The Fallen

by Ace Atkins

  “Whatever happened to that Mex girl?” Mingo asked, shutting off the water, drying his hands on a towel. “Ana Maria? I used to drive her and another little black girl around. Never saw them again.”

  “Ana Ma-what?” Fannie said, eyeing Mingo across the bar. The damn kid too smart to act like a love-struck teen, especially over some jailbait tail.

  “Ana Maria,” he said. “Other girl’s name was Tamika.”

  “Sorry, kid,” Fannie said. “Too many girls to count. Too much ass to name. I got too many problems without worrying about the talent. Son of a bitch, what the hell am I going to do? You know if you sit around and gaze at your goddamn navel, you’re going to get hit by a fucking Kenworth.”

  “You want to go against those boys on the Coast?”

  Fannie ashed her cigarillo. “Sure as shit thinking on it,” she said. “What do you think?”

  “What could it hurt?”

  “Depends on how big that fucking stick is up Skinner’s ass,” she said. “If it’s poking into his brain stem, then we might have a problem. He might accuse me of bribery and I might end up losing everything. Let me tell you something, kid. I look fucking terrible in orange. It doesn’t look right on a redhead. Besides, can you see me chatting it up with a bunch of bull dykes on the inside? I don’t swing that way. Especially not for jailhouse hooch and cigarettes smuggled up some woman’s bunghole.”

  “Goddamn, Fannie,” Mingo said, laughing. “You know how to talk straight.”

  “Either sit on my ass and get cornholed,” Fannie said, tapping her long red nails on the onyx bar top from Kansas City, “or force that Crypt-Keeper to show his hand.”

  “You always said money and pussy make the world go around,” Mingo said, topping the last glass to form a nice pyramid by the beer taps.

  “Did I really say that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mingo said. “You could copyright it.”

  Fannie ashed the cigarette again and pressed it into her lips. “Sometimes I’m so fucking smart I amaze myself.”

  • • •

  “I love you, man,” Wilcox said.

  “You’re drunk and on painkillers,” Opie said.

  “That’s doesn’t change anything,” Wilcox said. “You’re my brother. My fucking brother. We’re goddamn Marines. Ooh-rah.”

  “I think you need to lie down,” Opie said. “Take it easy.”

  “Where’s Crissley?” Wilcox said.

  “In the kitchen, cooking dinner.”

  “How’d I get home?”

  “You drove back to the Huddle House and I drove to Memphis,” Opie said. “Damn, don’t you remember, Sarge? You picked a fight with that guy at the Whataburger Drive-In.”

  “Whataburger?” Wilcox said. “We had Whataburger? What the fuck, Ope? I thought you had more respect for me than that. At least take me to a fucking Burger King. Say, where’s Crissley? Baby? Baby? Where you at? Come see Daddy. Take me to bed or lose me forever, Goose.”

  “Shit,” Opie said.

  “You think I’m drunk?”

  “No, sir,” Opie said. “I think you are stone-cold, one hundred percent fucked up.”

  Wilcox wavered on his feet, moving fast, or seeming to move fast, in the big, open space of Crissley’s big, fancy-ass warehouse apartment with its view of the Bluffs. All industrial windows and brick walls. He stood toe-to-toe with that freckle-faced, jug-eared, brush-cut orange-ass carrottop and said, “I love you, man. I really do. Now, help me get off this fucking bum leg. And get me a beer. Wait. Fuck beer. Fuck beer in the ass. Say, does Crissley have any tequila? I would fucking love a shot of tequila right now.”

  “You drank it all,” Opie said, slipping an arm under his shoulder and walking him back to Crissley’s bedroom, laying him down on that big four-poster bed, with all its lace and flowers and shit. Stuffed animals. She was a grown-ass woman and still had fucking stuffed animals and called her father Daddy. There was some sick shit going on there.

  “All of it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you get more?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But how about we wait until morning.”

  Wilcox grabbed the front of Opie’s shirt, his breath seeming to nearly knock out that Florida swamp boy. “Are you screwing my woman?” he said. “Because someone sure as shit is screwing my wife. I can’t take both. You know? Someone screwing both my girlfriend and my wife. That’s just not proper. That’s just plain-ass wrong.”

  “No,” Opie said. “I’m helping her make a spinach salad. We’re boiling eggs.”

  Wilcox closed his eyes. “Eggs?” he said. “You sick fuck.”

  “Good night, Sarge.”

  “We’re going to get that bitch,” he said, closing his eyes and then opening them again. “Set it straight. Set it all straight.”

  “Who?”

  “You know,” he said, “fucking Fannie Cock Who-sis. We’re taking that bitch down. We’re taking her downtown and going to spank that ass. She fucked us. She fucking fucked us. She did it. She killed Cord. She talked him to go deep into Spadestown and fuck up some shit, only it didn’t get fucked up. Cord got fucked up. He died. Did you know that? Cord is dead. He’s fucking dead.”

  Wilcox tried to raise up, damn room kaleidoscope-spinning, and lay back down among the fallen, dead, glassy-eyed animals and frilly-ass, girly stuff that smelled like rotten apples and baby powder.

  “I know.”

  “But you’re in?” Wilcox said. “Right? You are in. So fucking in that you’re way past Flynn. You know what pain is, Ope?”

  “Weakness leaving the body.”

  “Yes,” Wilcox said. “Yes, yes, yes. Where did you hear that?”

  “From you, sir.”

  “We’re going to get that bitch,” he said. “We’re going to go back in country and kill, kill, kill. We’re going to get Cord back, and we’re going to get back our fucking money.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She took Cord.”

  “She said she’d take care of it,” Opie said. “When you asked what that meant, she told you not to think too much on it. Goddamn, that woman doesn’t know us. What we do. What we’re fucking about. Ain’t no way we’re leaving his body to be buried in some ass-stinking shithole like Jericho, Mississippi.”

  “No way.”

  “No, sir.

  “Ooh-rah.”

  “Ooh-rah, sir.”

  24

  The rain had come again that afternoon, Quinn pulling into the shelter of the County Barn to find Boom working on Lillie’s Cherokee. Lillie sat on the backseat to some truck Boom had converted into the garage sofa. She was drinking some of Boom’s bad coffee and smoking cigarettes, a habit she’d been wanting to kick since Quinn had come home. Lillie looked up at him in that cool, casual way that said don’t even think about judging me.

  Boom waved his free hand—his good hand—sitting on an inverted bucket and pulling off the right front rotor of the Cherokee. He whistled, showing the ground-down wear to Lillie, who didn’t seem to care a bit. “Y’all both need to update your vehicles,” Boom said. “Not that I don’t mind working on ’em. But they spend more time in the shop than on patrol.”

  “Can’t get rid of the Big Green Machine,” Quinn said.

  “I told you,” Lillie said. “What did I fucking say? There has never been a man born of more routine that Quinn Colson. He’ll drive that big truck until the wheels fall off.”

  “I was happy to help rebuild that truck,” Boom said. “But seeing what y’all do and what you need from these vehicles, it ain’t practical no more.”

  “She’s a beast.”

  “You ain’t pulling nothing,” Boom said. “You just like it because it’s a big fucking truck.”

  “True,” Quinn said, helping himself to some of that motor oil coffee under las
t year’s Playboy calendar. “But I pull my jon boat. Sometimes I get to pull that trailer loaded with ATVs.”

  “That ain’t shit,” Boom said. “New F-150s got all the power you need. And that EcoBoost is faster.”

  “You asking him to drop down to a six-cylinder motor?” Lillie said. “Those are fighting words.”

  “If y’all are in hot pursuit,” Boom said, “don’t you want a turbo under the hood?”

  Quinn looked to Lillie as he leaned against the tool bench, the inside of the County Barn cool and comforting, rain tapping the puddles outside the bay door. “Did he say ‘hot pursuit’?”

  “I don’t think anyone has said hot pursuit since ’seventy-eight,” she said. “Maybe we should bring it back. Make it official.”

  “Fuck y’all,” Boom said, taking off the caliper, using the screwdriver inserted into his prosthetic hand to loosen the bolt. “Y’all sure know how to beat the shit out of a vehicle.”

  Quinn sat down next to Lillie on the makeshift sofa and stretched out his arm behind her. Lillie stubbed out her cigarette and put about a foot between them. Quinn shrugged, drank some coffee, watching the rain, not in any rush to get out in it. Jean had made some chicken pie tonight and told him to stop by if he hadn’t eaten. There were only so many Sonic burgers you could eat in a week.

  “You need a ride?” Quinn said.

  Lillie shook her head. “Already got keys to Kenny’s cruiser,” she said. “Not a bad ride, except it smells like barbecue and farts.”

  Boom got up from the bucket and walked over to the tool bench. He sliced open a box and pulled out a new rotor, an identical box waiting nearby. Quinn turned to Lillie, warming his hand with the coffee mug, and asked, “You see the news?”

  “You mean, the great Wing Machine Massacre?” Lillie said. “White dudes in Trump masks with assault rifles. I might have taken notice. What’s wrong with you people?”

  “Ain’t my people.”

  “But you suspect they’re ex-military?”

  “So does Holliday,” Quinn said. “He also thinks one of the three who hit the First National is dead.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Blood trail out the back door of the Wing Machine,” Quinn said. “Got a few witnesses who saw a vehicle hauling ass on EP Boulevard.”

  “Yeah,” Lillie said. “I heard. Late-model black Yukon. Got some fancy-ass rims, too. Want to make a wager that it’s stolen and dumped somewhere down and deep?”

  “Holliday says the Feds are checking hospitals,” Quinn said. “Got most of north Mississippi looking for that car.”

  “What about a tape?” Lillie said. “That place have a camera?”

  “It had a lot of them. But those boys shot them out and shot up the server.”

  Boom walked back to the Cherokee and sat back down on the bucket. He watched Boom add a shiny new rotor and spray it down with something from a can to get the slick surface rough enough to grip the pad. He’d seen him replace brakes at least a hundred times, but Boom could do it better than anyone in half the time.

  “The shoot-out wasn’t in the restaurant,” Quinn said. “Cops haven’t released the names. But two of the dead guys were those twin drug dealers, K-Bo and Shortbox.”

  Lillie set down her coffee and gave a low whistle. “Oh, fuck.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said. “And the restaurant was just a front. The back room, with the four dead guys, was a count house. Whatever they had, Team Trump took off with all of it.”

  “Gutsy move,” Boom said.

  “Or fucking stupid,” Lillie said. “Those guys have friends. Ain’t nobody getting out of this bullshit alive.”

  Quinn nodded, slipping off his ball cap, wet from the rain, and glancing back and forth to Boom and Lillie. Lillie caught his eye, smiling just a bit, and he knew it was as good a time as any to share his theory. He took a breath and said, “Leader of the group is a white male about my size and age.”

  Lillie nodded.

  “I believe, and the Feds believe, he has some military training.”

  “So does my mailman,” Lillie said. “But I’m not hooking his ass up to a polygraph.”

  “Do you recall that tattoo?” Quinn said. “The one that you claim reads ‘Fuck You, Tibbehah County’?”

  “Sure,” Lillie said. “I imagined it plain as day.”

  “I think it read ‘Camp Leatherneck,’ in black ink,” Quinn said. “Dead center of the right forearm.”

  “And how do you know this, chief?”

  Quinn reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two sheets. He unfolded them and passed them on to Lillie. Lillie reading as Boom finished up the right front brake and tightened the caliper. She lifted her eyes to Quinn. “Who the fuck is Richard Wilcox?”

  Quinn ran down the basics: his age, height, weight, where he was from, where he’d served, and recent run-ins with the law. Numerous assault charges, public intoxication, and a domestic violence in Memphis.

  “OK,” Lillie said, “so he’s a fucking turd. What makes him special?”

  “I met him today,” Quinn said. “Looked like he’d been shot in the leg.”

  “And where was this?”

  Quinn took another deep breath and then chased it with a gulp of coffee. He looked Lillie Virgil right in the eye and said, “Maggie Powers’s place.”

  “That freckle-faced girl you been mooning over?”

  Quinn didn’t answer, playing with the warm mug. Boom looked over his shoulder at Quinn and Lillie. He just shook his head and reached for another tool to insert into his hand.

  “And what’s the connection?” she said. “Or do I want to know?”

  “He’s her husband,” Quinn said. “About to be her ex. They’ve put it in motion. It just takes some time.”

  “Hold on,” Lillie said, holding up her hand. “Hold the fuck on. You got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe he was paying off his future child support in blood money,” Lillie said, grinning. “Real ole-time Robin Hood shit. Yes, that’s it. That makes complete fucking sense, Quinn.”

  Quinn looked to Boom, but Boom only shook his head again. The big man got up, reached for a nearby pack of cigarettes, and walked out of the barn and stood under the slanting tin roof. Quinn could see the shadow of his broad back, smoke scattering out into the rain and fading gray light.

  “Do you want me to tell you what I really think?” Lillie asked.

  “Maggie’s a nurse,” Quinn said. “I believe he needed some medical attention.”

  “And why the fuck did he rob the First National?” Lillie said. “You know one of my first rules of investigation: good crooks don’t shit where they eat. I mean, so to speak.”

  “Wilcox robbed that bank to impress her,” Quinn said, standing up and stretching. “He made a big show of trying to show me he was still in charge. Pissing on his territory.”

  Lillie stood up with him, standing nearly the same height. She placed the flat of her hand to his chest, almost as if she was trying to feel his heartbeat. “Listen to me,” she said. “You are a good man. And you’ve become a hell of an investigator in the last few years. But you have one major flaw, something I like to call the Achilles’ pecker. It damn well leads you in directions you have no business going. I just don’t want you making a fool out of yourself.”

  “This isn’t about Maggie.”

  “And your coming home was never about Anna Lee, or Luke, or their damn kid you stuck in the middle of your afternoon delights,” Lillie said. “I don’t want to talk about this. In fact, I’m not sure I even want to do this. Not anymore. A woman can only be crapped on so many times before she looks up and realizes it’s time to move on.”

  Quinn swallowed and took Lillie’s hand. Her face had a little sheen to it. Breathing hard, jaw set. “Calm down,” he sa
id. “Listen to me. Listen to what I’m saying.”

  Lillie shook her head and walked toward the open bay doors, brushing past Boom and heading out into the rain. Quinn followed her, finding Boom grinding out a cigarette. He lifted his chin and looked at Quinn. “That shit went well.”

  “She’s the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

  “Damn, Quinn,” Boom said. “Can you fucking blame her?”

  “For what?” Quinn said. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  • • •

  Some dumb shit had left the truck running, a good-looking black SUV with shiny rims, parked outside Chowtime, a soul food and Chinese buffet down on Hacks Cross Road. The kid had just come out, swiveling a toothpick in his mouth, his belly loaded down with greens, fried chicken, wontons, and crab Rangoon. It was a cold night, a little rain starting to fall, and the last thing he wanted to do was walk two miles back to his apartment or call his goddamn sister to leave the nail salon and pick his ass up. She’d want to know just what the fuck was he doing spending twenty dollars for all-you-can-eat buffet when he owed her fifty for a new pair of pants.

  The kid thought about it for a minute, his boy Mario following him, wanting to know what the hell he was looking at. The kid shrugged, tried the SUV’s door, found it was wide-ass open, and slid behind the wheel and into all that buttery-soft black leather.

  “You gonna get your ass shot,” Mario said. “Come on, man. Let’s go.”

  “Be cool,” he said. “Check this shit out.”

  “Ain’t your ride.”

  “You want to get wet?” the kid said. “Or you want to ride in style?”

  Mario climbed in. The windshield wipers were going, stereo playing some loud white boy music, the kid dialing it to Hot 107, finding DJ Rax playing that new one by Tyke T, “Come Up,” bass thumping. “You can’t stop my destiny.”