Текст книги "The Forsaken"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

She took the beer and reached down for the handle on her guitar case and walked up to the narrow little stage, where J.T. had leaned an upright bass, not sure why he changed up from the electric. A mandolin lay at his feet to play for certain songs.

Diane pulled the microphone close to the raised stool and positioned a second mic alongside her Martin guitar. Their drummer was a guy from Holly Springs named Wallace who’d played for a lot of big bands in Memphis and New Orleans. He knew all the songs by heart. They’d only gone through the list a few times, with him nailing every bit.

She passed the list around and then shook her head. “How about we do that new one, ‘Hard Edges’? I think I have it down.”

J.T. and Wallace shrugged and she dug into the song, the lyrics reminding her a hell of a lot about Caddy Colson, back when she’d been a woman taking off her clothes so the men didn’t look her in the eye. Some of the late-night conversations with that girl had left Diane cold. She tried to think about Caddy as she sang and how those hard edges hide that tender heart. Diane enjoying the music so much, thinking how the song would sound better with that lap steel to go with J.T.’s mandolin, that she didn’t even mind there were only about seven folks in the bar. She knew from a long time back, you didn’t play for the crowd, you played for yourself.

They went from “Hard Edges” and wove back into the set, getting a few songs down the line into that Don Williams classic, “Come Early Morning,” one of those songs that brought her back to how much joy the radio and old LPs on her grandmomma’s console player used to bring her. J.T. loved it, too, and would work in a harmonica part with the bass. Diane got so into it, she nearly missed the six men in leather and chains walk in the front door of the Star. They wore leather jackets, jeans, and heavy biker boots that thumped on the wooden floor.

Two of them walked up to the bar and the other four took seats close to the stage, kicking back and slumping in their chairs, seeming to already be drunk as hell. They wore beards and tats and motorcycle vests over their jackets. Didn’t take long before they were catcalling and calling out requests. Diane had to politely say, in her quiet country voice, “We appreciate you. But we don’t do requests.”

One of the men hollered out, “So what do you do and when?”

Diane turned to J.T. and J.T. shook his head, leaning in saying for her to forget it and play on. And maybe they had rattled her, god damn them, but she didn’t feel like playing “He Called Me Baby” and asked Wallace and J.T. to head into “Tulsa Time.” And there were more catcalls and beer bottles slamming on tabletops, shots of liquor, in shadows and neon. One of the men had a bald head and crossed eyes, tattoos across his face and down on his chin, and a weird inked circle across his Adam’s apple. He wore a T-shirt without sleeves and kept on staring at her tits as she played, Diane wishing like hell she hadn’t worn the glittered tank top reading Momma Tried and her tight bell-bottoms.

She kept her eyes down on the Martin, playing on through “Tulsa Time,” that long streak of gray hair covering her face and eyes. She finished out the set and then with slow, steady steps walked back to the ladies’ room. She splashed cool water in her face and tried to calm herself.

The door opened. In the mirror, she saw the inked man come up behind her. He slid the dead bolt closed.

“You know who I am?” His voice sounded ragged and guttural like his vocal cords had been cut.

She shook her head and held on to the sink bowl.

“You know our colors?”

She nodded.

“I like your singing,” he said.

He stood there, arms crossed over his chest, his jeans obscenely tight in the crotch, the scent of him something to behold in the tiny space.

“I like your singing,” he said again. “But keep the rest of that old bullshit to yourself.”

He unbolted the door and walked from the ladies’ room. Diane had watched the whole thing from the mirror over the sink. She breathed and breathed and then dabbed her face again, tucked her silver hair behind her ear, and marched back out for another drink and to start the second set.

When she walked back into the Star, all the bikers had left. She ordered a shot. Until she felt that warm Jack hit the back of her throat, she’d started to wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing.

But they’d been there. She could still smell them.

Quinn and Lillie drove the back roads around Yellow Leaf nearly an hour before they spotted the tracks. They were fresh, worn hard and distinct in the mud, and obviously made by some kind of cycle, not a car or truck. Quinn got out of his truck, Lillie riding with him now, leaving her Jeep at Stillwell’s place, and they counted three bikes riding along the dirt and into the tree line. They were big wheels, heavy set into the mud, too big and weighty to be dirt bikes.

“You want to see where they go?” Lillie said.

“Why the hell not?” Quinn said.

They followed the tracks only about twenty feet until they saw where the tracks became muddled and had sunk deeper in the mud. The tracks then circled back the way they came and out onto the road. From the turnaround point, they made out distinct boot prints heading into the woods.

“These aren’t hunters,” Lillie said.

“A kind of hunter,” Quinn said. “Trying to spook Stillwell.”

“I don’t think he spooks much,” Lillie said. “He’s too worn-out to study on things like that. He seems like he’s been waiting on them a long time.”

“You heard anything about what he was saying?” Quinn said. “About this gang coming back out to Choctaw Lake?”

“I know that place,” Lillie said. “Some shithole shack off a back road. I used to fish by a little river that ran into the lake there. Best place for crappie. But I hadn’t seen anyone go in that shack for years.”

“When’s the last time you been out there?”

“When’s the last time I’ve been fishing?”

“Come on,” Quinn said. “Let’s check it out.”

It was dark when they turned off Cotton Road and headed down south on past Dogtown. There were wooden posted signs from Wildlife and Game about the seasons for hunting and the need to obtain a license. By the edge of the lake, there was a park, with a playground, a couple piers, and a set of public restrooms. Quinn and Lillie drove through the empty parking lot down by the boat ramp and circled off the landing down an overgrown dirt road that seemed to lead nowhere.

“You sure this is it?”

“Look in your headlights, Ranger,” Lillie said.

In the narrow beam of headlights were many rutted tracks from motorcycles and cars. The lights shone ten feet ahead into absolute darkness, no moon above, and the road had been so untraveled that limbs and tree branches scraped at the doors and hood of the Big Green Machine.

“Boom won’t like this,” Lillie said.

“He does love this truck.”

“He made that truck,” Lillie said. “He got tired of you riding around in that old piece of shit.”

There was light ahead.

Multiple headlights and a bonfire lit up a gathering at the edge of Choctaw Lake. Quinn slowed into the elbow of the narrow dirt road, stopped, and cracked the driver’s window. In the distance, they could hear what sounded like Mexican corridas, Quinn familiar with the sound of the music through a few run-ins with his old pal Donnie Varner.

“A Tex-Mex biker gang?” Lillie said. “OK. This should be interesting.”

“You want to walk it?”

“Hell no,” Lillie said. “Let’s see what these motherfuckers are up to.”

Quinn shrugged. He hit the light bar on top of the F-250 and rode bigger than shit down that gravel road in front of the busted old clubhouse Hank Stillwell had spoken about. There must have been twenty jacked-up trucks parked all around the shack and maybe thirty motorcycles. Out by the lakeside, several oil barrels billowed flame and smoke up into the dark sky. Men and women were walking around, the Mexican music seeming to come from one of the trucks, tall and high, with the back window painted with the face of the Virgin Mary. Quinn slowed the truck at the edge of the party. Everyone with a cup, bottle, or cigarette in hand. The men and women were Anglo and Mexican. They warmed themselves by the fire, tilting up bottles, and then looked at the flashing blues coming from the truck.

“OK,” Lillie said. “Now what?”

“We wait.”

“Wait for what?” Lillie said. “For them to start shooting?”

“Someone will ask what the fuck we want,” Quinn said. “Someone’s got to be in charge. They’ll want to show us they’re in charge.”

Quinn kept his window down, the air brittle and sharp rushing into the warm car. Quinn reached into the ashtray and relit the rest of the La Gloria Cubana he’d started that morning. He and Lillie sitting there listening to the sad song sung in Spanish with a steady backbeat and high notes of the accordion.

Not a minute later, a large man in a black leather jacket with a denim vest over it ambled on over to Quinn’s truck. He had a shaved head and a lot of ink on his face. At first, Quinn thought he had a small beard, but the closer he got to the truck, Quinn saw it was a Satanic goatee etched permanently onto his chin.

“You dating anyone lately, Lil?” Quinn said.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Here comes Mr. Right.”

The man walked up close to Quinn’s window and then leaned inside the truck, drunk-smiling to Quinn and Lillie and checking out the squawking police radio and the shotgun Quinn had mounted on the back glass.

“Evening, Officer,” the man said.

“Not an officer,” Quinn said. “I’m the sheriff.”

“Howdy, Sheriff,” the man said, laughing. His voice was guttural and rough. His body odor and breath swarmed over even Quinn’s cigar. The biker sniffed at the smoke and smiled. “We got some kind of problem?”

“We got a problem, Deputy Virgil?” Quinn said.

“You got a license to operate a beer joint?”

“Ain’t no beer joint,” the man said. “Just having some fucking fun with my brothers.”

“And who are your brothers?” Lillie said.

The man grinned and turned his back to them, thrusting his thumbs at a patch on his back that read BORN LOSERS.

“Y’all have some ethnic diversity here.”

“Just some folks down from Memphis,” the man said. “They brought the tequila. We breaking some kind of law?”

“You have a permit for that weapon?” Lillie said.

Quinn hadn’t noticed the bulge under the coat, but as the man turned to stare, the checkered grip was plain to see. The man grinned some more, reached into his wallet, and presented a folded-up piece of paper that gave him the right to carry a concealed weapon. His name was Chester Anthony DiFranco.

“You want to pat me down?” he said to Lillie.

“You want to shower first?”

The man laughed. “Come on,” he said. “Fuck. We done here?”

“Is this your place?” Quinn said.

“Bought and paid for,” Chester said. “You need to see that paperwork, too?”

Quinn nodded. “We’ll be back,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you know we’re around, Chester.”

“My name is Animal,” he said. “Call me Animal.”

“I’ll check the property records,” Quinn said. “And I’ll pay another visit if you’re trespassing.”

“Man,” Animal said. “Trespassing? We’re just moving in. This is our welcome-home party. Come on. Get that stick out of your ass and join us for some tequila and Mexican pussy. You look like you might like some of that, too, girl.”

Quinn blew a long stream of smoke in Animal’s face. He reached for his door handle. Lillie put a hand on his knee.

“Patience,” she whispered. She turned to Animal. “Listen, you ugly motherfucker. It may be tough for you to look me in the eye with yours headed in two different directions. But if you want to keep out of jail around here, you will address me as ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Chief Deputy Virgil.’ Do you understand me?”

The man pursed his lips and smiled. His eyes did head in different directions. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, splitting his index and middle fingers and flicking his tongue between them.

He staggered away. The corridas kept playing from the parked trucks, exhaust fumes from the dually pipes chugging into the brittle night air.

“This won’t end well,” Quinn said.

“Who are these guys?” Lillie said.

“My uncle used to tell me stories about the Born Losers,” Quinn said. “But you know what? He lied to me.”

“How?”

“He said he’d run the sonsabitches out of town.”

There was an ash on Luther Varner’s cigarette that must’ve grown about two inches long before he broke it in the tray, looked to Quinn, and said, “Of course we had problems with those bikers. Everybody knew the trouble they made, things they did out at that clubhouse.”

“What about the lynching?” Quinn said. He was seated at a small table at the VFW with Mr. Jim and Varner, getting to speak in private after Friday’s pancake breakfast. Quinn had been the keynote speaker that morning, after Mr. Jim had led the vets, young and old, in the Pledge of Allegiance. Luther had cooked most of the pancakes and provided the bacon.

“Sure,” Mr. Jim said. “We knew about what happened to that fella. He killed a couple girls and they took him out and hung his ass. One of the girl’s fathers was part of the gang. Most people didn’t have much trouble with it.”

Mr. Jim had the clearest blue eyes he’d ever seen and a giant bulbous nose. After he spoke, he hacked a nasty cough into a handkerchief. The cough had grown worse and worse over some weeks, Mr. Jim saying he just had a cold and to quit bothering him about it.

“One of the girls lived,” Quinn said.

“Oh, that’s right,” Mr. Jim said. “It’s been a while. You forget things.”

“But nothing ever happened to those bikers,” Luther said. “I don’t know what your uncle did about it, if anything. I think it was a pretty hot issue. Divided folks.”

“Black and white?” Quinn said.

“Nope,” Varner said. “Old Testament and New.”

“Where did y’all line up?” Quinn asked.

Luther thumped his pack of cigarettes, drew out a long fresh one, and lit it quick with his Zippo. “Whatever we thought at the time was wrong,” Luther said. “You’re saying the man they got was innocent? I wasn’t out there with them, uncoiling the rope. I didn’t even know what happened till a few years later. That’s why we have society, laws, and courts, so bullshit like this doesn’t happen.”

“Still can happen,” Quinn said.

“Guess it does,” Mr. Jim said. “But at least a man has a fighting chance to tell his side of things whether they listen or not.”

Luther smoked down half the cigarette, squinting through the smoke, only two other folks left in the old VFW. The hall was a cinder-block building with gray linoleum floors and a lot of plaques, photos, flags, and anything military or about America. Somewhere there was a framed article from the Tibbehah Monitor more than ten years ago about Quinn earning his Ranger tab.

“You know much about this gang?” Quinn asked. “The Born Losers?”

“They were some bad motherfuckers,” Luther said. “Nobody messed with them. They pretty much kept to themselves. Wasn’t like in no movies, where they were chasing the panties off virgins or breaking church windows. All you had to do was look at their head dude and know he meant business. They called him Chains, and the boy had that look in his eye. Haunted? Crazy? Long hair and a beard, animal-wild.”

“What about the men who followed him?”

“Some of them were pretty nice fellas.”

“Like who?” Quinn asked.

There was a glance, a very brief one, between Luther and Mr. Jim. Mr. Jim opened his mouth and then closed it. He seemed to think for a second and then said, “J.T. either rode with them or fixed their bikes. They spent a lot of time at his garage. But this was a long, long time ago. By the time you were in diapers, most of them had moved on.”

“Hank Stillwell,” Varner said. “It was Stillwell’s daughter they killed. You talk to him?”

Quinn nodded.

“Why are people talking about all this now?” Mr. Jim said.

“They’re coming back.”

“Who?” Varner said.

“The Born Losers,” Quinn said.

“Bullshit,” Varner said.

“Nope,” Quinn said. “Lillie and I had a meet and greet with them at their old clubhouse out on Choctaw. Met some cross-eyed fella with a throat tattoo. Real personable. We’re talking the next generation of shitbirds.”

“Seems like all the turds out of Memphis get shook out in Tibbehah,” Mr. Jim said. “Can’t they go somewheres else?”

The only two other folks in the VFW hall huddled by the front door, deep in conversation. One of the men turned, eyed Quinn, and then leaned back into his buddy. He was a tubby and dumb man named Clay Sneed who’d become a real estate broker—SNEED FOR YOUR HOME NEEDS—after one year at Ole Miss and some time loading trucks in the Guard. He was a couple years older than Quinn. And Quinn recalled something about him being a Peeping Tom at the dress shop who got off with a warning from his uncle.

Quinn sensed something and would have left it alone, except Sneed didn’t have the sense to quit turning around. Quinn heard something from the table about the short speech Quinn had just given about ethics, loyalty, and hard work. Sneed said in a whisper that “must take a lot of hard work for kickbacks and a free truck.”

Luther Varner and Mr. Jim couldn’t hear jack shit. Quinn’s hearing was excellent.

He excused himself and walked over to the table where tubby Clay Sneed was snickering. “Glad you enjoyed my talk,” Quinn said. “But just how much do you think I make with those kickbacks?”

Sneed’s face flamed a bright red. “What the hell you talking about?”

“You just said I take payoffs and got myself a free truck.”

“No I didn’t,” Sneed said. “You’re hearing things.”

“I was offered a sixty-thousand-dollar Dodge Ram by the county supervisors that I turned down,” Quinn said. “That big green Ford parked outside didn’t cost a quarter of that. It was customized by Boom Kimbrough.”

“This was a private conversation,” Sneed said. The other man, a kid in his early twenties, just kept his eyes down on his half-eaten pancakes. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

“People like you never do,” Quinn said. “Can’t fault a pig for grunting.”

“What the hell’s that mean?”

“Think on it,” Quinn said. “It’ll come to you in a couple hours.”

Quinn walked back to the table with the two old men, his two most trusted friends in Tibbehah besides Boom and Lillie. He reached for a coffeepot in the center of the table and refilled a thick ceramic mug with an Operation Desert Shield logo someone had added to the collection. He leaned back into his seat and crossed his boots at the ankle.

“What was that all about?” Mr. Jim said.

“Bullshit.”

“That boy need an ass-whippin’?” Luther Varner said.

“For a long time,” Quinn said.

Varner stubbed out his cigarette and started to stand. Quinn grinned at the old Marine and told him to have another cup of coffee. “He’s not worth it.”

“What are you going to do about that lynching?” Mr. Jim said.

“It’s been heavily implied that I better find out just what happened,” Quinn said. “The DA in Oxford sees himself as the next attorney general. And this case would put his name in a lot of papers and on TV.”

“Do people ever do something just for the right of it?” Mr. Jim asked. He started to cough again, the hacking getting worse. Before Mr. Jim tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket, Quinn saw it had been spotted with blood.

Varner did, too, and he and Quinn exchanged glances.

“Did they ever?” Varner said. “I spent my whole life in Jericho and seen and heard about stuff that would’ve made Norman Rockwell shit his drawers.”

“Doing what’s right isn’t gonna work now,” Quinn said, spinning the mug in his hands. “I can only take on one thing at a time, even if it means some people keep clean.”

“You’re sounding more and more like your Uncle Hamp,” Mr. Jim said, smiling big. “He was a realistic man. Before things got real bad, he’d say he had to think tactically on things. Not with anger.”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “I understand that. But I don’t want to be my Uncle Hamp.”

Mr. Jim started to cough some more and excused himself from the table. Luther watched him go, finished the cigarette, and stubbed it into the already overloaded tray. “Been smoking and drinking since I was twelve years old and still feel like I could fight and fuck my way around God’s Green Earth. My drill sergeant at Parris Island said heaven didn’t want a Marine and hell was afraid we’d take over. Maybe that’s why we stick around so long.”

“How bad?” Quinn said.

“Bad.”

“He tell you much?”

“No, sir,” Luther said. “Dying is pretty private to a man.”

•   •   •

When Quinn returned to the sheriff’s office, he found his door ajar and Mary Alice inside, talking to Johnny Stagg and his boy Ringold. She’d served them hot coffee and cold biscuits. Quinn wouldn’t have given Stagg the honor of licking his toilet bowl clean. Mary Alice scooted out of the office when she saw Quinn, raising her eyebrows in a look of What else could I do? and left the door wide open as she clacked back down the hall.

Quinn took a seat on top of his desk. He didn’t say a word.

“I get the feeling she don’t like me too much,” Stagg said. “Mary Alice told me three times to come back later. I said I’d rather wait.”

Quinn nodded.

“You think I could eat one of them biscuits? Or maybe she made ’em with rat poison . . .”

“I guess if you take a bite, we’ll find out.”

Ringold sat in the chair closest to the window. He’d nodded at Quinn when he’d walked in but remained seated, wearing a black ball cap with narrow sunglasses resting on the visor. He wore a tight-fitting jacket and dark jeans with field boots.

“What do you want, Johnny?” Quinn said. “I gave an inspirational speech this morning and now I’m running late on things. Miss Davis drove her car into a ditch again and some teenagers just stole a box of Slim Jims and prophylactics from the Pig.”

“Sorry I missed the speech,” Stagg said, “but I’m sure I’ve heard it in one form or another.”

“I heard you made deacon at First Baptist,” Quinn said. “Congrats, Johnny.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” Stagg said. “They liked what I was doing for this town. Some people appreciate all I’ve done after the storm.”

“Amen.”

“I ain’t got time to sit around and square off over smart-ass remarks, son,” Stagg said. “We got some real trouble headed this way and I don’t think you got a complete grasp of the situation.”

“Born Losers are back.”

“That’s part of it,” Stagg said. “Their head man, Chains LeDoux, is also getting out of prison in twelve days. If y’all don’t find some reason he needs to be held, he’ll be riding back into Jericho bigger than shit. Don’t you see they’re preparing a hero’s welcome out at that sorry ole shack on Choctaw?”

“Lillie and I saw them last night,” Quinn said.

“You arrest them?”

“On what charges?”

“Be creative,” Stagg said. “Make some up.”

Quinn shook his head. The cold biscuits sat on a pink Fiesta plate, half covered with aluminum foil. Two mugs of coffee sat on the other side of Quinn’s desk, full, grown cold as they’d waited for Quinn to return.

Quinn scratched at his neck. He wasn’t caring for the familiarity of Stagg just stopping into the SO, something that he’d only done a handful of times before. And he sure as shit had never made himself comfortable in Quinn’s office. Quinn had made it clear from the first election that he in no way worked for the Board of Supervisors. He sure as hell ran no favors for Stagg.

“How’s that old case coming?” Stagg said.

Quinn looked over at Ringold. “You don’t say much.”

Ringold hadn’t moved an inch, shrugging in an offhand manner. The beard on his face was growing out longer than the receding black hairs on his head. He had clear blue eyes and slow, practiced movements. “Sure is a cold day,” Ringold said. “Lots of ice on those roads.”

Quinn grinned and just shook his head.

“I don’t want that man back in Tibbehah,” Stagg said. “If you got some kind of personal reasons for not following up on this disgusting act, you need to let me know. Maybe need to get some state people involved.”

“Why would this be personal, Johnny?”

Stagg gave that good old preacher grin and leaned forward in his seat. His hair slicked up tall on his head like a rockabilly star from the fifties, down to the ducktail he kept in back. He nodded and rubbed his chin. “What are you hearing about that lynching?”

“I can’t discuss a case with you,” Quinn said. “You know that.”

“I’m coming in here to help your ass out,” Stagg said. “I know that DA in Oxford got you and Lillie by the gosh-dang short hairs. What I’m hearing is that you make them look good and they could reevaluate the whole case against y’all.”

“Umm-hmm.”

“This LeDoux ain’t someone you fuck with,” Stagg said. “He aims to burn this whole town to the ground.”

“Little dramatic, aren’t you, Johnny?” Quinn said. “You’re making it sound like High Plains Drifter.”

“Paint the town red?”

Quinn laughed. Ringold hadn’t budged. He was still and frozen, flat and hard blue eyes looking to the photos Quinn kept of his time in the deep shit of Benning, the bare mountains of Afghanistan, and the framed flag given to him by a Colonel George Reynolds that had flown at Camp Spann. Ringold had surely been a lot of those places, if not all of them, not commenting or asking about it, maybe knowing his work with Stagg was dirty, soulless, and without a shred of honor. To bring up the connection would be to start on it all. Of course Quinn knew plenty of guys who had come out of the shit in Iraq or Afghanistan feeling like Uncle Sam was just as dirty as Johnny Stagg. Maybe it was better not to talk about it.

“There are living people who saw what that animal and his crew done,” Stagg said.

“And I’ll talk to them.”

“There ain’t much time.”

“You starting to sweat a little, Johnny?” Quinn said. “Sounds like this man Chains ain’t coming back to burn Jericho. He’s coming back to burn you.”

Stagg nodded. He looked over at Ringold and then back at Quinn. “He’ll surely try,” Stagg said. “But you really want that trash and filth coming back to our town? We’ve made a lot of progress since we nearly got swept away by the hand of God. These people are gonna piss on everything we’re trying to build here.”

“Spoken like a true church deacon.”

“I told them.”

“Told who?”

“I told people you’d never touch those Born Losers when they came back,” he said. “And it won’t bother you a lick to see Chains LeDoux flogging his pecker out on the town square. You’ll get in with them thicker than thieves.”

Quinn stood. He looked down at Stagg.

Ringold stood, too, and Stagg stood between them, his nose and lacquered teeth inches from Quinn’s face. “You don’t know?”

Quinn stared at the man, thinking about what exactly would happen if he punched Johnny Stagg in the throat and tossed him from his office. Ringold would try to stop it, but most of the job would already be done.

“Your goddamn daddy rode with them sonsabitches,” Stagg said. “He was a full-on member of the Born Losers when they hung that man high from that tree out on Jericho Road. That’s why you won’t touch it. It’s too goddamn close.”

Quinn didn’t say a word. He breathed and studied Stagg’s craggy, misshapen face.

Stagg walked out of the office. But Ringold hovered there, hands loose and easy at his side, tilting his head to the side and giving a wry smile, before following behind Johnny Stagg.