The Innocents

by Ace Atkins

  “Catchy,” Lillie said.

  “I’m taking him to the hospital,” Boom said. “I don’t give a shit what he wants. Y’all come on with me and talk some sense to him?”

  Quinn walked outside into the hot early evening with Lillie and Boom. Boom opened the door to his big-ass tow truck and Quinn leaned into the passenger side. Sammi looked rough. He was bare-chested, with one eye completely shut. The skin over his stomach and arms was bright red and bloody. Deep red welts covered both of his wrists.

  “How you been, Sam?” Quinn said.

  “Better.”

  “Don’t suppose you want to tell us what happened?” Lillie said.

  “Would you believe I tripped and fell while stocking the candy aisle?”

  Sammi grinned a bit. It looked like he’d lost a tooth on his wild ride with the Losers. He wheezed as he spoke, sounding like he might have some busted ribs.

  “We’ll talk more at the hospital,” Quinn said. “Boom?”

  Boom nodded and scooted into the truck and behind the wheel. Sammi kept on saying he just wanted to go home and that he didn’t need to see a doctor, the whole time gritting his teeth and wincing. “I got shit to do,” he said. “This is nothing.”

  “Who’s minding the store?” Lillie asked.

  “Miss Williams,” Sammi said. “She’s got the night shift. I was shutting down.”

  “Go on, Boom,” Lillie said. “Or we can call you an ambulance.”

  “No,” Sammi said. “I just want to get cleaned up and get a ride home. I’m getting the hell out of here.”

  “Where?”

  “The goddamn state of Mississippi,” Sammi said. “What the hell do you think? Y’all can have it.”

  “How about you tell us what happened so we can round up those turds,” Lillie said. “Stand up, Sammi. Don’t let those fuckers run you off.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, reaching for the door handle, fumbling to find it. “I’m fine. I don’t want any more trouble. Shit. I got enough problems as is.”

  “Why’d they come for you?” Quinn said, standing by the open driver’s-side door, looking over Boom to talk. “First Nito and now the Losers? You’re making friends real fast up there.”

  Sammi focused his good eye on Quinn, holding on to the dash with his hands as if the truck was still in motion. “They say I killed Milly,” he said. “They think I’m some kind of terrorist and I killed in the name of Islam.”

  Quinn turned to Lillie, Lillie shaking her head. “I’d like to go on record as saying that’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard in my life.”

  “They’re riding all around the store now,” Sammi said. “They told me if I came back, they’d kill me. That one—Lyle, Wrong Way, or whoever the hell he is—said he was liberating everything my family owns.”

  “That’s your store,” Lillie said. “Your family’s owned it for years.”

  “How about you tell ’em that?” Sammi said, laughing and then scrunching his face in pain.

  “Fine by me,” Lillie said. “Ready to roll, Ranger?”

  Quinn caught her eye and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  They walked together across the asphalt, sun just going down late in the day, to Quinn’s Ford F-250. He hit the sirens and the lights, feeling good to be driving that Big Green Machine so fast again.

  • • •

  What the fuck?” Nito said, rolling past the Gas & Go, spotting the freak show going on at sundown.

  “I hate those dudes,” Ordeen said. “You ever smell ’em? Smell like farts and gasoline.”

  “What they doing up here?”

  “Putting on a goddamn show,” Ordeen said. “You see them cameras?”

  “Where?”

  “Right across the road, drive on past,” Ordeen said. “Damn, man. I don’t want to be on no TV.”

  A mess of those bikers were zipping up and down Blackjack Road, making circles around the convenience store, spinning out, pumping their fists, flags tied to the back of their bikes. Some of the flags were American, but there were a couple of those rebel flags, too. Ordeen wasn’t too cool with stopping off for a cold six-pack with those boys waving the Stars and Bars. What the fuck were they up to?

  A couple of big-tittied mommas in tight T-shirts and short-shorts were holding signs, raising them up high over their heads, with their wide hips cocked. Two of the girls had on bikini tops. Ordeen couldn’t see the words on the signs till they were right up on them. JUSTICE FOR MILLY.

  “Oh, shit,” Nito said.

  “Someone blaming Sammi,” Ordeen said. “That’s plain messed-up.”

  Nito drove his new ride low and slow, sinking down in the driver’s seat, while he passed those girls and bearded dudes leaning against their bright chrome bikes. Ordeen looked straight ahead, seeing the long black ribbon of blacktop leading back to Jericho. The long damn heat of the day was wearing off, wind drying the sweat off his face.

  “Folks sayin’ this the last place they saw that girl alive.”

  “Probably ’cause she gettin’ gas,” Ordeen said. “Milly ain’t never had enough money for a full tank. She was here damn-near every day. Damn, this is messed-up.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What you talking maybe for?” Ordeen said. “You got something wrong in your head for Sammi? First you bust his lip and now you believe he’s a killer. That boy ain’t no killer.”

  “He ain’t made like you and me.”

  “How we made?”

  “We straight-up dirty South,” Nito said. “I don’t mess with people who eat camels and shit.”

  “You known Sammi long as you known me,” Ordeen said. “He ain’t even ever seen no camel except at the Memphis Zoo. C’mon, man. What’s getting to you?”

  “That girl,” Nito said. “That girl change everything. Fucked my mind up. Making everybody crazy as hell. Everybody pointing fingers at each other.”

  “Why you call her ‘that girl’ like you don’t know Milly Jones?” Ordeen said. “Man, you been acting strange since y’all dropped me the other night. What’d y’all get into?”

  “She gave it up,” Nito said. “And then she died. It’s just messing with my head, is all.”

  “Coach asked me to come see him last night,” Ordeen said. “He know you ain’t acting right. He says you gonna get us both sent to prison, you don’t straighten up.”

  Nito didn’t react, just rode south on that blacktop, windows down, a warm summer breeze washing through the car. He kept two of his right-hand fingers on the wheel, reaching over the visor to find the rest of that blunt he stuck up there. With his left hand, he cracked on a Bic and fired the roach up.

  “He thinks you crazy as a shithouse rat,” Ordeen said. “Told me that I needed to stay away from you.”

  “Come on, Ordeen,” Nito said, a plume of smoke coming from his mouth. “Coach really say that?”

  “Yeah,” Ordeen said. “I told him you weren’t like that. I said you and me been best friends most our lives.”

  “Fucking Coach,” Nito said. “Ole Coach. That’s one tricky ole man.”

  “What you mean?”

  “He playing with your mind, Ordeen,” Nito said. “Can’t you see that? Games. Man love to play them games.”

  “Why he want to split us, then?”

  “Guess he got his reasons,” Nito said. “Shit, man. How about you just ask his old ass? You his boy now. Y’all loving on each other. He ain’t got no more use for me.”

  A big-ass green truck with flashing lights passed them, headed toward Blackjack. Two patrol cars sped close behind.

  “Oh, shit,” Ordeen said.

  “Johnny Law.”

  Nito slowed and turned into a short gravel drive by a trailer and then started to back up.

  “What the hell you doing?” Ordeen said.

&nbs
p; “Goin’ back,” he said. “Don’t you want to see the show? This shit’s just getting fun.”

  “Yeah?” Ordeen said. “OK. But how about you put out that blunt before I get my ass put back in jail?”

  • • •

  Lillie Virgil opened the truck door before Quinn even stopped. As he braked, she hopped out onto the asphalt and walked past the gas pumps, hefting her twelve-gauge tactical Winchester in both hands. Quinn reached for a nearly identical gun in the rack behind him and followed her toward the entrance of the Gas & Go. A few bikers zipped past her along the county road, cutting back after they were blocked by Reggie Caruthers in front of his cruiser. He hit the buzzer, light bar flashing, as Art and Dave blocked off the north end of the road, boxing in the bikers.

  “Ladies,” Lillie said to the women gathered at the roadside.

  “We got a right to be here just like anybody else,” said a blonde with enormous breasts, T-shirt tied up high under the pair. “If y’all would do your job, we wouldn’t have to be out here.”

  “What’s your job, sweetie?” Lillie said. “Besides grinding men’s peckers down at Fannie’s place.”

  “You don’t know where I work,” the woman said, blowing a bubble that popped quick. “Or a damn thing about me.”

  “Maybe next time don’t pick the shirt that says ‘Vienna’s,’” Lillie said. “It looks a little stretched-out.”

  Quinn shook his head, watching four bikers circling back to the Gas & Go, racking in a round to the twelve-gauge, feeling for his Beretta at his hip, thinking that within a few more meters he could knock them both off their bikes and send them scattering. He had on sunglasses, and his hat was pulled down low in his eyes. He steadied his breathing, holding the Winchester, watching the entire road from north to south, seeing them all caught, spotting only one way out—a back road that would lead them to an old cemetery—but knowing if they headed that way, they’d be even worse off. They’d have to leave their bikes and run. He knew they’d never leave their bikes. Boys like that loved their bikes more than their mommas.

  “How much is Fannie paying y’all?” Quinn asked.

  “She’s not paying us,” the girl said, chomping on some gum. “That dead girl was one of us.”

  “What was her name?” Lillie said.

  “I know her name,” the girl said.

  “Say it.”

  “Like I said, I got a right to stand here and get folks’ attention,” she said. “This is a protest.”

  “Can’t argue with stupid,” Lillie said. “Oh, good. Here comes the brains.”

  More scooters rode up, the sun going down, huge and orange, to the west, setting over a big open field filled with weeds and rusted-out appliances. One of the riders was a stout-bodied guy with a shaved head and a goatee. The other biker looked young and a little scared and had some tattoo work on his face and a T-shirt that said FUCK SHIT UP. The bald guy wore a big shit-eating grin on his face, lifting the sunglasses from his eyes on top of his sweating bald head.

  “Shut off that fucking bike and get off with your hands held high,” Lillie said, moving toward him fast and with a hell of a lot of force.

  “Oh, shit,” the man said. “What the hell? Shit.”

  “Now,” Quinn said, moving right by Lille’s side.

  “For assault and attempted murder,” Lillie said, lifting her shotgun, barrel pointed straight at the bald guy. Quinn kept his shotgun straight at the other man, even uglier than the first. The one with the shaved head gunned the motor of the Harley, cocking a hand to his ear. “What’d you say? Can’t hear you, sir.”

  Quinn walked over to the bald guy, Lillie now watching the other, and reached for his ear, twisting it and pulling him from the seat of the bike to his feet. The bike teetered, nearly crashing to the ground, the man having to straddle it hard to keep his balance while he raised his hands. Quinn turned the key and shut it down and pulled the kid off the bike. More bikes growled on up as they forced the two bikers down on the ground, Lillie cuffing them while Quinn pulled two more off their scooters. The other deputies left the roadblocks and raced up in their patrol cars, slamming on the brakes and cornering the Born Losers in the Gas & Go lot.

  Two more were left. Quinn recognized one as Wrong Way from the Golden Cherry. He parked his bike, set down his kickstand, and walked on over with a big smile on his face. “What’s the problem, Officer?”

  “Hands high,” Quinn said. “On the ground.”

  “For what?” he said.

  “Now, shithead,” Quinn said. “On the ground.”

  “Not for you,” he said. “Not for anybody. I respect few and take shit from none.”

  Quinn walked toward him fast and with great tactical precision. The man just grinned some more and shook his head as if he’d been victim of some crazy wrongdoing. He scratched at his beard. He wore twin braids on the side of his head, his face sunburned and wrinkled, giving him a craggy, leather look. Quinn watched his hands set on the handlebars.

  “What we have here is a failure to communicate,” Lyle said. Some of his boys snickered.

  “How about I blast your ass off that scooter?” Lillie said. “Would that help?”

  “Damn, woman,” he said. “You sure are a pistol. We’re all just trying to help. Guess a man’s personal rights don’t mean dick when you got the cooze as the sheriff.”

  “I think ole Wrong Way would like to pick buckshot out of his asshole for the next year,” Quinn said.

  Lyle shrugged, still smiling, dropping to his knees, hands held high. “Damn, when you put it that way . . .”

  Art and Dave forced the four others off their bikes, none of them saying a word now as Lyle lay facedown on the hot asphalt. The girls screamed at the deputies, calling them a bunch of dickless turds. Art and Dave didn’t seem to take offense as they forced the men’s hands behind their backs and cuffed them. Six down on the ground. Lyle still laughing and yelling. “A real fucking failure to communicate,” he said. “What’s the world coming to when a goddamn Arab can set a white girl on fire?”

  “Shut up,” Lillie said. “Colson, how about you call dispatch for a little help in transport?”

  “What about our bikes?” Lyle asked.

  “Wrong Way, don’t worry your pretty little head about that,” Lillie said. “We’ll show your personal property the same love and care you showed Mr. Khouraki.”

  “You put one scratch on my bike . . .” Wrong Way said.

  Quinn got on one knee to see the man’s face more clearly. He sure hoped he didn’t have to transport this one in the Big Green Machine. It would take a bucket of Febreze to get rid of the stink. “And you’ll do what?”

  Wrong Way spit on Quinn’s boot. It was about all he had left in him.

  22

  Nearly two weeks after his son had the run-in with those bikers, Jason Colson rolled up to the federal prison at Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama, for a sit-down with none other than Johnny T. Stagg. Most folks said that Stagg didn’t have a middle name, only used the T. to look halfway respectable, everyone knowing the Johnny was just Johnny, never Jonathan. Jason never asked him about the T. or really much of anything since Stagg had risen in power in Tibbehah, from dogcatcher to head county supervisor, about the same time Jason had found regular work out in Hollywood. Stagg took over the old choke-and-puke by the highway, Jason recalling it had been an Exxon station for a while, with real breathing tigers in cages to draw in the tourists headed down 45. PLEASE DON’T FLICK YOUR CIGARETTE BUTTS ON THE ANIMALS, the old sign read.

  “Your buddies wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Stagg said, not long after they had the usual back-and-forth about who they knew, where they’d been, and exactly how were things inside a minimum security prison. “I already lost too much, as it is. But I prayed on it and, well, I figured talking can’t hurt.”

  “Oh, yes, sir,”
Jason said. “I only wanted to see if you were open to the idea.” He was a little surprised to hear Stagg talk about prayer as he knew all the stories about Stagg running girls, drugs, and elections with a heavy hand since he’d been back. Maybe all the caddying, bush pruning, and healthy outdoor recreating in the federal pen had made Stagg think on things.

  “I don’t know quite what to make of it,” Stagg said. “I’d been thinking about putting a little house out there after I leave this place. Might even retire. Figured Quinn wouldn’t mind having me a neighbor. Ha, ha. Since I’d served my time and made things right.”

  Stagg’s skin had grown even more red and weathered since Jason saw him last, his classic 1950s pompadour barbered down to a more businesslike cut. But he still had the skeletal craggy face, the big veneers, and the hooked nose. He wore a prison-issue green T-shirt, green pants, and black sneakers. “But you’ll have to remind me, Mr. Colson,” Stagg said. “I own a bunch of land. How many acres is this parcel again?”

  “Two hundred and fifty.”

  “Uh-huh,” Stagg said, grinning a bit. “You plan on sticking around Jericho? Need a place to settle? Maybe put up a log cabin?”

  “Something like that.” Jason reached down next to the chair and brought out a small box of peppermints he’d bought at a Walgreens over the state line. Folks said Stagg favored keeping a fresh mint going, as his breath was like hot air escaped from inside a dead mule.

  “Appreciate that, sir,” Stagg said. “Well, I guess it’s not much of a secret that me and your boy never saw eye to eye.”

  “Heard it was more than that,” Jason said. “Y’all pretty much despised each other.”

  Stagg shrugged, “I think Quinn had a hard time adjusting to Jericho after being in the service,” he said. “Lots of things had changed. Places he knew as a kid had closed up. Most of the business had moved off the Square and out to the highway. That Amsden girl he’d been seeing had married another man. Although I heard they’re sweet on each other again. After war, the real world just seems kind of off-kilter. Remember how it was for boys after Vietnam?”