The Shameless

by Ace Atkins

  “Yeah,” Royce said. “You might just lose your job handing out the collection plate for Pastor Traylor at First Baptist. Now, that’d be a damn shame. Some of the old women might stop wearing their good panties to Sunday service.”

  “I have business to tend to,” Skinner said, wiping the rainwater off his hands on his trousers. “Just tell me what you want.”

  Royce just grinned, his gold glasses fogged up and dotted with moisture. His bald head bare and slick, age spots dotted along his scalp. His loose skin hung off his skeletal face as if it was made of melting wax. He licked his lips, his breath smelling like charred ash, and kept on smiling.

  “How much?” Skinner asked.

  Royce named a figure.

  “Mr. Royce, I think you’re out of your cotton-pickin’ mind.”

  Royce started to laugh. “Maybe,” he said. “But if you don’t like this here deal, I’d be glad to explain to some folks how the goddamn Watchmen wanted me to railroad Sheriff Colson. I imagine a lot of folks would pay a quarter to read all about it.”

  “I don’t really know how much your word is really worth,” Skinner said. “Against mine.”

  “Sure would be embarrassing for the senator at this time,” Royce said, rubbing a hand over his mouth as if to hide his big grin. “The Watchmen skulking about Tibbehah County like some boogerwoods G.I. Joes. Maybe when you take that man’s peter out of your mouth, you might give me a straight answer.”

  Skinner felt the heat grow from his face and swell into his chest. He ground his back teeth against each other, the sounds of the earthmovers silent and still, almost muffled, as the rain started to fall hard again. Water rolled from his hat brim and collected in a muddy puddle at his feet.

  “You know where to find me,” Royce said, winking. “Don’t make me have to ask twice.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Fannie watched Ray stand at the hotel window and light up a cigarette, blowing smoke as cool and clean as Melvyn Douglas used to do in those old black-and-white movies. He had his suit jacket off, neatly folded over a chair in the sitting area, dressed down to his baby blue silk shirt, boxers, and navy blue dress socks. He’d greeted her at the door like that, Ray already warning her that he sure needed her in a bad way. But Fannie had told him on the phone to hold his damn horses a bit, she needed to tell him a hell of a story. One of her sweet young things had tried to shoot her boyfriend right in the pecker.

  “How’s she doing?” Ray said, ashing his cigarette by the drinks cart.

  “I sent a lawyer for her,” Fannie said. “And spoke to the sheriff. But I was damn glad not to be there when the shit went down. If I’d seen that son of a bitch try and grab one of my girls, I’d have shot him myself. And you know me, Ray. I sure as shit don’t miss.”

  “You want a drink?”

  “Of course.”

  “Something to eat?”

  Fannie shook her head, walking over to him and running her hand inside his silk shirt and feeling his hairy chest, a gold Saint Christopher medal around his neck.

  “Maybe later,” she said. “God, it’s horrible out there. Rained the whole way from Tibbehah County. Nothing but Louisiana pissing all over us.”

  Fannie turned to the drinks cart and poured herself a tall scotch. Normally she wasn’t a scotch gal, but, goddamn, Ray always had the best fucking whiskey. Smooth as silk, hot, sliding down the back of her throat. It was hard not to enjoy it. She sat down in a cushy chair and took a sip as she crossed her long legs, Ray watching her as she moved. Rain hitting the window glass, quiet and cool in the room.

  He’d already spread back the sheets on the king-sized bed. She smiled up at Ray, but there was a coolness in his face, looking a bit ashen and worried.

  “Go on,” Fannie said. “Say it.”

  “Buster wants you gone,” Ray said. “He’s made some kind of fucking cockamamie agreement with the local yokels. He’ll find a place for you. But he’s taking away north Mississippi. He said he’d find work for you elsewhere.”

  “Let me guess,” Fannie said. “A casino greeter down in Biloxi? Someone to tug the peckers of old men on golf weekends? Laugh at their bad jokes, pat their bald heads, and make them feel twenty years younger?”

  “Yeah,” Ray said, blowing out some smoke. “Something like that. I won’t dip dog shit in powdered sugar. But I told him hell no. I told him if he wants to get you gone, I’m out, too. He made a goddamn deal with you to run things. I’m too fucking old and tired for his crap, going back on his word. Buster understands what I bring to his goddamn buffet. I can take my people and my business elsewhere. I’ll head back to New Orleans. Those folks love me down there. It won’t change a damn thing for me.”

  “Appreciate it, Ray,” Fannie said. “You are a real gent. But I don’t like it. I don’t like having a chaperone.”

  Ray’s face softened. He walked to the drinks cart and uncorked the scotch, studying the label and nodding his approval. He looked handsome yet funny in the long silk shirt and the boxers, navy blue socks hiked up to his skinny knees. “I’m glad to do this for you,” he said. “I’m glad to be of some use.”

  “That’s not what this has ever been about.”

  Ray nodded. “I know.”

  “I took off my panties when I got to Batesville,” Fannie said, taking a little sip. “I couldn’t wait.”

  “You’re bluffing.” Ray laughed a little. “I see it on your face. I’ve always been able to tell when you’re lying to me.”

  Fannie raised her eyebrows and undid the ties on her wrap dress, a classic Diane von Furstenberg in a bluish cheetah print. She kicked off her black suede heels and opened up her dress. She had on a black lace bra with a front latch and absolutely nothing else down below. She widened her knees and leaned back into the plushy chair, a grin on her lips. “Take off those goddamn silly socks.”

  Ray took off his socks so fast Fannie thought he was going to trip right on his face. Within a few seconds, he was down to nothing but his silk boxers, pulling her up to her feet and peeling the dress off her shoulders. She could feel his lips and mustache against her neck as he told her how damn beautiful she was, reaching down and rubbing her between her legs. She led him back through French doors and onto the bed, where he scrambled out of his boxers and lay on top of her, saying the damn nicest things to her. There was no preamble or foreplay, just getting on down to business. He smelled like good cigarettes and cheap aftershave.

  “Can we at least play some music?”

  “There will be music later.”

  “Oh, my hair.”

  “I’ll get you a place at the salon.”

  “Ray.”

  Ray’s eyes were closed as he worked in a steady rhythm over her, Fannie reaching around his waist with her legs and hooking her feet at the ankles, locking him in place. Feeling all his energy and heat. She’d never felt him being so damn forceful with her, riding her like Bill Shoemaker on Silky Sullivan, heading on toward the finish line. “Ray,” she said. “Slow down, Ray. We have all night.”

  His back felt hot. Ray had never been a man who had trouble rising to the occasion, but it seemed like he was having a hard time getting there. His Saint Christopher medal swung over her like a pendulum. Fannie felt for him and pushed him onto his back, his head on the pillow, telling him just to be cool and relax, don’t push anything, she’d do all the work. And Fannie screwed Ray so hard, she about drove him down into the thick mattress. Now it was Fannie’s time, feeling she was nearly there, about to break apart, riding him slow but hard as hell, screwing him down into the bed like a pile driver. His eyes had grown wide and his breath shortened as she was nearly there. His face drained of color and he looked as if he might be in some kind of pain, like he would break apart. A roiling deep down in his throat.

  “OK, Ray,” Fannie said. “OK.”

  He made a chirp, someth
ing like eek, his eyes fluttering and skin going pale, his entire body going slack. Fannie was out of breath, her business unfinished, as Ray lay still and silent beneath her. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, noticing his eyes were still wide open, the same grand bemused grin on his face. “Ray?”

  She grabbed his chin and shook it from side to side. “Ray. Fuck, Ray. Listen to me.”

  Fannie felt a coldness spread down her neck and shoulders as she pulled away and off him, falling and tripping onto the floor into a tangle of sheets, leaving Ray lifeless and still on the grand bed.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

  Fannie reached for the phone and dialed the front desk, already moving over to the floor where she’d dropped her wrap dress and purse. Ray’s cell phone on the nightstand kept buzzing and buzzing as she slid back into the dress and reached for her soft suede shoes, heading toward the door.

  She’d never felt more alone in her whole damn life.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Goddamn, Quinn,” Lillie said, eyeing the target at the far end of the range. “You arrest any more strippers and you’ll have to get a brass pole for the exercise yard.”

  “I didn’t charge the stripper,” Quinn said. “Only her boyfriend, for aggravated assault. I’m keeping her for a few hours until she calms down. Nobody will look at what happened as anything other than self-defense.”

  Lillie had come down from Memphis an hour ago and wanted to shake Quinn loose from the sheriff’s office and do a little target practice. The rain had all but stopped, slowing into a gentle patter out at the range and shoot house, near the abandoned town of Burnt Oak. “How’s the dickhead boyfriend?”

  “He’ll live,” Quinn said, loading twelve rounds into his lever-action Winchester, a classic cowboy gun that held .45 ammo. He picked up his cigar to watch Lillie take her next shot with her trusty .308.

  “Damn shame,” Lillie said, squeezing off her shot, knocking down a small metal plate, the sound like a little bell ringing.

  Quinn had secured the property not long after becoming sheriff, giving the department five acres to work on their marksmanship and tactical skills. A few years ago, he’d even had a small shoot house built to work out different scenarios for going to work in close quarters. The hills looked lush and green after the rains, a narrow shot of about two hundred and fifty yards cleared up into the woods.

  “We’ve got this indoor range up in Memphis,” Lillie said. “But there’s nothing like being outside and firing your weapon. How about I take out those two turkeys and that metal chicken on the right side?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Lillie pinged the chicken, knocking down the targets and jacking a new round into her rifle time after time. Quinn had met few who could shoot like Lillie Virgil. Her whole being seemed to take on a stillness and calm when she went to work. There was no one better on overwatch when you headed in to deal with bad guys.

  “Been thinking on your situation,” Lillie said, now aiming at an old skillet dangling from a tree. “How about you let me reason with E. J. Royce? The son of a bitch nearly pisses his pants when he sees me coming.”

  “Not worth your time,” Quinn said.

  Lillie squeezed off a third shot, the skillet twirling, the sound of the quick ping filling the air. Quinn lifted the cigar again and watched Lillie standing there, arms outstretched, her muscles tight and flexed as she held the gun and sought her next mark. He blew out the smoke, Lillie scanning over the many targets on the grassy knoll, the smell of woodsmoke coming from far off in the hills.

  “I don’t like how things went down with our ole buddy Wes,” Lillie said. She aimed for a tricky one on the far edge of the hill, the whole two-fifty away from where they stood. “Not one goddamn bit.”

  She fired the last round toward a tall target, dropping it as fast and hard as a bad man sneaking through the woods. Lillie slowly lowered the gun and set it onto a carrying case on a wooden table. Quinn set his cigar on the rim of an old coffee can. Someone earlier had been spitting sunflower seed shells into it, the insides half filled with rainwater and shells.

  “Be nice if we could find the guys,” Quinn said.

  “How’d it go at the Rez?” Lillie asked.

  “’Bout like you would expect,” Quinn said. “No one seemed to know our guys. And they just laughed at the composites I brought. Can’t really blame them. Nobody got a good look at them. And the cameras weren’t any help with everything busted up.”

  “Maybe y’all should think about updating the jail from 1873,” Lillie said. “Wasn’t that when it was built?”

  “Nineteen twenty-three,” Quinn said. “But we could do better with the tech. If the supervisors could find a way it would benefit them to have a new camera system with an online feed, then it would get done.”

  Quinn cocked his Winchester and lifted it to his shoulder, aiming for another metal turkey.

  “I miss working with you, Quinn,” Lillie said. “But I ain’t gonna lie. I don’t miss this county and the bullshit one damn bit.”

  Quinn closed his left eye and looked down the scope with his right. He fired and knocked the turkey down on the hill. He levered the gun again.

  “Driving down,” Lillie said, “I had a few ideas.”

  “You want to head back to the Rez with me?” Quinn said, taking aim again, this time back on the skillet. “Maybe introduce them to some of that Lillie Virgil charm?”

  He fired and another high-pitched ping filled the woods of Burnt Oak, Mississippi. The skillet twirling like a top.

  “Nope,” Lillie said. “I figured we might take a run at Curtis Creekmore.”

  Quinn reached for his cigar and took a puff, a quiet settling over the range. “Is he out?”

  “Curtis got out last year,” Lillie said. “Living over in Yalobusha County, outside Coffeeville. Dealing in the same ole shit he was doing over here in Tibbehah.”

  “He have a warrant?” Quinn said, setting down the cigar again.

  “Yep.”

  “Might make him more willing to talk about his buddies down in Biloxi and Tunica.”

  Lillie smiled, placing her right hand in her jeans pocket. Her whole face lighting up with the thrill of going after a real-life shitbird together. Just like the old days. When she smiled, the dimples deepened in her cheeks.

  “I don’t think Curtis is in any rush to get back to Parchman,” Lillie said. “He might just be willing to tell us what he knows about Wes Taggart and why his sorry ole ass was so important to the Syndicate boys. Might even have some names.”

  Quinn nodded. “Do I have time to take one more shot?”

  Lillie smiled again. “Be my guest, Ranger. Need you sharp.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Sorry I’m late,” Bentley said. “Please tell me we’re winning. We’re winning, right?”

  “Winona took the lead right before halftime,” Caddy said. “They picked off a pass and ran it back with ten seconds to go. What kind of coach takes it to the air with a little bit of time left? Come on. These kids aren’t old enough for complicated plays like that. They barely ran that one at practice and then all of a sudden the coach wants to roll the dice.”

  “Only three things can happen when you pass,” Bentley said. “And two of them are bad. Just ask Ole Miss. They’re leading the SEC in turnovers. I think I’m skipping going to the Grove on Saturday. I’d just as soon watch us lose at home.”

  “Really?” Caddy said, watching the boys take the field for the third quarter. It was a rare Thursday night game, the bright lights shining down on the patchy field. All the kids were splattered in mud, Caddy knowing Jason’s white pants would be hell to clean tomorrow. “I told Jason and Brandon we’d be going. Quinn and Maggie were fine with it. Isn’t that right, Momma?”

  Jean Colson nodded, scooting over in the aluminum bleachers, patting a place between h
er and Caddy for Bentley. He was dressed in a red Ole Miss polo, khakis, and expensive-looking suede boots with zips down each ankle. Her mother had already told him twice how handsome he looked. Bentley couldn’t quit smiling as he offered Jean popcorn from his little paper bag. Always the gentleman.

  “It’s awfully nice of y’all to include Brandon,” Jean said. “I don’t think he’s ever been to an Ole Miss game before. Of course Quinn always pulls for Auburn. He took a few classes there when he was at Benning. I don’t know who Maggie pulls for. Do you, Caddy?”

  “Maggie doesn’t like football,” Caddy said. “She almost didn’t let Brandon play, says it’s too dangerous. Maybe she should quit marrying men who find pleasure in a damn war zone.”

  Bentley and Jean didn’t respond, knowing better than to get in the middle of her spat with her sister-in-law. Caddy had been cold and a little distant with Maggie since Maggie asked her about Quinn hunting the Hawkins land, still pissed off as hell Quinn’s own wife would listen to such trash talk. Down along the high school track, a ragtag group of cheerleaders, little girls in street clothes, worked on some really mean-spirited cheers about the mommas of the Winona players. U-G-L-Y. You ain’t got no alibi . . .

  “When did cheerleaders get so nasty?” Jean asked.

  “Momma, they’ve been doing that cheer forever,” Caddy said. “Don’t you remember me doing the same one?”

  “Did I ever tell you how much Elvis liked cheerleaders?” Jean said, reaching for some of Bentley’s popcorn. “He used to like the girls he was dating to dress up in those short skirts. This was after he and Pricilla got divorced, of course. Tight sweaters and pom-poms. They’d put on little routines for him down in the TV room. One night, we were watching The Carol Burnett Show . . .”

  “Shh, Momma,” Caddy said. “Can we please just watch? Bentley doesn’t need to hear all about how you and Daddy used to go up to Graceland to shoot guns and ride horses.”