The Sinners

by Ace Atkins

  “Damn,” Kenny said, watching the man scooting closer and closer down the highway’s white line. “That boy’s higher than a giraffe’s pussy . . . He really bite you, Reggie?”

  “Y’all watch your ass,” Quinn said. “But try not to hurt him. It’s gonna take six months to get a psych eval at the county jail.”

  The man was shirtless, shorts hanging down loose past his boxers. It was easy to tell he wasn’t armed, but you never took any chances. Quinn went for the guy, again telling him to lie down, but instead of complying, the man pushed himself into a crouch, chewing on his bloody lower lip, and tried to make a sprint for it. Quinn grabbed him by one arm and the crazed man turned for him, knocking him hard in the right eye, taking off. Kenny ran after him, tackling the man to the ground, while Reggie stood over him with a taser, letting him know either he calmed down or he was gonna light his ass up like a Christmas tree.

  Quinn felt the blood trickle down into his eye. He was more embarrassed than pissed, as he pressed the flat of his hand to the wound and made his way to where his deputies surrounded the man. The guy looked like a cornered dog, hissing and chomping his teeth, making a few more high-pitched MJ sounds, playing some kind of wild movie in his head that only he could see. Up in Memphis, they’d send an emergency response team to help out. In Tibbehah, it was up to him and his two deputies to clear the damn road and lock this man up for his own good and the good of the community.

  “Hold it,” Reggie said, aiming his taser. “Don’t you move. Don’t you dare move.”

  The man turned and spit at Reggie and then broke into another sprint. Reggie fired his taser and hit the man square in the back, the click, click, zap sound sending fifty thousand volts into him.

  The man kept on walking, impervious to the zaps. Quinn wiped the blood from his brow and shook his head.

  “Dang,” someone said from the roadside. “That man don’t give two fucks.”

  Reggie followed the man, wires hanging from his bare back, Reggie trailing the way you take a dog for a walk. Reggie kept on telling him to comply as Kenny ran up after him with his hand on his holstered pistol. He looked back to Quinn, obviously a little thrown that Quinn could actually bleed, and tried to grab the walking man by the arm. The man turned and pushed Kenny to the ground, Reggie jumping onto the man’s back and wrapping his forearm around his throat. The man just kept on walking, whistling, and hooting, the few people on the side of the road laughing and taking video. Quinn knew none of this was gonna look good out on social media.

  You don’t shoot a head case. You don’t beat one up. But the man sure didn’t mind being tasered, and whatever shit he was on seemed to give him lots of strength and no pain. The three of them could take him down with some rough moves, but Quinn didn’t want that. This guy wasn’t resisting arrest. He was just flying high. They just needed a way to hold his crazy ass down long enough to cuff him.

  Down the road, he saw Dave Cullison hold up his hand to stop a big red Dodge Ram. Dave was leaning into the window to explain something to the driver. Quinn saw the truck door swing open and big Chucky Crenshaw crawl out. Quinn hadn’t seen Chucky’s new truck, but the vehicle had to have a hell of a suspension to handle the added weight. At best guesstimate, Chucky was pushing the hell out of four hundred pounds, making Kenny look downright svelte. His big belly stretched his MISSISSIPPI STATE T-shirt for all it was worth, the trucker hat on his head looking like it belonged to a doll.

  “What you got there, Sheriff?” Chucky said, yelling over Dave’s shoulder. “Y’all need some help?”

  Quinn looked at his two deputies trying to subdue the crazed man. He was still walking, moving ahead, with Kenny following, zapping him a second time. While Reggie yelled for him to get down and stay down, Quinn turned back to the big man standing by his idling red truck.

  “You know what, Chucky?” Quinn said. “You just might be the right man for the job.”

  3

  Maggie Powers checked out the cut above Quinn’s right eye with a flashlight. She had a soft touch as she moved his face from side to side, her fingers long and narrow in the latex gloves. “Jesus,” she said. “You’re gonna look like hell in the wedding pictures.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?” he said. “Aren’t you worried about all the blood on my face and shirt?”

  “Nope,” she said. “Not a bit. Let’s get that wound cleaned and that eye sewn up. You think you can handle the prick of a little needle?”

  “I’ll try not to cry.”

  Maggie pressed some gauze to his cut and began to flush it with some saline. He smiled at her as she worked under the harsh hospital lights. It was hard not to smile at Maggie Powers. She had the most wonderful face, pale green eyes, a strong but delicate jaw, and a smallish, imperfect nose that she’d broken playing softball in high school. Her skin was fair, almost milky, but in the summer turned a reddish gold color, with freckles sprinkled across her nose, cheeks, and forehead. She hated those freckles and always tried to cover them up, saying she looked like a goddamn spotted cat. But Quinn loved them. The green eyes, the busted nose, and that mess of freckles hit him just right.

  “Why are you giving me that goofy look?” she said. “Did you already take some painkillers before I saw you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Damn you,” she said. “Quit smiling and let me work. Are you sure you’re not feeling dizzy? Do I need to check you for a concussion?”

  “I’ve had lots of concussions,” he said. “This is just a cut. There’s three of you, right?”

  She pricked him with the needle again to numb the skin and then started to sew up the wound. As she worked, Quinn reached around and placed his arm around her waist. Her scrubs were a black print with little panels from comic books. Wonder Woman, Supergirl, Batgirl. GIRL POWER written in a big white bubble. Quinn’s hands moved off her waist and down onto her butt. It was tight and high under her scrubs, and he squeezed it a little.

  “I swear to Christ,” she said. “I’ll poke you right in the eye. Don’t you ever stop? This morning in bed and then later in the shower?”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “Hold still,” she said. “Don’t grab my ass at work and I won’t grab yours at the sheriff’s office.”

  “You know I wouldn’t mind.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes but grinned. “Yeah,” she said. “You would. What the hell happened?”

  “We had this fella under the influence walking down the center of Jericho Road,” Quinn said. “He could not, and would not, be subdued. Reggie tased him twice and it only seemed to make him madder and stronger. He was yelling and screaming, making sounds like Michael Jackson.”

  “Come on,” Maggie said. “Michael Jackson?”

  “Yep,” Quinn said. “He also let us know that he was the Second Coming of Christ and that we all needed to repent. We figured that’s why he was crab-walking down to Jericho, scooting his butt down the center line.”

  “And he hit you?”

  “I don’t know if he meant to,” Quinn said. “It was my own damn fault. I should have been more careful. The son of a bitch was strong. You can’t beat up a crazy man. You do your best to restrain him and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself or you.”

  “How’d y’all finally get him down?” Maggie said, tossing away the bloody gauze and the syringe.

  Quinn smiled. “You know Chucky Crenshaw?”

  “Big Chucky?” Maggie said. “He’s kinda hard to miss.”

  “Well, he rolled up on the scene and offered his assistance,” Quinn said.

  “So he gave y’all an extra hand?”

  “He gave us an extra-big ass,” Quinn said. “Reggie and I finally got the man facedown on the roadside. Chucky walked on over and sat on this crazy SOB until we could get him cuffed and transported.”

  “That’s some sharp police work
there, Sheriff.”

  “Yep,” Quinn said. “Thank the Lord for Chucky’s momma’s fine cooking.”

  Maggie smiled and stepped back, crossing her arms over her smallish chest as she checked out her handiwork. She nodded, which Quinn took to be a damn good sign. “You know I don’t cook,” Maggie said.

  “I do.”

  “And I don’t care for that ‘honor and obey’ shit in the vows.”

  “Reverend White told me she doesn’t go for that part, either.”

  “Most of this town has an issue about how we met,” Maggie said. “Lots of talk about my former husband and your wanting him to stay in jail.”

  “It’s tough not having hard feelings for a man who blew up my favorite pickup truck with an RPG,” Quinn said. “I loved the Big Green Machine.”

  “He nearly blew you up.”

  “And now his ass is in Parchman and his ex-wife is in my bed.”

  “I hope I’m more than a nice piece of tail.”

  “You’re a nice piece of tail I’ve known since I was ten years old,” Quinn said. “I love you and I love your son. I can’t wait for both of you to be part of the Colson family. Although, full disclosure, the Colson family is bat-shit crazy.”

  “Funny,” she said. “I keep hearing that. But I don’t see it.”

  “Stick around.”

  “We’ve been together a year now,” she said. “I know what I’m getting into.”

  “Always time to back out,” Quinn said.

  “You’re stuck with me, Ranger.”

  * * *

  • • •

  L. Q. Smith was a shit talker of the first order. Boom hadn’t been back at the Sutpen Trucking docks two minutes when Smith came ambling out from the back office with a phony smile on his face, offering a pat on the back for doing another fine job. As with most folks, Smith was a few inches shorter than Boom. He had stooped shoulders, longish brown hair, and a droopy cowboy mustache. His face was pockmarked with acne scars and he had a voice like he’d once gargled with broken glass.

  “You’re doing real fine, Mr. Kimbrough,” he said. “Come on back and let me get you paid.”

  Boom nodded, holding his logbook in his good hand, heading onto the trucking company docks, not looking back once at the load of electronics he’d picked up in Amarillo and not saying shit about it. Smith knew what he’d been carrying, and if Boom had done wrong, or picked up the wrong load, he’d damn well mention it. But instead, he just headed through the maze of folks working in little cubicles and back into his glass office. He reached into his desk and handed Boom an envelope.

  When Boom held on to it and sliced it open with his hook, he found a check that was five hundred dollars more than he expected.

  “I hadn’t even turned in my receipts yet.”

  “We know where you been,” L. Q. Smith said. “We know the fuel costs on the GPS. One thing that we don’t fuck around with is getting our boys paid.”

  “Appreciate that,” Boom said.

  They headed back outside to the docks, where five more trucks were being unloaded. Smith pulled out a pack of American Spirits and plugged one in the corner of his mouth. He fired it up with a Bic, cupping his hand around the flame even though there wasn’t a speck of wind.

  “Jerry Colson told me that we’d get along fine,” he said. “Said you’re in real tight with his family. And if there’s anyone in this world I trust, that’d be Jerry Colson. He’s been trucking since CB radios and Billy Beer were cool. That boy used to wear the biggest gosh dang belt buckle ever seen. Indian silver with turquoise and bigger than a dinner plate. He still have it?”

  Boom shrugged, placing the check in the front pocket of his old shirt.

  “I never for a second doubted you could run that rig,” Smith said, flicking a long ash with his middle finger. “Jerry told me about your arm. But also told me about your experience working on engines and running trucks over in Iraq. I thought, if that ole boy can stomach folks shooting at him over there in that sandbox, he sure can handle a chicken run from Picayune to Eupora. Except for the smell. Son of a bitch, chickens smell to high heaven. Did you know those farmers snip off their beaks so they won’t fight? Cut down them claws, too. No wonder those chickens are so damn mad.”

  “Appreciate you giving me a chance, Mr. Smith.”

  “I don’t care what’s wrong with you or what color you is,” Smith said, letting some smoke out his nose. “All I care is that you can do the gosh dang job. You done good on that run. Go on, get yourself showered and rested up, and I’ll have something for you Monday.”

  Boom nodded, watching the Mexicans in coveralls working fast on that dock, nearly unloading the whole trailer in the time it took to kill a cigarette. Smith noticed Boom watching the load and caught his eye, giving him a knowing wink. And Boom knew then that’s how it all went down. You drive twenty-four hours, nearly a thousand miles, with your ass on the line and you get the wink and a little something extra in your stocking. He wasn’t about to argue. Boom needed the work.

  He shook L. Q. Smith’s hand and headed back to the parking lot, where he’d left his old GMC truck. He’d planned to meet Quinn for a catfish fry at the VFW and maybe down a beer or two before getting some sleep. Quinn still worried every time Boom touched alcohol, not sure if he was going to go full-tilt drunk like he’d done when Quinn came home the first time. Back then, it had been a long path of clear liquor and weed. Damn glad none of that had gone on his permanent record or he’d have never found good work outside Jericho.

  Boom opened the door of his pickup and tossed his road gear inside. He was thinking about a warm shower and shave when he spotted the electric-blue muscle car cutting across the lot.

  Damn if it didn’t look just like that galaxy-blue Nova that Ordeen Davis had inherited from his friend Nito Reece. As it slowed, Boom spotted that HERE KITTY, KITTY license tag and saw Ordeen crawl out from the behind the wheel. He’d known Ordeen since that boy was born. Boom’s daddy was a deacon at the church where Ordeen’s momma was the pastor. Even coached the kid some when he was playing football at Tibbehah High.

  Boom called out to Ordeen. The kid looked behind him and then back at Boom as if he might’ve been calling to someone else. But since no one else was in the lot, Ordeen knew he was caught and he strutted, cocky and cool, over to Boom’s truck. Boom slapped Ordeen’s hand back and forth and pounded his fist. Kid had a Grizz jersey over a white T-shirt, worn long over his shorts and down to his knees.

  “What up?” Boom said. “Thought you still working over at the titty bar.”

  “Yeah,” Ordeen said. “Just had to make a pickup for Miss Hathcock. Some new rubbers machines for the bathrooms. French ticklers, horny goat weed, and all that shit.”

  Boom nodded. Ordeen not looking him in the eye, not wanting to get into why he won’t get his ass straight and get away from Vienna’s Place. There’d been a time when Boom thought that boy would go straight D1. But Ordeen hadn’t grown those extra two inches his junior and senior years and never could get faster than a four-eight forty. Two years back, his old friend Nito almost got both their asses thrown in jail. Ordeen broke free and got with Fannie. Nito got his ass killed.

  “See you at church tomorrow?” Boom said, sliding it right in there, both of them knowing everything was about Ordeen getting right.

  “I’ll be at church,” Ordeen said. “It bein’ Homecoming and all. Momma said it’s gonna be a throwback service. She wants folks to dress up like it was a hundred years ago. I don’t know about all that mess. I don’t think I want to step back a hundred years. Not a good place for a black man.”

  “It’s Tibbehah County,” Boom said, grinning. “Not much has changed.”

  Boom, leaning on the door, watched Ordeen head on up the ramp at Sutpen Trucking to talk to a couple guys working the docks. He hung there for a moment until Ordeen turned back
his way and noticed him watching. Boom didn’t say a word, just got into his truck and headed on back to Jericho.

  He figured he needed just to do his own thing and tend to his own damn business.

  * * *

  • • •

  Fannie Hathcock tried not to think about the shoot-out at her titty bar too much. Dwelling on the past, talking about old events, wasn’t good for business. She’d cleaned up the blood, patched up the bullet holes, and hired some new and better men to watch the door. Since she’d taken over the bar, when it had been known as the Booby Trap, she’d had some nasty-ass bikers keep order. It’d been a fine and decent agreement until a couple U.S. Marines with a headful of snakes busted in the door, started shooting up the place, and ran off with every nickel in her safe, before they got caught.

  They pretty much wiped out the entire Jericho chapter of the Born Losers MC. The only son of a bitch left, her buddy Lyle, aka Wrong Way, had shagged ass down into Lafayette, Louisiana, with rumors he’d kept on riding clear over to Yuma, Arizona, before he finally returned to Memphis. They’d shot four of his buddies dead, even shooting her damn DJ in the head. Who the hell shoots a DJ?

  Fannie sat at the bar that afternoon, watching the last of the lunch crowd leave Vienna’s Place, picking all those free chicken fingers from their rotten teeth. Sometimes she didn’t know why she put up with this shit. She fired up a cigarillo with a gold Dunhill lighter. Neon beer signs and stage lights dimly lit the big, cavernous space, where two girls twirled around their brass poles to Taylor Swift’s “Ready for It?”

  “Miss Fannie?” Ordeen Davis asked. He was a good kid, not more than twenty years old, in his red VIENNA’S PLACE tee, long cornrows shining in the neon light. “I took care of that business in Tupelo, got you set up out back. Is that it?”