The Shameless

by Ace Atkins

  Tashi hadn’t written a word, watching the old man talk and smoke, holding court on his tattered easy chair. She couldn’t see anything in him but hate and determination, the cigarette burning down to a nub in his fingers.

  “Oh, hell,” he said. “I said too much. Where’s my fucking manners?”

  “Go on.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “I ain’t saying another goddamn word. Unless ole blue dog over there wants to suck some of the hard candy I got in my pocket.”

  Jessica looked at the old man and extended her middle finger as she walked from the room. The old door hanging off its hinges when it flew open. Two dogs wandered into the house.

  “We’re done,” Tashi said.

  “Sure do appreciate the whiskey,” he said, licking his lips again. “Y’all come on back anytime. You hear?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Quinn and Reggie dug around the hole for about twenty minutes until they first spotted the edge of the blue tarp. Reggie flicked at the edge of the tattered material with the blade and said, “Oh, hell.”

  Quinn kept digging more around the hole until he found a portion of the tarp that was frayed and worn. He got to his haunches and started working with his hand, reaching into what felt like a pocket of nothing until he found the first thick bone.

  “What is it?” Reggie said, looking like he wanted to get the hell out of that hole. A short ladder leaned against the freshly dug earth. “You found something, Sheriff? Didn’t you? Oh, goddamn.”

  “Reggie, call up Ophelia Bundren at the funeral home,” he said. “Tell her to get down here right this second. Pick her up, if you have to. Let’s go ahead and tape this hole off. Tell Chucky we’re good.”

  “We got a body?”

  “We got something,” Quinn said, standing up and wiping his hands across the thighs of his jeans. “I don’t want us messing around here anymore until we get some pictures and work on the removal.”

  Reggie moved over to the ladder, putting one hand on a rung and turning back. “You and Ophelia Bundren straight now?” he asked. “I heard the woman threw a steak knife at you a couple years ago when y’all were dating.”

  “We’re straight,” Quinn said. “She sent me and Maggie a set of steak knives for our wedding.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you’re straight.”

  “Tell her we might have a crime scene here,” he said. “Like it or not, she’s the county coroner and we’ll need her to exhume whatever we got.”

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Reggie said. “What’d you touch?”

  “Bones.”

  Reggie put a hand to his mouth, his eyes watering.

  “Be sick up top,” Quinn said. “We got some work to do down here and not a lot of daylight left.”

  THIRTEEN

  It had been a week since they found the body on the Penningtons’ land. Caddy sat up in the football bleachers with her momma and Maggie, talking about damn well anything but the Brandon Taylor case. This was the first game, a bright and clear Saturday morning, and Jean had brought donuts and coffee. Jason’s team was down by a touchdown just into the second quarter and Caddy was a little annoyed they’d moved her son from quarterback to halfback, not giving him the ball but twice.

  “They better check the birth certificates on those Booneville boys,” Jean Colson said. “I passed one before the game and he stood nearly tall as me. Had a little mustache and a neck as thick as a bull’s.”

  “Some kids grow up quicker than others,” Caddy said. “Maybe they feed them more over in Booneville.”

  “Must be all the beef and sweet potatoes,” her momma said. “Getting all those hormones they shoot into the cattle. This boy didn’t have some milk mustache. It was damn-near as thick as Sam Elliott’s.”

  Maggie laughed. Caddy shook her head, knowing her mom was prone to exaggeration. It was damn hot that morning, the three of them finding some shade under the canopy of a pop-up tent another family had brought. Jean shared her donuts and coffee, but Caddy was too nervous to take a bite, watching Jason, waiting for those six-foot kids to knock him in the head.

  “Sorry Quinn had to work,” Jean said.

  “He’s gonna try and get here by halftime,” Maggie said. “It’s been a week.”

  Caddy didn’t say a word, knowing a great deal about those bones they’d found. It hadn’t made the papers yet, but Quinn said Ophelia Bundren could tell the remains were those of a young woman. They’d worked for forty hours straight tagging evidence down by the creek, not finding much but bones, a blue tarp, and tattered bits of old clothing. One high-heeled shoe and an empty snakeskin purse. Everyone in town was talking about it.

  “I’ll be surprised if Brandon even gets in the game,” Maggie said. She was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a Bo-Keys T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Her pale skin almost pink from the bright sun, her reddish hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was a thin girl, a little too skinny, and Caddy wished like hell she’d try just one donut. One donut wouldn’t ruin whatever health kick she’d been on, wanting to eat nothing but vegetables and no animal products at all. No damn eggs. No damn butter. How could a person live like that?

  “It’ll come,” Caddy said, watching the boys trot off the field. The defense taking over, Jason sometimes filling in as outside linebacker. “This is Jason’s third year on the team. They can watch football all they want. But until they do it, it’s tough to understand.”

  “I just don’t want his brains scrambled.”

  “They’re just kids,” Caddy said. “Not the pros.”

  “Even soccer players can get hurt.”

  “The worst Jason’s been hurt is a pulled muscle,” Caddy said, clapping as Jason went back onto the field, lining up against the tight end, the Booneville quarterback stepping back in shotgun formation. “It’s fine.”

  “Has Quinn told you about the woman they found?” Maggie asked.

  Caddy eyed her mother and gave her a knowing look before turning back to the field. The Booneville quarterback got the ball and ran the opposite direction of Jason, looking downfield for his receiver. Jason rushed toward the quarterback’s turned back. That kid was so fast it looked as if he was flying.

  “We don’t talk about work,” Jean said. “Quinn doesn’t like to talk about work.”

  “But that girl—”

  “Come on,” Caddy said, getting to her feet, yelling, “Go, Jason.”

  “That’s Quinn’s business,” Jean said.

  Jason reached out his hand just as the quarterback let the ball go, grabbing the boy’s jersey and pulling him down. The ball sailed twenty yards down the field and out of bounds, Jason and the quarterback falling into a heap.

  “Can I ask y’all something?” Maggie said, pretending to watch the game. Her son milled about on the sidelines while Jason gathered with the defense, ten minutes left until the half. Those goddamn boys from Booneville huddling up like they were playing for Ole Miss.

  “Can you hold on?” Caddy said, yelling, “Come on, now. Come on!”

  Third down and long. That Booneville quarterback taller than Jason, those boys on the line rough-and-tumble country boys, ready to knock Jason and the rest of the Tibbehah Junior Wildcats up into the stands. The ball was hiked and the quarterback dropped straight back, Jason rushing hard and fast toward him.

  “I just want to know one thing,” Maggie said.

  “Shh,” Caddy said.

  The boy pumped the ball and saw his man downfield. Just as he was about to throw, Jason jumped on his back and knocked him down fast and hard into the grass. The football flew free, two of the Wildcats chasing the spinning ball. A whole mess of boys falling on it, Caddy on her feet trying to see what the hell happened. She was yelling with excitement.

  “Did Quinn ever hunt on the Hawkins land?” Maggie asked. “When we were kids?
”

  Caddy didn’t answer, watching the referees pulling the boys from the pile, looking down into the mess of arms and legs, trying to find the ball. She stood with her hand on her mouth.

  “Did he?” Maggie asked.

  The referee jumped up and pointed in the opposite direction. The Junior Wildcats had recovered. Jason pumped his fist and ran toward the sideline with the other boys, his coach reaching out and hugging him. The team exploding into celebration.

  “Why don’t you ask Quinn?” Jean said. Always trying to be the damn peacemaker among them.

  “I did,” Maggie said.

  “And?” Caddy asked, taking a seat, looking back at the clock, as Jason grabbed some water on the sidelines, ready to head back into the game.

  “He said he didn’t remember,” Maggie said. “He said he hunted all over the county.”

  “That’s about right,” Jean said. “Fishing, hunting, his ass always on a four-wheeler, chasing rabbits and squirrels with Boom. He wasn’t happy unless he was sleeping under the stars, living like it was a hundred years ago.”

  “And deer, too?” Maggie said.

  “When the season was on.”

  “Maybe on the Hawkins land?”

  Caddy took a deep breath, feeling the blood rush to her face. She tried to recall a Bible verse that would slow down where she was headed. The most accessible being, Fools give full vent to their rage, but the wise bring calm in the end. Proverbs.

  “Let’s just watch the game,” Jean said. “Y’all two just sit.”

  As much as Caddy learned about herself, praying and teaching, helping others, she couldn’t hold some things back. She swallowed, trying to keep it down, trying to keep her eyes on a child she loved so much, but then saw Maggie turning with her mirrored sunglasses and waiting for an answer.

  Caddy gritted her teeth. Damn this woman for asking such a question. “Quinn isn’t Rick Wilcox.”

  Maggie didn’t respond, Caddy not really being able to see her face behind the sunglasses, and turned back to watch the game. As soon as she’d said it, she was sorry for bringing up Maggie’s sorry, two-bit ex-husband, playing basketball and writing cheesy country songs from his cell at Parchman. Maggie was damn lucky to have Quinn and should know it.

  “OK,” Maggie said, standing. “I understand.”

  Maggie walked from the long row of seats and headed down the bleachers. Jean Colson sat still beside Caddy, her mother in her gold T-shirt reading MY GRANDSONS ARE NUMBER 12 AND 33. JUNIOR WILDCAT PRIDE. Her mother stole a quick glance and then shook her head a bit, a typical look of Jean Colson disapproval. “Was that really necessary?”

  “Yes,” Caddy said. “Damn straight.”

  “That woman has been through a lot.”

  Caddy nodded. “Haven’t we all?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Fannie Hathcock had asked for Quinn personal.

  “Can’t you send Dave?” Quinn said, on his cell to Cleotha at dispatch. “Dave’s real fond of Fannie. Said she reminded him of a young Maureen O’Hara. Thinks she’s charming as hell. Besides, what kind of trouble can they be having on a Saturday morning? While they’re closed?”

  “She said this was personal shit,” Cleotha said. “I told her I’d tell you what she said. But I didn’t make no promises, neither.”

  “Did she say what kind of personal shit?”

  “No, Sheriff,” Cleotha said. “Figure why it was personal. You want me to call her back?”

  “Nope,” Quinn said. “I’ll stop by.”

  Quinn U-turned on Main Street, just north of the Square, and headed back toward Jericho Road and Highway 45. As he stopped on the Square, he texted Maggie he’d be running late. He was supposed to be at the stadium a half hour ago but had to work a wreck out on 281. An overturned 18-wheeler heavy-weighted with concrete culverts had flipped on its side. Maggie might be mad, but she’d understand, always knowing being the county sheriff wasn’t like being an insurance salesman. Just like he knew working at a hospital wasn’t like selling Mary Kay.

  He pulled into Vienna’s Place five minutes later and parked his truck in the nearly empty lot. The morning light was harsh against the tin walls painted a bright pink. The sign outside said WE FIRED THE UGLY ONE, COME ON IN. The front door was closed and sealed off with an iron grate. The parking lot bare except for Fannie’s white Lexus, a beat-up white Kia, and a red Ford Ranger parked between the strip club and the truck stop. Quinn thought he saw a man inside, but the light reflecting hard off the truck’s windshield obscured his view.

  Quinn was about to dial Fannie’s direct line when the door opened and then the iron grate. An Asian woman with bright pink hair and dressed in a black nightie motioned to Quinn with her finger. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a Japanese anime movie. He followed the pink-haired girl into the big open building, and she trailed off toward a back door. Quinn spotted Fannie Hathcock, smoking a cigarillo, in a little grouping of easy chairs in front of a skinny young girl with black hair and her face in her hands. A halo of smoke, greenish red in the neon, hovered above the two.

  Quinn nodded to Fannie.

  “Hope this wasn’t your day off,” she said.

  Quinn shook his head.

  “Good,” Fannie said. “Come on over here and sit down, Sheriff. This is my employee, Miss Dixie Nightingale.”

  “Come on, now,” Quinn said, standing above them both. “You think I’m going to put that name in a report?”

  “I don’t care what you put in your report,” Fannie said. “She didn’t do a damn thing wrong. This girl’s afraid to leave the premises on account of her mean motherfucker boyfriend waiting outside to snatch up her nightly earnings. Isn’t that right, Dixie?”

  The girl lifted her face from her hands, her fingernails painted a bright purple. She didn’t look a day over eighteen, probably right out of high school. Stripping being one of the few jobs where lack of experience was a plus.

  “Thought you usually adjusted men’s attitudes with your claw hammer,” Quinn said.

  “Not worth shit against a .44,” Fannie said. “Dixie said her boyfriend threatened to shoot her, me, and anyone else damn well in the way of him getting his cut.”

  Quinn nodded down at the girl. She was tall and thin, with spindly white legs poking out of her frayed jeans shorts. A red shirt was tied up above her stomach, showing off the black ink of a tattooed revolver, the barrel aimed down into her panties.

  “You from here?”

  The girl shook her head. “Grenada.”

  “Who’s your boyfriend?”

  “Bradley Wayne Guthrie.”

  “And what’s your name?”

  “They call me Miss Dixie Nightingale.”

  “What’s your momma call you?”

  “My name’s Dana Ray.”

  “OK, Dana Ray,” Quinn said. “Does your boyfriend drive the little red Ford Ranger parked outside?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And he owns a .44 pistol.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how long has he been sitting there?”

  “All fucking morning,” Fannie said, blowing a stream of smoke from her mouth. “For the last hour. I tossed his ass out after midnight. He was yelling and screaming and calling me an evil cunt. I mean, really, Quinn. Do you think I like hearing that shit?”

  “Should have called us then.”

  “He left,” Fannie said. “Little son of a bitch peeling out onto the highway, flipping me the bird from his open window. But when Dixie tried to leave this morning, there he was, standing outside his little red truck, screaming he deserved some kind of goddamn apology.”

  Quinn looked at the girl, the hair too black to be real against her china white skin. Her false eyelashes highlighted bloodshot eyes. “You want to file charges?”

  “I
don’t want him to stomp my ass.”

  “You have somewhere to go?”

  Dana Ray nodded.

  “And a way to get there?”

  “I’m parked right out by Miss Fannie,” she said. “I just don’t want no trouble and I want Bradley Wayne to leave me the hell alone. He may have paid for my tits, but I paid his sorry ass back a long time ago. I don’t owe that man nothing.”

  “OK, then,” Quinn said. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “What’d I tell you,” Fannie said.

  “You said the sheriff was a real gentleman,” Dana Ray—Miss Dixie Nightingale—said. “You said he didn’t care who you were or what you did, he’d make sure to look out for what’s right.”

  Fannie looked up at Quinn and gave him a big ole Hollywood smile. Quinn kept his hands on his hips and motioned to the door with his chin. “Ready?”

  The girl said she had to get her bag and ran back toward the dressing room. Quinn turned his eyes back to Fannie, who was waving away the smoke with the back of her hand, a self-satisfied expression on her face.

  “You could’ve gotten one of your bouncers to toss his ass.”

  “And get shot?”

  “Midnight Man?” Quinn said. “Nobody messes with him.”

  “He had the day off.”

  “Come on, now.”

  “Are you saying I called you for another purpose?”

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said. “You have something you want to tell me about Wes Taggart and Big Daddy White down on the Coast?”

  Fannie stared through all the smoke and neon and winked. “Always good to see you, Quinn. A goddamn true-ass Southern gentleman.”

  Dana Ray appeared back in the strip club with a duffel bag over her shoulder. He walked with her toward the front door, held open wide by the Asian woman with the pink hair. “Come again,” the woman said, her voice straight out of the piney woods.