by Ace Atkins
“But I don’t have a daddy,” he said. “That’s true.”
“You have a daddy.”
“I do?” Jason said, smiling. Looking excited.
And there was quiet and sadness for a moment in the house. She nodded at him, feeling a heat spread through her chest. “He’s nobody, though,” she said. “Nobody that you ever need to meet. The Colson family is more family than most folks around here get in a lifetime.”
“Why did Grandpa leave?”
Caddy wiped her face, tears feeling hot on the back of her hand. “Because he’s weak,” she said. “We’re strong people. And I swear to you with all I am that Jesus Christ is real and that He loves you very much. That’s all you need to know. Family and Him. And not to worry about another damn thing.”
It was late, the dishes in the kitchen had stacked up, and there was a week’s worth of laundry to do. They’d moved into the new little house last summer, their other house being sucked away in the big storm that hit town three years ago. Everything was a mess. Everything was chaos. Jason was growing faster than she could keep good clothes on his back. His feet were already larger than hers.
“Momma?”
Caddy looked to him.
“I believe you,” he said. “It’s just sometime Jesus sure makes you tired.”
• • •
“I don’t know how someone robbing a bank is your fault,” Boom said. “You hadn’t been back on the job but a couple months, and all these jawing assholes are the ones who wanted change after all you done for them.”
“The Tibbehah Monitor says we had a slow response time,” Quinn said. “Mr. Berryhill blamed us for answering that call out at Vienna’s. He told Miss Mize it didn’t take three deputies to work a scuffle at a beer joint.”
“Making the point that you all were there to look at titties.”
“Berryhill’s just pissed about what happened to him,” Quinn said. “He’s back on his feet, thinking on things, and it’s hard to take. Imagine being the chamber of commerce president and some guy in a Halloween mask threatens to blow your dick off?”
“Hard to imagine being chamber of commerce president.”
“I don’t think losing that van made us look great, either,” Quinn said. “When I say that van vanished, I’m being honest. But it makes it look like we weren’t running down every county road with the Choctaw sheriff’s office and Jericho PD.”
It was night, and Boom had asked Quinn to call if he got close to Sugar Ditch. An hour later, he found himself down by the Three-Way, which was actually a four-way stop now, but names didn’t change easy in Tibbehah. A gas station, soul food restaurant, and scrapyard on three corners. An all-night laundromat on the newer fourth corner, windows steamed from the heat inside.
They sat at a picnic table, smoking cigars, under a large metal carport, a demo model on special sale for eight hundred dollars. Quinn had only seen it being used as a place for some of the Ditch’s old men to gather or young men to play cards. The little building had become the unofficial meeting spot for black business in the district. Long as the Big Green Machine was parked out front, they’d have their privacy.
“Worked a break-in last night,” Quinn said. “You remember a girl named Maggie Powers?”
“Nope,” Boom said, shaking his head.
“She used to stay with her grandmother during the summers,” Quinn said. “Back when we were kids. She used to run with us then. Real cute. Lots of freckles.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She just moved here,” Quinn said. “And looks like her ex busted up her place. He didn’t take anything, but he scared her good. She’d pulled a twelve-gauge from her closet and looked ready to use it.”
“Momma Bear.”
“You bet,” Quinn said. “But I can’t do a thing unless she wants to press charges.”
“And she’s not sure if it’s her ex or not.”
Boom was drinking a big bottle of Mountain Dew while Quinn drank coffee and smoked the rest of today’s cigar. The tip glowed red in the darkness, the only other light coming from a sad little strand of blue Christmas lights strung along the carport. The smoke carried off into the warm wind blowing in a storm. Quinn’s mind already back on Maggie Powers, recalling her skinny legs and scraped elbows climbing trees and running wild in the back creeks and endless woods. There was a little thunder in the distance, the smell of rain.
“She was good-looking,” Boom said. “Wasn’t she?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why’d you bring her up?” Boom said. “You made a point of telling me about her freckles.”
“I was trying to jog your memory,” Quinn said.
“Sure, man,” Boom said. “But she’s married?”
“Divorced.”
“No, you said ‘about to be divorced,’” Boom said. “A big goddamn difference that ain’t nobody needs to warn your ass about.”
“That’s why I have you,” Quinn said. “To warn me. Because if I didn’t have my own personal black Jiminy Cricket, I’d never get any advice from Jean. Or Caddy.”
“Speaking of your sister . . .” Boom said.
Quinn tapped the cigar on the heel of his boot. “Those missing girls.”
“Ana Maria and Tamika,” he said. “Seems like their road winds up to Goddamn Cho Cho Porter and twists itself back around to Blue Daniels.”
“Oh, shit,” Quinn said.
“Problem is, no one seems to know where to find Blue Daniels.”
Quinn reached for the cigar and took another puff. “How’d you get mixed up in all this mess with Caddy?” Quinn said.
“Girls been seen around Cho Cho’s place,” Boom said. “She knows I know Cho Cho and might get some answers better than the law.”
“And did you?”
“Yeah,” Boom said. “Blue Motherfucking Daniels. You know where he’s at?”
“Blue ain’t your friend,” Quinn said. “Last time y’all got into it, you bit off his damn ear.”
“Not the whole ear,” Boom said, “just the lobe. You know, like Mike Tyson. But you tell me that the motherfucker didn’t deserve it.”
“Blue Daniels is a sick son of a bitch,” Quinn said. “He’s a damn triple-threat sex predator.”
“OK,” Boom said. “Tell me where I can find his ass.”
Quinn didn’t say anything. He just shook his head.
“Aw, c’mon, man.”
“Jail,” Quinn said. “I brought him in yesterday for parole violation. But I don’t want you or Caddy going anywhere near the man.”
“I can shake him loose better than you.”
“I bet,” Quinn said. “And what’s he got to do with Ana Maria and Tamika?”
“Man was pimping them out right before they disappeared.”
9
“You can’t skimp on the buttermilk,” Jean Colson said. “I mix it with just a little Louisiana Hot Sauce and always dip the chicken in the flour before it touches the milk. Fry it hot and quick. Do you see what I’m doing here, Quinn? Are you paying attention?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said, standing in his mother’s kitchen while “Burning Love” played in the next room. Fried chicken and Elvis being a way of life in the Colson family. “You know, I’ve been watching you do this since I could walk.”
Jean liked to play Elvis loud while she cooked, converting little Jason to a fan at a young age. The poor kid having to lip-sync the song for the guests in the living room in a pair of gold sunglasses his grandmother got for him years ago. A lot of laughter and clapping, nearly as loud as the song, came from the living room. Jason seemed to enjoy it, lately billing himself as the ultimate Elvis tribute artist, half black and half white. Jean could not have been prouder.
“Now, I only made greens, peas, and cornbread,” she said. “You told me to keep it simple
and that’s what I did. I don’t want everyone thinking this is some kind of Fourth of July feast, although I did make two pies. Chocolate and lemon. You and Boom are going to fight over the chocolate because I only made one.”
“I can’t eat half a pie.”
“Since when?”
“A kid eats a whole pie one time and the memory sticks with him forever.”
“You see that oil?” Jean said. “Always use peanut oil and fry it hot as you can. Nobody likes soggy, greasy chicken. You want it crisp, only a few drops of oil when you pull it out.”
“How long?”
“About fifteen minutes,” Jean said, an authentic Graceland collectible apron tied around her neck and waist while she worked. So much Elvis shit in her kitchen, so little room. Back when he was a teenager, the Elvis collecting was fun. Now it had gotten out of hand. Elvis glasses. Elvis mugs. Elvis oven mitts. “You get the oil hot enough and you’ll be sure to cook the chicken all the way through. While we wait—”
“You want me to be nice to Ophelia.”
Jean looked up from the big silver pot where she was stirring a mix of collard, mustard, and turnip greens. “That’s right,” she said. “Do you think you can do that for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why do you say it like that?” Jean said. “All solemn. I invited her over here weeks ago, long before y’all broke up. And when I saw her at the funeral, I told her that I didn’t care if you and her were no longer together, that she and I were still friends.”
“Of course you did.”
“There you go again, Quinn,” Jean said. “Don’t talk back to me. Don’t talk like that to your momma. I will not be rude to that girl. She was good to you for a long time. And just because you and her don’t see eye to eye sometimes doesn’t mean that she’s not welcome in my home.”
“You can’t forget I once ate a whole pie,” Quinn said. “But you forget that Ophelia once threw a steak knife at me. That’s not a big deal, right?”
“And what had you said to her?”
“It’s fine,” Quinn said. “It’s fine. Glad she’s here. I’ll be polite. I’ll give her some of my pie. But I’m not getting back together with that woman. It didn’t work out and we’ve moved on.”
“Hmm,” Jean said, moving on from the pot of greens to the smaller pot of black-eyed peas, stirring and adding a little more salt and pepper. “Are you sure?”
“It was a mistake.”
“How many pieces of chicken do you want?”
“Two,” Quinn said. “Breast and a wing.”
Someone switched up the records, and just when Quinn thought Elvis was finished, “The Wonder of You” blasted forth from the speakers. Jean hummed along to the sound of Elvis mixed with Jason’s little voice, Jason trying to sound big and full to the dinner guests. Quinn peeked into the room, seeing the backs of Boom, Caddy, and Ophelia. Jason stood on top of Jean’s coffee table, holding an imaginary microphone in his hand, gold glasses down over his eyes.
“You know you’ve screwed that boy up for life?” Quinn said.
“What kind of Southern boy doesn’t know Elvis?”
“Most of them,” Quinn said. “These days. Not many have grandmothers who actually saw him live.”
“Meeting Elvis, seeing those shows, almost made the time I spent with your father worthwhile.”
“Don’t forget your kids,” Quinn said. “Right?”
“That goes without saying, baby,” Jean said. “Do you mind going on and setting the table? We’re just about ready.”
“I’ve always been curious about something,” Quinn said.
Jean used a pair of tongs to place the fried chicken on a large oval platter that had belonged to his grandmother. She turned around and lifted off her apron, setting it on a kitchen chair.
“If Elvis had come on to you,” Quinn said, “would you have left Dad?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jean said.
Quinn nodded, glad to hear it.
“In a damn New York second.”
“Wait,” Quinn said. “But did he? I mean, did Elvis ever come on to you?”
“Sometime you and me need to sit down and talk,” she said. “There’s so much about that time that’s just a really wonderful blur. The Jungle Room. Vernon, George Klein, and the boys. Big talk. And so many guns. Now, take this chicken and get everyone settled down to dinner. And, do me a favor.”
“Be polite to Ophelia.”
“That’s right,” Jean said. “And do me one more favor and flip over that record. Put on ‘Suspicious Minds.’ I think that’ll go just about perfect with the mood.”
• • •
“Watch the hair,” Fannie said.
Jonas Cord held her from behind, one hand up her Dolce & Gabbana dress while he kissed her neck. He’d been waiting for her in her room at the Golden Cherry. The room was dark and warm, humid after he’d just taken a shower, and smelling of aftershave. He was naked and ripped with muscle, ready to spring like a big crazy ape.
“And the dress, too,” she said. “Be gentle with the dress, doll.”
Cord took his free hand and unzipped her, slow and easy, the pink satin dropping from her shoulders, down her hips, and onto the green carpet. She stepped out of the dress as Jonas pulled her in to him, kissing her hard and pressing her big tits close. She wasn’t wearing anything now but a lacy bra and panties, a pair of velvety pumps that climbed her ankles like a rose vine.
He moved his hand over her back, soft and slow, touching her gently.
“No,” she said. “No. Don’t be nice. Like this.”
She gripped his hand and placed it on her meaty bottom, telling him to squeeze harder. “Smack it,” she said. “Be rough. Be mean, soldier.”
“You said—”
“I said don’t mess my hair or tear my dress,” she said. “But you know how I like it. Take the hill. Take the damn hill.”
Jonas pushed Fannie down on the bed, pulling off her panties, Fannie up on her elbows, looking down at those gorgeous pumps still on her feet. The cars roared past the roadside motel, the neon flickering on the outline of the two golden cherries dangling from the sign. This room—her private room—being gutted, painted, and retooled into something out of a fifties Vogue magazine. Mid-century modern furniture, a big round bed with silk sheets. No one else used the room but her and Mingo when his girl was in town. And for the last six months, it had been her and this stocky, tough Marine.
He took it to her hard and fast, Fannie being the one who finished up on top, legs straddling him, while he lay flat on his back, gasping for air, and she slapped his face over and over. Right before she felt like things were going to all bust apart, she slapped him again, leaning down and biting his lower lip.
“Fannie,” Cord said.
“Take the hill,” Fannie said. “Damn you. Take the hill, Sergeant.”
He did. And she followed. Fannie soon rolled off of him, forearm over her eyes, lying back in the sheets. She reached for her cigarillos and slim gold lighter.
“Ever think we might make love like normal people?” Cord asked. “Put on some slow music, dim the lights, and take it slow and easy.”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t make love,” Fannie said, clicking the flame and setting it to the tip of the cigarillo. She took a puff, reaching down with her free hand and untying the twirling straps of the pumps, kicking them loose onto the floor. “Be a sweetheart and do a search and rescue for my panties. I don’t know where the hell they ended up.”
Cord got out of bed and walked over by the door, snatching up the pair and tossing them onto the bed. He had all kinds of tattoos on his back of maps and guns, words in some weird language.
“You boys gonna take it easy for a while?” Fannie said.
C
ord crawled back into bed, not bothering to cover himself up, plumping a pillow under his head, staring up at the twirling fan. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Why?”
“Thought maybe that’s why you came to see me.”
“You know why I came to see you,” he said. “Damn, Fannie. You bit the shit out of my lip. Am I bleeding?”
“Just a little,” Fannie said. “Suck it up.”
“One of Wilcox’s buddies chopped up those cars,” he said. “Their guts spread around half of Memphis.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “They couldn’t touch me.”
“Your buddies down on the Coast?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Nice to have friends,” he said.
“You boys must be pretty well set by now.”
“I s’pose.”
“Why not enjoy it?” Fannie asked, smoke scattering up into the fan’s blades. “Take a vacation. Go down to the beach and spend some of all you got.”
“That’s not the point.”
“How so, doll?”
“This ain’t about the money.”
“Everything’s about the money, baby,” she said. “Don’t kid yourself. Why do you think I do what I do? You think I’d be dishing women and likker out down in Tibbehah County if it wasn’t worth my damn time?”
“You got a stake,” he said. “This is something we cooked up to keep from going crazy.”
Fannie couldn’t wrap her head around that one, turning over on her side, her breasts dropping against her prone forearm to the bed. She reached up and rested the ashtray on top of Cord’s chest. “So let me get this straight,” she said. “Y’all do this for fun?”
“It’s more than fun,” Cord said. “It’s about keeping on running sharp. Sticking together as a unit. A family. Rick and I had some bad time of it when we got home. He was the one who came to me with this. And, I’ll be goddamned, if that crazy motherfucker wasn’t right.”
“What about the kid?”
“Opie.”
“Is that his real name?”
“Real as it gets,” Cord said. Fannie ashed the tip of her cigarillo into the tray. Cord didn’t move, just kept on fiddling with his lip, wiping the blood on the satin sheets.