The Fallen

by Ace Atkins

  “You really think so?” Lillie said.

  “C’mon.”

  “It’s over, kemosabe,” Lillie said. “Those fuckers had us beat before we even got started.”

  She patted Quinn on the back and brushed past him and up the steps. The screen door to the bungalow slamming shut with a hard thwack.

  • • •

  “Money’s in the trunk,” Fannie Hathcock said, taking a seat in a little alcove down the steps from the casino bar. She set down her key chain on top of the table.

  “We appreciate what you did,” Ray said, raising a Gibson at her. “Those boys had become a real pain in the ass for all of us.”

  “And now they’re dead and y’all have their money and Memphis,” Fannie said. “Wasn’t easy. One of my boys got killed.”

  “I know,” Ray said, taking a sip of the drink and snapping his fingers for the waitress. “We were sorry to hear it. Was he someone to you?”

  “Nope,” Fannie said, taking a breath, stretching her arms from the long ride. “Just another man.”

  “What’s your pleasure?” Ray said.

  “Same old,” Fannie said. Ray ordered the gin with the grenadine, cherries, and an orange slice. A thick woman with bleached-blonde hair in a wrinkled white shirt and black vest took the order and walked off. A lot of clinging bells and beeping sirens. If she had to work in a casino again, she’d tear her goddamn hair out.

  “You look tired.”

  “Appreciate that, Ray.”

  “Like maybe things are wearing on you down in Mayberry.”

  “It’s only Mayberry if Andy was a trigger-happy ex-soldier and Barney was a bull dyke in blue jeans with a bad attitude.”

  Ray laughed. He fiddled with his drink, wanting to say something but unsure of the way to say it.

  “They’re killing me down there.”

  “I know.”

  “And Buster White wants me to play nice.”

  Ray nodded. He took another sip of his drink, finished the sucker, and looked to the waitress, snapping his fingers and pointing to his empty glass. He leaned into the table and shook his graying head. “It’s complicated.”

  “What’s complicated?” she said. “I do something for you. You do something for me.”

  “This old guy,” Ray said, shrugging. “He’s connected, you know.”

  “I figured Buster White for a lot of things,” Fannie said. “A liar, a thief, a killer, and possibly the catcher during his time at Angola. But never a damn pussy.”

  Ray’s face reddened and he waved the flat of his hand at her. “No, no, no,” he said. “Not here. Don’t talk about White here. We don’t need that crap.”

  Fannie shrugged as the waitress brought back her drink and set it down with an arthritic Bunny dip. Ray spotted it, too, and cracked a little smile, as he’d spent plenty of time at the Playboy Club in Miami. He used to talk about it all the damn time.

  “That’s all chickenshit,” Ray said, reaching for her keys and pocketing them. After they spoke, she’d play a few hands of blackjack, eat a late lunch, and drive back to Jericho. Her cut would be cleaned and stacked in the trunk of her car. No fuss, no muss.

  Fannie took a sip of her cocktail, too much gin and too much grenadine. It tasted like Robitussin cough syrup. She coughed a little and placed her fingers on her chest, turning her head and making a yuck face.

  “Someone inside your club is talking to the locals.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Maybe,” Ray said. “But you know better than me how those girls can be. They’d sell out their own families for a twenty-dollar bill and a baggie of crank.”

  “Maybe so,” Fannie said. “But hired help doesn’t know what goes on up in my roost. That’s why it’s built that way. I’m the eye in the sky. Fucking Queen Supreme.”

  “What about your guard dogs?” he said. “What’s that long-haired ape’s name? The one who beat that Klansman into retardation with a lead pipe.”

  “Wrong Way,” Fannie said. “And that fella deserved it.”

  “What did he do?”

  “The Klan parked too close to the boys’ bikes,” Fannie said. “Someone scratched Wrong Way’s baby blue Electra Glide. He got a little annoyed and took out some aggression.”

  “Maybe he’s going straight,” Ray said. “Or trying to cut you out of the show? Don’t you think those boys believe they could run that titty bar better than you?”

  “Nope,” Fannie said. “Why would they do that when they get all the beer and cooze they want for free? They cut out my redheaded ass and they’d have to actually man the store. That’s not on the agenda for boys like this. They party all night. Sleep all day. Work isn’t exactly on their résumé.”

  The waitress brought Ray a fresh drink and he reached down and picked up a little onion. He took a bite and chewed, waving over to a couple of high rollers in Ed Hardy dragon shirts, taking a break from getting raped in the ass for a free upgrade on their room. They waved back, aging men with spray tans and hair transplants.

  “Be careful, Fannie,” Ray said. “Buster White called me up this morning and chewed my ass out. He’s thinking your people may be turning to the locals, trying to kick up some controversy. I told him you didn’t accept disloyalty from anyone.”

  “That doesn’t even make fucking sense,” Fannie said. “Why would I make trouble for myself?”

  “Do you know anything about a couple missing girls?” he said. “Some local preacher woman trying to make a big thing of it?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I may have heard something about it.”

  “That all needs to end,” he said. “You know where all that leads, and it would be a huge embarrassment to Mr. White, a possible legal clusterfuck for you, and no freakin’ picnic for me.”

  “Nobody knows anything,” Fannie said. “Who cares anyway? Just a freak show of schoolgirl skirts and dirty cotton panties.”

  “Couple underage whores could smear some shit on a friend of the family.”

  “Come on, Ray,” Fannie said, taking a sip. “I know all about Buster White and Vardaman. That’s why y’all won’t let me fuck with Skinner. He’s Vardaman’s local monkey.”

  Ray smiled, placing a finger to his lips. He twirled the cocktail glass by its thin stem.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” she said. “I run girls. I clean money. And I help out you boys as needed. However, I am not, nor will ever be, the fucking Mother Superior of north Mississippi. If Vardaman has been sticking his dick in an electric socket, don’t go and blame me if the light starts to dim.”

  “Can you find out who’s been talking?”

  “Nobody,” Fannie said. “Nobody knows my business. And nobody sure as hell knows about all those ass parties in the woods.”

  Ray took a long breath and shrugged. He reached for his drink and drained the second martini in a quick few gulps. “That’s good,” he said. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear it, kid. It’s been giving me the indigestion and a true ass ache.”

  It had been a long time since he’d called her kid, going back to the days at that roadside motel on Beach Road. Back then, he’d picked out bikinis for her, little short shorts. They had laid out by the pool and ate Chinese food, watched movies until he passed out. Kid. Fannie hadn’t thought about those times for a long while. Funny how she’d always called Mingo the same damn thing.

  • • •

  After Quinn made the kids return the stolen crap back to the Dollar General, negotiating a warning instead of jail, and bargaining out a long day pressure-washing the store’s parking lot, he got back to the sheriff’s office. When he walked inside his office and took off his hat, he found Jon Holliday sitting in front of his desk, feet up on the edge.

  “Make yourself comfortable.”

  “I looked for some cigars,” he said. “Wh
ere do you hide your humidor?”

  “At home,” Quinn said, opening his desk and finding two loose sticks. He tossed one to Holliday and sat down.

  “Long day?”

  “Big heist out at the Dollar General,” Quinn said. “Two pounds of hamburger meat and some Gillette razor blades.”

  “We’ve put the word out on those girls,” Holliday said. “Lot of that crap going on down South. Even worse than I told you. I’ve got some people looking into Tibbehah County, also circulating photos.”

  Quinn chopped off the edge of his cigar and placed the cutter next to Holliday’s lace-up dress shoes. Holliday did the same and the men lit up about the same time, Quinn walking to the office door and peering out to see if Mary Alice was at her desk. If she smelled smoke, she’d get all over his ass.

  “Jonas Cord,” Holliday said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “One of our Trump bandits,” he said. “Memphis police found his body stuffed in the back of that GMC Yukon. Police matched blood samples from the shootings and sent the bullets from the Twins’ guns to the state. Don’t think anyone needs to be holding their breath whether or not it’s a match.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Like we figured, ex-military,” Holliday said. “A Marine sergeant. Did four combat tours in Afghanistan. Served with honor and then entered civilian life two years ago.”

  “But still a Marine.”

  “Always a Marine,” Holliday said. “Same as an asshole. Once an asshole . . .”

  “Where’d he live?”

  Holliday rolled the cigar in his mouth, nodding. “Memphis,” he said. “Ran security at Oak Court Mall. Had some issues a few months ago with management and got fired. Lived in a corporate apartment down off Winchester. Neighbors said they saw another man living there, too. But no one seemed to have spoken to either of them.”

  “Get any prints off the truck?”

  “Most belong to the dumbasses who stole it,” Holliday said. “Looks like whoever boosted the car and left it running wiped everything down with 409 and Armor All.”

  “What about the apartment?” Quinn said.

  “How about you ride back up with me and check it out?”

  “Beats protecting the Dollar General,” Quinn said. “And I wouldn’t mind tracking down the other two before they roll back down here.”

  “What makes you think they’re coming here?” Holliday said.

  Quinn let out some smoke, setting his cigar on top of his coffee mug. He reached into his right-hand drawer and pulled out a small file he’d started on Richard Wilcox: military records, property records, credit report, criminal file with details from MPD, and a mug shot. “My assistant sheriff is about to quit on me because of this,” Quinn said. “But I got my reasons.”

  He slid the file over to Holliday, who snatched it up and read, leaning back in the chair, both feet off the ground.

  “Both Marines,” Quinn said.

  “How come you like this guy?”

  Quinn nodded, picking up the cigar and taking a puff. “Maybe just wishful thinking,” he said. “His wife and I have become good friends. He showed up at her place Monday with a bad limp, some kind of injury.”

  “Oh, no,” Holliday said, setting all four legs on the floor. “It’s a lot more than that, bud. Looks like Wilcox and Cord served in the same unit for two tours.”

  “Bravo Company?” Quinn said. “Camp Leatherneck?”

  “Yep.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “I’m sure you saw Wilcox won a Silver Star.”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Killing folks doesn’t make you a hero,” Holliday said. “You and I know that better than anyone.”

  “Sometimes it’s luck.”

  “And sometimes,” Holliday said, pointing the end of his cigar at Quinn, “it’s ’cause they fucking well like to shoot folks.”

  27

  “I’ve been waiting on you,” Maggie said, sitting on the porch swing at Quinn’s house. He walked up on her, sitting there in the shadows with Hondo, her feet tucked up under her.

  “Had to head up to Memphis,” Quinn said.

  “You want to sit down?” she asked, Hondo wagging his tail.

  “I’ll stand,” Quinn said. “Been in the car most of the day.”

  “Everything OK?”

  “Dandy.”

  “Damn, I’m so sorry, Quinn,” she said. “I tried to call you later, but you didn’t answer. Rick needed some help and wanted to talk. I should have let you know.”

  “Things have moved faster than they should have,” Quinn said. “That’s my fault. You don’t owe me anything. I don’t know anything about your personal life and had no right to think you were with me.”

  “I am with you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Quinn said. “Not now. I think we better keep separate for a while. I’d also advise you to stay as far away from your husband as possible.”

  “He’s not my husband.”

  “Legally,” Quinn said, “he is. And emotionally he is, too.”

  “I’m not with him,” she said, standing up from the swing and reaching for Quinn’s hands. Hondo hopped down from the swing, too, and looked up at Quinn. “Goddamn it. Look at me. Listen to me. He’s a bad guy. He’s always been a bad guy. Something happened to him the other night, I don’t know what, but he’d been shot in the leg. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know what to do or how to say it.”

  “Maybe you could let me know you cut a bullet out of his leg.”

  “I don’t know what he’s up to,” Maggie said, letting go of Quinn’s loose fingers. “But whatever it is, it’s pretty damn bad.”

  Quinn looked down at Maggie, standing there with her hair covering one eye, her brushing it back and waiting for Quinn to answer. She had on a men’s white tank top, frayed jeans, and cowboy boots. With her hands on her hips, he could make out the faint trace of a tattoo under her arm. He recalled what it read from the other night: BE HERE NOW.

  “Just what did he tell you?”

  “He said he was deer hunting and fell out of a tree stand,” she said. “His rifle went off and shot him in the leg.”

  “Deer season’s been over for a while.”

  “I know,” she said. “And it wasn’t any deer rifle slug I took out of his leg. I was raised with two brothers who hunted. I dressed plenty of deer. And, for too long, I was a goddamn Marine wife. I know my ammo.”

  Quinn unlocked the front door and walked into the dark house. Maggie and Hondo followed him. “You know a man named Jonas Cord?” Quinn said, turning on the hall lights and walking into the kitchen. He reached in the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of Coors, popping the tops with his key chain.

  “Sure,” Maggie said. “He’s Rick’s best friend.”

  “He’s dead,” Quinn said. “Got shot up by some drug dealers in Memphis. Looks like he and Rick and one other fella decided to go after their hidey-hole of cash. Five folks got killed.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  They sat across from each other at the kitchen table, a thin beam of light cutting in from the hall and lighting up part of Maggie’s freckles. She leaned on the table with her elbows, the cold beer in one hand. “I’ll tell you anything you need to know,” she said. “I’ll help in any way. And I swear to Jesus Christ I will never lie to you, withhold information, or misdirect you in any damn way, Quinn Colson.”

  Quinn reached out and touched the fingers of her right hand, with its alternating blue and black nail polish, a gathering of leather and metal bracelets at the wrist. He felt her warmth and said, “Who’d be their third guy?”

  Maggie nodded, taking a sip of her beer, then setting it down and lifting her long hair off her shoulders and combing it back with her fingers, thinking on it. “You think they�
�ve done some other bad stuff?”

  “Rick ever talk to you about robbing banks?”

  “Oh, hell,” she said. “You think he’s part of those guys in those Trump masks, robbing all those banks around here?”

  “I do,” Quinn said. “I think he’s the leader.”

  “You know, I’d like to say I’m surprised,” she said. “But that sounds exactly like the kind of boneheaded idea Rick would get excited about. After he got home, he couldn’t ever get his shit straight. He was always on to the next thing, country music or selling cars. Just last year he wanted to compete on that show American Ninja Warrior. He was just wild, going from one thing to the next.”

  “Well,” Quinn said, “he’s found his calling.”

  Maggie buried her face in her hands, wiping her eyes with her fingers, and looking up while taking a deep breath. “I know who the third man is,” Maggie said. “And, goddamn, I like him so much. He’s really the best of them by far. But so damn loyal to Rick. He told me he’d go straight into hell with Jonas and Rick and piss right into the devil’s mouth.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sam Pryce,” Maggie said. “But everyone just calls him Opie. He’s such a good kid. I once set him up with my sister.”

  • • •

  “I’ve done some bad things, Big T,” Wilcox said, sitting with the fat man in the Ford Tough Café at the dealership in Southaven. The Vicodin-and-tequila mix making everything seem sharper, brighter, and a hell of a lot better. He really liked the neon around the Mustang clock and the smell of stale popcorn. “Yep. I’ve screwed the ole pooch.”

  “Well,” Big T said, “everybody has, Rick. No need for you to make apologies. I consider myself a good Christian man, but I’m already on my third wife. Does that mean I did something wrong? Well, I may have made some mistakes. But those mistakes turned out to be a good thing. You know, I have seven kids, five with women I married. Christ forgives. All you got to do is pray on it. Whatever it is you’ve done, you will be saved, washed in the blood of Christ.”

  “I don’t think so, Big T,” Wilcox said. “I’ve done bad things my whole life, but I’m just starting to see it. Hell, maybe it’s all the pills and booze that’s put it in focus.”