” Lyle said. “Hey now. We ain’t gonna hurt you. We’re just gonna take you for a little ride until you confess that you lit that girl up like a candle.”

  Some of the bikers made la-la-la-la-la sounds as if they understood what the hell ululation meant. His left elbow dug into the ground, high right hand drawing the gun from his sweaty waistband, as Lyle revved his motor and scooted forward and then back. Forward and then back.

  One of the men stooped down and tried to wrap his ankles together with a chain.

  Sammi drew the .357 and aimed it dead center at Lyle’s head. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “Shoot me,” Lyle said, laughing. “Please shoot me. You do and it won’t be like the girl. Won’t be any of that dark meat to be found.”

  Sammi thumbed back the hammer, the trigger smooth and tight under his finger. He imagined what it’d be like to just let it go, see the man’s ugly face explode into mess, watch him fall to the ground, and maybe take out a few more, before they got to him and dragged him on the back roads until he didn’t have any skin left. That’s what they all wanted. And hated. All that skin different than their own.

  “Go ahead. Sam the Sham won’t shoot,” Lyle said, his face turning from a grin into a hard look with a lot of yellowed teeth. “Chain him up.”

  “Motherfuckers,” Sammi said. “Motherfuckers.”

  They pulled his gun from him his hand, knocked him in the head, and that’s when the stomping started. The boots flew down on his head and into his ribs, over and over, Sammi trying to cover up with his forearms, as he felt his feet being bound and the motorcycle lurching forward. The bikers making that high ululation sound like a group of excited women.

  • • •

  Fannie watched from high in the roost as the deputies walked out of Vienna’s with four laptops, five trash bags filled with receipts, and at least two willing customers who wanted to make statements and help out that nice girl. Mingo couldn’t understand how they’d just busted in, shut her down for nearly two hours, and walked away with her personal property.

  “They can have it,” Fannie said. “That woman got off on it.”

  “But your personal records?” Mingo said. “Stuff from your desk and in the safe?”

  “Honey, you think I keep my personal records on the premises?” she asked. “Only a wet-eared fool would try that. I don’t use the business phone and I don’t email. You want to talk business, you tell me private. Don’t forget what I’m telling you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “They tried to burn me on the Rez and they’ll try to burn my ass up here.”

  She let the day shift go, the night girls, her A-team, coming through the front door, wanting to know just what the hell was going on. Fannie told them to go ahead and get pulled into those G-strings and cowboy boots. Nobody had shut down a damn thing. It’s business as usual along Highway 45.

  “Besides,” Fannie said. “I got that woman’s number.”

  “How’s that?” Mingo asked.

  “You ever seen a woman be so damn prissy with the fucking help?” she said. “Telling the girls to cover themselves up before they’d sit down and talk. Not looking them in the eye.”

  “So what?”

  “That woman has a walk like John Wayne.”

  “Thought you said she was sweet on Lyle.”

  “I was just pulling her chain until I found there was a real chain to pull,” Fannie said, ashing her cigarette. “Won’t be long till I own her.”

  • • •

  Appreciate y’all inviting me here tonight,” Coach Bud Mills said. “I won’t ever pass up a chance to eat fried catfish and talk about the Lord.”

  The grayheads at the VFW all nodded along with what he said, most of them wanting to skip over the Jesus talk. Get right on to talking about next Friday night and what kind of plan he had for Holly Springs. Some of them were worried Tibbehah County might be a little intimidated like last year. He assured everyone that wouldn’t happen again.

  The VFW was a square cinder-block building a quarter mile west of downtown on Jericho Road. A big mural had been painted along the side of the building showing maps of Europe, Vietnam, and Iraq. A mobile sign outside flashed TONITE. COACH MILLS APPRECIATION. GO WILDCATS!

  “What I appreciate most about this town is that we are old-fashioned,” Mills said. “And I don’t mind being called that one bit. We support our people, our churches, and our football team. To me, athletics has always been a way to serve the Lord. Some of them kids who come to me are like acorns spread out on the forest floor. They don’t have a chance to grow being shadowed by family problems, drugs. Rap music and all that mess. But you take an acorn and plant it out into an open field, make sure it’s got water and light, you see what happens. Happened with Dexter Thompson. Happened with Wesley Ruth before he made some bad personal choices. I have been fortunate enough to have coached eighteen college players, most of ’em going D-1. Three of ours have gone onto the pros. I don’t have to tell you a thing about a Pookie Woods or Rayshawn Pennywell. The Lord gave them talent. But they needed some more light.”

  Mills reached for a glass of sweet tea on the lectern. Thirty or so folks—men and women—sat at long folding tables in the banquet hall, picking at their catfish bones and munching on hushpuppies. Even though the theme of the evening was Christ and football, some of the old vets had filled their ceramic mugs with a little brown water. And although Mills didn’t drink himself, except maybe a cold beer in the summer, he wasn’t offended.

  “I have loved working with y’all’s children,” he said. “I don’t know how many more seasons I’ll be here. But molding the future of young men through the blood, sweat, and tears has made this town a tougher place. I don’t think I need to tell any of the men here about mental toughness. Y’all served your country. You went through boot camp. But most of our young people today don’t take that oppor
tunity. They’ll never know how to toughen their hide to this world. They leave high school with high-mindedness of what they want to accomplish but no game plan to make it happen.”

  Coach reached for the sweet tea, took a long pull, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d been on the coaching field all afternoon and he could still feel the sun on his skin, the white bristles along his jaw. He looked across the faces of folks he’d known the twenty-odd years he’d been in Tibbehah County and smiled. These were his people. They’d go to hell and back to support him and the team.

  “Before we get down to a second helping of this wonderful catfish, I do want us to pray a moment for little Milly Jones. She cheered for our team. A hell of an athlete. I never saw a girl who could fly so high. She was a true angel among us. I knew her brother, a sweet young man who didn’t possess the talent but had a heart bigger than most. I can’t imagine what that family is going through right now. But when something like that happens in Jericho, it hurts us all and just tears the guts out of this place.”

  Coach Mills removed his ball cap, wiped his dry eyes, and spoke for a solid two minutes about the little blonde angel they’d been lucky enough to know.

  21

  Boom Kimbrough walked straight into the sheriff’s office meeting room, pointed to Lillie with his prosthetic hand, and said, “Y’all got some serious shit going on up in Blackjack.”

  Quinn and Lillie had emptied out the receipts from Vienna’s the night Milly Jones died onto the table. They’d gone through nearly one entire trash bag by the time Boom arrived, coffee mugs and a full ashtray in the center of the conference table. They’d written a possible time line on a grease board, lined up phone calls she’d made that week, and noted all the witnesses yet to be interviewed. Lillie stood up, hands on her hips. “Yeah?”

  “I got Sammi Khouraki’s ass out in my truck,” Boom said. “He’s been busted-up bad but doesn’t want to go to the hospital. I was towing a county truck back to the barn when I saw a bunch of folks stopped to help at the gas station. He wouldn’t tell me what happened, but a man told me he’d seen the Born Losers scooting around the store waving an American flag. One of them had a sign that said NO JIHAD IN JERICHO.”