Текст книги "The Forsaken"
Автор книги: Ace Atkins
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“My people from Marshall County,” Houston said. “You heard of R. L. Burnside, the blues player? He was my great-uncle. Man could rip the shit out of a guitar. Women in France would rip their bras off and hand them over just to hear him play.”
“Sure.”
“You don’t know him?”
Stagg sucked on his tooth, rotating the warm mug in his hand. “I don’t listen to nigger music, Mr. Houston.”
Houston grinned wide, showing some gold teeth. Stagg knew the man would like him to cut through the shit, get right to the point, that this wasn’t about them becoming buddies and pals, but just how they would keep the goddamn Mexicans out of the city and keep a good thing going. There really wasn’t much to consider. Stagg moved it. Houston sold it. Now Houston wanted more of a cut and that wasn’t exactly surprising to Stagg. What was surprising is that Houston would want to be seen anywhere near Stagg, as you could bet sure as shit that the DEA or FBI or ATF or who the hell ever would be bugging their Banana Caramel French Toast this morning, wanting Stagg to follow his old pal and mentor Bobby Campo to the Cornhole Suite at the federal pen.
“You got kids?” Houston said.
“I got one.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Boy,” Stagg said. “Don’t see that it matters.”
“I got twelve kids,” Houston said. “I got two of them with a Mexican woman I met when hiding out from Johnny Law down in Mexico. You ever been with a Mexican woman? Whew. Damn straight, with all that sweet brown skin and black hair. I’d live down there if those motherfuckers hadn’t decided they wanted to have me killed.”
“Those Mex sonsabitches mean business,” Stagg said. “We had some of those boys in Tibbehah a year or so ago. They found out this local boy was trying to screw them out of a gun deal. Lord have mercy, they rode into Jericho like they was Pancho Villa wanting to fill him full of a million holes.”
“They kill him?” Houston asked.
Stagg shook his head. “Gave himself up to the Feds. I’m still waiting to read about him getting shanked by ole Speedy Gonzales in the shower.”
Houston nodded. “Man, you a trip.”
Stagg studied him, tilting his head a bit. “Son, are you wearing two watches?”
“Yep,” Houston said. “One is platinum and one is gold. East Coast and Central.”
“May I ask why?”
“’Cause I’m expanding.”
Stagg laughed. Even through all that black shuck-and-jive bullshit that never made any sense to him, Stagg liked the boy. He liked that he’d called the meet, liked that he was going to ask for a larger cut, and liked that he’d crawled up from a world of shit to control his future. Stagg had been born to a manure salesman out of Carthage. Houston had come from a goddamn inner ring of hell in the Dixie Homes housing project.
“Sure you don’t want breakfast?” Stagg said. “It’s on me.”
“OK,” Houston said. “Maybe some of that French toast shit.”
“With the fruit or without?”
“All the way.”
“Figured that’s what we got.”
“Or maybe I want some of that goddamn Moon Over My Hammy,” Houston said. “But that don’t mean I’m gonna eat the whole thing. You can have your half and a few extra bites. I ain’t asking to go equal on this shit. Just give me a little of that ole Hammy and maybe some hash browns and shit and a sip of Coke.”
“I know,” Stagg said, holding up his hand, “ain’t nobody that goddamn stupid. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t in agreement.”
Houston snapped shut his menu. The waitress arrived and he told her that he just wanted pancakes and hash browns and to bring a bottle of ketchup.
“A whole bottle?”
“You know, Mr. Stagg, you ain’t at all like Bobby Campo.”
Stagg nodded. “Appreciate that, sir.”
“I never sat down at the table with Bobby Campo.”
“He made a lot of mistakes,” Stagg said. “He was reckless. A fuckup.”
Houston readjusted his rose-colored shades and grinned. Two of his teeth were gold with diamonds inlaid. He smiled some more, adjusting each watch on each wrist. “Who you got up there by the door?” Houston said. “He don’t look old enough to shave.”
Stagg sipped some coffee. Put down the mug, warmed his hands as the heat curled up to his face. “Oh, just a new friend.”
“Funny how you being all cool with the meet and greet and all that shit.”
“Me and you got a good thing going,” he said. “If someone were to try and break it up, I just want to make sure he knows he ain’t invited.”
“I think you and me gonna make a fine team,” Houston said. “Don’t let anyone fuck with my people.”
“Good to hear that, Mr. Houston,” Stagg said. “Much appreciated.”
You could just marry Ophelia Bundren and move into her house in town,” Lillie Virgil said, “or y’all could just move in together. Everyone in town knows y’all are screwing like rabbits anyway. People say you’re the first warm thing that girl has held in her hand in a good long while.”
Quinn hadn’t been inside the sheriff’s office two minutes when Lillie had walked into his office and started talking about his personal life. It usually took her at least four or five. Lillie was his chief deputy and was never really good at appropriate workplace conversation.
“I met with Stevens,” Quinn said, tossing his ball cap on the desk and taking off his ranch coat. He hung the coat by the door and sat down behind his desk, propping up his cowboy boots. “He thinks the DA may go after murder charges on both of us.”
“Hot damn.”
“Seriously, Lillie?” Quinn said. “This might go to the grand jury when they’re in session. They’re going to say I killed Leonard Chappell in cold blood. And that you shot those three men yourself.”
“Well, that would make me look pretty impressive,” Lillie said. “But how exactly do they say I killed the two other men?”
“Stevens said you brought two rifles with you,” Quinn said. “That’s the reason the bullets don’t match.”
“Sure,” Lillie said. “That’s logical. Right as we start shooting, I put down my weapon and pick up a new one. How much money exactly did we make off this little deal we masterminded?”
“Two hundred grand, give or take a few pennies.”
“Well, cut me in when you can,” Lillie said, sitting at the other side of Quinn’s desk. “I heard that new Walmart is definitely a go.”
Mary Alice gave Lillie the stink eye as she came in and laid a hot mug of coffee on Quinn’s desk. Mary Alice, who’d worked at the office for twenty years with Quinn’s uncle when he was the sheriff, seemed to have a problem with Lillie’s profanity and familiarity, all of a sudden. She looked a bit pious upon leaving the office.
“Stevens also thinks they might have a witness,” Quinn said. “Two rifles. Premeditation, to get that cash. You can find shitbirds to say anything for the right price.”
“Bring on some two-bit con saying he was squirrel-hunting in the hills,” Lillie said. “Love to hear what he says. Watch ole Sonny tear his ass up on the stand. He’s one hell of a lawyer when he’s not drinking. By the way, how’d he seem today?”
Quinn tilted his head. “Sober,” he said. “At least, while we discussed the important stuff.”
Lillie shook her head. She nodded, thinking about what he said and then grinned very wide. “But I’m right about Ophelia?” Lillie said. “You gonna move to town and let Jean and Caddy take over the farm? Hot meal. Hot bed. The coroner right there at your disposal.”
“Lillie,” Quinn said, motioning to the door. “I have work to do.”
“She’s all right, Quinn,” Lillie said. “She really is. Just because the woman embalms folks doesn’t make her an abnormal person. She’s the same as us only she’s dealing with the shit that no decent person would want to handle. I’d say she’s a stand-up person and loves the hell out of you. You can see that right off.”
Mary Alice walked to the door and peered in. “Sorry to interrupt y’all’s discussion of important matters but looks like Miss Thomas on County Road 112 had a break-in last night, says someone took her Sanyo television set and some clothing of a personal nature.”
Quinn winked at Mary Alice. Lillie scooted her butt off Quinn’s desk. She was strong and athletic, with curly light brown hair in a ponytail and wide hips and legs. She had on jeans and a SHERIFF’S OFFICE jacket today, lace-up boots, and a Glock on her hip, although as the former star of the Ole Miss Rifle Team she preferred a Winchester. If Lillie had wanted to take out every person at that airstrip last spring, she could’ve done it without much thought or effort. That’s what was going to make the DA’s argument make sense to a lot of folks.
“Why’d someone want to steal Miss Thomas’s panties?” Lillie said, walking to the door. “The woman weights nearly three hundred pounds.”
“Maybe they needed a tarp.”
“I’ll go with that theory,” Lillie said, walking from the office. “And think about what I said, Quinn. Life is all about simplification.”
• • •
Diane Tull had come back to Jericho fifteen years ago after her second marriage ended in Scottsdale, Arizona, and she found she could raise her teenage boys better back home. So she’d returned, trying to take back at least some of the crap she’d said about Tibbehah County, gritted her teeth, and started back to work at the Jericho Farm & Ranch. Her mother had run the place after she’d gotten remarried, this time to a gentle farmer named Shed Castle, whose family had owned some kind of dry goods store in Jericho since the early 1900s. Mr. Castle had died two years ago, and Diane’s mother used to come in with her to help out until her dementia meant she just put things on the wrong shelf. The Farm & Ranch was now Diane’s place, selling fishhooks, bullets, seeds, and feed every day of the year except Sundays, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.
Diane took down the sign for holiday hours but didn’t put up a new one, figuring most people should damn well know by now when she opened and closed.
She set to work separating a new order of Carhartt work pants to the right sizes on the shelves when Caddy Colson and her son, Jason, walked in the door. Jason, who was five, said hello, not really looking at her, and ran straight over to the glass case where she kept the pocket watches and knives. Since he’d been three, he’d had his eye on a huge bowie knife that he said his Uncle Quinn would love. The kid had a deep country accent, which always seemed a bit odd to Diane on account of the boy being black, or half black. Caddy had come home with him some time back after some trouble in Memphis.
“No guns, no knives,” Caddy said. “Don’t you even ask.”
Diane said hello and set down the pants. Caddy handed her a handwritten lists of things she needed to resupply The River Ministry: four bags of manure, twelve of mulch, two large bags of dog food, and one of cat food. She also planned to plant several rows of mustard and collard greens.
“When did y’all get a cat?” Diane asked.
“Showed up after the storm,” Caddy said. “Jason wanted to keep it. Quinn being Quinn, he couldn’t say no. Said we needed the help at the old house with the mice.”
“And how’s that working for you?”
“Having my place torn to shit with no insurance and then having to move in with my momma and brother into a house that was built in 1895? Not exactly heaven.”
Diane smiled and took the list behind the display counter. Jason was still enthralled with all the outdoor gear for fishing, hunting, and hiking. Quinn had told her the last time he was in that Jason may even be a better tracker at his age than Quinn had been. That was something. She’d heard Quinn Colson had been some kind of kid hero back in the day with his outdoor skills. Daniel Boone, Jr. There was a story about that, headlined Country Boy Can Survive, when he’d been lost in the woods as a kid.
Caddy was a couple years younger than her brother. Slender and fair, her blond hair recently cut boy-short. She wore a pair of Levi’s and a snug western shirt with snap buttons. No makeup and no jewelry. Still, Caddy Colson was feminine and petite, with men all over town liking to watch her walk.
Diane rang up the bill and told old Carl to get the manure and the feed and put them in back of Ms. Colson’s truck. Carl just grunted, as that seemed to be the limit of his vocabulary.
“I’ve been thinking . . .” Caddy said, writing out the check.
Diane held up her hand. She knew where this was headed.
“I want you to talk to Quinn,” Caddy said. “Something made you tell me what happened, and maybe it was the storm, or time, or pressure, or whatever, but people need to know.”
“Did I mention rubber boots are on sale this month?”
“I’m serious, Diane,” Caddy said, leaning in and whispering. “I know what it’s like. I know what it’s like to have evil in your life. If you don’t address what’s inside, it will eat away at you until you die.”
“My insides are fine,” Diane said. “I eat right, stay away from processed foods. Drink in moderation. By the way, I’m playing a set at the Southern Star with J.T. and a few other fellas. This band called Outlaw.”
“I thought it was Tull and Friends?”
“That didn’t sound as good,” Diane said. “Reminded me of a cruise ship revue or had people thinking Jethro Tull, which we’re not about.”
“You’re looking too good for the Farm & Ranch,” Caddy said.
Diane stepped back and did a little twirl. Even at fifty she’d kept herself in shape, giving up the cigarettes and the crap food, going for walks and hikes, healthy living she’d learned out west. The same place she’d developed an appreciation for good boots, turquoise, and silver. She’d become more in touch with her Cherokee side, finding out they weren’t just into worshipping trees and rocks like her daddy had said, finding out there was a lot of wisdom from her ancestors that had been kept from her. Besides, the whole western thing worked good for the cover band. When she wore feathers and turquoise against her dark skin and black hair, people still told her she looked and sounded just like Jessi Colter. And she’d always shoot back, “If only I could find my Waylon.”
Jason wandered up to the register, laying down some lures and a tub of catfish bait he’d found in back. Without a word, Caddy slid it across and paid, this time in cash. The little boy took the sack and wandered out to the concrete platform and watched as Carl loaded down an ancient F-250 that had been Quinn’s before he’d gotten that big official sheriff’s truck.
“I appreciate it, Caddy,” Diane said. “I do. But more time won’t matter. It’s been thirty-seven years.”
Caddy reached out and touched Diane’s wrist and said, “I’ve been praying for you. I told you my story. Quinn has his own. We’re all still here and tougher for it.”
“That’s the Tulls,” Diane said. “On our headstones. We know how to endure.”
“Better to live,” Caddy said, smiling as if reading Diane’s thoughts and walking out the front door, the bell above jingling shut. “Quinn’s waiting to hear from you.”
When Jason Colson returned to Jericho, the mayor offered him the key to the city. But there was a catch, as there would be with someone as slick as Ben Bartlett. He asked if Jason might put on some kind of demonstration, you know, to bring people down from Memphis and see all Tibbehah had to offer. So Jason, never being one to shy away from a dare, asked if he might line up ten Ford Pintos and build a ramp at each end to his specifications. He’d bring along his custom-built Harley XR-750, nearly identical to the one Evel Knievel rode, only instead of an American flag, this one had the Stars and Bars on the gas tanks. Bartlett only asked where and when.
They’d decided to do it on May 16th of 1977 in the center of the Tibbehah County stadium, the town welcoming back its favorite son after Jason had been gone about seven years working out in Hollywood. Most recently he’d joined up with a crazy man from Arkansas named Hal Needham, who’d brought him into a little film called Smokey and the Bandit that looked to perhaps be the biggest picture of the year. In the South at least. It bombed with the Yankees up in New York.
That Saturday morning, Jason wore a Schott Perfecto with his name embroidered on the back, jeans with kneepads, and riding boots. The jump, while tough, wasn’t as hard as some of the work he’d done with cars on Smokey or on Gator or on Billy Jack Goes to Washington. This was all about speed and timing and nerves. He had the nerves and had worked out the speed on a calculator. All the old stuntmen found it funny as hell he carried a calculator in his pocket. But he never did trust the changing wind or his math skills to protect his ass on a jump.
For the past six months, he’d been dating the actress Adrienne Barbeau, living it up in Laurel Canyon. But as much as Adrienne had to offer, she’d seemed to lose interest, and there also was this redhead back home. He’d been thinking of her ever since he’d come home the last time. That was the real reason he’d been coming back and the real reason he was going to fly over the cars that morning, pop some wheelies for the kids, and sign some autographs.
It was a hell of thing to come back and show you weren’t afraid of jack shit.
“You ready, Jason?” asked old Ben Bartlett. “I thought I might give the announcement and maybe you do a few tricks around the stadium. Just try not to burn up the end zone. We just had that resodded.”
“And you give me the key after the jump?”
Bartlett grinned like a goddamn politician. “If you make the jump.”
Who the hell says shit like “If”? Nobody said “If” to Jason Colson. Jason spit, looked up to the stands, and saw the redhead he’d been thinking about sitting there with the fat town sheriff who’d he’d just learned was her goddamn brother. A lot older brother who looked at Jason like he didn’t stand a chance.
“What’s that key open?” Jason said.
Bartlett may have been an opportunist, but he wasn’t stupid. Jason looked up at that redhead, Jean Beckett, who he’d known a good long while but never since she’d become a filled-out, curvy woman. He pointed to her and gave her the thumbs-up.
Damn, that look on her face made it all worth it as he pulled on his helmet, adjusted his elbow pads and kneepads, and gunned the engine. He did two fast laps around the stadium, popping wheelies like a barnyard rooster, and then zipped down to the line he’d calculated for the run. He’d have to hit his top speed, running full-ass-out, when he hit that ramp. But he had to be careful. Start too soon and he’d overshoot the landing. Start too late and he’d be tasting goddamn Pinto for lunch.
He hit the mark and stopped, gunning the engine and staring down the space between the Harley and the ramp. He throttled the engine, its big, guttural sound shaking him and the bike, and making him realize for a split second he’d be just flying through the damn air on a seat with wheels and nothing else but the hand of God under him.
Jason Colson was good with that, toeing into first gear and running that bike faster than a scalded cat. The last thing he heard before hitting that ramp was the crowd yelling with excitement and fear.
And then there was only the open air.
Not that it always worked out, but when Quinn was on day shift, he was usually off at 1800 hours and drinking coffee with Boom at the Southern Star by 1815. Not that Quinn didn’t enjoy decent beer and good whiskey, it was just the town sheriff couldn’t, or shouldn’t, be seen drinking in public in uniform or some might critique his judgment. Coming to the bar was more a nice way to decompress and swap some stories before heading home at dinnertime. Boom, his oldest and best friend, who’d given up the whiskey for a while now, would listen to Quinn complain about the slowness of rebuilding of his mother’s house and how privacy was something he hadn’t had since that twister had torn apart Jericho.
“But there is all that family love, that togetherness and shit,” Boom said.
“Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “All that shit.”
“Man, you just pissed ’cause you can’t get laid,” Boom said. “You mad ’cause you and Ophelia can’t walk around buck-ass naked and take care of business.”
“And what’s the matter, if that’s the case?”
“You do seem just a little frustrated.”
“How’s that coffee?” Quinn said.
“Terrible as always,” Boom said. “Why do we come here anyway?”
“Because there’s nowhere else for forty miles?”
Boom nodded and toasted him with his mug. All around them people swilled beer and whiskey, a jukebox in the corner playing Willie Nelson’s “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.”
“You hear about that Chinese restaurant coming in?” Boom said. “Some family down from Memphis. I think they’re Vietnamese but thought Chinese food would sell better. One of those buffets.”
“Hell, yeah,” Quinn said. “In Jericho, that’s some fancy grub.”
Quinn had known Boom since they were kids. They’d fished, hunted, fought, and raised hell all the way through high school until graduation, when Quinn signed up with the Army and Boom a couple years later with the Mississippi National Guard. Boom was a big, hulking black man who’d come back from Iraq with only one arm and a headful of PTSD. His water tanker had been blasted to hell and back when it hit an IED, and it had taken Boom a while to achieve what folks called the new normal. But he’d found what that meant, learning to work with a prosthetic, and even getting work tuning up the sheriff’s vehicles at the county barn, with screwdrivers as fingers.
The long-haired and long-bearded bartender, a fella named Chip, poured them both some more coffee. Except for the Skynyrd tee, he looked like an authentic mountain man.
“Damn, Quinn,” Boom said. “Why don’t y’all just move in together? Let your momma and Caddy have the farm, just find a place for you and Ophelia.”
“You know who you sound like?”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Lillie Virgil.”
“God damn it all to hell.”
The Southern Star was a long shot, narrow brick bar right off the Jericho Square, not too old since legal bars were something new to Tibbehah County. The bar ran along the left side of the room, the walls decorated with stuffed ducks, deer heads, and SEC and NASCAR memorabilia. A framed rebel flag adorned the wall in back of the bar, behind all the whiskey bottles. But Quinn’s favorite thing in the Southern Star was that crazy stuffed wildcat, hissing and reared back, ready to bite. It was indigenous to Tibbehah County and the high school mascot.
There was a stage at the far end of the bar where J.T., the local muffler man, was plugging in his bass to the motherboard, and a drummer Quinn didn’t know was setting up his kit. He turned to the door and saw Diane Tull walking in, proud and strong, holding a battered guitar case, wearing black jeans and a low-cut black top, turquoise necklace, and feather earrings. She was a good deal older than Quinn but still a very attractive woman. Quinn nodded to her.
Her face flushed as she passed and set down her guitar on the stage. She seemed to pause and hang there for a few moments and then clomped back to Quinn in her pointed rose-inlay cowboy boots and came up nose to nose. “OK,” she said.
“Ma’am?”
“Caddy said we could talk.”
“She did.”
“How about now?”
Quinn nodded. He introduced Boom.
“You think I don’t know Boom Kimbrough? His daddy worked at the Farm & Ranch for twenty years before my stepdaddy died.”
“Ole Mr. Castle,” Boom said. “How’s your momma and them?”
“Doing fine,” Diane said. “Appreciate you asking. And your daddy?”
“Working security at the mall in Tupelo.”
And then there was a little bit of silence, enough silence that Boom was confident to excuse himself and say hello to J.T., who was readying the stage. Diane sat up with Quinn and motioned to Chip for two fingers of Jack Daniel’s and a Coors chaser.
“That’s pretty outlaw.”
“Helps with the nerves,” Diane said. “Whenever I have to sing, doesn’t matter if there are two people or two hundred, I get a little shaky inside. A couple drinks stokes some confidence. Makes my voice sound smoother.”
Quinn smiled, took a sip of coffee, and then checked the time. He needed to be back to the farm by 1900 to meet up with Ophelia and have dinner with the family.
“I really don’t know very much,” Quinn said. “Caddy said it would have to come from you.”
“I think,” Diane said, pushing back her black hair with her fingers, one silver streak hanging loose. “I think. Hell, I don’t know. I don’t know where to begin. You ever think something is as important in the dark of the night and then you wake up and find yourself trying to get some meaning out of it?”
“I do.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said. “You bet.”
“Please don’t call me ma’am,” Diane said, leaning into the bar. “Makes me feel old as hell.”
“Miss Tull?”
“Shit . . .”
“Diane?”
“Better.”
“And so Caddy says you and me need to talk.”
“That all she said?”
“Yep.”
Chip laid down the whiskey and the beer. Diane threw it back and chased it with the Coors. She took another sip and stayed there all silent as J.T. hit some runs on his bass, the unknown drummer banging his kit, testing things for the show. Diane Tull’s guitar set still in the case, waiting for her to come up and lead them through that Outlaw Country set, talking about raising hell, drinking, heartache, and love with such an absolute truth that Quinn wished he could stay for a while.
“Me and you haven’t spoken that much,” Diane said.
Quinn nodded.
“But you know who I am?”
Quinn nodded, studied her face a bit, and waited.
“I don’t mean me the crazy lady at the feed store but the me you know for what happened when I was a teenager?”
Quinn took a breath. He slowly nodded.
“I never wanted to bring that up again.”
“I understand.”
“But all of this, what happened to the town, and other things that have come to light, have made me want to talk about it,” Diane said. “Now I don’t give a shit what you do. I don’t care if you file a report or investigate or whatever it is you do. I just want to tell the sheriff, someone different than those men I told—no offense because I know Hamp Beckett was your uncle—but just to make sure there’s some kind of memory, facts, to what Lori and I went through that night. It should be remembered.”
“Lori was the girl who was murdered?”
Diane nodded. She breathed, licked her lips, and swallowed.
“I don’t want to talk about it now . . . or here,” she said. “Can I come by the sheriff’s office tomorrow? I can take you out and show you where it happened. You know it’s your sister who wants me to do this.”
“Caddy has her way.”
“Caddy gives me a shit ton of strength,” Diane said. “What she did, taking on things after that tornado, helping out so many, despite her personal grief. Caddy Colson is my hero.”
“Mine, too,” Quinn said. “She’s got a tough streak. I’m proud of her.”
“Come by tomorrow?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Appreciate you, Sheriff,” Diane said. “But if you call me ma’am again, I’ll try and break your fingers.”
Diane Tull marched up to the stage and within five minutes, as Boom and Quinn were leaving the Southern Star, she launched into an old favorite called “The Healing Hands of Time.”
• • •
Johnny Stagg ran most of Tibbehah County from a sprawling truck stop off Highway 45, not far from Tupelo, called the Rebel. The Rebel had a restaurant, a western-wear shop, convenience store, and place for truckers to shower, get some rest, and continue on to Atlanta or Oklahoma City or parts unknown. Lots of truckers made it the stop of choice in north Mississippi not only because of the fine facilities and the famous chicken-fried steak, but because of a smaller establishment behind the Rebel, also owned by Johnny Stagg, a concrete-bunker strip club called the Booby Trap. Tonight Stagg had on eight of his finest young girls, ranging in age from eighteen to forty-two, working the pole in spinning colored light to rap music that Johnny didn’t understand or care to understand. But Johnny would’ve played “God Bless America” if it made the girls get their asses off the couches and shake their tails two inches from those bone-tired truckers.
Stagg had dinner at the Rebel with Ringold, as was his nightly custom, and walked over to the Booby Trap, toothpick swiveling in mouth, where he kept his real office, not the one for the Rotarians or his constituents from the Tibbehah County Board of Supervisors. This office, away from the bar and the stage, and down a long hallway of ten-inch-thick concrete blocks and rebar, was where he kept a safe full of cash from running drugs and whores all over north Mississippi and Memphis.
“Yes, sir?” Stagg said, walking into the office, finding the man from Jackson sitting and waiting. Ringold nodded and closed the door behind him.
“Heard you been in Memphis,” the man said. “So I waited.”
Stagg didn’t answer.
“I don’t know how you do it,” said the man, looking strange out of his stiff blue uniform for the Mississippi Highway Patrol. “Them people are animals up there. How you trust them blacks, Johnny? Good God Almighty.”
“I don’t see how my business is any concern of yours,” Stagg said, not caring one goddamn bit for the man just showing up unannounced and taking a seat in Johnny’s office. Stagg would have the ass of whoever opened his door up for the man and led him back. The man should’ve sat out in the titty bar like any professional, enjoying the jiggle, while Johnny finished up his pecan pie à la mode.
The Trooper smiled, black eyes flicking over Johnny’s face, waiting, just knowing that Johnny was curious as hell why he’d come.
“He’s getting out in a few weeks,” he said. “That’s official from the parole board.”
Stagg leaned forward over his desk. “You sure?”
“It’s a goddamn done deal,” the Trooper said. “Figured you’d want to know straight off. But if you don’t give a shit, hell, I won’t bother you again.”
The Trooper stood.
Stagg made a motion with his hand for him to sit his ass back down. Stagg looked up to Ringold, who raised his eyebrows and leaned against the wall. Ringold smiling a bit because he knew the possibility of this piece of shit getting out of prison had been one of the reasons he’d been hired.
When Ringold removed his jacket, you could see the man’s brightly colored tattoos running the length of both arms. Stagg believed the daggers and skulls represented kills he’d made in and out of the service.
“But Johnny,” the Trooper said. “Just ’cause the man’s getting out doesn’t mean he’s coming straight to Tibbehah County. That bastard is sixty-fucking-six years old. He probably just wants to go and live a quiet life somewhere. I think you’re putting too much thought into the past, buddy.”
