The Innocents

by Ace Atkins

  “Shit,” Ordeen said, reaching into his pockets. “Bullshit, man.”

  “Bullshit?” Sammi said, handing back his change. “Bullshit? OK. Bullshit.”

  “C’mon.”

  Sammi put his fingers over his bruises and cuts, swollen lip and half-closed eye. “Yeah, I know that real bullshit. You and Nito. You all bullshit, man.”

  “Wadn’t me.”

  “You don’t ride with him?” Sammi said. “In the Here Kitty Kitty car? You his boy. I know it. You ride with him all over the place, doin’ whatever y’all doin’. Schemin’ some shit. I know that.”

  “Thanks for the milk, Sammi.”

  “Y’all really think you can win?” he said. “Just the two of you?”

  “What kinda shit you talkin’ now?”

  Sammi sat back down on a stool behind the cash register. He ran his hand over his face like an old man, not a kid who hadn’t turned twenty-one. “Come on,” he said. “You don’t know? Nobody gets out of that Miss-i-ssippi, right? This is a place to live till you die. And then they just scrape you off the highway like a fucking animal.”

  “You high?”

  Sammi jumped up so fast, Ordeen thought he had a gun and was about to shoot his ass. But then he just reached over and turned an old-fashioned little TV around so that Ordeen could see the screen. Late-night news from Memphis—only they say they down in Mississippi. A white woman standing in front of a bunch of flashing ambulance and cop car lights. Down below, Ordeen read on the screen: BURNING GIRL FOUND WALKING JERICHO, MISSISSIPPI, HIGHWAY.

  “What the fuck?” Ordeen said.

  “Don’t forget your milk.”

  “Who burned up?” Ordeen said. “Who burned up?”

  “Milly,” Sammi said. “Little Milly Jones. God damn this place.”

  Sammi ran his hand over his sweating young face again. He reached for a half-finished Coke and took a big ole swig. “She was nice to me,” he said. “Real nice. She looked at me and smiled at school. Nobody did that. Not you two fuckers.”

  “Milly’s dead?”

  Sammi pushed the gallon of milk across the counter. He slumped down into his crossed arms, laying his head over his elbows. He didn’t turn as Ordeen snatched up that milk jug and walked out into the hot night. Damn, his head was fucked-up. Milly Jones was dead? That didn’t make no goddamn sense. The milk felt cool in the palm of his hand, the cracked asphalt at the Gas & Go still giving off heat.

  Nito was parked by the do-it-yourself car wash behind the convenience store. He had the water wand in his hand, hosing down the tires, big rims, and the soap off the windshield and hood. He flashed a bright gold smile at Ordeen, car shaking for the bass inside, but Ordeen couldn’t really hear the music above the spray.

  Ordeen shuffled out a cigarette, sweating deep through his T-shirt, and sat on some concrete blocks, waiting for him to finish up. Milly Jones burned up. Maybe dead. That was some fucked-up shit. Nito started the car, the engine growling from the twin exhausts, windows dark as hell, and rode up to where Ordeen waited with his momma’s milk.

  Nito Reece didn’t say nothing, just tapped that gas, and made that electric-blue machine purr.

  • • •

  Quinn saw Wash Jones arguing with a highway patrolman and pointing down the hill to where the techs, EMTs, and sheriff’s deputies had gathered by the boat dock and the shell of the Kia. The helicopter had taken what was left of his daughter to Memphis and it looked as if Wash was about to punch someone in the jaw if he didn’t get answers. Quinn remembered Wash from when he used to drain his uncle’s septic tank, leaning against that stinking truck and telling racist jokes about Mexicans and blacks, wishing they’d go back to their own goddamn countries. Quinn headed up the hill to meet him. About halfway there, he pointed to Quinn and called out his name. He called Quinn “Sheriff” in the confusion.

  Quinn nodded to the highway patrolman and the man let Wash duck under the yellow tape. He looked a mess, wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a Duck Dynasty T-shirt. He was unshaven and red-eyed and out of breath by the time he met Quinn. His camo ball cap read MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.

  “What the hell’s going on, Quinn?” Wash said. “Nobody is telling me nothing. Kenny called me at the house and said that Milly had been in some kind of accident. I get down here and folks are talking about her being set on fire. Lord Almighty. Set on fire.”

  Wash breathed hard and shook his head. He wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand and swallowed hard.

  “She’s in rough shape,” Quinn said. “She’s been burned pretty bad.”

  “Did she get in a wreck?”

  “We don’t know what’s going on,” Quinn said. “A trucker found her walking a little ways from here. She couldn’t tell us what happened. We found her car down by the landing, nearly gone.”

  “Milly,” Wash said. “Lord. I need to get to Memphis. I need to be there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “We can get highway patrol to get you up there fast.”

  “She’s gonna be all right?” he asked. “They said she was walking. If she was walking, it means she’s alive. Strong.”

  Quinn put his hand on Wash’s shoulder. He smelled like Jack Daniel’s and cigarettes. He looked Wash straight in the eye and shook his head. Wash Jones began to cry, dropped to his knees, and wrapped himself with his meaty arms. He sucked in a lot of air and started to wail. Some EMT ran up the hill toward him, worried the old man was having a heart attack.

  “It’s the girl’s father,” Quinn said. Quinn got down to a knee and patted Wash on the back just as Lillie appeared from down by that burned-up Kia.

  “He needs to get to Memphis,” Quinn said. “Faster the better.”

  Quinn took one arm and Lillie the other and hoisted him back to his feet. He coughed and sputtered, wiping his face, composing himself and then spotting Boom Kimbrough hooking up what was left of the white compact. The entire vehicle had been burned up quick and hot, windows busted out and tires melted away. Wash swallowed again and shook his head. “My little girl,” he said. “My little girl. My sweet little baby.”

  “Mr. Jones, did you hear from Milly after she went missing?”

  Wash didn’t answer.

  “Mr. Jones?” Lillie said with a little more force than the man needed right now. “I need to know if you’ve seen or heard from Milly in the last forty-eight hours.”

  “No,” he said. “No. I ain’t seen her. Who done this? Who the hell done this to my daughter? Christ Almighty. I’m going to kill them. I’m going to fucking kill them all.”

  “Who?” Lillie said. “Mr. Jones? Who do you want to kill?”

  Wash Jones wasn’t listening, back turned, while he lumbered back up the hill. He spoke to the highway patrolman and the patrolman opened the rear of his cruiser. A second later, the flashers were going and the siren sounding to get the crowd who’d gathered on the closed bridge out of the way.

  “He called his daughter a whore.”

  “He didn’t do this,” Quinn said. “He’s a lousy drunk. But he’s not a killer.”

  “He said she’d shamed her family by dating blacks and working the gold pole.”

  “She worked at the Rebel?”

  “That’s what he said,” Lillie said. “Said she’d lost all respect for herself and her family.”

  “Does her mother know yet?”

  “Reggie Caruthers is driving her and Milly’s sister to Memphis right now.”

  “What’s this I hear about the new owner of the Rebel?”

  “She’s a piece of work,” Lillie said. “Come on. Good a time as any to meet her.”

  14

  So I see y’all got ZZ Top, Merle Haggard, and Jerry Lee all in the same month,” Fannie Hathcock said. “Hot damn, that’s impressive, son. A fucking all-star geriatric lineup.”

  “I wish you�
��d called ahead,” said the serious little black man, name tag on his lapel saying LAMAR. He had on a stylish black suit with crisp white shirt and blue power tie. “No one was expecting you, ma’am. We could have made special arrangements.”

  “I didn’t know I needed an invite,” Fannie said. “Maybe I just came down to play a little poker and have a Japanese fusion dinner. As hard as it might be to believe, nights grow long up in Jericho, Mississippi.”

  “You should have called,” Lamar said. “Especially if you wanted to talk with the partners. The partners are very busy men.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Fannie blew out a long stream of smoke and tilted her head. She sat outside on a wide, ornate balcony that looked like it should front the Mediterranean, not the damn Gulf of Mexico filled with rusty oil tankers and crappy shrimp boats. It was early, not even nine a.m., and already the pool below was crowded with little fat families and long, skinny housewife bitches with saggy jugs. It would’ve been depressing if the resort didn’t generate so much cash. No matter what you peddled, common folk were your goddamn bread and butter.

  “Lamar?” Fannie said. “May I call you Lamar?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lamar said. “You may. I’m the general manager of this resort.”

  “Yeah,” Fannie said, spewing a little more smoke from the side of her mouth. “No shit. That’s why I asked for your skinny ass. By the way, I appreciate the vouchers for a free breakfast buffet. All the eggs Benedict and mimosas I could put away.”

  Lamar gave her a long, cold stare. He continued to stand, sweating a bit in the black suit and tie right off the Gulf, no sunglasses, probably not expecting a meet and greet to take so long. “Can I get you anything else?” he said. “Your room has been comped.”

  “I want to see Mr. White.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do,” she said. “By the way, what happened to George?”

  “George is no longer with the resort.”

  “Hand in the cookie jar?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He fuck up again?” Fannie said. “Never should’ve hired a GM who’d spent a five-year stretch in federal prison. Did you know George was a damn TV preacher before he got busted? He had a real shit show out of Tampa where he got old people to put their hands on the television and get themselves healed. He was good. Real good. I don’t think he called himself George back then. I think it was Bill. Reverend Bill. Or some shit.”

  “No, ma’am,” Lamar said, smiling over clenched teeth. “I didn’t. Please enjoy your stay.”

  “Lamar?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I have no intention in leaving this phony shithole until I get to talk to one of the boys,” she said. “I remember this town when it was nothing but hot pillow joints and jerk shacks from one end of Beach Boulevard to the other. I had the pleasure of riding out Katrina in a boarded-up Waffle House when God put a fist through your pleasure palace down here, before the big boys arrived and found out a way to dress up sleaze with high-end Southern bullshit and titties-in-your-grits hospitality. Where were you during the storm, cuddled up to your momma?”

  Lamar dropped his eyes on Fannie Hathcock, sitting there in a wide-brimmed straw hat and a sparkly red two-piece. Her boobies on high display, as they should be at fifty grand a pair. The trick of doing it right was working the sack into the nipple. Almost no scars. Lamar bit the side of his lip. “New Jersey,” he said. “I worked as a GM in two hotels in Atlantic City.”

  “Hot damn.”

  “None of the partners are on the grounds,” he said. “But I can send a message you’ve made a surprise visit.”

  “You do know who I am?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You’re well known around here, Miss Hathcock.”

  “Where I made my first buck,” Fannie said. “Those Keesler AFB boys sure were generous to a lady.”

  “We discourage bringing in Air Force personnel,” he said. “Unless they’re officers.”

  “Little fat families, bored housewives,” she said. “Horny middle-aged men on expense accounts. Everyone’s got his dick out.”

  “I’ll let the partners know.”

  “You do that,” she said, adjusting the top of her swimsuit. Fifty grand weighed a lot in that flimsy, stretchy polyester. “Tell them Fannie says we’re all about to get down to Fist City.”

  “Of course.”

  “And Lamar?”

  Lamar turned to her, though clearly not happy about it, and widened his eyes.

  “Bring me another mimosa, while you’re at it,” she said. “Looks like it’s going to be a gorgeous day out by the pool.”

  • • •

  I don’t know why we got to drive to Memphis for hot wings,” Ordeen said. “Shit. They got two good places over in Tupelo. A true Wing Stop in Oxford.”

  “We ain’t going to Memphis for the fucking chicken wings,” Nito said. “We got to talk to the Twins.”

  “You joking?” Ordeen said, countryside whizzing by the Nova’s open windows. “I ain’t fucking with those boys. They straight-up crazy. You know they the ones who took out Craig Houston, right? I heard when they found the body, the man didn’t have no head.”

  “Wasn’t the Twins,” he said. “The Twins worked for Houston. It was some mean-ass Mexes took him out. They were his boys.”

  “Ain’t what I heard.”

  “Well, don’t be talking that kind of shit while we at the wing shop,” Nito said, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out a beat on his thigh. “Just hang back and be cool. Anybody got any sense know you got to talk that business face-to-face.”

  “Man, I’m so goddamn tired,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. That’s some fucked-up shit about Milly Jones.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “That don’t get to you?” Ordeen said. “That don’t bother you, someone lit her ass up? I thought you liked that girl.”

  “Naw, man,” Nito said. “Milly Jones wadn’t nothing to me but a punch. I hit that shit a few times. She wanting it a whole lot more. I ain’t got time for all that.”

  “Someone killed her.”

  “Too bad,” Nito said. “So sad.”

  “Man,” Ordeen said. “You one sick bitch.”

  “I got my own problems,” he said. “Whatever that white girl got into was her own fault.”

  “She say anything to you?”

  “When?”

  “What you mean, when?” Ordeen said. “When you driving her home the other night. She scared of anybody?”

  “Naw,” he said. “We too busy fucking ’round.”

  “Bullshit,” Ordeen said. “She wouldn’t touch your gold-mouth ass.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “Come on.”

  “Go ahead,” Nito said. “Open that glove box. I got some little red panties inside there. Lacy thong. Tell me they don’t smell just like Milly Jones.”

  Ordeen didn’t touch the glove box. He damn well didn’t want to know.

  • • •

  The kid looked straight off the Rez, with long black hair, serious, chiseled face, and a red T-shirt advertising a stickball tournament from 2012. He said his name was Mingo and that he worked for Miss Hathcock. Twice he swore to Lillie that Fannie Hathcock wasn’t up in her office.

  “When do you think she’ll be back?” Lillie said. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not with the chamber of commerce.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mingo said. “I know. You’re that woman sheriff.”

  Quinn stood with Lillie. He hadn’t changed out of a green tee, jeans, and boots. There hadn’t been time since he’d heard about the burning girl on the river bridge. He’d get home when he could, get cleaned up and back in uniform.

  “She’s here every day,” Lillie said. “Why not now?”
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  “She had business,” he said. “That’s all I know.”

  “Where?” Lillie said.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t care. Hey, can I get back to work? We open up at noon. I got to vacuum out the Champagne Room.”

  “Hate for any of those truckers to be disappointed,” Lillie said. “They sure love that fine champagne. Caviar, too.”

  The kid shrugged. He didn’t look old enough to be tending bar, let alone the biggest titty bar in north Mississippi. He looked to Quinn and stared for a moment as if Quinn could help him out. Get this woman off my ass.

  “I can leave her a message,” the kid said. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Tell her we need her fancy ass back in Tibbehah ASAP,” Lillie said. “One of her girls just got burnt to a crisp. Or don’t y’all watch the damn news?”

  • • •

  Quinn headed back to the farm at dawn to shower and change into uniform. The crime scene by the bridge had been sealed off, techs from Jackson going over the Jones girl’s car, and deputies and volunteers walking a three-mile radius for anything that might help. In the shower, he used a wet/dry shaver to take off the beard and added a spacer to run over his head and get back to regulation length. He shaved his face again with a disposable over the sink and changed into a crisp TIBBEHAH SHERIFF’S OFFICE shirt, blue jeans, and boots.

  He knelt on the floor of his bedroom, opening up several floorboards, and keying open a lockbox where he kept his guns. He found his old Beretta 9, a constant companion since Ranger school, extra ammo, and the holster he wore on his belt. In the kitchen, he made a pot of coffee and watched the morning news, Lillie having to stand in front of the cameras and tell the Mid-South she didn’t know a damn thing about an eighteen-year-old cheerleader walking one of her roads all in flame.

  “She’s good at her job,” Caddy said. “But terrible on TV.”

  “When’d you sneak in?” Quinn said.

  “I heard the water running, sat on the porch with Hondo until you were done.”

  Quinn made Caddy a cup of coffee with a lot of milk and a lot of sugar. She lifted out a cigarette to smoke, knowing Quinn didn’t care who smoked in his kitchen. The front and back doors were wide-open, morning breeze shooting through the house.