by Ace Atkins
“Might I remind you what that woman is all about?” Lillie said, drumming her fingers on the door handle, thrilled to be along for the ride. “Don’t let the big tits and fancy perfume mess with your head. That woman deals in stolen goods and hijacked eighteen-wheelers. She runs most of the drugs in the state and trucks in underage girls, most of them from Central America or Vietnam. She doesn’t give a good goddamn about anyone other than herself. She’d whore out her own grandmomma for a nickel.”
Reggie nodded, listening to Lillie. “Miss Fannie might wonder why you’re riding shotgun with me.”
“I’ll tell that bitch I heard some federal fugitives were getting peckers pulled in the VIP room,” she said. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll get lucky. That place is a baited trap for shitbirds.”
“We’re only serving the paper today,” Reggie said. “Just the notice for a change in county law, saying that nude or topless dancing of any sort is illegal. Doesn’t matter if they wear G-strings or pasties. But one way or another, Vienna’s Place is done.”
“Those poor truckers,” Lillie said, making a yanking motion with her hand. “Now they’re gonna have to shift their gears for themselves. So damn sad. Almost makes me want to cry.”
* * *
* * *
“Yes, sir,” Johnny Stagg said. “I said to myself just the other day, I bet I’ll be seeing ole Quinn Colson soon. I figured you’d be driving over to Alabama to say hello with a whole mess of questions.”
“Then you know why I’m here.”
“Yes, sir,” Stagg said. “I do.”
“And you know that if you help out, I’ll talk to the Feds for you.”
“Sure was nice of you to bring me a sack of Krystal burgers and some peppermints,” Stagg said, his face in a perpetual frozen grin, like a TV preacher filled with good news for man. “You must’ve stopped off at a truck stop on the way into Montgomery.”
“Right off the Lonesome Highway,” Quinn said. “Nothing’s too good for you, Stagg.”
Stagg looked amused by the situation, seated by the prison commissary at a little orange table like you’d see outside a fast-food franchise. He had on a denim prison jumpsuit, gray hair parted down the side like a respectable businessman. But he still had the craggy face of a filling station attendant, sunburned and wind-chapped, with teeth as big as tombstones. The man looking pretty much unchanged since being sentenced for drug running, racketeering, bribery, and making false statements to the IRS. That was by no means all of Stagg’s business, but it had been enough to send him away for twenty years. He’d learned a quick hard lesson about doing business with local crooks like Larry Cobb who kept track of their bribes and hidden cash in a safe busted open by his own son-in-law and a two-bit moron and Alabama football superfan named Peewee Sparks.
“I’m sure you’re aware, I still keep up with events in Tibbehah from time to time,” Stagg said, reaching for the peppermints but leaving the sack of Krystals. Inmates sat at a dozen other tables scattered across the large room that resembled a high school cafeteria.
“Did you hear about the Tibbehah Cross?”
Johnny Stagg grinned even more. “That sure made me smile,” he said. “That old bastard Skinner is a real piece of work. Won’t be happy until he’s buried in his Sears and Roebuck suit and lying in the box about to meet his maker.”
“They’re building it right out front of the old Booby Trap,” Quinn said. “Skinner thinks it’ll outshine all that red neon.”
Stagg laughed, crunching the candy between his back molars. “Can’t wait to see it, one of these days,” Stagg said, looking around the open room. “I sure do miss Tibbehah County. My third wife divorced me. My son won’t speak to me now that the money tit’s gone dry. But I still got a few friends, some hardworking folks, still loyal. Send me Christmas cards and such.”
At a nearby table, Quinn recognized the former CEO of what used to be one of the largest corporations in America. Down toward the security door sat a former wide receiver for the L.A. Rams with an attractive woman in a flowered silk dress and two young children. Quinn knew the player but couldn’t recall what he’d done or why he was inside with a guy like Stagg.
“Yes, sir,” Johnny Stagg said. “We got us a real all-star team in here. Half these sonsabitches flushed their life down the toilet for drugs. Funny, that’s something that’s never interested me. I have never had the inclination to so much as puff on one of them marijuana cigarettes.”
“Never stopped you from moving that shit,” Quinn said. “Weed, pills, dope. Was there anything you didn’t move up Highway 45 through the Rebel?”
Stagg nodded. “Women,” he said. “I didn’t have no stomach for selling young ladies. If they come to me on their own volition, that was one thing. But that business running through my place now sure will turn your stomach. I never forced a girl to work the pole or hop up into a semi. That was their own doing.”
Quinn told Stagg to hold that thought and walked over to the canteen for a Styrofoam cup of coffee. When he returned, Stagg had started in on the Krystal burgers, the old man’s eyes shining with amusement as he chewed.
“I never liked working with them people on the Coast,” Stagg said. “Whatever you thought of me, I knew my goddamn limits. Damn, this is some good stuff, Quinn. I always like the way the folks at Krystal steam the bun. Them little cooked onions. Almost makes you forget that you’re getting yourself a sorry sliver of meat.”
Quinn took a sip of the coffee, which tasted about what he’d expect from the Maxwell Prison commissary. Metallic and bitter. Still, it was coffee. It was a long drive back up to Birmingham, then over through Tupelo and on to Tibbehah County.
“How’s your daddy doin’?” Stagg asked.
Quinn didn’t answer.
“And your momma and them?” Stagg said, licking his fingers. “Damn, son. I heard you went and got yourself married. That sure is something. Good for you, Sheriff. About time for you to start a family. A wholesome and noble endeavor. Some real family values going on right there.”
“Holliday thinks he can knock five years off your sentence,” Quinn said. “If you want to assist.”
“Assist?” Stagg asked. “Funny choice of words. Makes it all seem like some type of goddamn game. Only reason I’d assist is to get back at some folks I like even less than you. You and Holliday sure cornholed my ass to Hong Kong and back.”
“You cornholed yourself, Johnny.”
“Boy, if I can figure out a way a man could cornhole himself, I’d damn well make a million dollars,” he said. “Especially in a place like this.”
Stagg nodded toward the wide receiver, saying the man’s name under his breath and listing all the teams he’d played with and some of his stats. Stagg said he could never imagine how a fella would go from ten million a year to selling damn dope from the back of his SUV. “I think he played ball in college with that other fella who murdered all them folks up in Boston. They say he’d gotten his damn brains bashed in and didn’t know right from wrong.”
“Lot of that going around these days.”
“Bullshit,” Stagg said. “Folks like Vardaman just realized they can feed the weak-minded bullshit for supper and call it a chocolate cake. Doesn’t matter what they do. Deeds don’t mean squat. Folks only care about what you say, preach up there in the political pulpit. You better heed that, son, as an elected official.”
Quinn listened, not turning to see the football player at the other table but hearing his children laughing. He sipped on his coffee, waiting for Stagg to make up his mind. He looked forward to getting on the road back home, to the farm and Maggie. Wanting to be a decent father to Brandon, maybe teaching him some more survival skills. Every kid should know how to shoot a gun and follow a compass. Know right from wrong, truth from a sack of lies. “I need to know if you were there,” he said. “At the hunt lodge. November 1997.”
Stagg shook his head.
“How about Vardaman?”
Stagg shook his head again and sucked some meat from a tooth. “I heard he was there when they buried that girl. They used his personal backhoe and everything. Wish I could tell you more about who she was. But she was just a drifter, never using a real name, working on a cash-only basis. You were in the service. You know how those transactions go.”
“What was her name?”
“You mean what did we call her?” Stagg asked, his mind drifting off somewhere else, looking sedate and somewhat listless. “Skylar. Skylar Cole. I liked her. She was a good worker. One of the best dancers the Booby Trap ever saw. Used to do this routine to Reba’s ‘Fancy’ that melted your heart. I heard she might’ve been from over in Alabama somewhere. Or was it Georgia? I never met a stripper yet who could keep her backstory straight. Diddling stepdaddies, mean-ass fathers. Working to save up money for their three-legged momma’s operations.”
“Who killed her?”
“Damn, boy,” Stagg said. “You’re getting right to it. Barely have time to swallow my damn Krystal burgers.”
Quinn just stared at him, elbows on the table, right hand around the disposable cup. The steam rising from the slick surface.
“You remember that old boy with the silver buzz cut that used to hang out at the Rebel?” Stagg said, saying the man’s name. “He worked with the highway patrol just like Joe Roberts worked for the state in that Johnny Cash song? Sorry to let you know that. Since you done already killed that son of a bitch.”
“You sent him to kill me,” Quinn said. “He killed other people for you, too.”
Stagg grinned. “Where’d you hear a damn lie like that?” he said. “I did no such thing. But I know for a damn fact Vardaman didn’t like being blackmailed. He was truly fired up when he came to me with his problems. Madder than hell, spit flying from his mouth and wanting to hurt some folks. Believe it or not, I tried to talk reason with him. Even helped him facilitate those payments on the Jericho Square to keep down embarrassment of those fine visitors to Tibbehah County.”
“How’d you help?”
“Oh,” Stagg said, shrugging. “I paid that ole hush money for him, stuff in hundreds and twenties in a sack from the Piggly Wiggly. In return, this old black fella would hand over them negatives.”
“Wait,” Quinn said, holding up his hand. “Wait a second. You knew the man making the pickup but made the payment anyway?”
“Hell, Quinn,” Stagg said. “You know Tibbehah County. Not a lot of stories that don’t connect. Wasn’t any of my damn business to shut down some young entrepreneur. I can’t say I really minded having a little hold over Vardaman myself.”
“Did he ever pay you back?”
“Vardaman?” Stagg asked, grinning. “Shit. That cheap son of a bitch? He figured it’d be my honor to take out the trash for him.”
“Did you hand over those negatives direct to Vardaman?” Quinn asked. “Or was there another go-between?”
Stagg reached for another peppermint and unwrapped the candy, popping it on his tongue and grinning as he sucked on it. “You still don’t like me much,” Stagg said. “Do you? After all me and you been through together. All them trials and travails and you still hold a grudge. I’ll tell you what the pastor in here tells us. Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all.”
“Son of a bitch,” Quinn said. “You kept those negatives. Didn’t you?”
Stagg kept on sucking on the peppermint. “Why, of course not. Vardaman wanted them,” he said. “He insisted on it. Burned them up as soon as he got ’em.”
Quinn leaned forward, closer to the table. Stagg grinned, his eyes twinkling.
“But no one told me not to print some more pictures off of ’em.”
“Where are the pictures?”
“Come on now, son,” he said. “Like I said, you’re moving too damn fast. If we was on a date, I wouldn’t even get a peck on the cheek. You’d go right for the ole cooter. It’s gonna take time for you and the federal folks to unwind all this shit. And before I lift another goddamn finger, I want my lawyer here and the federal prosecutor from Oxford who fucked me a hundred ways from Sunday. Yes, sir. I want his cocky, smiling ass on his knees and his mouth open wide before I share my hidey-hole with him. That’s my goddamn trump card. My ace in the hole.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Quinn said.
Stagg didn’t move, looking away from Quinn as if he was in deep thought over the matters they’d just discussed. “I heard Skylar’s face done looked like ground chuck when the trooper was done teaching her a lesson. You know what? I don’t think he meant to kill her. Man like that, born with that kind of defect brain, just like that pro ball player . . . Old boy just couldn’t help himself.”
Quinn stood but didn’t offer his hand. “I’ll be in touch.”
“You do that, son.” Stagg kept on grinning, lifting his pointed chin and sucking on a fresh mint. His old skin looked like a leather shaving strop. “Your uncle wasn’t strong enough to handle the Mississippi way. You and I both know that’s what killed him. I’ll help you. But you better know it won’t matter a pot of mule piss. The truth don’t matter no more. Better square that in your mind, Sheriff. Vardaman’s people say they want to turn back the clock? If they do that, you better start building gallows on the town square.”
* * *
* * *
It had been a minute since Lillie Virgil had been in Vienna’s Place, but stepping into the dim light and neon, tired girls half-ass dancing on stage and Midnight Man looming behind the bar, she realized not much had changed at all. She walked in with Reggie as Midnight Man polished a tray of shot glasses, his big eyes shifting up to the spiral staircase and the glass office at the end of the catwalk where Fannie did business. Lillie nodded back toward the big man, taking the lead, Reggie trailing her but getting stopped by two working girls who couldn’t help but run their hands over his broad chest, one saying how much she liked his dimples. Overhead, the speakers played “Salt Shaker” by the Ying Yang Twins.
Upstairs, Fannie’s door was open, Lillie spotting the woman herself sitting in a grouping of low-slung leather chairs, looking to be having a counseling session with a skinny Asian girl with hair the color of cotton candy. She had on white go-go boots and a pink lingerie getup.
“Well, damn,” Fannie said. “You finally coming in for that free lap dance and tequila shot I offered you when you were sheriff?”
“I’ll wait on you to improve your talent,” Lillie said. “I think I saw a few pregnant gals working the pole. I was just waiting for a little hand to reach down out of her pussy and pick up a dollar bill.”
Fannie didn’t answer as Reggie followed Lillie into the glass office. The Asian woman with the pink hair excused herself, passing Reggie on the way out and giving him a bright smile and a wink. She recalled giving Quinn hell once about how working girls just loved a man in uniform.
He stepped up past Lillie and set a folded piece of paper on the black coffee table. A cigarillo smoldered in a nearby ashtray.
“What’s this shit?” Fannie said.
“Board of supervisors met last night,” Reggie said. “They’re outlawing all nude dancing and liquor sales along the Highway 45 corridor and within the county.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nope,” Lillie said. “It’s time to pack up the G-string and your Traveling Cooter Salvation Show. You’re gonna just have to make a hard living running all that cooze and dope throughout the Deep South. Tough break, Fannie. I know how much you love this place. Naming it after your dead grandmomma and all. Real class with a capital K. I’m sure she’s sending you kisses from heaven.”
Fannie tossed the county ordinance onto her glass-top desk and picked up her cigarillo, standing up and walking toe-to-toe with Lillie. She was several inches shorte
r than Lillie, all red hair and long red nails, so much perfume on her she smelled like the makeup counter at Macy’s. Lillie didn’t move, smelling the smoke and perfume, the woman’s large breasts poking into her chest like she could make her back the hell up.
“Why do you keep on coming back to Tibbehah County?” Fannie asked. “Never figured you for a traditional woman, but it seems like you just can’t stay away from the sheriff. Even after he turned his back on your big ass and found a sweet little freckly girl to shack up with. A real instant family going on with that kid named for that boy who shot himself. I know you never ask for my advice, Lillie Virgil, but I’d do the right thing and keep to your own business running down black kids in the housing projects and shooting down escaped convicts in the back. Colson’s set up his own life.”
Lillie took a step forward in her suede cowboy boots, hands on hips, pressing against Fannie hard as the woman smirked, cigarillo lifted up to her lips. She could see the crow’s-feet just starting to form at the corners of Fannie’s green eyes, smoker wrinkles around her lips. “They shut down this shitshow and it’s gonna be hell with the IRS all over your ass. I have to admit, this was one hell of a money wash during its time. What do you think you’ll use next? Maybe start up a megachurch to go with that big cross they’re erecting outside?”
“Are you saying I run an illegal business?”
“Shit,” Lillie said. “Everything you do is illegal, woman. You probably can’t even pop a squat without breaking an international treaty. I think this is just a solid first step to shine the light on who you really are.”
“And what’s that, Lillie Virgil?”
“The most ruthless bitch in the South since Scarlett O’Hara hitched on a strap-on and took it to ole Rhett Butler’s bony ass.”