The Sinners

by Ace Atkins

  Tyler nodded, knocking back his second shot. Heath loomed over the table, his right eye twitching a little, Tyler not sure it was from the harsh light or he was having some kind of brain fart. He reached across the table and drank right from the bottle.

  “I bet Marquis Sledge asked about me this time,” he said. “Didn’t he? Recalled some of that shit we got into back in the day.”

  Tyler shook his head, Cody lighting up the joint and taking a big puff. He pulled it in and let it back out slow, not doing that thing some folks do, try to hold it in for as long as they can. That didn’t give you no more of a high than just smoking that weed normal.

  “Let me see the money,” Heath said. “Where’s the g.d. money?”

  Tyler lifted his eyes to Cody, giving a little shake of the head. Cody didn’t react, taking one more slow draw on that weed, his eyes growing red and soft. Relaxed as hell.

  “Don’t you tell me you handed over a truck filled with enough pills to fuck up a whole damn Kool Moe Dee concert and not get paid,” Heath said, yelling now, spit flying off his thin little lips. “Goddamn it, boys. Thought I raised you two better ’an that.”

  “How you figure you raised us?” Cody said, laughing like hell, the humor of it just bubbling on up from his gut. “You been in the joint ’bout as long as we been alive. You talking about those words of wisdom you passed onto us at family day at Parchman? Them things like ‘Don’t you fuck a fat woman or your life is over.’ Or telling us all about how our real daddy was a real piece of shit and we needed to stay close to our momma, that Pritchards did for Pritchards and never trust no one else.”

  “That’s it,” Heath said. “Exactly. So where’s the damn money?”

  The money was in four different Nike duffel bags they’d buried in the compost pile behind the barn. Tyler and Cody figured the last place that son of a bitch would look would be a place where he could actually do some goddamn work. Tyler looked down at the tattoo on his right forearm, RIDE FREE OR DIE, with a damn tire skid across his skin.

  “That Hathcock woman’s got our cut,” he said, lying through his damn teeth and not feeling a bit bad about it. “We can pick it up anytime we want. Just didn’t want no trouble with the law headed on back from Memphis.”

  Uncle Heath smiled, standing there in his underwear, like he was cool with the situation until he wasn’t. Just as Tyler reached again for the Jäger, he flipped that fucking dinette set end over end, scattering the weed and liquor, tromping out of the room in his snakeskin boots. “Y’all get our money by morning or I’ll handle that damn redheaded bitch by myself.”

  The front screen door thwacked shut behind him.

  Cody hadn’t moved from his seat, joint still in his fingers. He looked at Tyler with wide eyes, serious as hell, and then, not taking it anymore, started laughing like a hyena. “Who the fuck is Kool Moe Dee?” he said. “Christ Almighty. That fucking ole man has lost it.”

  21

  Quinn rolled up on the Oxford Square a little after noon the next day, not getting a bit of rest from the night before, checking in with the SO and spending the rest of the time at Boom’s bedside. He still hadn’t woken up when Quinn received the text from Nat Wilkins, wanting to talk in person.

  He found Wilkins and Jon Holliday in the shade of the three big oaks in front of the old courthouse, the Confederate soldier statue high on a pedestal and facing south. Wilkins and Holliday sat together on a park bench and stood up as he got close. Holliday offered a firm handshake and Wilkins a hug before sitting back down. The courthouse didn’t seem to be in session and they were pretty much alone, the two feds walking over from the federal building a few blocks away. Nathalie had on a black pantsuit and Holliday wore blue jeans and a long-sleeved dress shirt that covered the tats he’d gotten while serving in the Special Forces. His head was shaved bald again and he wore a tight black beard and thin black sunglasses.

  Quinn sat down and leaned forward, elbows on thighs, facing them. “OK,” he said. “What do we need to do to get ’em?”

  “We need Boom,” Holliday said. “Nat and I were with the prosecutors all morning. Our CI can’t talk and what we’ve collected so far isn’t enough for the feds. We’ve been tracking those trucks for a good long while. But a lot of what we have is speculation, some wiretaps, but you know how the prosecutors want it. All wrapped up with a nice bow before they get down to issuing indictments.”

  “I want those motherfuckers’ heads more than anybody,” Nat said. “Been wanting those boys for a long time. Even more after what they did to Boom. But we want all of them. We want Taggart, Hood, and their friends down on the Coast. If we bust up in Tupelo now, we ain’t getting nothing but the hired help.”

  Quinn nodded. He rubbed his temples and pulled out half of an Undercrown he’d started early that morning. He clicked on his Zippo and got it burning.

  “Don’t tell me Boom smokes those nasty things, too,” Nat said.

  “On occasion,” Quinn said.

  “OK.” Nat smiled. “I can work on that. My daddy smoked those Hav-A-Tampas. Laid back in his La-Z-Boy, watching the Atlanta Hawks. Loved him some Dominique Wilkins. Now he’s all about the Grizz. All that grit and grind.”

  “We spooked those good ole boys in Tupelo,” Holliday said. “They saw us watching that trucking company. Boom said it himself, said they saw our agents taking photos. Did you know one of them, Wes Taggart, was down in Tibbehah County with Fannie Hathcock?”

  Quinn shook his head, not surprised to hear it.

  “Wouldn’t you like to see that woman gone?” Nat said. “All these people work for Buster White. Taggart and Hood, several crooks over in Tunica and down on the Coast. And I know I don’t have to tell you about that fat sack of shit. Let’s say we take down Sutpen Trucking. Well, OK. But, damn, if there are six more companies just like ’em across three states.”

  “Those boys beat my friend senseless,” Quinn said. “Y’all sit around and talk. I’ll talk to folks in Lee County. I’ll charge both of those men with attempted murder.”

  “What if Boom can’t recall what happened?” Holliday said.

  “He’ll recall,” Quinn said. “You say one of them is over at Fannie’s place? Glad to go pay a visit and arrest his sorry ass.”

  “Don’t forget how long it took to get Johnny Stagg,” Holliday said. “We both had to be patient as hell, meeting when we could, acting surgically when there was no other choice. But we got DEA, FBI, and ATF all over this. You know how much I love to kick in doors with you, brother. But let’s hit them when they’re looking the other way.”

  Quinn looked up from the ground. “That’s now.”

  “How’s that?” Nat said.

  “They have more trouble than just the law,” Quinn said. “Boom didn’t tell you what happened yesterday morning. Did he?”

  Quinn looked at Nat, with her delicate brown face under a lion’s mane of natural hair. She stared back, her face softening, looking a little worn out, with red-rimmed green eyes.

  “Boom got hijacked,” Quinn said. “They must’ve believed he was in on it and went to teach him a lesson.”

  “I thought it was because he quit on them?” Nat said. “When he called me, he said he was done with the whole mess and walked away from Sutpen’s.”

  “Those Tupelo boys have bigger problems,” Quinn said. “They’re getting ready for some kind of war in north Mississippi. They had a ton of shit on that truck Boom was hauling and someone knew what was on it, where he would be, and when he would be there.”

  Nat nodded, knowing almost all of it, but not what happened on the road to Ripley.

  “I want us to hit that trucking company,” Quinn said. “As the sheriff of Tibbehah County, I’m asking for assistance in the raid along with Lee County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “You want to hit Sutpen’s?” Nat said.

  Quinn nodded, drawing on the
cigar, taking it from his mouth and ashing it on his boot heel. “As soon as possible.”

  “Brother,” Holliday said. “That’s a tall order. Putting all our asses on the line.”

  “You know Boom,” Quinn said. “You know who he is to me? Right?”

  Holliday nodded slow, not liking at all where this was headed, listening to some redneck sheriff trying to tell him how to run his business. He finally turned to Quinn and said, “Sure would be good to know who robbed those boys and why.”

  Quinn grinned. “I know who did it.”

  “How?”

  “Because Boom recognized both of them,” he said. “Y’all ever heard of some weed-growing grease monkeys named the Pritchard boys?”

  Nat shook her head, a slick black purse in her lap. “Should we?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am,” he said. “They’ve done more in a day to disrupt that Gulf Coast Syndicate than we have in years.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Truth be told, Maggie Powers had always been a little intimidated by Lillie Virgil. Not because of her height, that she was a U.S. Marshal, or that she cussed worse than any Marine Maggie had met at Camp Lejeune. It was that she’d always had a tight bond with Quinn that wasn’t exactly romantic but reminded her a lot of her ex-husband’s relationship with his fellow Marines. They shared something from being in gunfights, stakeouts, and investigations that she and Quinn would never have. Standing there in the hallways of Tibbehah General, she watched Lillie walk right up to her, look her dead in the eye, and say, “Don’t you dare tell me he’s gonna die.”

  “He’s not going to die,” Maggie said.

  “Don’t you bullshit me, Maggie Powers,” Lillie said. “I supported you and Quinn’s whole whirlwind romance while this whole town’s tongues were wagging. I didn’t give a good goddamn that your ex was a true rotten piece of shit bank robber or that Quinn latched onto your cute little ass so damn fast it made my head swim. But if you’re lying to me, I swear to you I will return that fucking toaster oven I bought for y’all at the Williams-Sonoma outlet and six months of frozen steaks I bought online.”

  “Boom’s busted up,” she said. “But he’s not in a coma. And he’s strong as hell.”

  Lillie’s jaw muscles clenched, a vein throbbing in her forehead. She opened her mouth as she raised a finger but didn’t say a word, holding back that torrent of expletives that made her famous.

  “Did you know I bought a goddamn silk dress for your wedding?” she said. “Jesus.”

  “Can you sit down with me?” Maggie said. “Let’s get a cup of coffee. I can explain what I know.”

  “Goddamn, you are Quinn Colson’s wife,” she said. “Sit down, let’s get some fucking coffee, talk it out, while this county falls into a sea of shit.”

  Maggie placed a steady hand on Lillie’s arm, feeling the tension and the quivering. She watched as the tall woman swallowed something back, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Do you know who did this?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “You know,” Lillie said. “Just like Quinn. But neither of you will tell me because I sure as hell will start shooting and ask questions later.”

  “Quinn is in Oxford.”

  “What the fuck is he doing in Oxford?” she said. “Only thing up there is pussy frat boys, trophy wives, and federal agents.”

  “He had a meeting.”

  “Goddamn, sonofabitch,” Lillie said, pounding a fist on the concrete wall.

  Some folks looked up from the nearby nurses’ station and Maggie held on to Lillie’s arm, trying to talk in a smooth, reassuring voice. She was used to it, spending half of her day helping doctors do their jobs and the other part talking down shell-shocked family members. “Come on with me.”

  “I ain’t taking two lumps of sugar while Quinn’s tracking down the people who did this.”

  “I’m sure he won’t do anything without talking to you,” Maggie said. “He said y’all had a hell of a time in Memphis.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” she said. “Did he tell you I put some dumb ass’s head through a Wurlitzer?”

  Maggie steered Lillie down the hall toward the cafeteria, having her take a seat while she bought two coffees. Lillie just sat there, long legs stuck out straight from her chair, hands in her lap, staring straight ahead as if catatonic.

  “Can I see Boom?”

  “It’s only family right now,” Maggie said.

  “Maggie,” Lillie said, slowing lolling her head in her direction. “I sure appreciate the crappy coffee. But you should know there’s not a person in this hospital from orderly to candy striper who can keep me away. I am Boom’s family.”

  “OK.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I promise,” Maggie said, reaching out to squeeze Lillie’s fingers, holding her there. No one was in the cafeteria besides the old woman working the register. Maggie didn’t say a word for a long while, just trying not to look over at Lillie, who started to cry.

  “Tell me about that toaster oven,” Maggie said.

  “Ten fucking preset functions,” Lillie said, wiping her face. “And it comes with a goddamn nonstick pizza pan.”

  “Fancy.”

  “OK,” Lillie said, standing, not touching her coffee. “Enough bullshit. How about you take me to Boom?”

  * * *

  • • •

  What the fuck kinda music is this?” Heath Pritchard asked.

  “It’s Drake,” the stripper said. “‘God’s Plan.’ You know his record label gave him a million bucks to shoot this video and he gave every penny away. Took some young girls from the projects to Saks and got them a full-on makeover. Had block parties and bought people groceries.”

  “Man’s got about as much business sense as he’s got talent,” Heath said. “This shit sounds like talking over a computer farting.”

  The girl laughed, taking the twenty he’d offered in his teeth, and scooted back to the pole, circling and circling. “Bad things. / It’s a lot of bad things . . . They wishin’ on me.” Heath leaned back into the huge leather chair in the dead center of Vienna’s Place, feet up on the edge of the stage, a handful of cash in his fist. Every so often, he’d show the girl what he had, flicking through each of them bills. Felt good as hell to be back out of jail again. He only spent a few hours in there for that BS charge of public drunk and illegal gun possession. That high-dollar lawyer he got said the attempted murder charge wouldn’t never stick. He had every goddamn right to carry a fucking pistol. And that damn sheriff didn’t even know what it was like to see Heath Pritchard drunk.

  The girl moved up toward him on her knees, reaching back and taking off her red bikini top. She tossed it at Heath’s face, him catching it and setting on top of his head like a hat, using the cups over his ears and tying the string up under his chin. Young girls always liked it when he played funny, showing them he wasn’t no different from them. He wasn’t some fuddy-duddy old man but could get down and play on their level. He moved his head along with the music, acting like he was digging it, fanning those twenties in his right hand. Damn, he was having one hell of a time.

  When the girl scooted her butt up to him, shaking that ass in a way that he’d never imagined in his whole life, like Jell-O on a silver platter, he asked her if Miss Fannie Hathcock happened to be around. The girl, now on all fours, turned her head back to him and motioned up to a catwalk overlooking the stage. Up there, Heath saw the curvy shape of a woman and the glow of a cigarette butt. “Bad things . . . They wishin’ on me . . . God’s plan, God’s plan.”

  Heath had to hand it to this woman, this sure as hell was a real step up from Stagg’s ole Booby Trap. He remembered going to the Booby Trap and watching a woman nine months pregnant working that pole. Now, every person had the God-given right to make a dollar, but watching a
woman all swole up with child was a little much. He recalled being just a little bit scared that he was gonna see a little hand reach down out of her cooter and snatch up a dollar bill.

  “What’s so funny?” the stripper asked. She was a bleached blonde wearing a lot of that trashy eye makeup, her skin the color of tanned horsehide.

  “Thinking on how Miss Fannie sure runs a class joint,” he said. “I used to come here back when it weren’t nothing but a big metal barn with flashing lights and smoke machines. Girls used to stand up on a plywood set between two sawhorses, dancing to fucking Axl Rose. Y’all got nice polished floors, high-dollar Hollywood lights, and a bar that looks straight out of Tombstone, Arizona.”

  “Miss Fannie said she bought it from Kansas City, Missouri,” she said, sliding up to Heath on her knees, topless and shaking them titties, and now nearly nose to nose. “They had it shipped piece by piece. She sure don’t like anyone trying to dance on it. That’s one of her big rules. ‘Don’t you even think of dancing on my antique bar.’ She’s got real serious rules like that. Miss Fannie is a true professional.”

  “What’s them other rules?” Heath said, glancing up again, seeing that shapely feminine form in the dark lights, smoke flowing from the woman’s mouth into the stage lights shining down on the dancer.

  “‘Whatever you do, don’t try to hide money in your twat.’”

  “Where I been, folks sure knew how to work their orifices,” he said. “Cell phones, candy bars, dang cocaine. Can you imagine being so hungry that you’d want yourself a Snickers bar that’s been shoved up some nigger’s butt?”

  When Heath looked up again, the woman up on the catwalk was gone. His personal stripper going around the maypole again, time after time, wearing nothing but a sparkly red G-string and the tallest damn shoes he’d ever seen in his life. When Stagg was running the place, the girls didn’t have nothing on but their smiles. He liked all the stained wood, brass, all-around fine look to the place, but he’d trade it all in a New York second to see a woman buck-ass nekkid.