by Ace Atkins
“That’s a hell of a rig, though,” Charlie Hodge said.
The cops hadn’t moved the Purple People Eater from the lot, still parked in the same place with crime scene tape marking the unceremonious spot where Floyd Eugene Hicks bled out, facedown in a puddle of rainwater and diesel. The sad end to a glorious working man who dabbled in a little pedophilia and sex trafficking on the side. Six-four and three hundred thirty pounds of whale blubber. Lillie was sure the shitbirds would fly slow and low at half-wing today, crying tears of pain that such a man left the earth.
“Kid did pretty good with a .38,” Lillie said. “Someone that young should’ve missed. Only she looked to get him where it counted.”
“Locals think the kids robbed him.”
“That sound right to you?”
“Nope,” Lillie said. “You saw his priors. This sick fucker probably tried to get them into his cab. Maybe he did.”
“Only one way to find out,” Charlie said.
Lillie opened up the driver’s door. Damn. The smell was something to behold. To describe it wouldn’t do the rank scent justice.
“Lord God Almighty,” Charlie said.
“Not exactly red roses and French perfume.”
The sun filled the front seats of the cab but Lillie had to look for the switches to turn on the lights in the sleeper. It was the kind of scene that would make Martha Stewart shit her pants. A bare mattress on the bunk, a half dozen plastic milk jugs filled with an indeterminate yellow mixture, dirty T-shirts and stained underwear, a tiny little TV with a cigarette lighter plug and dozens of DVDs strewn about the floor.
“Wow,” Lillie said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves and shuffling through the DVDs. “Mr. Hicks was a real cinephile. Looks like he was preparing to stick it in damn near anything that had a hole. Didn’t know they sold this shit down South. Looks like the kind of material you’d get in a Bangkok flea market.”
“Few years back I had to take a course in sex trafficking on the web,” Charlie said. “Agent leading the talk said there was something out there for everybody. One of the marshals, being a smartass, said, ‘What about rhinos?’ Took the agent about two hot seconds to find that very thing.”
“Glad to have that in mind next time I take my kid to the zoo.”
“Sorry, Lil.”
“Sorry for what?” Lillie said. “That sickos live among us? I learned that a long time ago.”
Lillie sifted through the man’s belongings, knowing the local cops took four guns out of the rig. Two pistols, a shotgun, and an AR-15, just in case Mr. Hicks decided to take the Purple People Eater into a military hot zone.
“I think local investigators missed a few items,” Lillie said.
“The duct tape.”
“Stun gun and some rope,” Lillie said. “Shit. Kind of funny to think that he messed with TJ Byrd. One of those days when you believe there really is such thing as karma.”
“Did the cop run down everything on the evidence list?”
“You mean ole Eb back there?”
“Yeah, Eb.”
“You know his name really isn’t Eb and he didn’t get the reference,” she said. “But he is the spitting image of old Tom Lester.”
“Nobody remembers the classics.”
“Damn shame,” Lillie said. “What’s wrong with America?”
Lillie grinned, toeing at a few sex toys left in the cab, trying her best to not imagine how they worked or that a man like Floyd Eugene Hicks might’ve been going to happy town while driving eighty thousand pounds down a U.S. interstate.
Something caught her eye stuck under a stack of DVDs. A thin gold chain. She bent down and found part of a broken necklace, a little gold compass dangling at the end. daddy’s little girl is never lost.
She showed it to Charlie. “Ain’t that a heartbreaker?”
“Guns, dildos, and DVDs,” Charlie said. “What could’ve gone wrong?”
“Eb did mention they grabbed three phones,” Lillie said. “How about we head on over and take a look. I’ll pass along this golden compass. Aren’t we due a big fat break right about now?”
* * *
* * *
They’d been sleeping in that nasty old house for two days, not at all what TJ expected, and sure as hell not a good place to bring John Wesley. Folks stopping by at all hours, tattooed and scratchy, as if clocks didn’t exist down in New Orleans, money being exchanged before they’d head to the back room where business was transacted. Chastity’s friend Graham seemed nice enough when they got there, early twenties with frat boy hair and a shaky little smile, sliding back a door to a little study where he’d set out a couple of air mattresses and showed John Wesley the TV and Xbox. There was a hot shower and a place to sleep, a little food, if not a lot in the way they’d been living.
She thought hard about what had happened south of Shreveport, although once she and Chastity got back into the car, they never said a word about it. TJ wasn’t sure if it was out of fear, trying to pretend it didn’t happen, or trying to protect John Wesley. Chastity pinned her ripped shirt back together, TJ used the cash in the trucker’s wallet to fill up the tank at the next gas station, and they rode in silence all the way into the city.
Once they settled at the house near Audubon Park, TJ got clean and changed her clothes, checking nonstop to see if anyone had connected her and Chastity to that old trucker. She saw not a word about that online, but did see that little video they made at the Tri-State Motel, not all but a minute, had been viewed more than a quarter million times. She had to show it to Chastity twice to make sure she wasn’t seeing things that weren’t there. The comments were better than great. They were damn well beautiful. where are you, chester pratt?, tj byrd is innocent!, find the real killer, and fly free byrd fly. Screenshots were shared, art was drawn, and hashtags were made. So many pictures of TJ up on that diving board, lit by the orange-and-black February twilight, fist held high proclaiming her innocence and why she ran.
It was her. But it wasn’t her. It was a new woman with jet black hair, boy short, and attitude to match. It kind of scared her, but she liked it all the same.
Chastity went straight to Graham’s bedroom, shutting the door behind them, and she didn’t see her much after that. Every so often, Chastity would appear in the kitchen, wearing an oversized Saints T-shirt and sucking down some orange juice straight from the bottle. Her eyes had grown black and electric, a lazy smile on her face as she’d touch TJ’s arms and neck as if they were in the same dream. Two times she had to tell the girl to quit it.
The first full day they were in the house, she took John Wesley down to St. Charles Avenue, where they caught a streetcar downtown. The French Quarter jam-packed, TJ just then figuring out they’d come right in the middle of Mardi Gras. For the first time in a while, she felt she could walk among people, a shit ton of them, without anyone giving her so much as a glance. She and John Wesley walked down Royal Street and listened to some black kids playing old-time music with horns, trombones, and tubas. Folks tossed out beads from balconies and she bought two hot dogs from a street vendor with a little of the money that Graham had given them. It was all nice, like some kind of noisy dream, with more light and color and music than her brain could hardly handle. St. Charles Avenue was packed when they got back to Graham’s, John Wesley making friends with some kids on the parade route, scrambling up a ladder to catch more beads thrown from the passing floats. The world outside the music and the color felt far away, and she halfway entertained the crazy idea that maybe they could stay awhile. Whatever Graham did in that house was his own damn business; long as they were safe and protected, maybe they’d be okay. A wanted killer—for real a killer now, after the one-eyed trucker—couldn’t be too choosy about her associations.
The back door to the house into the kitchen was cracked open when they got there, most of the lights off with only the sound of
a radio playing somewhere. John Wesley went straight for the Xbox and she dropped her backpack while heading into the living room, old floors creaking underfoot, hearing some moaning coming from the bedroom. Chastity and Graham probably at it again, rekindling whatever made their blood boil for each other back in rehab.
But this time the sounds didn’t come from his bedroom, they were coming from the little study where she and John Wesley had slept and stayed that first day. She moved the sliding door aside and found three different boys, laying crossways on their air mattress and on their sheets. One of them had his shirt off, a goddamn needle and a rubber tie-off on his fucking arm. They looked tired, one boy in an office chair had a cigarette in his lips, nodding off as he stared right into TJ’s face.
“Where the fuck is Graham?” TJ asked.
No one answered. She wasn’t sure if they were knocked out or dead, snatching John Wesley’s blanket out from under one, sending him toppling to the floor. The space smelled of sweat and body funk, maybe someone pissing their damn pants. She could hear John Wesley in the living room hitting the Madden 19, the game just kicking off as she walked from room to room in the two-story house, opening and shutting doors, looking for Graham and Chastity. There were beer cans and bottles of booze everywhere. The kitchen island covered in all types of cocktails and cigarette butts, a mirror that had been pulled off the wall still coated with a fine white dust. She found a nude girl passed out in a shower and a boy sitting on the toilet. Fucking junkies.
She was about to grab John Wesley and head out, go anywhere but here, when Chastity and Graham bungled into the front door. Laughing, nearly falling over their feet. Graham looked even older than TJ first thought, in a long-sleeved button-down shirt and khaki pants. His face skinny as hell, stubbled and pockmarked. Sometime last night Chastity had mentioned he’d gone to Vanderbilt for a while, until he got kicked out.
“Well, hello there,” Chastity said. “Superstar.”
“This shit ain’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” Chastity said, squeezing her thumb and forefinger together, giggling like hell. “Don’t you think?”
“Where you been?” TJ asked. “Who the hell are them people?”
“Them people,” Chastity said. “Isn’t she hilarious? That little country accent.”
“Y’all had some kind of damn party,” TJ said. “Fucking junkies strung out all over the place. Some nekkid girl up in the shower with a boy passed out on the commode. Come on, Chastity. Hell. You’re better than this.”
“Did you see?” Chastity said, using Graham to keep her balance. “Did you see this shit? Fucking three hundred thousand likes?”
“Yeah,” TJ said. “And it don’t mean shit.”
“It means they’re listening.”
“Yeah,” Graham said. “They’re listening. That’s good. Right?”
“Shut up, Graham,” TJ said. “Either clear these junkies out or me and John Wesley are long gone. Y’all hearing me?”
“Fine,” Chastity said, pushing past TJ’s shoulder. “Just give me back my goddamn phone.”
“I don’t have your damn phone,” TJ said. “I got the one Ladarius gave me.”
“Bullshit.”
But some thought made Chastity freeze up, standing there cold in the living room, until she ran into Graham’s bedroom. TJ followed as she watched the girl tear into her purse and her bag, tossing her clothes and personal shit all over the floor. “Damn it,” she said. “Damn it. I must’ve dropped it.”
“Where?”
“You know damn well where,” Chastity said.
“What?” Graham said. “What? What’s the big deal? Girls. Girls. Chill the fuck out.”
“This crazy little bitch shot a trucker,” Chastity said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And now the police will blame me. What the hell have you done?”
* * *
* * *
Quinn waited for Holly Harkins in the meeting room at the sheriff’s office. She’d bonded out two days before, after he’d brought her back to Tibbehah County. Her parents cooperating fully, not pressing charges on the stolen van, but she’d still have to answer to the folks in Hot Springs about that big house they broke into. She walked into the room alone and Quinn asked her to take a seat.
“I appreciate you coming over,” Quinn said. “I told your folks I talked to the DA over in Hot Springs. I let him know it was your decision to cut loose from TJ and Ladarius. Also let him know you’d been a big help to me. Helped me get in touch with TJ.”
“Yes, sir,” Holly said.
Quinn joined her at the big oval table where he conducted most of his morning meetings with his deputies. No matter how many times they’d gotten the room straight, it always went back to cluttered storage. Boxes of reports and files stacked against the wall, folded parcels of new uniforms and orange jumpsuits for the prisoners. Quinn hated being in the middle of all that chaos but had cleared a nice spot for him and Holly.
“Did you talk to TJ?” Holly asked.
“I did,” Quinn said. “But I need you to do it again. She got into some bad trouble in Shreveport. A man got killed and things have gotten a whole lot worse.”
“More serious than killing her mother and kidnapping?” Holly said. “That was bullshit anyway. That’s why I left. Little Miss Chastity Bloodgood just couldn’t stand that she wasn’t the star of the show. What happened? Did Ladarius shoot someone?”
“Nope,” Quinn said. “Ladarius got picked up the day before in Texarkana. He was trying to steal a car and some dogs got to him.”
“Dogs?”
“Nearly bled out before they got him to the hospital,” Quinn said. “Now I’m worried about TJ. And I’m worried about John Wesley. TJ brought a lot of this on herself. But her little brother’s only nine years old.”
Holly nodded. She nibbled at her cuticles a bit, not meeting Quinn’s eye when he asked if she’d like a little coffee. Only muttering, “Yes, sir.”
Quinn stood up from the table and walked around to the community coffee pot that Cleotha had stoked a few hours back. Some good strong stuff made from beans they roasted up in Oxford. He poured out two cups and brought some creamer and sugar to the center of the table.
“Who was it got killed?” Holly asked.
“Some old trucker,” Quinn said. “There’s some video of TJ and Chastity coming and going from the restaurant at the gas station. It put them there right about the same time.”
“Why?”
“Local sheriff and the news call it a robbery gone bad.”
Holly chewed at her fingernails some more. She reached for the coffee and poured in three packs of sugar and some creamer. “And what do you call it?”
Quinn sat back down and took a sip of coffee. He thought about it a second and decided to level with the girl. “I don’t know,” he said. “I talked to the sheriff there. Doesn’t look good. Man was shot with a .38. Doesn’t TJ carry her daddy’s .38 on her?”
“Yes, sir,” Holly said. “I told you that. But TJ wouldn’t just walk up to some man and point a gun. That’s crazy. TJ is a lot of things, but I swear she’s not crazy, Sheriff. She’s scared. I’ve known her my whole life. Whatever happened, she’s got to be scared to death.”
“Will you try contacting her?” Quinn asked.
“My folks said to do anything you asked me,” she said. “Said that was the only way I might get my life on track. That and meeting up with Pastor Dale later tonight. He wants to have a sit-down with me in his office.”
“Sounds like a lot of fun.”
“My dad still won’t talk to me,” Holly said. “Phil Jr. already said I was fired at the Captain’s Table. But sent along his thoughts and prayers. How’s that for local support?”
“They’ll get over it,” Quinn said. “I understood y’all were scared. And TJ probably pushed you a bit. She
can be persuasive as hell.”
“Whatever happened with that trucker, I know it was that Chastity Bloodgood,” Holly said, placing her hands around the warm mug but not taking a sip. “That girl is fast as hell. I believe she must have a lightning bolt down between her legs. The kind of girl that finds trouble wherever she goes.”
“You think TJ follows her lead?”
Holly thought on it a second. “I sure hope not,” Holly said. “I just pray to God that TJ and John Wesley get free of that girl. I know one thing. They sure as hell can’t trust her.”
* * *
* * *
Chastity and Graham had taken her daddy’s guns to a pawn shop in Mid-City and sold them all for eight hundred bucks. They were worth a hell of a lot more, but eight hundred bucks’ cash was a lot for no questions asked. After a stop at Graham’s buddy’s apartment for a few purchases and for Graham to shoot up, they finally headed back to his house, taking a few bumps of coke off the dashboard of his Land Cruiser to get them up and running for the night. She was feeling pretty damn good, seeing and hearing damn near everything in the city, until TJ Byrd met them at the door, pissed as hell about Graham’s friends hanging out in his damn house.
She didn’t have time for this. After everything she’d done for this ungrateful little redneck. Her daddy always warned her to only hang out with people that made her a better person. He even gave her a daily devotional with shit like that listed each day. Your perspective in life will determine your destination. Life is not waiting for the storm to pass but about you dancing in the rain. The struggle you’re in today is developing the strength you need tomorrow. Daddy always had nuggets of that horseshit on him, passing them out like chocolate drops to her and her brother or his salesmen who couldn’t close the goddamn deal.
She lay across Graham’s bed, forearm across her eyes, Graham passed out next to her, the bed feeling like it was spinning ’round and ’round like a game of chance. Just when she felt like things might get better, that she might get to her feet and walk outside to see the floats, a new wave of nausea would hit and keep her in the bed. God this stuff was so fucking good, and so fucking awful at the same time. Funny how a person walks into rehab as an alcoholic and skips out as a goddamn junkie.