by Ace Atkins
Jason reached up to a root, offering a hand to Ana Gabriel. The girl was crying in so much pain, hobbling up that eroded hill. As he looked up, he stared right into the ugly face of the black man with long braided hair.
“Goddamn, kid,” T-Rex said. “You sure fucked up.”
Jason pulled the Buck knife and stuck ole T-Rex hard in his foot. The man howled as he flew backward, holding his foot, Buck knife down deep into the bone. He fell onto his back, pulling the knife out and tossing it in the woods, coming for Jason now, limping with that big pistol in his hand. Angel and the dude driving the van had Ana Gabriel, pulling her toward the roadside, where the van door lay wide open. She screamed as Angel yelled for T-Rex to jump in with them.
T-Rex limped forward, dragging his foot, and lifted the gun and fired. Jason turned and tumbled down the hill, rolling and rolling in all the grit and trash, lying down deep in a thick tangle of kudzu. Stealth was key when trying to meet up with friendly forces. Keep the mission moving. Be invisible. Be silent.
He heard the gun fire again and more yelling.
And then up on the roadside, the van door slammed and the engine whined, tires spinning in gravel.
Jason stayed in the kudzu trying to catch his breath as the morning light shone through the leaves in broken shafts. Under the blanket of kudzu leaves, he saw broken bottles and a crushed Coors can. He worked to steady his breath and his heart, lay still and quiet. They could still be out there. T-Rex. Angel. Any of those bastards.
And now they got what they wanted. They had Ana Gabriel.
Jason felt like a damn rock was in his throat. He started to cry, crawling loose from the tangle of all that kudzu, and headed up the hill. Along the roadside, the van was gone. Only a pair of thick ruts remained, cars and trucks zooming past, going about their daily business. No one noticed what was going on. No one even seemed to give a damn.
Jason looked along the shoulder of the highway and finally saw the glint of the Buck knife in the sun. He walked over and picked it up by the bone handle. Wiping the blood on his jeans, he slid it back in his sheath, following the roadside to the next exit.
She was gone. Ana Gabriel was gone.
* * *
• • •
The old man’s name was Manuel and he lived at the far edge of Skid Bucket, a collection of three trailer parks north of the Square and east of the Big Black River. Manuel had built a shack fashioned of bricks, concrete blocks, discarded windows, and a roof slapped together from tar paper and old shingles. Everything came from materials he’d scavenged around Tibbehah County. He was old, wrinkled, and toothless, dressed in a white T-shirt that ran down to his knees and thread-worn blue jeans. No shoes. Quinn had seen him many times walking drunk along the roadside. Sometimes he worked as a brick mason or on a paint crew. But mainly the old man sat among his chickens and drank tequila.
When Quinn and Boom drove up, the old man sat by an empty fire pit, tossing stale bread to a giant black rooster.
“This one is very mean,” Manuel said. “Make no sudden movements. Show no aggression. This chicken is better than a pit bull. He will growl. Have you ever known a rooster to growl at you like a wild animal?”
“Good to see you, Manuel,” Quinn said, offering his hand. “You know my friend, Boom.”
The man seemed leery of Boom’s prosthetic hand, the sight of it seeming to make him uneasy. He instead raised the tip of his Pepe Lopez tequila in Boom’s direction.
“Señor Manuel,” Quinn said. “We’re looking for a boy called Angel. Used to live up in these trailers with his mother. Do you know who I am talking about? Skinny with a shaved head. He is about sixteen, seventeen years old.”
“No, no,” Manuel said. “I don’t know this boy. Come. Sit down with Manuel. It’s early. But not too early for a drink. Come. I have clean cups in my house. Or you can drink from the bottle. I don’t mind. I have no germs. Pepe Lopez kills all diseases. He is so very good to your system.”
Quinn shook his head. He took a seat in a folding chair by the empty fire pit. The black rooster approaching him, raising its feathers, scratching at the dirt.
“This chicken would walk a hundred miles to fight,” Manuel said. “Five hundred if a hen was involved. He has the heart of a champion. The mind of a warrior. Is the sun always so bright? It is hard to see you both. You look as if you have a glowing halo around your heads.”
“This boy Angel runs with a man who has a white van,” Boom said. “They took some girls from the trailers around here. They promised to take them over to Louisiana to see their folks. The people caught up at the raid out at the chicken plant.”
“Yes, yes,” Manuel said. “So very unfortunate. Those people were stupid. They thought they could come here, be given decent jobs and live. You don’t live in this place. You can exist. Sure. You can make enough change perhaps to get by. But living isn’t something you can afford. Are you sure you don’t want a sip? It would make a man very happy if you joined me.”
Boom shook his head, looking over at Quinn. “I know ole Pepe Lopez,” Boom said. “Me and him ain’t friends. Last time I shot some tequila, I ended up clearing out a juke joint down in Sugar Ditch.”
“I thought you were drinking moonshine,” Quinn said.
“All of it,” Boom said. “I was drinking all that shit.”
“You know my sister,” Quinn said. “Caddy Colson.”
The old man shrugged. The skin on his neck as tanned and thick as old shoe leather. His eyes black, hard, and bloodshot.
“She has short hair,” Quinn said. “Almost as short as mine.”
“Sorry, my friend,” Manuel said. “I don’t know her.”
“Yeah, you do, Manuel,” Boom said. “She came out here looking for the father of Ana Maria Mata. She and a black girl named Tamika Odum had disappeared. You told her what had happened to Ana Maria’s father, run out of town by a couple peckerheads. Remember? Caddy used to bring you food and blankets, too. She looked out for you.”
Manuel thought on it, nodding a bit, and then drinking. He nodded some more and drank some more. The tequila seeming to infuse the neurons in his brain with energy. He drank as if the clear white liquid was nothing more than water.
“Perhaps?” Manuel said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Whatever came of Ana Maria Mata and her father?”
Boom shook his head. “Don’t know, man,” he said. “We never found those girls.”
“You never find them?” Manuel said.
Boom shrugged. He tossed a stray stone into the empty fire pit, sending the rooster in a rage, flaring its wings and rushing toward Boom. Manuel picked up a handful of dirt and sand and tossed it at the old black bird, sending it sprinting away making cackling sounds, almost like it was laughing.
The men didn’t speak for a while. Quinn and Boom knew that if the old man was going to talk, they couldn’t push it or shake it out of him. They just sat there watching as he drank more and more, the bottle glinting in the early afternoon light. Quinn tried to be patient and controlled, worried sick about Jason and where he might be. Manuel picked up a long, blackened stick and poked in the pit as if there was a fire and it wasn’t ninety-eight degrees.
“So those girls are gone?” Manuel said. “They never come back to Jericho?”
“Nope,” Boom said.
Manuel nodded. “I don’t know this boy Angel,” he said. “But there is a man here. A young man who drives a van like you say. Tattoos of Mara Salvatrucha on his neck. His name is Ramos and he comes and goes. Comes and goes.”
“He lives here?” Quinn asked.
“Sometimes here,” Manuel said. “Sometimes in Memphis. He’s gone for long weeks in Texas or perhaps to the far reaches of space. We do not know.”
“What does he do?” Boom asked.
“He brings young women here to work at that place by the highway,�
� Manuel said. “Only the prettiest and freshest of the young women. Like young flowers, fragrant and new. You know which one? The place where the naked women go up and down on a brass pole. They say it has cold women and hot beer.”
“I think it’s the other way around,” Quinn said.
“Perhaps,” Manuel said. “I can’t remember things. My head hurts so much in the early morning. That woman by the highway pays for flesh by the pound. The young women find work there. The old women must go to kill and clean the chickens. What else is there for them to do?”
“What else do you know about Ramos?” Quinn said.
“I know he is a criminal,” Manuel said. “He wears the MS-13 tattoo on the back of his neck. He is no good. Not a man of value or worth. I worry for these children. Why did you bring so much worry and concern to Manuel this fine morning?”
15
Damn,” Donnie said. “What the hell is this place?”
“Amazing Pizza Factory,” Akeem Triplett said, as if Donnie had gone soft in the head. “Or couldn’t you read the big-ass sign outside?”
“I got your message and saw the damn sign,” Donnie said. “But why’d you want to meet here? Ain’t exactly a quiet and peaceful place to plan out a robbery.”
“Nope,” Akeem said, looking over at Rerun, the fat man waiting for his double dip scoops of chocolate ice cream. “But sure is a good place with a lot of noise and energy and shit in case someone wants to listen in on what we got to say. You want some ice cream? I got some vouchers. Strawberry, vanilla, goddamn butter pecan?”
“This your place?”
“This is Mr. Sledge’s place,” Akeem said, looking down and absently scrolling through his cell. “He bought into the franchise last year.”
“Thought he was into funeral homes.”
“Mr. Sledge is into everything,” Akeem said, grinning. “He’s one diverse motherfucker.”
The Amazing Pizza Factory was wedged into a storefront down in South Memphis between an empty Toys “R” Us and a Planet Fitness. The wide-open space, once a cavernous old Kmart, was choked with a mini roller coaster, bumper cars, electric go-kart track, and a fifties-style diner and ice cream shop. The ice cream shop was located right by the big chocolate fountain and pizza buffet. But whatever factory made the fucking pizzas looked like it had been in Taiwan and shipped them frozen. The pies sat thin and dry under heat lamps, kids skittering up to the buffet to pile it on their trays along with unlimited soda refills.
“I prefer the catfish buffet at Pap’s,” Donnie said. “How much y’all pulling in?”
“More than the titty bar we got up on Summer Avenue,” Akeem said. “Mr. Sledge thinking about shutting down that place, opening up another Amazing Pizza Factory. What do you think?”
“I think that would make a bunch of grown-ass men cry.”
Rerun’s fat ass joined them, licking his double scoop chocolate as they walked, following behind, Akeem stopping off every few minutes to check out the different video games. He found one he liked, The Terminator, and slid in his game card and picked up a laser gun. According to the screen, more than three million lives had been lost in the damn Robot Apocalypse of 1997. The terminators coming out of all the rubble and busted-ass buildings, Akeem Triplett now being humanity’s only hope.
“Shit’s coming down in a week,” Akeem said, firing off that laser at those wild red-eyed robots. “You ready? You got the truck? You got an exit plan? You got the damn balls to pull this shit off?”
“Don’t you worry none about my balls,” Donnie said, turning his head. Rerun walked right up on their ass, finishing off that big top scoop, tonguing the whole melting mess like a cow on a salt lick. “My balls are solid brass. How about you, Akeem?”
“Me?” Akeem said. “Shit, man. I ain’t going with y’all. You crazy? I got too much to lose. This you, Rerun, and Tyrell’s show. I’m just orchestrating the deal.”
“Son of a damn bitch,” Donnie said. “That wasn’t the agreement.”
“OK,” Akeem said. “That’s cool. I’ll hand it over to my nephew. He ain’t but eighteen but could pull this shit off when he was twelve. Drive in, load up, drive out. You got that? I mean, shit, country boy. This ain’t fucking Mission: Impossible. You ain’t gonna have to rappel your redneck ass on fishing wire, poison folks with blow darts, or commit yourself to a HALO parachute drop. This thing is easy and cool. We got IDs. We got uniforms. We got clearance. Drive in. Drive out. No different than ordering up a buttermilk biscuit at Mickey D’s. And then you make that sale you promised. You get straight on the money with me and all will be fine.”
“Then why not do it yourself?” he said. “If you don’t need my country ass.”
Akeem Triplett missed the shot and got rushed by a mess of futuristic robots. Dead. Game Over. Akeem slid the electronic ray gun back into the holster and turned around. “Man, you made me fuck up. We lost the goddamn apocalypse and those mechanical motherfuckers gonna fuck us in the ass for a thousand years.”
“I said, ‘If it’s so damn easy, why not do it yourself?’”
“’Cause Mr. Sledge been told me you were the man to see in north Mississippi,” he said, pointing a long finger at Donnie’s chest. “That you got them connections to make a sale mean and quick for cold hard cash and we all go home happy. High score. Top player. Best of the goddamn best.”
“Sure,” Donnie said. “OK. You got that right.”
“OK, then?” Akeem said, backing off the arcade game, sliding his hands into the pockets of his white silk workout jacket. “Follow me. We need to get your ass straight.”
Donnie followed Triplett through all the fat ladies and kids, mouths covered in pizza sauce and chocolate. One black woman had hair the color of dandelions, weaved and braided down her back nearly to the damn floor, and carried a matching purse. There was so much damn yelling and screaming, bing-bonging, electric-zapping, mush-mouthed, grabby-handed fun that Donnie felt like he needed some fresh air and was damn glad when he and Akeem and Rerun headed out the front door.
He followed them into the half-filled parking lot, sun up high and hot over Memphis. Akeem going straight for his electric green Impala, twenty-inch chrome rims, hitting a button on his key chain and opening up his trunk.
“Come on, man,” Donnie said. “Not here. Not damn now. What the hell?”
“This is my town, Mr. Varner,” Akeem Triplett said. “I am the king of the Southern jungle and know when and where my watering hole is safe. We safe here. Go ahead and get your shit. Just make sure you get that truck.”
“I’ll get the truck,” Donnie said, mumbling. “Shit. Already got the damn truck.”
Inside the trunk, Donnie spotted a neatly folded and shrink-wrapped brown UPS uniform, complete with a box of black shoes and a lanyard with an ID badge.
“How about we do this later?”
“Ain’t no time like the goddamn present,” Akeem said.
Donnie started to turn and walk away, not liking any of this shit, when an MPD patrol car hit the blue lights and sped right toward where he stood with Akeem and Rerun. A voice from a speaker told the men to raise their hands high and step away from the trunk.
Donnie stepped back and did as he was told.
Damn. They were fucked five ways from Sunday.
* * *
• • •
Caddy tried calling Donnie almost a dozen times but he wouldn’t answer, already thinking that maybe Quinn had been right not to trust him. Back in high school Donnie had always been getting girls in trouble, sneaking them out at night and once getting his back window shot out by Skylar Bright’s daddy. He raced trucks and sold a little weed. But she’d always felt Donnie had a good heart. Maybe he was always trying to take a shortcut to being a big deal, but when it mattered he’d been someone she could rely on. But here it was, near lunchtime, and all she got from Donnie Varner was a voicema
il greeting.
“What is it?” Hector asked, nodding to her phone.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just trying to reach a friend.”
Hector pulled into the Fiesta Mercado, just north of the Square on Main Street, in front of what had been the Blue Label Grocery, an old cinder-block building painted white with a rusty tin roof. They walked inside the store, which was hot and smelling of tortillas and spices, a portly gray-headed woman named Rosa Jurado working the cash register. Hector introduced them in English and Caddy did her dead-level best to smile.
Mercado was the place, Hector explained, addressing both Caddy and Rosa, that you came for telephone calling cards, to wire money back to Mexico, or buy good Mexican laundry detergent or spices they don’t carry at the Piggly Wiggly. Dried chilies and herbs. Caddy smiled and looked attentive as her hands shook loose and useless at her sides. Her entire body felt quivery and her stomach queasy.
“No more,” Rosa said. “You the first I see today.”
Hector said he was sorry.
“I have no customers,” she said. “Those who weren’t arrested have left town. Or are afraid to be seen in public. I have to pay electricity. I have to pay rent. What’s to do? This town is dead.”
Rosa Jurado was a plump woman with a pleasant face and dark, intelligent eyes. She had on a plain white peasant blouse, the same as she sold on a rack behind the counter. The store was crowded with soccer jerseys, straw hats, rows and rows of dried beans, spices, and a big cooler of Mexican soft drinks that glowed a Day-Glo green and red.
