by Ace Atkins
Stagg flipped around from station to station until he heard an interview with a fat fella named Vincent Bloodgood, Chastity’s father. Stagg guessing Chastity was the Nellie lookalike, the images flashing on the screen of the girl at the beach, on some lake, and even up on the billboards with her fat daddy. a deal ain’t no deal less it’s bloodgood.
BLOODGOOD: I’ll do whatever it takes to get my daughter back.
Is that a fact?
BLOODGOOD: My girl doesn’t want to be a part of this mess. These gosh-dang kids need to be punished for all they’ve done.
That can be arranged.
BLOODGOOD: If you’ve seen Chastity. Or heard from her. Or know anything about her, call the hotline we set up. I’m offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for any information.
Wonder what that fat boy would pay to get Nellie on back to Fayetteville?
Stagg picked up the phone and called the kitchen for Midnight Man. They’d spent most of the afternoon going over orders for T-shirts and bumper stickers on both sides of the TJ Byrd debate to sell at the Rebel. On one side, free byrd or tibbehah county tough with home of the infamous tj byrd and ladarius mccade on the back. On the other, tears for gina byrd and justice for gina. Right now, sales were about neck and neck on both sides of the issue. Stagg figured kidnapping some blonde-headed, blue-eyed Chevy princess might just kill any support of free byrd sentimentality. TJ Byrd done cornholed herself with that one.
Midnight Man soon walked in, dressed in his XXL black trousers, white T-shirt, and a big white apron splattered with smoke and black grease.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’d you do with that sausage?”
“Tossed in the dumpster,” he said. “Just like you said.”
“You think it was Bishop?”
“Don’t know what to think,” Midnight Man said. “Seen some hairs in that mess. Make me sick while I was cooking that barbecue today.”
“You think you can find those Nix boys?” Stagg said. “Bring them here?”
“What for?”
“Ain’t none of your concern, Midnight Man.”
“Don’t mess with those people, Mr. Stagg,” Midnight Man said. “Please. They busted in the head. Smell like damn goats.”
“Then have them meet me at the truck wash,” Stagg said.
“Those short boys?” Midnight Man said. “Come on, now.”
“Get ’em here,” he said. “I might have a little errand for them.”
Stagg picked up the phone, calling 411 for a listing in Fayetteville, Arkansas.
* * *
* * *
Quinn dropped Maggie and Halley back at the farm and doubled back to town, Hondo riding shotgun, as Quinn dialed up Sheriff Pollan over in Calhoun County. Pollan had offered Quinn assistance since he’d first become sheriff. A straight shooter and lifelong John Wayne fan, Pollan was always glad to ask about Hondo.
“How’s my favorite dog?” Pollan asked.
“Riding shotgun at the moment,” Quinn said.
“Damn fine dog.”
Quinn gave a quick rundown on Gina Byrd’s murder, although Pollan had already heard most of it. He didn’t stop Quinn until Quinn asked him about a potential witness who Pollan had locked up in his jail a time or two.
“Leon Doaks?” Pollan asked. “You got to be kidding me. Whatever he’s peddling, don’t buy it. He’d sell out his own sister for a pack of smokes.”
“Professional snitch?”
“He’s made a good living out of it,” he said. “Is he in your jail?”
“Parsham,” Quinn said.
“Hate to put down a brother sheriff, but Bruce Lovemaiden is a real shitbird,” Pollan said. “Don’t trust him. And damn sure don’t trust Leon Doaks. Lovemaiden’s used him before. Last time on a double homicide he couldn’t solve if his life depended on it. He got Doaks to say the suspect confessed the whole thing over a jailhouse supper. That ole boy is over at Parchman Farm right now ready to ride the hot needle.”
“Roger that.”
“And Quinn?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Watch your damn back,” Pollan said. “Lovemaiden’s a crook. He’s always been a crook. Some folks I know say he’s thrown in with Johnny Stagg after Stagg got out of the pen. They think he’s running some of his old commerce through Parsham since you came back on the job. It’s not as easy of a corridor, but it beats you folks making trouble.”
“Things have been slow since Stagg got back,” Quinn said. “He’s building an Old West village for the kids out back of the Rebel.”
“Where Vienna’s used to be?”
“Yep.”
“Sounds like a sleight of hand,” Pollan said. “Have to hand it to Stagg. That old boy couldn’t go straight if you shot his crooked ass from a cannon.”
TWENTY
Ladarius had seen the used car lot and garage on the way into Texarkana: Gonzalez & Smith Motors, an old gas station surrounded by a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence. Good a place as any to do a little shopping, check out what suited them best, and roll on out the front gate with no one watching. Just in case someone spotted him, he’d borrowed TJ’s hoodie overlaid with his leather jacket. He covered half his face with a bandanna and did his damn best to be quiet and smooth, scaling that tall fence out back and dropping down to the gravel lot without a sound. Most places kept the keys up front by the register or sometimes a few late drop-offs had the keys stuck under a front mat or even in the ignition. Wasn’t much to stealing most cars but having the balls to do it.
As far as what came next, he wasn’t wild about the plan. But it was all they had, drive on down to Louisiana and lay low at Chastity’s daddy’s cabin on Grand Isle. If things got tight, no one listening to what TJ had to say on social channels, they could gas up that boat and drift on over to Old Mexico. Ladarius never drove a boat in his life before yesterday, but turns out there wasn’t much to it.
He couldn’t make any sense of that girl, Chastity. Pretty little face like a Barbie doll with plenty of big attitude. He couldn’t figure out if the girl wanted to fight him or fuck him. Making sly little jokes that seemed like flirting but always leaving a knife in his back. You’re a lot smarter than you look. Don’t know what TJ and I would do without you. How good can you be if all you do is get caught?
Ladarius’s feet crunched on the gravel as he made his way to the back of the repair shop, past the dumpsters and plastic drums filled with dirty oil that had him thinking back on things he’d heard about Gina Byrd. How could anyone think he’d do something so fucked up? Killing a woman and chopping her up. What kind of damn animal would do some shit like that?
He moved quiet and easy to a back service door, testing the knob first but then having to bust it loose with a screwdriver. From dropping into the yard to entry, he couldn’t have taken more than fifteen seconds. He walked inside and began to sort through the key chains hung on the wall when he heard that growl. At first, he thought maybe it was himself, because he hadn’t had a bite to eat since they left Hot Springs. But when one growl turned into two, maybe three, he was damn sure the space was filled with some wild-ass animals.
He grabbed two sets of keys and ran for the front door, tripping over his own feet before unlocking the door and racing outside. Looking back, he saw it was dogs, a damn pack of mangy mutts, six mean motherfuckers with hair raised across their backs, barking and howling for him, coming right for his ass. He tried to read the writing on the repair tags while he hid behind an old Honda Accord, dogs sniffing and scattering around him. One jumped up on the hood of the Honda, spit dripping from its teeth.
Ladarius held up his hand, trying to talk sense to the animal. “Come on now, puppy,” he said. “We good. We straight. Just be cool.”
Down the row, like a gift from God, he spotted an old silver Buick Regal like his granddaddy used to
drive. He knew these cars, learned how to steal on these cars. All he needed was to bust open the steering column and use his screwdriver to crank the engine. It was like his granddaddy was sending him a message from up in heaven. Here’s my gift, young man. A busted-ass old Regal to run you home. But after that, you better get your life straight. You hearin’ me?
Ladarius nodded, looking straight up at those dogs, trying to be cool and talk some sweet sense to them. He took a deep breath and ran for the Buick.
He only made it maybe ten yards when one of those dogs got hold of him, yanking his ass back by the leg of his jeans. He fell face-first in the gravel, more dogs on him now while he heard more barking and growling, the whole pack tearing at him. Motherfuckers biting him in the legs as he kicked and punched, blind to it all now, feeling that hot blood run down his legs, knowing what it was like to be eaten alive.
He yelled and screamed, flat on his back, looking up into the streetlights and flapping red flags. low monthly payments. hot deals. e-z terms.
Nobody heard him. Ain’t nobody coming.
* * *
* * *
“Mr. Bloodgood,” Johnny Stagg said. “Sure do appreciate you taking my call. How are you this fine evening?”
“Is this about that Yukon lost its transmission?” Bloodgood asked. “Because that vehicle was sold as-is and was in fine and good condition when it left my lot.”
“No, sir,” Stagg said. “I’m not calling about a Yukon. I’m calling about your little girl.”
There was a good bit of silence then, electric and cold, on the airwaves between Tibbehah County and Fayetteville, Arkansas. No one spoke until Stagg cleared his throat.
“You know where she is?”
“Got some ideas,” Stagg said. “Those wild kids, TJ Byrd and Ladarius McCade, come from my neck of the woods down here in Tibbehah County, Mississippi. I know them and their people real well. I want to apologize for the pain and distress they’ve caused the Bloodgood family.”
“What did you say your name was?” he asked. “Again.”
“Johnny,” he said. “Johnny T. Stagg.”
“You ain’t kin to that ole boy in the Dixie Mafia, are you?” Bloodgood said, as if the thought really tickled him. “Ha Ha. Heard of a fella named Stagg that ran a titty bar for truckers and got himself caught paying off half the politicians in Mississippi.”
Stagg didn’t answer, letting the long bit of silence hang there and speak for itself.
“Oh,” Bloodgood said. “I see.”
“I’ve been the target of much slander and lies over the years,” Stagg said. “Got caught up in a political witch hunt by a local boy who thought he was Buford Pusser reincarnated. But that time, that old history, don’t have a thing to do with what I’m offering you at the moment. I seen you on the news offering a reward for information about little Miss Chastity. Lord, she is cute as a button.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “She’s a real pistol. Can you help me?”
Stagg reached for the candy dish on his desk, selecting a butterscotch he’d just been gifted. He leaned back in his office chair, taking his time to unwrap it and pop it into his mouth. “Have you heard a word from your daughter, Mr. Bloodgood?”
“Only what I seen on the internet,” Bloodgood said. “Over there on that Instagram TikToking.”
“Mm-hmm,” Stagg said. “Well, I don’t know much about them things. I’m an AT&T man myself. But speaking theoretically, what would you say if I might offer the safe return of Miss Chastity while making sure those kids who took her get what’s coming to them?”
“I’d say I’d be mighty grateful, Mr. Stagg.”
Stagg sucked on the butterscotch, trying to make the flavor last a bit longer. Liking the feeling of being back in the saddle, turning his chair to and fro, making this work and come to pass.
“You and me are businessmen, Mr. Bloodgood,” Stagg said. “You do understand that true heartful gratitude comes with a price tag.”
* * *
* * *
Chester Pratt was tired of being harassed.
Ever since TJ Byrd took to the social media airwaves to convince the world she was innocent and he was the bad guy in this drama, man, how his life had changed. He’d been getting nonstop harassing phone calls at his home and over at the liquor store. Hello there, Killer. Why’d you do it, Chester? You are a sick, sick man. Kids, gosh-dang kids, would race by him on the Jericho Square giving him the high sign, and worst of all was seeing those stupid-ass free byrd T-shirts they were selling at the Rebel.
Chester had to squirrel himself away in the stockroom just to get a little break, telling ole Jimbo out front to tell anyone who asked that “No, Mr. Pratt is not around and probably won’t be for a long while.” Jimbo knowing not to ask much more than that, fine with ringing up the weekend liquor sales and knocking that phone off the hook. Ass-pocket bottles of whiskey and gallon jugs of Aristocrat vodka, boxes of wine for the ladies who wanted to drink themselves numb as there was little else to do in Tibbehah besides Sunday services and Taco Night at the El Dorado.
Chester hoped and prayed, really praying to his Lord that all would be forgotten and forgiven. He meant it. Hell, it wasn’t his fault what happened to Gina, all he’d been trying to do was scare her a little bit, make her back off on trying to get a return on her investment so durn quick. He’d told her, just two nights before he’d sent the Nix boys, that you couldn’t make your money back in a few months, that wasn’t the way of the world. He said he’d be able to come up with half by summertime, right around margarita season, and if she had any problem with that then she could just go and find herself a lawyer. But Gina didn’t like that. Didn’t like that a bit, ’cause she knew what she’d done, looting her own baby girl’s savings, was illegal as hell, and if Chester didn’t step up with her money, TJ was going to make a big ole family feud. The way Chester saw it, TJ still was to blame for the mess. She should’ve had more respect for her momma and her decision-making.
Chester added a little more Beam to his coffee and closed his eyes while he lay back in a big old leather chair patched up in duct tape, breathing deep into his nose, not wanting to turn on the damn TV or check his emails on account of all the hate out there. Why oh why would these stupid-ass kids fall for a hick like TJ Byrd, take her side in what was a most personal and private matter?
Knock, knock.
“I told you, I’m not here,” Chester said to the closed door. “Jesus H. Christ, Jimbo.”
The Nix boys, Dusty and his daddy, walked into the storeroom, nobody around to even stop them, strolling on down the rows of booze like they owned the place. Flem licking his dry lips, thinking that he must have died and gone to heaven, floating on that old whiskey river. The grizzled old fucker plucking himself a bottle of Blanton’s and uncorking it with his teeth.
“You expecting someone else?” Dusty Nix asked.
Chester Pratt didn’t answer.
“Mr. Stagg wants to know if you heard from the Byrd girl.”
“Mr. Stagg?”
“See?” Flem said, chugging down a quarter of that little round bottle. “You was expecting old Bishop. Military man who’d been giving your ass fits. The military man come to take out the Nix boys on Nix land. Wadn’t he a real thorn in your backside?”
“I don’t know any such person,” Chester said.
“Hell, you don’t,” Dusty said. “You made a deal with Stagg to shoot us in the back.”
“No, sir,” Chester said. “Why would I throw in with Johnny Stagg?”
“ ’Cause a Nix can’t be had,” Flem said. “A Nix sets out right fast on what needs doin’. Don’t worry none, Chester. We ain’t here to kill you. Not right yet.”
Chester Pratt swallowed, not moving from the overstuffed leather chair. He waited for these two to walk down row after row and knock over bottles, same as Bishop had done a millio
n nights back, back before he’d made the deal with the devil. Mr. Stagg now his legal partner in Bluebird Liquors.
“We’re asking again,” Dusty said. “Have you heard from the Byrd girl?”
“Once.”
“When?” Dusty asked.
“Two nights ago.”
“And what did she say?”
“She thinks I killed her momma,” Chester said. “You heard it. Everyone’s saying it.”
Dusty Nix put his hands on his waist, looking like he just might break into a little Irish jig, clodhop his old boots around the storeroom. But he didn’t. He stood stock-still, scratching at his stubbled, bulging neck and cutting his eyes over at his daddy for nearly finishing that bottle. “Quit now,” he said.
“Sorry,” Pratt said. “I can’t help you.”
“What number’d she call with?” Dusty asked.
“The girl used a burner.”
“What number?” Dusty said. “Maybe I’ll get lucky. Have her talk dirty to me. I seen her little tatas and that tight little ass on the internets.”
“Y’all shouldn’t have done what y’all did,” Chester said.
Dusty Nix smiled, his teeth brown and broken, before turning his head to spit on the floor. Daddy Nix put down the bottle and walked to a far corner where he started to urinate into a box of champagne bottles.
“You the one who wanted Gina Byrd gone,” Dusty said. “You said as much. And she’s the one who went ahead and stuck my daddy. Bled like a pig all in my truck. Had to get him to the hospital yesterday on account of him catching the fever, blood and pus spewing out of his insides.”
“I’m not going down for this,” Chester said.
Flem finished up and turned around to zip up his fly. Dusty walked up close to where Chester sat, Chester smelling his rotten breath at five feet. As Dusty moved into the overhead light, Chester noticed his flannel shirt was unbuttoned and open loose, the man having the damn balls to wear one of those fucking free byrd T-shirts.