by Ace Atkins
“Plenty,” Quinn said. “Guess you don’t check out your workers. Or just happen to be a good Christian who puts his faith in the power of forgiveness.”
“They’re just a couple roofers,” Chester said. “I don’t ask my roofers about their goddamn life history.”
“Flem Nix did a ten-year stretch at Parchman for manslaughter,” Quinn said. “Killed a man with a screwdriver on a job site. Poked him full of more than a dozen holes, including both his eye sockets. His son seems cut from the same cloth. Aggravated assault. Meth running. He’s been a suspect in two killings over in Parsham County. He was once accused of dousing a man with kerosene and setting him on fire. They’d gotten into some kind of property dispute and the man tried to run him off his land. On the other, they couldn’t make a case because they never found the body.”
Chester nodded, dead-eyed and silent, while he ambled over to the kitchen counter, looking like he’d lost something, opening cabinets and rifling through drawers. “I need to call Sonny Stevens,” he said. “You can’t do this. You can’t try and cornhole me just as easy as you please.”
Quinn leaned against the kitchen doorframe. He picked up a half-burned cigar and started to light up. “You don’t mind?” he said. “Do you, Chester?”
“ ’Course not.”
“I think you set something in motion that you couldn’t control,” Quinn said. “Whatever happened is eating you alive. Sonny Stevens can complain all he wants. But that phone call you left me is enough to go to a grand jury.”
“I didn’t say nothing.”
“You said Gina’s kids were in trouble,” Quinn said. “And that it was all your fault.”
Quinn lied about the last part, but Chester Pratt didn’t look to be in any condition to contradict anyone about anything. He stopped shuffling around on his skinny white legs and just stared at Quinn from across the kitchen counter.
“What do you want?” he said. “What are you saying to me?”
“What worried you so much that you went on a morning bender and started drunk dialing the sheriff?” Quinn said. “What happened? Why are TJ and John Wesley gonna get hurt?”
Chester wobbled on his feet. He lifted the coffee to his lips and took a good long pull. Over the rim, his eyes closed for moment and then he straightened up a little. Swallowing hard and trying to find even footing on those chicken legs.
“Those men,” Chester said. “The Nixes. They’re headed down to New Orleans. They’re gonna get that rich girl back and might kill TJ Byrd along the way. Goddamn, that little bitch sure caused me some trouble. A whole lot of trouble. But I can’t have her on my damn ledger, too.”
“Did they kill Gina?”
“Oh, hell,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
“I talk too damn much.”
“Who sent those boys to pick up the Bloodgood girl?” Quinn said. “Did you set that up, too? Or are you working with someone else? Talk to me, Chester. It’ll make your future a lot brighter on down the road.”
Chester shook his head. He pointed to the door. “I shouldn’t’ve opened up my goddamn mouth. I need to get my head straight and then I’ll come in. I need to call up Sonny. Sonny will know what to do.”
“Chester,” Quinn said. “You can call Sonny on our way to town. Your sorry ass is under arrest. If I were you, I’d spill everything I knew about those kids. TJ Byrd and her little brother sure as hell better make it home alive.”
* * *
* * *
Lillie and Charlie Hodge were southbound and down on Interstate 49, headed to New Orleans and feeling good after they’d recovered the Bloodgood girl’s phone. The hell of it was knowing that poor girl at some point had entered the cab of the late Floyd Eugene Hicks. Damn, if a one-eyed trucker didn’t make you cautious, Lillie thought maybe a rig called the Purple People Eater just might. Of course, Miss Chastity Bloodgood didn’t seem the look-before-you-leap type.
The Feds had already been working on tracking Chastity’s phone after she disappeared from Hot Springs. But that shit took days to get sorted out. Depending on the service provider, it would take anywhere from three days to a week to ping the phone. Now they had the real thing in hand. It was locked by a passcode, of course, so Lillie figured it was another dead lead until one of the local cops tried Chastity’s DOB on the damn thing and it opened. What followed was a goddamn Russian novel of bullshit between that crazy girl and a fella named Graham who lived down in New Orleans.
The messages sweet and dirty. All about love and forever mixed in with some up close and personal titty pics. Seemed like the titty pics were what put this Graham guy over the damn edge, messaging two nights ago, i have to see you or i might die.
Lillie let Charlie Hodge drive the Charger that night, and he’d just gotten off at an exit in Natchitoches. They hadn’t eaten all damn day and the road had graced them with a decent-looking restaurant called Fontenot’s Cajun Café. Lillie had been dreaming of a shrimp po’ boy ever since they crossed the state line.
Her phone buzzed just as they were headed into the café. Seeing it was Quinn Colson, she took the call. She motioned for Charlie to go on in without her. Charlie saluted her and disappeared into the restaurant.
“This better be good,” Lillie said. “I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours or showered in forty-eight.”
“It’s good,” Quinn said. “I got an ID on the men I’m pretty sure killed Gina Byrd.”
“Hell,” Lillie said. “I just might jump for joy. But Charlie and I just stopped in to get a bite to eat. Can I call you back?”
“There’s more.”
“There’s always more,” Lillie said. “What you got, Ranger?”
“Where are you?”
“Natchitoches Parish,” Lillie said. “Headed down to the Big Easy for an all-expense vacation courtesy of the U.S. Marshals Service to pick up TJ Byrd and her little brother. Might just rescue that Chastity Bloodgood from getting it on with a dopey-sounding dude named Graham.”
“You got an address?”
“What do you think?”
“I’d like to meet you down there,” Quinn said. “The situation has gotten a little more complicated.”
“You having the urge for a shrimp po’ boy, too, or do you just miss me?”
“I don’t know how and I don’t know why,” Quinn said. “But the suspects in Gina Byrd’s killing might be down there, too. They took a job to get the Bloodgood girl back.”
“Wait,” Lillie said. “What the damn hell. For who?”
“For her daddy,” Quinn said. “Chester Pratt and me had a real heart-to-heart tonight. He thinks these two fellas might kill TJ and her little brother if they get in the way.”
“Can’t a woman get a goddamn break?”
“I’ll text you,” Quinn said. “The men’s names are Flem and Dusty Nix. You can find them easy in the system. Their records light up the NCIC like a fireworks display. Arson, manslaughter, aggravated assault. The younger one was a suspect in a big murder over in Calhoun County. But they never found the body.”
“Anything else?”
“They work as roofers and both of them are so short, they couldn’t make the ride cutoff at a carnival.”
“Couple of midget killer roofers,” Lillie said. “Well fuck me, Quinn Colson. This just brightens my damn day.”
“Meet you down there.”
“Sure,” Lillie said. “And bring some goddamn coffee.”
“Just like the old days?”
“Really?” Lillie said. “I sure as shit hope not.”
TWENTY-FIVE
TJ wished she’d kept that nice Kia that Ladarius had stolen in Hot Springs instead of stripping the tags and abandoning it two miles from that loser Graham’s house. When she and John Wesley had walked back to find it, the car had been towed or stolen again, leavin
g them with no money and stranded with those junkies, Chastity dragging her ass on getting them down to Grand Isle. At one time, Grand Isle was all Chastity could talk about, but now she wouldn’t even speak to TJ, heading out to some bars with Graham and his lowlife druggie friends. All their eyes half-closed, stumbling, smelling like they never met a bar of soap or owned a razor.
She was worried they were all onto her now. One of the junkie buddies asked if she was really “that TJ Byrd” and wanted to know if she really killed that trucker and her own mother. TJ told him to go fuck himself, but could tell the reward money was heavy on his mind.
“What do you think?” TJ asked John Wesley.
“Why you asking me now?” he said. “Hell, TJ. I don’t think we should’ve ever left home.”
“Come on,” TJ said, walking back along St. Charles Avenue. Purple and gold beads littered the big oak branches overhead and hung off the electric lines. The parades had already passed through, folks wandering the streets free and loose or hanging out in the front yards of mansions and apartments. She’d given John Wesley her only coat, the sleeves about six inches too long for him, while she shivered in a thin flannel shirt.
“I wish Momma wasn’t gone,” John Wesley said.
“Me, too,” TJ said.
“Why’d folks blame you for what happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess ’cause it was easier that way.”
“Was it really that Chester Pratt?”
“Afraid so.”
“I’d like to kick that bastard right in the nuts.”
“Me, too,” TJ said, grabbing his hand. They moved as a team in and out of the crowds, TJ keeping her head down, trying to come up with a new plan, a better plan, to get them out of the city and away from these broken people and all Chastity’s damn bullshit.
They were close to the big park now, the neutral ground separating them from heading on across the wide avenue and back to the house. They waited for a streetcar to pass, electric lines sparking overhead. Folks crossed back and forth over the tracks, carrying coolers and folding chairs.
While they stood there, TJ decided to wander behind a wrought-iron fence and into a big lawn party with lots of folks eating and listening to music, crawfish shells crunching beneath their feet. John Wesley followed her over to a big linen-topped table where she grabbed a china plate and helped herself to some little cut-up sandwiches and some sticky jambalaya like her aunt used to make.
John Wesley caught on to the idea real fast and stacked his plate with nearly a dozen little sandwiches. They found a nearby cooler loaded down with soft drinks and she found a couple bottles of root beer for her and John Wesley. It was a break. A little time out from the craziness. TJ felt she could breathe a little easier, getting something to eat, trying to get her mind right before she’d have to face Chastity. That girl either needed to help them get gone or get them a goddamn car. She’d derailed everything since they met up in Hot Springs. Nothing but empty-ass promises. Now they were in some strange house with folks coming and going at all hours. Too many of them taking long looks at her and staring back at their phones.
Maybe she was getting paranoid now, but TJ started to notice a group of teenage girls, her age or maybe a little older, staring at her and John Wesley. She was sure she’d been busted and told John Wesley to fill up his damn pockets, as it was time to leave. He nodded, mouth full, and she grabbed his hand, the kid dropping his china plate to the ground, but moving fast to the gate. Eyes were everywhere.
One of the teenage girls walked over to her. TJ ducked down her head and pretended not to see her. “You’re her,” she said. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m nobody,” TJ said. “Sorry. We’re at the wrong house.”
“We won’t tell anyone,” she said. “I promise. I hope they get whoever killed your mother. I know it had to be that Chester Pratt. Especially after he stole all your money. Sounds like he was covering his own butt.”
TJ stopped cold. John Wesley looked up at her, not sure what to do. Somewhere far off she heard the sound of a jazz band starting up and people beginning to clap along with the music. A real wild party. Good times. She could see the park on the other side of Saint Charles. They could just ignore the girls and make a run for it.
“I want to help,” the girl said.
“Why would you help us?”
“Because what you did is right,” she said. “Stood up. Fair is fair and all that. Love the hair, by the way.”
TJ watched John Wesley dig into his blue jeans for a tiny sandwich. She shivered some more as she hugged her arms around herself. She looked at the girl and girl grinned back at her, so much time, space, and money separating them. But the girl looked at TJ as if she was looking at something made of gold or altogether new.
“We need money,” TJ said, just kind of blurting it out. “And a phone. Especially a phone. I’ll pay you back. I swear on it.”
The girl said her name was Anna and that this was her family’s house. She was tall, with glossy, dark brown hair and perfect teeth and skin, pretty in her big puffy coat with a fur-lined hood. TJ watched as the girl wandered back to her friends, four other girls, and they all reached into their purses and pockets like they were at some kind of church revival. Raise your hands. Praise the Lord. They did it secret and slow, eyes darting around the party to see if anyone noticed. Anna came back and pressed a wad of cash into TJ’s hand. “There you go. You’re one of us.”
“What about a phone?” TJ asked.
“You can have mine,” she said. “But can we take a selfie first?”
“You can’t post it.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ll mail it to myself. You know. For when it’s all over.”
TJ felt her face heat up, reaching for John Wesley’s hand, and looking back at the girl. “You mean when I’m dead?” she asked. “Shit. This ain’t no goddamn reality show, Anna. I swear to you this shit is real.”
“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
TJ nodded slow as the girl stepped up, reaching her arm around TJ’s waist, pulling her close and stretching out her camera from both of them. TJ didn’t smile but looked dead center of the camera lens on the phone.
“That sure is a cute coat,” TJ said. “Looks warm.”
TJ slid into it as she and John Wesley headed across St. Charles. Pride was long, long gone.
* * *
* * *
Dusty and Daddy parked on Calhoun, right down the street from the address Mr. Stagg had given them. There wasn’t a damn thing to it, punching up the number on that telephone and riding this way and that on those crazy one-way streets till they found the old house. A basic two-story with busted, worn-out shingles saddled up against a big green park with water, and twisty old trees that grew more sideways than straight up and down like back home. Daddy took a piss in the park while Dusty kept an eye on that house. It was coming up on midnight, but all the lights were on, Dusty not seeing much but some shirtless guy with tattoos coming to the window to smoke a cigarette.
Dusty figured they’d wait till they saw either TJ Byrd or Chastity. He’d gotten a good look at both online and he had to say that TJ Byrd sure did favor her mother. Dusty remembered a lot about that woman’s features as he held her by the neck and Daddy done bled her out. Lord, how that woman could scream.
He enjoyed doing this kind of work. Was a heck of a lot easier than putting shingles on a two-story house in the middle of winter. Or slathering tar up on top of a barn in July. This was about the same as sitting in a tree stand waiting for a big fat doe to pussyfoot right into a baited field. The only hard part was getting the girl away from the boys inside and making sure she didn’t scream her damn head off. He recalled him and Daddy snatching some woman up in Memphis after she posted pics of her ex-husband’s little ding-dong online. They’d done wrapped her head in duct
tape but could still hear her yelling. Barely got her in the truck before some old fella wandered out in his busted bathrobe, pointing a gun and telling them to stop. They had to kill that old fucker, too. Weighted both of them down good and dropped them off an overpass into the Wolf River.
Well, shit. Live and fucking learn.
Daddy crawled back in the truck and slammed the door shut. “Them girls ain’t in there,” he said. “Only three fellas getting high and listening to the devil’s music.”
“We can wait.”
Daddy nodded. He lit up a long-ass cigarette and settled back into the shadow, a brown Carhartt hoodie up over his baseball cap. The old man breathing loud, smacking at his teeth while he settled in.
They sat there a good hour before the first cop car rolled by, goddamn NOPD checking out that house they were watching and then finally moving on. It wasn’t five minutes later that another passed, or maybe the same one, and stopped for a moment on the street, seeming to take note of the goings-on around the block. Everything still and so quiet that Dusty could hear the buzzing of the streetlamps in the cold.
“I don’t like this shit,” Dusty said. “Not one damn bit. What are they looking at?”
Daddy leaned up and squashed his cigarette in the ashtray. He grunted.
Dusty cranked the ignition, turned on the headlights, and headed back down the road. Slow and easy. “Maybe we should call Mr. Stagg,” he said.
“Naw,” Daddy said. “What I’d tell you? When an animal gets wind of you, it’s best to leave a bit. We’ll come back later when the gettin’s good.”
* * *
* * *
“Listen to me, TJ,” Holly Harkins said. “You got to get the hell out of there now.”
“What I need is a car,” TJ said. “We lost the one Ladarius stole and I don’t know a damn thing about stealing cars. Maybe an old one. Try that trick with a screwdriver.”
TJ was walking while she talked to Holly on Anna’s phone, cutting right through Audubon Park with John Wesley ahead of her, trailing through the crooked paths as if he didn’t have a care in the world.