The Fallen

by Ace Atkins

  Brandon turned and left, leaving the door cracked, used to his parents wanting to have some alone time to chew each other’s fucking heads off. Maggie shut the door behind her.

  “You don’t even hunt,” she said. “And what the hell are you doing down here?”

  “I’m in a spot, Mags,” he said. “I’d go to the hospital. But I don’t have good insurance. You know, that goddamn Obamacare and all.”

  “Bullshit,” she said. “You’re a six-year Marine veteran. The VA will pay for it.”

  “The VA, Obamacare,” he said. “All of it is such a fucking mess. I just need you to look at this clusterfuck and tell me what I need to do. I don’t think it’ll take more than a cleanup-and-patch job. Hell, you’re better than any pussy doctor at this. You’ve sewn me up so many times, I can’t recall.”

  “This isn’t a bar fight,” she said. “Or is it? Christ. You look terrible. How much blood have you lost? Your face looks like a ghost.”

  “Help me out,” he said, “and I’ll be good. I promise. I will be on my way and won’t cause you any trouble. Not anymore.”

  “I have to be at the hospital in thirty minutes.”

  Wilcox flashed the smile again, leaning into the door, the leaning hurting a great deal. But he forced the smile, trying to move in tight into her personal space, knowing he could break down those barriers easier than peanut brittle. “This one time?”

  “How many times have I heard that?” she said. “I’ll call an ambulance. Or take you to the hospital. But I’m not performing surgery on my kitchen table to get you free from any trouble with the law. What the hell did you do this time? Jesus.”

  Wilcox looked into those clear, cold green eyes that could either turn him hot or make him want to punch a hole in the wall. She stared back at him, unmoved, unaffected. He shuffled a bit and fell onto one knee, catching himself on a railing. It wasn’t an act. He was so light-headed he nearly passed out getting out of the car, Opie waiting for him out by the highway at the Huddle House. Might’ve been bad manners showing up all shot up with a buddy tagging along.

  Maggie helped him up. Attagirl.

  “Just take a look,” he said. “That’s all I’ll ask.”

  “What do I tell Brandon?”

  “Do what you always do.”

  “And what’s that?” she said, sliding under his shoulder for support, opening the door. She knew the drill, getting him out of all those bars after he’d come home. Dozens of tequila shots and good times.

  “Lie to him.”

  “That’s what we’re good at,” she said, yelling for Brandon to go on back to his room. “Fucking grand prize winners.”

  Maggie helped him to a kitchen chair and reached into a drawer for a butcher knife. He wanted to make a joke about her finally doing what she’d always fantasized, but he’d grown too damn tired. She ripped into his pant leg and cut carefully all around his thigh, her small hands with black fingernails working far from the flesh, like she was making a pair of shorts.

  He didn’t look down. He knew what was there. She was on both knees, pulling away all the gauze and cutting into the duct tape, checking the wound.

  “Holy fuck.”

  “Give it to me straight, doc.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “You need to get to the hospital. Right fucking now.”

  “Don’t do it,” he said. “Don’t do it. I only got one thing left. Don’t take that away. Don’t take it away, Mags. Please.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve always been Brandon’s hero.”

  He got the words out just about the time he passed the fuck out. The last thing he saw was goddamn Maggie rolling her eyes.

  • • •

  “You didn’t have to bring biscuits,” Mingo said. “But I appreciate it.”

  “We feed folks every Monday,” she said. “There was plenty extra.”

  “You make all this?” Mingo said. “From scratch?”

  “Oh, hell no,” Caddy said. “Frozen biscuits from Walmart and Jimmy Dean sausage. Heavy fuel to start your week. Lots of migrants. Folks on work crews who don’t take breaks.”

  “No work today,” Mingo said. “Vienna’s is closed. And Miss Fannie’s gone. I’m supposed to ride over to Tupelo to pick up some bathroom supplies for the truck stop. Toilet paper, Lava soap, and lightbulbs. Keep things moving. You should see a bathroom after a long-haul trucker gets done with it.”

  “Where’d she go?” Caddy said. They both sat in her truck at the landing of Choctaw Lake, no one in the parking lot, too early for fishing boats and for families at the little playground by the water’s edge. She used to come here all the time with Jason. But Jason had grown too old for playgrounds, begging her for a .22 rifle like Uncle Quinn’s.

  “Not sure,” he said. “Must’ve been some bad shit because she called up Wrong Way and crew. She had told me she was sick of all them, made them get the hell out of the Golden Cherry. It took me six weeks to patch up all the holes and replace the carpet for all the cigarette burns in the floor. We had to fumigate the whole damn place before a decent person could stay there.”

  “Any word on the girls?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Don’t you ‘No, ma’am’ me,” she said. “I’m not old enough to be your momma.”

  She sat with Mingo and let him finish his second biscuit. She drank from a big plastic cup of sweet tea and watched the gold light out on the lake. Geese had gathered far out in the center. There were a few wild ducks in the weeds and a single blue heron standing on one leg by the boat ramp. Mingo crumpled up the tinfoil and placed it in the bag, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was a strong-looking, handsome kid, reminding her a little of Lou Diamond Phillips about the time of Young Guns, that film being one of the few she and Quinn could agree upon.

  “I wanted you to know I can’t do this anymore,” Mingo said. “If you want me to stop coming to Sunday service, I understand. But this? Meeting you out here like we’re a couple sliding around? I can’t do it. Miss Fannie’s been too good to me.”

  “She’s using you.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “She looks out for me. Always has. If I hear something about those girls, I’ll let you know. I want to see Tamika and Ana Maria home, too. But I’m not going to spy on Miss Fannie. I told you I know who I am and what I do. Maybe one day I’ll make amends for it and become a good person. But right now—”

  “You are a good person,” Caddy said. “You’re a man of faith. I know you. Fannie Hathcock doesn’t see that side of you.”

  “You see?” he said. “You understand. Right?”

  Caddy nodded. A truck drove in from Jericho Road and circled down into the parking lot, passing by the back of Caddy’s truck and moving toward the landing. It had a big eight-cylinder engine and growling dually pipes. The heron lifted its wing and rose up into the morning sun, Caddy losing it in the harsh light.

  “Did you talk to them when they were at Fannie’s?”

  Mingo didn’t answer, eyes focused on the rearview mirror and the white truck backing up and then turning toward Jericho Road and town, the growling motor fading into the distance.

  “Yes.”

  “Were they working?”

  “No,” he said. “Not at the club. They were too young, didn’t know what to do onstage. Couldn’t dance worth shit. She had them clean the toilets, wash the girls’ G-strings, straighten up things before we opened up.”

  “How long?”

  “Not long,” he said. “Ten days. Maybe two weeks.”

  “And that was it?”

  “Come on, Miss Colson,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about this. Not anymore. That’s why I wanted to see you. It doesn’t feel right. I feel like even a
worse person than I already am.”

  “You’re a believer,” she said. “You came to me when those girls disappeared. You told me that you wanted to make things right.”

  “I was worried.”

  “And now?”

  “I was worried because of other things,” he said. “I think they may have gotten into some trouble. And maybe that’s why Miss Fannie sent them away. They didn’t last long. Not as long as the others.”

  “As the dancers?”

  “Thank you for breakfast,” he said, reaching for the door handle.

  “Who else?”

  Mingo didn’t speak for a long moment. Caddy caught sight of the heron turning and surveying the pond, headed back to the landing, the fishing spot. It fluttered its wings and went back to standing on one leg.

  “Miss Fannie runs these parties,” he said. “These girls worked some parties.”

  “When you say ‘work’—”

  “Yes,” Mingo said, combing his long black hair behind his ears. “All of that stuff. Men with certain kind of taste in young girls. What Fannie calls farm fresh.”

  “Shit.”

  “I drove them,” Mingo said. “Didn’t ask any questions. It was a big hunt lodge up in the hills, lots of men drinking whiskey and smoking cigars. They played poker and cooked T-bones. I didn’t know anyone there and no one spoke to me. I dropped the girls off at night and picked them up the morning. This was twice. They looked very tired. Ana Maria had been hurt. You know, as a woman can get hurt. Down there.”

  “Between their legs?” she said. “Yeah, I do.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mingo said. “I didn’t know the men. And I didn’t know the place.”

  “Could you find it again?”

  “I could,” he said. “But I won’t. If it wasn’t for Miss Fannie, I’d be dead. She cleaned me up, got me some school, took care of all of my pain when I was a kid.”

  “Mingo?”

  He looked at her, with his flat impassive face and brown eyes. She patted his slender leg.

  “Fannie ain’t Mary Magdalene.”

  “And, Lord knows, I’m not Jesus,” Mingo said. “I’m a sinner and have a long-ass road ahead. Just do me one favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Pray for me,” Mingo said, opening the truck’s squeaky door. “One day . . . One day, I’ll go all the way with this. Just not now.”

  Caddy sat behind the wheel and watched Mingo drive away in her rearview mirror. She smacked the wheel hard a few times and started to cry. Goddamn it. She was so fucking close.

  23

  “Now isn’t a good time,” Maggie said, meeting Quinn on her porch.

  “I dropped a prisoner at the hospital,” Quinn said. “They told me you were sick.”

  Maggie was dressed in her scrubs, reddish brown hair piled on top of her head in a bun, a little blood on her shirt.

  “I’m feeling better,” Maggie said. “I still may go in.”

  “You don’t look good,” he said. “You have blood on you?”

  Maggie blushed, looking down at the streaks of dried blood, and said, “Oh, Brandon cut himself this morning,” she said. “He’s fine. We’re fine. We’re all fine.”

  Quinn nodded, already feeling strange for just showing up there. He wasn’t her boyfriend—really, not anything, not officially discussed anyway. He took a step back and nodded, not wanting to spook the girl when it had been going so well. A long time back, his dad, drunk on Miller High Life, told him that catching a good woman was like catching a wildcat. You had to do it slow and easy or you’d scare ’em off. That was it. Maggie the Cat.

  He’d parked behind a strange car out on Stovall Street, a maroon Chevy Silverado with Tennessee plates. He didn’t think much of it, as the street was lined with little white houses just like Maggie’s. But something was off, all rushed and jittery movements, great surprise when she opened the door. Take it easy, Quinn.

  He touched the bill of his cap and made toward the steps, a man’s voice calling from inside the house. “Mags?” the man said. “Who the hell’s that?”

  Maggie bunched up her face with a wince, teeth gnashed together. Quinn smiled and continued to walk.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “It’s OK. My ex stopped by and we were working through some custody details while Brandon was at school. It’s just gotten really complicated, you know. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “No problem,” Quinn said, feeling his heart up in his throat and hating the goddamn feeling.

  “I’ll call you.”

  As Quinn was about to turn for the second time, the door opened and the man, about Quinn’s height and build, looked out. He was eating a green apple, eyes flicking down to Quinn’s cowboy boots and up to his high and tight. He grinned, leaning against the door, glassy-eyed and almost drunk-looking. “Well. If there isn’t another fox in the henhouse.”

  “This is Sheriff Colson,” Maggie said, putting a real emphasis on “Sheriff” just in case the dumb bastard didn’t spot the silver star on his chest. “I had a break-in at the house.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the man, Rick, said. “I heard about you. Service with a smile.”

  The man took another bite of apple, leaning into the doorjamb as if he owned the place. “Don’t let me get in the way of you two doing your thing,” he said. “I’m about to hit the road.”

  He stumbled forward a bit, thrusting out his hand. “Rick Wilcox.”

  Quinn grabbed his hand, the man trying to put some force into it but not making much headway with Quinn. Quinn nodded back, noting a blot of ink on the man’s right forearm. CAMP LEATHERNECK.

  Wilcox, glassy-eyed and sloppy, noticed Quinn looking and peered down at the tat, calling it a relic from his time overseas. “Got loaded when we got back,” he said. “Promised the boys I’d get one done. You got the look. You in the service?”

  “Yep,” he said. “And spent a fair amount of time at Leatherneck.”

  “You in the Corps?”

  “Ranger,” Quinn said. “Third Batt.”

  “I heard you Ranger boys couldn’t squat and piss without a command?” Wilcox said. “Is that really true?”

  “Maybe,” Quinn said, wanting to knock that green apple down his goddamn throat. “But I gave the orders.”

  Wilcox laughed, reaching back for the doorjamb, finding some stability. Maggie stood away from them, arms around her waist, a pained look on her face. Her face was bloodred, her teeth clenched, Maggie Powers not one to hide her emotions. Quinn being a little better at it, as he’d love to have taken Rick Wilcox, Marine motherfucker, and tossed him far off her porch.

  “Good meeting you,” Quinn said.

  Wilcox grinned, biting into the apple one last time and tossing it into Maggie’s hedge. He walked—more, hopped—into the house, Quinn spotting a bandage wrapped around his right thigh. Quinn looked up at Maggie and said he was sorry for stopping by.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t think about it,” Quinn said. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

  “I’ll call you,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand. “OK?”

  Quinn nodded and headed back to his truck. It was a bright, gold day in Mississippi. No clouds, lots of sunshine in the chill. Why the hell did he feel like he had a rock in his stomach?

  He started his truck and headed back to the sheriff’s office.

  • • •

  “This is absolute fucking bullshit,” Fannie said. “No touching. Patrons five feet from the dancers and no snatch with a beer chaser. We’ve made less than half this week than we did the week before. And don’t you dare tell me that it’ll get better. I hear the CB chatter. I know what those good ole boys are saying: ‘Vienna’s isn’t worth the trip. Ain’t the same place it used to be. If you want real companionship
, keep on trucking up to Memphis or down to New Orleans.’”

  “Maybe your lawyer will set the supervisors straight,” Mingo said.

  “Don’t hold your breath, kid,” Fannie said. “Did you pick up the soap and toilet paper?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mingo said. “Got the rubbers machine restocked, too.”

  “French ticklers?”

  “And the Genie De-Lite and the horny goatweed pills.”

  “Shit,” Fannie said, sitting at Vienna’s bar, spewing smoke up into the air. “That’s all those bastards need. If truckers were any hornier, they’d be fucking their hot tailpipes.”

  “I’m sure some have tried it.”

  “I don’t like this,” Fannie said. “I don’t like any of it. I’ve never been good at laying idle and the old wait-and-see. It’s my ass either way. If this place continues to shit the bed, they’re gonna want to shut us down. And if I go after Skinner, they won’t like it.”

  “How would you go after him?” Mingo said, setting out the bar glasses, cute pint ones with a redheaded pinup girl sitting atop the Vienna’s Place logo. Coy Bettie Page bullshit. “He doesn’t seem to like the usual bait.”

  “You mean pussy or likker?”

  “Sure,” Mingo said. “Or money.”

  “Who doesn’t like money?” Fannie said. “Anyone says that money doesn’t buy happiness has never owned a gold Rolex or a Birkin handbag. Only way to change your life, your outlook, is with some cash. Do you think I run this goddamn cinnamon-scented skin palace out of my respect for the golden pole? The pole means money. Ain’t no way around it.”

  Mingo kept on washing out the beer glasses, setting them on a dry towel, taking the dry glasses, and stacking them behind the bar. “We got any off-site parties coming up?”

  “No,” she said. “We did that big one on New Year’s, but folks seem to get a little stingier the first of the year. Why? You getting tired of all that mess?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m just looking ahead.”

  “I hate those goddamn things,” Fannie said. “But they sure as hell make some money. I can charge some rich ole coot nearly six times what one of my girls makes in a single night. Not to mention the payment for transportation and our agreed flat rate. That’s why I let the girls keep whatever tips they make, God love ’em. You think truckers are bad? Think about some gray-headed coot, high on ten-year-old scotch and hard-pecker pills. You’ll love this. One guy last year made a girl tug his pecker every time Ole Miss scored a touchdown. She’d have to pull it like a rickety doorbell and say, ‘Hoddy Toddy.’ Ain’t that some sick shit?”