The Sinners

by Ace Atkins

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Nice place?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘nice,’” he said. “But it’s home. Don’t plan on ever leaving, but I sure do like getting out, driving, seeing the country. When I’m home, I like where I’m at. Got a nice place on my family land, smack-dab in the middle of some cotton fields. A little old house where my granddaddy was born. And no neighbors. I don’t care to hear my neighbor’s toilet flush.”

  “Sounds good to me,” she said. “All that space and quiet.”

  Boom nodded. It was early morning in the port, the sounds of trucks and barges already clanging to life. Folks getting out, in a hurry to make it to somewhere else. Boom checked the clock on the dashboard. He didn’t have long to get that trailer and get on the road.

  “I have a boyfriend,” the woman said, blurting it out fast.

  “That’s OK.”

  “It’s not OK,” she said. “I shouldn’t’ve come. He’s a nice guy. Comes from a nice family that works with my family. If my father knew where I’d been, I think he might shoot me.”

  “That why you come?” Boom said. “Piss off your boyfriend?”

  “He’ll never know.” The woman reached out with her little hand and touched his bearded chin. “You have such interesting eyes. So dark and sad. I could tell you’ve seen a lot.”

  “I’m not sad.”

  “Lonely?”

  “Not now,” Boom said, smiling. “Not this morning. I got cold food, hot coffee, and some companionship.”

  Boom sat next to her as she felt for the mass of scars where his elbow had once been. He turned and reached for his prosthesis on the bed and fitted it back over the old wound.

  “When do you leave?”

  “Soon.”

  “I can’t see you again,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Like, ever.”

  Boom nodded. She stood up, stripped out of the T-shirt, and tossed it into his lap. She only had on a pair of little white panties and ankle socks, reaching for her jean shorts and pink tank top she’d had on a few hours before. He didn’t move, watching her find her purse, head up into the cab and check her face in a little compact mirror. She kissed him hard on the mouth and, without another word, left the cab.

  Boom sat in the bunk for a few moments, taking long breaths, before drinking the rest of his coffee and moving back into the driver’s seat. He cranked the ignition, turned on the air hoses, and checked his GPS. He’d start the clock as soon as he hooked up the load. Once that clock started running, you couldn’t stop it. He knocked the transmission into first and lurched forward, starting the half-mile trip to the distribution center, feeling light and off-balance without a trailer behind him.

  He’d dropped his trailer last night and was told to pick up a new one. This time he’d be hauling cars and trucks back to Tupelo, lots of old classics to be sold at auction. Two Mexican men waited for him outside the trailer, looking out of place on the docks in black rodeo shirts and hats. One of them had on sunglasses and neither of them acted like they understood English when Boom tried to make small talk as he hooked up the fifth wheel and the air and electrical lines.

  “Nice-looking rides,” Boom said.

  Neither one of them smiled. A man in coveralls walked out on the docks, caught sight of the two men, and ducked back in the warehouse.

  “You boys don’t understand jack shit of what I’m saying.”

  They just stared at him.

  “Probably put some real bad shit in those vehicles,” Boom said, grinning. “And got some dumb-ass nigger to run it over two more states.”

  One of the men smiled back. The man in the sunglasses just stared at Boom.

  “Just call me the Black Dog.”

  “Perro negro?” the grinning man said.

  “Goddamn right.”

  Boom climbed up into the cab and turned over the engine. If he got back over state lines and back to Tupelo, this would be the last goddamn time.

  9

  “Sure you don’t want to step inside, Sheriff?” Fannie said, standing with Quinn in the Vienna’s Place parking lot, heat waves rising off the busted asphalt. “Folks might start to talk with Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty mingling on the highway. We’ve got air-conditioning, cold beer, chicken wings, and nekkid women.”

  “Ordeen Davis work for you?”

  “He sure does,” Fannie said, tilting her head and smiling as they stood in front of his truck. “What’s the matter? Did that boy get himself in some trouble again? I thought all that mess was behind him when you shot Nito Reece. That kid was bad news, had a head full of snakes. You did good, Sheriff. I never doubted what you did for one minute. True red-blooded American male establishing that law and order.”

  “What exactly does Ordeen do?” Quinn said. “Miss Hathcock.”

  “Work at Vienna’s Place doesn’t exactly come with a job title,” she said, cheeks growing hollow as she inhaled smoke from a long brown cigarillo. “He works the door, tends bar, takes out the trash, cooks, cleans, busts heads when the moment calls for it.”

  “And when did you see him last?”

  “Damn, Sheriff,” she said. “You’re coming with a whole truckload of questions.” Fannie threw her head back like a 1940s movie star, maybe Rita Hayworth or a pissed-off Maureen O’Hara, and squinted into the midday sun behind Quinn’s head. Quinn had been waiting for a long while when she’d stepped out of her white Lexus, the woman seeming surprised to see him and wanting to get out of the heat and harsh light real quick.

  “I appreciate all your concern for Ordeen, doll,” Fannie said. “But, Jesus Christ, you got to tell me just what that boy has done. I mean, do I need to help him or fire his ass? You know how much I like to stay in the good graces of the elected officials of Tibbehah County. I really do believe that me and that old fossil Skinner could be good friends if he’d just relax a little bit. Have a drink. Have a smoke. Maybe get laid if that ole pecker of his still works.”

  “How about in the last week,” Quinn said. “Did you see Ordeen then?”

  “I’m not really sure,” she said. “And I’m not a big fan of the way you’re asking.”

  “Ma’am,” Quinn said. “I’ve been waiting for you for nearly three hours. None of your people inside seemed to know where you’d gone or can recall seeing Ordeen in the last few days. I was hoping we could talk here instead of driving you over to the sheriff’s office.”

  Fannie touched the center part of her chest with her long red nails, left arm dangling loose with the cigarillo. She stared at Quinn a long moment. He had his hands on his hips and stared right back. Fannie Hathcock was a good decade older than him but not unattractive, standing there with her silk top clinging to her skin, red hair pulled up high above her head to expose a long, elegant neck.

  “I don’t know where that boy’s gone,” Fannie said. “He ran some errands for me last Saturday. I expected him to help shut down the club at midnight. The kid never showed. But I got to be honest, I’m surprised he stuck around Jericho this long. I think he’s got a lot bigger aspirations than pouring out Jäger shots for drunk kids from Ole Miss or kicking some old coot in the ass for trying to titty-fuck one of my girls.”

  “Did y’all leave on good terms?

  “Of course,” she said. “He was a good boy. Good to his momma. He called her every night before he got off work to see if she needed anything from the Piggly Wiggly. Did you know she was a preacher?”

  “I just left their home,” Quinn said. “She’s in the care of a local doctor and getting some support from people at her church.”

  Quinn watched Fannie pull on her little brown cigarillo, exhale some smoke, and widen her big eyes. Perfect hair and makeup. Standing outside, she’d nearly sweated out of her white silk top, the moist material clinging to her chest. She picked at it, popping it off her breasts, th
e makeup beginning to soften around her face.

  “He’s dead,” Quinn said.

  “Christ Almighty,” Fannie said, taking in a long breath, putting a hand to her throat. “Why didn’t you just start with that part of the story? Jesus God. What happened?”

  “Hoped you might tell me,” Quinn said. “Ordeen’s momma said he spent all of his waking hours at Vienna’s or over at the Rebel. Said you had him on speed dial, calling him up all hours at night to do all kinds of odd jobs for you.”

  “That was Ordeen,” she said. “A jack-of-all-fucking-trades. Fixing things. Running errands.”

  Quinn nodded. He had a little spiral notebook out of his pocket now, writing down a few things to put in the report, still planning to pull her in a little later. But he’d wanted to catch her as fast as he could, get her talking nice and conversational before she had an idea about cooking up some more stories. Whatever had happened started right here at Vienna’s.

  “What time did he get to work on Saturday?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “About noon. I guess.”

  “And that was the last time you talked to him?”

  “No,” she said. “He made a run over to Tupelo for some supplies for the club and picked up a few things for the girls. I saw him when he got back.”

  “Did he leave with anything that maybe didn’t belong to him?”

  “If you’re thinking that maybe he skipped out with some of my cash, you know I’ve been blamed for that kind of crap before.”

  Quinn nodded, knowing she was talking about that girl Milly Jones who’d been lit on fire while still alive. The girl had danced at the club, but her death didn’t have a damn thing to do with the Hathcock woman, although Quinn sure had liked her for it. Now she probably thought Quinn and the sheriff’s office owed her a pass when another employee was found dead.

  “This is a tough business,” Fannie said. “I’m sure you understand we don’t recruit a lot of Sunday school teachers and the local Jaycees to work here. People end up working for me because they don’t exactly have a dynamite résumé. Can they bust heads? Can they shake their little shaved tails? That’s all I need to know. I make money. They make money. What they do on their own time is their goddamn problem. If they want to suck it all up their nose or try and run with the big dogs, that’s all about them. Don’t try and push that shit off on me.”

  “Was Ordeen trying to run with the big dogs?”

  “Goddamn it, Sheriff,” she said. “You sure as hell don’t stop. Do you know it’s only about ninety-eight fucking degrees out here? I’ve already sweated a bucket talking to you out on this blacktop. Can we at least step inside where I can be treated like a law-abiding white woman?”

  “Someone killed Ordeen Davis and shoved his body into a toolbox,” he said. “They dropped him into the Big Black River. If it hadn’t rained so much last week, I don’t think we’d have ever found him.”

  Fannie’s pale face seemed even more drained of color as she flicked her cigarillo onto the parking lot, mouth parting a bit as she took a long breath. “How’d he die?”

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said. “His body’s with Ophelia Bundren for the autopsy.”

  “You don’t know?” she said. “Was he shot? Stabbed? Did someone beat the tar out of him?”

  Quinn didn’t answer or react, just kept staring at Fannie. She flared her nostrils, giving Quinn a hard-as-hell look, a thousand-dollar purse thrown over her shoulder and hands on her wide hips. She wet her lips and swallowed. “Do I need a goddamn lawyer?” she said. “Or are you gonna play fair?”

  “OK,” Quinn said. “Just tell me what you know about Ordeen.”

  “He’s a nice kid,” Fannie said. “I like him. But he was just an employee who did grunt work for me. How much do you know about your garbage man? Do y’all exchange fucking Christmas cards?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Quinn said. “His name is Timmy Ray Crawford. Goes to the church my sister runs and takes up the collection plate on Sunday.”

  She smiled with full red lips, her white teeth perfectly straight. She smelled good, like expensive perfume and nice clothes. No matter what folks said about her, Fannie Hathcock had the look and smell of the inside of a Memphis department store.

  “You know, I sure miss Lillie Virgil,” Fannie said. “Goddamn. She was just colorful as hell.”

  “I’d like to see Ordeen’s personnel records, pay stubs, any video from the last few days he was alive.”

  “You ask a lot of a working woman,” she said. “You do know tonight is Friday? I got two fraternity parties bussing in from Ole Miss. And a crew of doctors fishing for bass and crappie down on Choctaw Lake. They’re expecting a real special night.”

  “I’m not leaving until I get what I need.”

  “How about we head inside, Matt Dillon?” Fannie asked. “It’s burning up out here. And I promise my girls don’t bite.”

  Quinn nodded and followed her toward the front door. It was red with a glass window up top that had been cut in a diamond shape. “Did I hear correct that you’re a soon to be married man?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, congratulations,” she said. “You do know we specialize in bachelor parties? My girls would be tickled to give you a ride or two.”

  * * *

  • • •

  After being gone from society, the real fucking world, for twenty-three years, a trip to the local Walmart was like a gift from heaven above. Any goddamn thing you could think of was right in front of Heath Pritchard, there for the taking, with all the cash his nephews Huey and Louie had saved up by improving and building upon the Pritchard empire. He snatched up a couple bags of Oreos, realizing how many different damn kinds they made now: small ones, big ones, mint, hazelnut, red velvet, peanut butter, and even birthday cake.

  “When the hell did they start making all these flavors?” Heath said. “These cookies sure would taste good going down, but, man, it would make you shit a fucking rainbow.”

  “Lots has changed,” Cody said, pushing the cart, leaning into it with his forearms, his back hunched. “You need to get used to it.”

  “You know the strangest thing I’ve felt since getting out?”

  “No, sir,” Cody said, that buggy moving slow and easy. “But I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

  “No need for you to be a fucking smartass,” he said. “I’m the only family you boys got. Without me, no land, no weed, no goddamn money.”

  His nephew just lolled his big cow eyes over him, Heath just waiting for him to bring up that he’d killed that goddamn nigger and made a mess in their race car garage. But Cody didn’t say nothing, just kept rolling on past the peanut butter and candy bars, Rice Krispie Treats premade and all ready for on-the-go snacking.

  “Toilet paper,” Heath said. “Too damn soft. Feels like I’m rubbing my ass on a cloud. Kind of miss that old hard stuff at Parchman. That paper could take the finish off a Buick.”

  He stopped to examine a box of Rice Krispie Treats, those fucking elves or fairies a-pickin’ and a-grinnin’ on the box. Snap, Crackle, and Damn Pop! Maybe they’d had that shit before he got busted, but he’d been so high most of the time he didn’t notice. Besides, Tyler and Cody’s momma sure could cook. He’d smoke up a mountain of that Pritchard weed, roll up his sleeves, and dig into the cookie sheet of whatever she’d baked up. She was a fine woman. Hard to know she’d smoked her goddamn brains out with that meth. That shit’ll kill you.

  A fat woman with giant ham-sized jiggly arms stared back at him and put a bucket of ice cream back in the freezer, scooting on away with her fat little child up in the buggy seat. Heath wanted to say, “Go on and git. Ain’t no way you need to shove that Moose Tracks down your craw anyway.” Not that Heath was down on fat women. He’d done rode a lot of them in his time when pickins were slim.

  �
��How about some of them Tombstone pepperoni pizzas?” Heath asked. “And maybe a gallon or two of peach ice cream? Also could use me some more clothes. I don’t want you to take no offense, but I’m getting tired of wearing your drawers. I kind of like to have some of my own underthings. Maybe some new blue jeans and undershirts.”

  “And a toothbrush,” Cody said. “Some deodorant, too.”

  “That’s all right, boy,” he said, grinning, loving watching Cody’s face when he saw those old yellowed teeth. “I been using yours all week. Used your damn washrag on my ass, too. I’m as clean as a tomcat’s peter.”

  They wandered on over to the men’s clothes and Heath found some stiff blue Wranglers, a pack of Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities, and a pair of decent shit-kicking boots. As he tossed the boots into the buggy, he took off his shirt and slipped into a black tank top that showed a bald eagle wearing shades and a U.S. flag for a do-rag that read ’MERICA. Nobody even looked as he ripped the tags off from the neck and just kept on moving.

  “Good to be out of the g.d. house,” he said. “Tired of drinking beer with Tyler sitting there watching that show with nekkid folks trying to live out in the woods. Why’s he watch that shit?”

  “It’s called Naked and Afraid,” Cody said. “It’s supposed to teach you about survival.”

  “That’s bullshit,” he said. “That ain’t survival. Your brother is sitting there with a hard-on just waiting for a wild titty to flop out of that fuzz box. I been around men for long as you boys been alive. It’s all we think about. Eating and fucking. When I was y’all’s age, I would’ve stuck my pecker in a light socket. Y’all don’t have no rules or parameters in your life. No regulations or order, on account of your mom running off. Men got to have something to work with. Y’all sitting up all night long smoking weed, eating ice cream, and playing with those toy cars. It’s like y’all gone wild, back to nature. Damn Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, if them boys stuffed some weed into their corncob pipe.”

  “Can we go now?” Cody said. “I got my food. You got your supplies.”