The Sinners

by Ace Atkins

  “Honey, hush,” Heath said, checking out that new engine. “Whoo-fucking-wee.”

  Tyler passed on the joint and his uncle took a long draw, nodding, holding his breath, until he slowly let it out. His head bobbed with another one of them old-time songs, “Highway to Hell.” Tyler recalled his momma telling them that she’d gotten rid of all her rock ’n’ roll records long ago, as they carried the voice of Satan. Their mother had also ripped apart that damn house when they were little boys, looking for anything made by Procter & Gamble, showing them the moon-and-thirteen-stars logo, saying their executives dabbled in the dark arts.

  Heath had on a brand-new pink T-shirt, nearly hanging down to his knees. On the back it read SEE Y’ALL AT VIENNA’S PLACE. A curvy cartoon woman in an old-time pinup pose.

  “Nice shirt,” Cody said.

  “If you buy a dozen lap dances, you get one for free.”

  “How much did that cost?” Tyler said.

  “Oh, hell,” Uncle Heath said. “I don’t rightly know. Somewhere’s around five hundred bucks. But worth every damn nickel, I’ll tell you what . . . Y’all cranked that baby yet?”

  “Not yet,” Tyler said, walking over to the race car and waving his hand over that beautiful aluminum Battenbilt. “Figured the leader of our clan should have the honors.”

  “This mean we’re goin’ racin’ this weekend?” Heath said, grinning.

  “Oh, hell yes,” Tyler said, noticing how Uncle Heath had tucked his jeans into the tops of his rattlesnake boots. “Go on. The pump is primed and ready.”

  Heath nodded, grinning a little, leaning down into the open driver’s window for that mash start. “No stop signs / Speed limits / Nobody’s gonna slow me down.” He looked back for a moment and gave the boys a thumbs-up, pushing that button, the starter kicking, chugging away.

  He crawled back out and walked over to the engine, reaching for the throttle, pulling it, making that engine whine and growl.

  “Seems like that timing is a little off,” Heath said.

  “I don’t hear it,” Tyler said, eyes shifting over to the workbench and his brother.

  “Come on, now,” Heath said. “Hand me that there strobe.”

  Cody reached for the strobe light and passed it to him, Uncle Heath turning and leaning down to look at the engine. His breath smelled like the inside of a whiskey barrel, slurring his speech as he spoke, wobbling a little on those fancy boots. He reached back and revved the engine, looking up at the boys with a Didn’t I tell you? look on his face. Cody walked up beside Tyler and behind Uncle Heath, pulling that .44 Taurus they kept in their glovebox.

  “Something just ain’t right,” Uncle Heath said. “You boys really don’t hear that shit?”

  Cody pushed the barrel to the back of Heath’s skull. And as the engine revved higher and higher, he pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  • • •

  Whatever you do,” Wes said, “keep your fucking mouth shut.”

  “Where are we?” Twilight said.

  “Just stay in the damn truck and I’ll be right back,” Wes said.

  “I’m not staying out here by myself,” she said, trying to look a little scared and surprised. “Out in the damn booger woods. I’ve seen those movies where the boyfriend says, ‘I’ll be right back,’ and then some crazy asshole in a ski mask pops up behind her with a machete. Don’t even think about it.”

  Twilight’s real name was Tiffany Dement, born and raised down in Laurel. But Miss Fannie had liked the way Twilight sounded a lot better. Plus, she already had three Tiffanys. Twilight Tiffany thought the name suited her, and maybe she’d add a little more detail to that dolphin tattoo to fit, maybe get an orange sunset sky inked behind the palm trees.

  “Won’t take but a second,” he said. “I got some business inside.”

  “What the hell are all these buildings?” she said. “Way the hell out there?”

  “You be a good little girl,” he said. “And when I get back, Daddy’ll get you a surprise.”

  “Come on,” she said. “You promised you’d take me back with you to Memphis.”

  “I will,” Wes said. “They got that Crabfest going on at Red Lobster and you can eat until you damn near bust.”

  “And then what?”

  “I got to pick up a buddy and then all of us will drive down to the Gulf,” he said. “Stay a few days at the ole Beau Rivage down there. I heard that Blue Man Group is doing some shows.”

  “What the hell’s the Blue Man Group?”

  “Baby, it’s the craziest shit you ever saw,” Wes said. “These dudes with shaved heads, skin painted blue, dancing to music and banging on shit. They got confetti and streamers, flashing lights, and one big goddamn butterfly.”

  “Can’t wait,” she said, the whole thing sounding like a snoozefest for old folks. “How long can we stay?”

  “Might be a while,” Wes said. “Your momma and daddy waitin’ up for you or something?”

  “They never did,” Twilight said, Wes reaching over and patting her bare leg. She’d been back in the VIP room giving some hand action to a chicken hauler out of Kosciusko when he’d come for her at midnight. All he said was to pack up all her stuff and come on. She’d only been twenty minutes from closing time but wasn’t surprised a bit to see him. Wes sure couldn’t get enough of Little Miss Twilight.

  Wes crawled from the black Tahoe and walked toward a building that looked big enough to fit an airplane inside. She waved to him as he turned back and then watched as he disappeared through a side door.

  Twilight didn’t wait a beat to reach into the console of the truck and pull out the cell phone she’d been told about.

  She scrolled through it and then used her own phone to call Miss Fannie. Everything was just the way she’d explained it to her. Miss Fannie was good about things like that, knowing which way the world sure turned.

  * * *

  • • •

  Fannie took the elevator down to the Peabody’s lobby, no one around at three o’clock in the morning. Even the ducks that swam in the marble fountain were up on the roof sleeping off their day. The ceiling above her went up for two floors, huge chandeliers and a fancy gilding overhead, with intricate designs in the woodwork. She leaned back in a chair by the elevators, admiring it, as she called up the Pritchard boys to see if they’d taken care of business.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tyler Pritchard said.

  “That’s good,” she said. “But don’t get rid of him just yet.”

  “Why?”

  “I need proof of fucking purchase,” she said.

  “And how the hell do we keep him?”

  “Put his nasty old ass on ice.”

  “We got a damn race this weekend,” he said. “Down in Loxley, Alabama. We won’t be back till Monday.”

  “Not now,” Fannie said. “Y’all got shit to do.”

  “We just put a new engine in our car,” he said. “Shipped all the way from Rocky Mount, North Carolina. Cost five hundred dollars just to get it here. Besides, I think it’s best if we leave town for a little bit. Considering our complicated family situation.”

  “Today,” she said, “a truck will be running straight from Houston, Texas. It’ll make a stop down in Meridian at the Magnolia Truck Stop. Do y’all know that place?”

  There was silence and a little breathing before Tyler spoke again. “It won’t be like last time,” he said. “This time they might be waiting on us.”

  “Let me worry about that,” Fannie said. “Y’all just get that fucking truck.”

  24

  The day before his wedding, Quinn went with his mother and little Jason down the road a few miles to pick some flowers. Maggie was pretty damn clear about not having old, boring arrangements from a florist on the Square and preferred just having cuttings from Jean’s rosebushes. Maggie liked
the idea of having something from the home where Quinn grew up. Her mother was bringing up some canna lilies from her place down in Mobile. The only problem was Jean had run out of blue hydrangeas halfway through decorating the church. She called up dispatch and had them place an emergency call while he was out on a wreck. Cleotha, chewing gum, saying over the radio, “You better call your momma, Sheriff.”

  A half hour later, he found himself out at the old Spratlin place, a house that had been abandoned as long as Quinn could recall. The white paint flaked off from the old wood, most of the windows broken out, and the doors stripped from the hinges. Quinn held the bucket while Jean harvested the biggest hydrangea bush he’d ever seen, tucking the bright blue flowers into the water.

  “I think Miss Spratlin would be pleased,” Jean said. “When she was alive, she had the most beautiful flowers and plants. She grew tomatoes the size of softballs. But look at what her kids did. Just left her lovely little house out here to rot. I hope you’d never do that to me.”

  “Nope,” Quinn said. “I’d sell the house and Caddy and I’d pocket the money. We already agreed to put up all your Elvis stuff on eBay. That may be worth more than the damn house.”

  “That’s terrible,” Jean said, taking some more cuttings from Jason, who was slicing off flowers with the pocketknife Quinn gave him. “Awful. It’s nearly a hundred degrees and I’m out here tromping around this old place for your wedding. Don’t you even think about selling my Elvis records. Those are for little Jason. You hear me?”

  Jason grinned and patted Quinn’s back, whispering, “Don’t even think about it, Uncle Quinn. If anybody gets to sell all that shit, it’s me.”

  Quinn was glad to hear Jason joking with him. They’d had some long, tough talks back in the spring when he found out Quinn was getting married. He grew a little defiant and cold. Jean had been the one to realize Jason was jealous of Brandon, fearing he’d lose his uncle for good now that he was getting a son. Quinn had done his best to let him know nothing was further from the truth.

  “Don’t we have enough flowers?” Quinn asked.

  “Let me walk around back and see what else might be left.”

  Quinn nodded, his radio set on the steps of the old house, cool under a big oak with roots that had busted apart a concrete walkway. He set down the bucket and headed into the house, dozens of doors and two fireplace mantels set in the center of the building waiting for a pickup that never came. One end of the house, in what looked to be the kitchen, had fallen in, a large tree branch growing through what used to be a window. The air seemed even hotter inside, thick and humid, and a great place for snakes to nest. Quinn heard his mother’s steps following him inside. He looked about for any slithering shadows.

  “Is this all we leave?” she said.

  Quinn set his hand on his mother’s shoulder as she looked at the broken floorboards, the old flowered wallpaper coming unglued from the walls. He tried to imagine what it was like when a family lived here full of love and energy.

  “I never saw a woman more house-proud than Miss Spratlin,” Jean said. “She used to sell jellies and jams on the Square. Her husband used to come with her until he got cancer and died. Oh, Lord. When was that? Maybe before your daddy and I even got married. They raised fancy chickens and sold rabbits around Easter time. And, God, look at this place, falling in on itself. Their children ought to be ashamed of themselves.”

  Quinn nodded. He thought he should find out who owned the property now; maybe pull out a few of these old doors and the mantels to replace the ones in his house that weren’t original. He liked the idea of the farm being the way it was a hundred years back, before it got all cobbled together.

  “Uncle Quinn?” Jason said, calling out from the yard.

  Quinn walked out and down the steps, Jason holding out the police radio. “Miss Cleotha’s trying to reach you.”

  His cell phone started to go off on his hip, the sheriff’s office number flashing on the screen.

  “What is it?” Jean asked, up from the porch as the phone started to ring.

  “I’m not sure,” Quinn said. “But let’s load up those flower buckets. Looks like I better head back to town.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I can see why Uncle Heath liked this truck,” Cody said. “This display is sick, man. The way the interior lights up all blue with all this damn tan suede and real wood. Limited grille. Limited wheels. This fucking thing is a custom truck right off the fucking lot.”

  “We can’t keep it,” Tyler said.

  “Oh, hell yeah, I’m keeping it,” Cody said. “I read they call this Dodge the Tungsten Edition because that’s a high-dollar kind of chrome. All that silver on the grille and the wheels? That’s all tungsten metal. Same shit some folks wear as rings and jewelry.”

  “I’ll buy you a damn belt buckle,” Tyler said. “I think after we show the body to Miss Fannie, we drive this son of a bitch deep into Choctaw Lake with Uncle Heath in the toolbox just like we left Ordeen.”

  “Oh, come on, man,” Cody said. “We got every right to keep this truck. He paid with our cash and we just say, ‘We don’t know where he went.’”

  “How’s it gonna look, fuck brain?” Tyler said. “With me and you driving around in our uncle’s new ride after they find him dead?”

  “They won’t find him.”

  “They damn well found Ordeen,” Tyler said. “Use your fucking head, man.”

  Tyler kept his eye on the truck moving on ahead of them, moving out from Magnolia Truck Stop in Meridian and heading north on 45 just like Miss Hathcock had told them, rolling on through Lauderdale, Scooba, Wahalak, and Shuqualak. Tyler started to get a little worried. It only took that last truck about twenty minutes to start to slow down, but this damn truck, a big ole hoss Mack Titan, shining black paint with that gold bulldog on the hood, hadn’t even sputtered. A shame that Cody got to drive the big semi again—he won the coin flip—but at least Tyler would get to play around with that Dodge truck a bit before they deep-sixed it back in Tibbehah.

  “Glad it’s not Boom Kimbrough.”

  “Can’t be Boom Kimbrough,” Tyler said. “Didn’t you hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Someone beat the hell out of him,” Tyler said. “Put him in the damn hospital. I heard he nearly got his damn brains beat out.”

  “Shit,” Cody said. “Who the hell would do something fucked up like that?”

  “I don’t think it’s gonna work,” Tyler said, looking at his watch. “He’s been driving nearly thirty minutes. That gas flow should’ve started to peter out back at Shuqualak.”

  “It’s happening.”

  “How do you know?” Tyler said.

  “Because we sealed that tank tighter than a preacher’s butthole,” Cody said. “Ain’t no air getting into there. That diesel will quit flowing. Just be cool. It’s coming.”

  “What happens if that son of a bitch breaks down in Starkville?” he said. “We can’t jack his ass in the city limits.”

  “It’s Starkville, man,” Cody said. “Them people fuck cows in public.”

  Tyler watched the truck for another two miles, neither of the boys saying a word, until he saw the brake lights flicker and black smoke pour from the exhaust stacks. He leaned forward to the glass, Cody starting to slow down, watching as the truck’s hazard lights flickered on. The truck slowly rolled down the highway, coming to rest by a stretch of cotton land, not a son of a bitch around except for a few trailers up around the next bend.

  “Hell fucking yes,” Tyler said.

  “What’d I tell you?”

  “Who the fuck sealed them tanks?” Tyler said.

  “You were the one doubting your work.”

  “Shut the hell up and pull on that mask,” Tyler said. “I’ll tie that driver’s ass up behind the rig and toss him in the bed. Good thing it
’s got that nice cover on it.”

  “First class all the way,” he said. “This ain’t no work truck. This is like a four-wheel-drive limo. Smooth as hell.”

  “We ain’t keeping the truck,” Tyler said. “Shit.”

  They waited for a minute for the driver to get out of the cab. They could see a man’s face in the rearview look back a few times but not move. Cody honked the horn, trying to get him on out of the cab so they could snatch him up. “Aw, hell,” Tyler said. “I’ll walk around the other side. I’ll aim that shotgun at his head and that’ll get that fucker moving.”

  “What about the masks?”

  “Pull it down when you get close,” Tyler said. “You don’t want to go and spook him.”

  “Where the hell’s he gonna go?”

  “He might lock the damn doors and call the law,” Tyler said. “Just act nice and friendly and I’ll walk around to the other side.”

  Cody pulled the neoprene mask onto his head, wearing it like a ski cap. Tyler did the same. As they waited a second, Tyler unwrapped a piece of Dubble Bubble. Everything looked slow and easy through his sunglasses as he got out of the cab and walked careful and slow with the shotgun held behind his right leg. “Come out, come out,” Cody said, snickering.

  “Shut up, shithead,” Tyler said. “I told you to be cool.”

  “Oh, hell,” Cody said. “Just having some damn fun. Don’t be a dick.”

  Just as they were about to split off on each side of the trailer, they heard the rough clanking of metal.

  The trailer’s double doors flew open and four men with guns jumped out and started to shoot. Tyler and Cody were already running back to the Dodge when the bullets peppered the side doors of the pickup and shattered the windows.

  “Motherfuckers,” he said. “Motherfuckers tricked us.”

  They looked at each other across the floorboard of the truck, hiding with the doors wide-ass open. Without a word, only nodding, Cody reached up to where he left the keys and started up that son of a bitch. Neither of them had time to shut the doors, the doors just kind of flying shut as Cody drove off blind, steering under the dash until they hit the highway.