by Ace Atkins
“Who else could it be?” Caddy said. “These white guys aren’t the kind of company Blue Daniels keeps. And how would Fannie Hathcock connect us?”
“Your friend at Vienna’s?” Quinn said. “Whoever it is maybe isn’t as honest as you think.”
“It’s not them,” Caddy said.
“How do you know, Caddy?” Quinn said. “You’re not exactly dealing with class folks here. You’re talking about someone who would work at a truck stop strip club.”
“I’m well aware,” Caddy said.
“And maybe your blind spot.”
“Oh,” Caddy said. “I know, big brother. But how about we just see what Manuel has to say. When I mentioned his name to those two men, one of them looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.”
“And you never saw them before?” Quinn asked.
Caddy shook her head as Quinn glanced over at her from the wheel of the Big Green Machine, heading on into the trailers in Skid Bucket. Caddy had called him not long after the two men had shown up, saying they’d threatened to burn down her barn if she didn’t back off the missing girls. Quinn had talked to her and Diane Tull for a time, taking some notes, before deciding to head on out to talk to Manuel. Caddy was right. Might as well find out what the old man knew, if anything.
They found him in front of his trailer, burning a scrap wood fire that was surrounded by a little circle of bricks. He was humming and singing to himself, well on his way with the tequila, chickens wandering and pecking all around him. He and Caddy were up on the fire now, fast-moving clouds up in the sky lit up by a big moon. Everything wild and eerie.
“Sheriff,” Manuel said. “Hello, Sheriff. You’re a good man. You know that? You have respect. Fucking respect.”
Manuel looked at Caddy. If he recognized her, he didn’t show it in his face, only lifting the cheap tequila up to his lips and tilting it back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes shiny in the firelight. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “OK. Good man.”
“Two men,” Caddy said, getting right down to it. Quinn standing back, listening to his sister being direct, and in a way being damn proud of her. “You told me they came and beat up Ana Maria’s father. And then her father went back to Atlanta. Correct?”
“What?”
“Ana Maria,” Caddy said, saying it in a spot-on way that Lillie might have punctuated with “fuckhead.”
“Sí,” Manuel said. “Sure. Yes. Hey, hey, hey. You want to drink? I get some glasses. We drink. It’s a good night. Not cold. Everything is soft and quiet. Big moon above us. Everything is so bright. Shining. You know?”
“Who were these men?” Caddy said.
Manuel shrugged, reaching at his feet for a cheap Mexican blanket, the kind they sell at truck stops for five bucks, and pulling it over his legs. “I don’t know. But who are you?”
“I’m Caddy Colson, Manuel,” she said. “I was here the other night. You warned me about the two men in the white truck. You said they were dangerous. They came to see me tonight and threatened me.”
“I don’t know,” Manuel said, trying to hand off the bottle to Quinn. “I’m not sure. So many people. So many people come through this place. They move in, they work, they live, and they are gone. They are ghost people. You know? We don’t exist. We are not really here. Right?”
“And if you weren’t here,” Quinn said, “half the lazy assholes would have to do the real work. Instead of sitting in their trucks and smoking cigarettes.”
“Yes,” Manuel said, lifting the bottle again and trying to pass it to Quinn. “Yes. See? The sheriff, he is a big man. He understand. He understand the situation out here.”
“Who were the men?” Caddy said.
Quinn squatted down on his haunches and warmed himself by the fire. Caddy continued to stand, wrapping her arms around herself and waiting for Manuel to get straight. The man took another swig and swallowed, knowing they weren’t going away without answers. And also knowing Quinn wasn’t the kind of man who would threaten or beat him to get what he wanted. Manuel looked Quinn in the eye, knowing he had to answer in an honorable fashion or he’d lose face. “Who is this?” he said, pointing the bottle to Caddy. “To you?”
“My sister.”
“Tu hermana,” Manuel said. “OK. OK. I know. I see it. Oh, yes. Shit.”
Quinn didn’t answer but waited, feeling very much like he was in some part of a craggy shitsville in Afghanistan waiting for the local chieftain or the village elder to realize Quinn was OK, that maybe the Taliban assholes weren’t the village’s friends and maybe he’d point the team in the right direction or show Quinn where to find the weapons cache. You drank tea with them. You smoked with them. You offered them cigarettes, vouchers, whatever you could to gain their trust.
“They wanted to harm her,” Quinn said.
“Burn my barn,” Caddy said. “Our church.”
“Church?” Manuel said.
“We help people,” Caddy said. “Remember? I bring you food when you have no money. You’re no ghost to me, Manuel.”
“Yes, yes,” Manuel said. “Shit. Yes. OK. I understand. I know these men. And they are terrible men. Bad people. They bring workers up into the hills. When they work them too hard and the men complain, they get beat more. Sometimes they pay the workers. Sometimes they bring them back here.”
“They’re foremen,” Quinn said.
“For who?” Caddy said.
Manuel held up his hand, drinking more, breathing in, looking very sad and tired in the firelight. “If I tell you,” he said, “will you tell them about me?”
Caddy looked to Quinn, and Quinn lifted his chin in agreement, being able to speak easy with Caddy, almost communicating as close as he could with Lillie. But not as good, not the same. Quinn told Manuel what he said would stay here with them.
“Those men come down into the Bucket to round up workers,” he said. “Take them up in the hills to that big house.”
“Where?” Quinn said.
“That big house,” Manuel said. “You know? The one that looks like a fort with all the logs and big stone. The big man lives there. The politico.”
“Politico?” Quinn said. “Are you talking about Vardaman?”
Manuel smiled big, proud of himself that they’d been able to communicate, pass over a little bit of information by the firelight. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Vardaman. But these men. They do what he says. They treat us like pieces of shit. You know? We are nothing. We are just like those ghosts. They want. And whoosh. We are gone. No one knows. No one cares. This place isn’t us.”
“Manuel?” Quinn said.
He looked up, wild and glassy-eyed. “Yes.”
“You’re sure they work for Vardaman?” he said. “In the big stone house. The politico with the long hair and the black eyes?”
Manuel nodded. He was sure.
Quinn shook the old man’s hand, who again offered the tequila. “Sometime you will drink with me,” he said.
“When there’s time.”
“Soon,” Manuel said. “There will be a time when you can no longer refuse.”
• • •
“How much?” Opie asked.
“Does it matter?” Wilcox said. “We’re not exactly in a bargaining position here. I told him I’d give him three grand for two guns. And another three grand for an RPG.”
“You’re kidding,” Opie said, watching Wilcox to see if he’d bust out laughing. But he didn’t. Wilcox was drunk and high, minutes ago walking out of Uncle Sam’s Army-Navy Store on Summer Avenue. The storefront closed for the night, a vertical neon sign reading ALL-WEATHER GEAR, GUNS, BOOTS.
“Name a better weapon,” Wilcox said.
“Maybe a fucking tank?” Opie said. “Come on, man. We don’t need that. We get caught with that thing and it’s a federal violation.”
�
��So are bank robbers buying a couple clean AR-15s from the back door of Uncle Sam’s,” Wilcox said. “But, what the fuck? We’ve gone this far, might as well add in some extra protection to make sure no one follows us.”
“You could take out half the damn downtown.”
Wilcox smiled at Opie, making the skin tighten on the back of his neck. “Yeah, we could,” he said. “Couldn’t we?”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, Sarge.”
Wilcox looked wrung out, stretching his hurt leg out in front of him, his blue jeans cut off at the knee. He hadn’t shaved in a while and looked dirty and greasy, Opie wondering if he shouldn’t try to slow this shit down. Talk to him about reevaluating the mission, taking some time to plan it out. Nobody clearheaded bought a backdoor RPG for sport.
“I don’t know what’s in that titty bar,” Wilcox said. “But Cord told me stories. He said that woman keeps a bunch of nasty-ass bikers watching the door. He said they’re all heavily armed and meaner than a horny rattlesnake.”
“How many?” Opie said.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we let this one go,” Opie said. “Finish out those banks we scouted. Come on down to Florida with me for a while, switch up our routine, and maybe ride up into the Panhandle. See what’s cooking there.”
“You don’t see it?” Wilcox said, leaning back into the passenger seat, head dug into the headrest. “Doesn’t have a damn thing to do with money, Ope. We could quit right now and have enough money to live on for a few years. And live like we want. This is about Cord. That woman bundled him up and stuffed him in the back of that vehicle. Treated a U.S. Marine like trash. We can’t stand for that. We stand for that and we’re nothing. All this would just be for bullshit.”
“We won’t get his body back.”
“No,” Cord said. “Police have it. They’ll find his family. Deliver him in a wooden box without honor.”
“And if they find his family,” Opie said, “how long until they get to us?”
“Ah-hah,” Wilcox said. “Yes, sir. Now you’re getting to the Tootsie Roll center. We don’t have long to wrap up this son of a bitch and disappear for a while. We don’t have time for more banks. We have time for one great act of violent fucking retribution.”
Opie swallowed, reaching down for a Coke bottle in the console. Wilcox had taken a nice Ford Expedition, white with gray leather interior, from the last row of that big parking lot at IKEA. He said they may need to live in it, maybe camp some, for a while until they figured out a plan on getting the money they were owed and how they would be hitting that bitch right in the coot.
“You going to kill her?”
“I’d like to,” Wilcox said, but then going full into Citizen Trump again. “But I have great respect for women. I love women. Nobody has more respect for women. Nobody.”
“Are we going to wear the masks?”
“Why not,” Wilcox said. “All this has gone prime time.”
“How’s the leg?”
“Hurts like a son of a bitch.”
Opie watched a dopey-looking tall dude with a long Moses beard locking up the front door of Uncle Sam’s, pointing for them to follow him around back. It was night now and not much going on down Summer Avenue, lots of warehouses and junk stores closed up for the night. Opie started the car and followed.
“You going to take Crissley with you?”
“Don’t know,” Wilcox said. “I hadn’t had much time to mull it over.”
The bearded man lifted up a rolling door to a big garage and motioned for them to drive on inside. The garage was filled with bright light, a lot of boxes, and strewn with flags hanging from the crossbeams. A crazy-looking life-sized statue of a World War II GI motioned for them to follow him into battle.
Opie killed the engine and hit the button to lift the hatch. “I miss Cord.”
“Me, too.”
“Woman shouldn’t have done that,” Opie said. “A man like Cord should go off in a goddamn Viking funeral, with fire and shit.”
“Yep.”
“Retribution?”
“Damn straight.” Wilcox smiled, staring straight ahead. “Big-time.”
26
On Lillie’s day off, Quinn found her outside her little bungalow near Jericho Square doing some yard work. The day was warm, one of the warmest on record for early March, and Lillie sat on the steps up to her front porch, drinking Gatorade, the front of her Indigo Girls T-shirt soaked around the collar and cut off at the sleeves. She didn’t say anything to Quinn, who took a seat beside her, holding his half-full thermos of black coffee, on the job since six a.m., running down two shoplifters at the Dollar General to their home up in Fate, where they’d been divvying out the big spoils. Hamburger meat, dog food, and razor blades.
Quinn poured a little coffee into a silver cup as Lillie slid on a pair of leather gloves and headed back into her front flower beds. She pulled dead weeds and chopped up the soil with a hoe. They hadn’t spoken since he’d told her he suspected Rick Wilcox robbed the banks.
“Looking good,” Quinn said.
“It better,” she said. “I’m putting it up for sale next week.”
“You were raised here. And it was your grandmother’s before that,” Quinn said. “You said you’d never sell this place.”
“I put in for a job back with Memphis PD,” Lillie said. “I did it online and they called me the next day. They have openings in robbery and sex crimes. It’s good pay, with lots of room for promotion. They told me I could make lieutenant in less than a year.”
Quinn nodded. “This have anything to do with Maggie Powers?”
Lillie stood up from where she was working and wiped her brow with her forearm, keeping it there to block the sun. “Some,” she said. “There’s no getting around you being a lovestruck dumbass. But the truth is, I’ve overstayed my time here. I never expected to stay here long. I came back for my mother, then Sheriff Beckett died, and then you showed up. I think I’ve done the best I can showing you the ropes. You’re not just a fucking lunkheaded Army jackass.”
“Appreciate that, Lil.”
“You’re a good investigator,” she said. “You don’t need me anymore.”
Quinn took a sip of coffee as Lillie went back to gardening. Her daughter Rose stumbled out onto the porch, squinting like she’d just woken up from a long nap. He put down the coffee, walked up onto the porch, and lifted her up. She was dark, with big brown eyes. The kids in her class called her Dora the Explorer with respect and admiration.
“You hungry, sweetie?” Lillie asked.
Rose nodded.
“I’ll make you lunch,” she said. “Give me and Mr. Quinn a second.”
Quinn set Rose down and she ran back into the house. He moved back down to the steps and leaned against the brick railing, watching Lillie continue to work as if she was mad as hell at the plants, ripping them from the roots and tossing them in the yard.
“You really serious about this Memphis thing?” Quinn said. “Or just pissed?”
“Don’t give yourself too much credit,” she said. “I’m more serious than a fat man’s heart attack.”
“Come on, Lil,” Quinn said, smiling. “I can’t offer you much. But you’re second-in-command down here. Damn, sometimes you’re first.”
“That’s like being king of the fucking trailer park,” she said. “I’ve put in my time for this place. Tell everyone to leave the flowers and notes of appreciation in the county jail shit stalls.”
“I appreciate you,” he said. “You know that?”
Lillie eyed Quinn and reached for the Gatorade, downing the rest. Her shadow fell over him, hair tied in a tight bun on top of her head, the sun behind her shining on lean muscular arms shiny with sweat. She didn’t answer, eyeing him as she drank, still as trim and in shape as when she’d been a college athlete at Ole M
iss.
“But you’re not quitting today?” Quinn said. “Right?”
“You’re stuck with me for the next two weeks.”
“I’ve been spending the last two days trying to run down those pieces of shit who threatened Caddy.”
“You said they worked for Senator Vardaman.”
“They do,” Quinn said. “But no one out at his hunt cabin would say anything. I found one guy who used to cook for Vardaman acknowledge the descriptions we have. He said they did security work for some outfit in Jackson.”
“What about Vardaman?”
“Strange thing,” Quinn said. “Some fancy lawyer from everyone’s favorite law firm in Ridgeland called me yesterday. He told me that if I continued to make accusations against the senator, or trespass on his property, that he’d have to file a major lawsuit against Tibbehah County and me personally.”
“What’s so strange about that?”
“I never called Vardaman or anyone close to him,” Quinn said. “My inquiries at the cabin were done off premises, speaking to local folks I know.”
“Damn,” Lillie said. “Word gets around. You got to love these creeps. Just what exactly did these men say to Caddy?”
“They told her to quit looking for Ana Maria and Tamika or they’d burn down her church.”
“Fuckers.”
“Did Caddy mention to you she might’ve seen one of these fellas before?”
“No,” Quinn said. “Why do you say that?”
Lillie shook her head, crawling out of the unturned earth, keeping something to herself. She took off her gloves and tossed them on the brick steps. She motioned her head up the steps, the front door open, TV sounding through the screen. “I got a PB and J sandwich to make,” she said. “Can you believe that kid won’t even eat tacos? So much for genetics.”
The sun was high and bright behind Lillie. Quinn had to squint one eye to look at her. “It’s just getting good, Lil,” he said. “Everything we’ve been fighting for. All those people who want to turn back the clock to the bad ole days. The users, the racists, the peckerheads who praise Jesus but loot our land and people. We got ’em.”