by Ace Atkins
“Coach killed Milly,” Nito said. He blurted it out just like that, like he was talking a fact about Ole Miss football or deer hunting. Coach Bud Mills killed the cheerleader.
“Bullshit,” Norwood said.
Nito shook his head, reached down in the floorboard for that flavored vodka they both liked, and took a long pull. His black face slick and dark as night. “Wants to pin it on my ass.”
“How’s he gonna do that?” Norwood said.
“Man’s gonna tell the law about what happened to my Nova,” Nito said, handing over the vodka. “They run a black light over my backseat and it’ll light up like a fucking Christmas tree.”
“Son of a bitch,” he said.
“You gonna help?” Nito said. “Or what?”
Norwood thought about it, scratching the scuff on his chin. “I better wear some kind of mask. He knows me. Like a ski mask. Or something I got for Halloween.”
“Whatever you want,” Nito said.
“You should, too.”
“Nope,” Nito said. “I want him to see me plain as day.”
“You ain’t gonna kill him or something crazy?” Norwood said, laughing. “Come on. You ain’t the law around here.”
“Oh, no?” Nito didn’t laugh.
“Well, hell,” D. J. Norwood said. “He got a TV, guns, and shit?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I guess it does seem like the right thing to do.”
27
I don’t think she’s coming back,” Quinn said.
“You don’t know that,” Caddy said.
“She’s living in Luke’s condo every other week,” Quinn said. “She’s put Shelby in Hutchison. Says she can’t get a good education down here.”
“You blame her?” Caddy said.
“Nope.”
“But you think she’s getting back close with Luke?”
“I don’t know, sis,” Quinn said. “But she’s doing her best to put a little distance between us.”
They sat side by side on the porch swing outside the farm watching Little Jason run and play with Hondo. Hondo was a big fans of sticks. The sun was going down, the bare spots on the hill hard-packed and baked in it.
“You know, women are like cats,” Caddy said. “You try and pick ’em up too fast and they’ll jump out of your arms and run away.”
“Or scratch your eyes out.”
“You just better step back, let her figure out what needs figuring,” Caddy said. “You know how I feel about Anna Lee. But, damn, you gotta give the woman a little time to adjust to you being back. And to the divorce. All of it.”
“You and Lillie never liked her,” Quinn said. “Even before I left. Y’all always thought she’d ruin me.”
“Not ruin,” Caddy said. “Just change. We just kind of like you the way you are.”
“Anna Lee wanted me to go to Oxford this weekend,” Quinn said. “She said she’d like me to meet some of her friends in the Grove. I told her I couldn’t leave. Not with everything happening. How would that look? Me out drinking while there’s a murder investigation going on?”
“Don’t you see?” Caddy said. “Jesus Christ, Quinn Colson. The Grove? Do you even own a pair of khaki pants?”
“I got camo.”
“Yep,” she said. “That’s you. Camo and denim.”
“What about Ophelia?” she said. “Momma said you and her been seen together, having breakfast at the Fillin’ Station yesterday. That’s something, right? You rethinking all that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We had an intimate breakfast over some crime scene photos of Milly Jones. She broke down the manner of death, blow by blow. Her last walk.”
“Ophelia,” she said. “Damn, she’s dark. But get a drink in her and she’s fun as hell. Cute, too.”
Quinn pushed the swing a bit more with the toe of his boot. The late-summer light had turned a burnt orange over the oaks and pines, a haziness coming from the shadows of the deep woods. Gnats swarming down by the creek. They kept on rocking back and forth, as they had since Quinn could recall.
“Daddy got the old Firebird running again,” Quinn said. “Boom put in a new engine. Old one had rusted to shit.”
“He still say that was the car they used to jump the bridge in Hooper?”
“He said it was one they used when they burned down that factory town in the last scene,” he said. “The big apocalyptic finish before Burt and Jan Michael Vincent had to make the jump in the rocket car.”
Caddy shook her head, patted his knee. “You know, it never happened.”
“What?”
“The jump,” Caddy said. “It was impossible. They used a damn model car to make it look like it flew. You can’t fly a damn Firebird over a river. It’s bullshit. Classic Jason Colson bullshit.”
Quinn didn’t know what to say. The story had become as much a part of the legend of Jason Colson as the time he’d jumped a dozen Pintos on a Harley-Davidson. That one was true—they still had the newspaper photo hanging by the toilet in the Fillin’ Station diner.
“Doesn’t bother you that he’s now got a fast car?” Caddy said.
“He’s too old to race.”
“Not too old to jump behind the wheel and blow town.”
“Nope,” Quinn said. “He’s got too much at stake. He’s putting some kind of deal together that will help him buy up Stagg’s land.”
“Holy Christ,” Caddy said, putting down her foot, stopping the rocking. Little Jason and Hondo tired from the running and fetching, both laying on their backs in the grass, hugging. “You helped him?”
“Maybe.”
“What’d you do?”
“You got to trust him sometime.”
“What’d you do?”
“It’s my farm,” Quinn said. “Uncle Hamp left it to me.”
“Holy hell,” Caddy said. “I won’t tell Momma. But, damn, if there won’t be a shitstorm headed this way.”
Quinn didn’t move from the swing, shifting it back and forth on the jingling chains, the ceiling overhead painted the color of the sky. “She’s not coming back,” Quinn said.
“And lying to yourself about Daddy won’t help.”
“Give him a chance?”
Caddy shook her head, pushing open the screen door to grab her purse and keys, door thwacking shut behind her. “Just when I thought this old place couldn’t get bigger and lonelier.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” Caddy said. “Shit, I can’t breathe.”
• • •
Lady, you can’t bring a damn baby in here,” said the Indian-looking boy working the front door at Vienna’s.
“Says who?” asked Nikki, tired, worn-out, and looking for some answers. She balanced Jon-Jon on her hip and wiped the sweat off her face with her forearm. “I don’t see any signs.”
“This is a titty bar,” the Indian said. “Not a place for titty babies. You want to work, you need to come back by yourself. Miss Hathcock wouldn’t appreciate you showing up with an infant. There’s secondhand smoke and alcohol on the premises. Not to mention the nudity.”
“My boy probably dreams about titties flying about,” Nikki said. “Why don’t you call down Miss Hathcock and let her know Milly Jones’s best friend wants to have words with her.”
The Indian’s face changed a bit, softened a little, him rubbing his temples like he was thinking on it. He picked up the house phone from behind the counter, turned his back, and started to talk. It was hard to hear from where Nikki stood, between the front door and the double doors leading into the lounge. A blackboard in the hallway promised 2-for-1 Lap Dances Noon till 6.
“Nope,” the Indian said. “Like I said, no babies in the club.”
“OK,” Nikki said, dropping her head, turning and making like she was headed out. She tur
ned back to look over her shoulder, Jon-Jon seeming to enjoy the bass sound of the music, and saw the Indian making change for a gray-headed man in a blue coveralls. Without a lot of fuss, she walked back the other way to the twin doors and busted into the club, barely hearing the Indian telling her to stop. The club was dark, with lots of flashing lights and neon, naked girls splayed out on the stages, zipping around the pole, the first bit of an old song she and Milly had loved—“Can’t Be Tamed.”
Nikki spotted the curved staircase and went for it, trying to be a good mother in the strip joint by covering her baby’s delicate ears, pulling him close in, as she twisted and turned up to the roost and headed straight for the door to Miss Hathcock’s office. The woman stood as Nikki entered, the Indian yelling behind her to stop and Miss Hathcock holding up the flat of her hand to him, or her, or both.
“She just ran in,” the Indian said. “I tried to tell her.”
“That’s all right, Mingo,” Hathcock said. “I’ve got it.”
“Miss Hathcock, my name is Nikki Rowland,” she said. “I am nineteen years old, a high school graduate, a good mother, and a member of the First Baptist Church. I don’t care to get naked or shimmy around on your poles. I’m looking for answers about my best friend in the world, Milly Jones.”
Miss Hathcock lifted her chin, checking her out from head to toe. “A shame,” she said. “I had two girls quit on me this morning. You look like you’d do fine. But you’d have to lose the kid. You ever hear of OSHA?”
“I said, I came for some gosh-dang answers about Milly.”
Hathcock sat down, a cigarillo burning in an ashtray on her glass-topped desk. She stubbed it out and waved away the smoke. The music nearly shut out high in the office, just the muffled bass and sweet voice of Miley Cyrus. “And why do you want to talk to me?”
“Because Milly came here for work,” Nikki said. “And because I was told you wanted her roughed up pretty good.”
Hathcock gave a funny little laugh, sounding fake as hell. “Who told you that?”
“I can’t say.”
“And why’s that?”
“’Cause I’d rather not be set on fire,” she said.
“You really think I’d kill a girl for sneaking out a few twenties in her snatch?” Miss Hathcock said. “Good Lord, girl. I did that, I might as well dig a cemetery out back.”
“You wanted her roughed up,” she said. “Right? I heard she left this place with nearly two thousand dollars that wasn’t hers.”
Miss Hathcock leaned back in her chair and smoothed her red hair. Nikki started to cry. It had been a long two weeks, not much sleep, only thing that had gotten her out of bed every day was Jon-Jon screaming for her. Funny what you’ll do when someone else needs you.
“Who told you about the money?”
“Milly.”
“No, she didn’t,” Hathcock said. “Who was it?”
“I’d rather not say,” Nikki said. “God, it’s hot up here. You mind if I sit down?
Miss Hathcock nodded her to a chair. She sure was a put-together woman, with the black silk shirt, the gold rings, huge diamond earrings, and ruby red heart pendant.
“I don’t care if you smoke,” Nikki said. “My mother smokes like a damn chimney. Figure the boy’s got to get used to the mess sometime.”
“Someone lied to you,” Miss Hathcock said. “I knew exactly what your friend did and I was mad as hell. But had I had something to do with it, I’d have gotten my money back. As it is, it’s a total loss. I’m down a dancer and a few thousand bucks. What’s a girl to do?”
“She was sweet,” Nikki said. “Spunky as hell.”
“Like I told that policewoman,” she said, “I wish I could help. This is all bad for business.”
“Holy hell,” Nikki said. “My friend is dead. How could you just say it’s bad for business?”
“You sure you don’t want a job?” Fannie said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a tin of little cigars. She plucked one in her mouth, making sure to fumigate the place to get rid of Nikki and Jon-Jon. “You look like a size zero, but with a nice rack.”
“I’m breastfeeding, and I’m a size zero ’cause I haven’t gotten much to eat lately,” Nikki said.
Fannie lit up with a small gold lighter and waved away the smoke. “Drop the kid with Granny,” she said. “Floor’s open.”
“I’d rather suck the devil’s peter on the Fourth of July.”
“I guess that’s a no.” Fannie shrugged. “Oh, well. Condolences on your friend.”
• • •
What’s the worst of it?” Deputy Reggie Caruthers asked. “Trying to enforce the law around here?”
Lillie was behind the wheel of the Cherokee, taking Reggie on some tours of the Tibbehah back roads that he didn’t even know existed. From up around Carthage and Fate, down through Blackjack and onto the southernmost roads of Sugar Ditch. “I guess having to know how your friends turned out,” Lillie said. “It was easier when I was in Memphis. They weren’t my people. But when you got to go see Josie Swain at her produce stand and see a black eye and a purple bruise covering half her face, it’s hard to take.”
“She got trouble with her husband?”
“They’re not married,” Lillie said. “But they have trouble. Main trouble is, her making excuses for his sorry ass. Josie and I were thick as thieves back in high school. She was on our basketball team with your cousin, TaNiya. She was short, but a great rebounder. Tough as hell. All grit and elbows. You see what’s happened to her, ten years plus in, and it makes you want to puke.”
“Why didn’t you stay in Memphis?”
“My momma got sick.”
“And then what?”
“And then she died, Quinn came back, and life marched on.”
“You and Quinn?” Reggie said. “What y’all got goin’ on?”
“Are you kidding?”
“If you stayed, he must’ve meant something more than being the sheriff,” Reggie said. “Y’all work real well together.”
Lillie turned off 9W to a little dirt road that went by the old Providence cemetery, the town of Providence being the original settlement of Tibbehah when it was bought up from the Choctaw. After the Civil War, Confederates hid up in its hills, refusing to give in, taking shots, raiding the Yankees until they’d been brought in or were dead. Folks who live there now still clinging to old ideals, same ways. The SUV kicked up dust and grit, passing a man-made gulley filled with old AC units, tires, and deer parts. Folks not having respect for the land or themselves. But god damn you to hell if you let them know there was another way.
“Quinn’s a good friend,” Lillie said.
“You ever think there might be more?”
“Damn, Reggie,” Lillie said. “That’s getting a little personal, isn’t it?”
“I see how it is,” Reggie said, grinning, showing off his dimples. “Y’all joke back and forth, talk to each other in that code of yours. It’s like when you work, you got some kind of telepathy going.”
“He’s a pro.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Besides, haven’t you heard?” Lillie said. “I’m a woman-crazed dyke, spending my free hours at lesbian clubs down in New Orleans, picking up chicks.”
“When you’re not enforcing the law and taking care of Rose?”
“Yeah,” Lillie said. “In that in-between time.”
Reggie was quiet for a while, taking in the dirt roads and deer paths Lillie showed him, the scattering of trailers and cabins, hardscrabble and rusted, up in the hills. He was a quick study, never asking the same question twice. Reggie had also proven good with people, making friends, making connections with the town folks and the county people, knowing that respect went both ways.
“Well,” Reggie said, letting down his window. “If you and Quinn hook up, I guess y’all mig
ht mess up what works.”
“He’s not going to stay.”
“You don’t think so?”
“If you had a choice,” Lillie said, “what the hell would you do?”
“I have a choice,” Reggie said. “So do you. We all got a chance to leave Tibbehah. But we love it because it’s home. Right? We want to make it better for all our people.”
“Even if it does come with a big old side dish of corruption and bullshit.”
“Even then.”
“You’re a smart man, Reggie Caruthers,” Lillie said. “I’d like to keep you around.”
“Just try and recall that on my six-month eval.”
Lillie laughed just about the time the radio crackled on from dispatch, Cleotha wanting Lillie to call in to Boom Kimbrough on her cell. She picked up the mic and gave her a 10-4, steering out of the dusty dry-dirt hills and down back to the flat land where she could get a decent cell signal again.
“What’d you ever do about Josie Swain?”
“Tried to talk to her,” Lillie said. “Make some sense of things. I go to her vegetable stand every week, pretend I need tomatoes and greens, which I can buy in town.”
“Y’all still friends?”
Lillie nodded, hitting Boom’s number on her speed dial, tires hitting asphalt again, looking straight at the Swain Farms hand-painted sign for Tomato, Corn & Peppers. Homegrown. Fresh & Safe. “What’s up?” she asked.
Boom said, “Coach Mills is gone.”
“He finally have a heart attack?”
“Wife’s out looking for him,” Boom said. “Didn’t show at the pep rally or the pregame. They got Pontotoc rolling into town in one hour. Won’t answer his phone, nobody can find his truck.”