The Fallen

by Ace Atkins

  “Sure as hell doesn’t hurt.”

  The woman still didn’t smile, eyes keeping on Cord, as if Wilcox was just some kind of damn background noise. Opie stood away from them, keeping watch on the valley, listening and watching, making sure they hadn’t been set up.

  “If you don’t need anything else,” the woman said, “I’ll be on my way.”

  Wilcox could not quit staring at the woman. She was a little bit older than he normally liked, but she had a way about her—her slow, careful gestures and sleepy eyes—that made him think she sure as hell knew what she was doing. He patted his jacket pocket for his cigarettes, shaking loose the last one in the pack.

  “You have any smokes?” he said.

  “No,” she said. “But the girls probably do.”

  “Girls?” Wilcox said.

  Opie turned back from watching the valley and raised his eyebrows up and down. Opie was interested at the first mention that women might be around.

  The redheaded woman edged her chin to the Quonset hut behind her. “I don’t have any heaters,” she said. “Might get cold. Easier to bring along some company.”

  “How about you, baby?” Wilcox said. “I bet you could keep me warm. Those big ole titties pressed against me could make it feel like Tahiti under the covers.”

  Cord turned his eyes on Wilcox, eyes narrowing, and swallowing just a bit. Wilcox grinned, now knowing one goddamn thing that could make Jonas Cord into a true and authentic human being: some redheaded tail. This woman must be some piece. She stared at him, giving him a long, hard look, her left eye twitching just a bit.

  “You couldn’t afford what I have,” the woman said.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” he said. “We’re pretty well set at the moment.”

  The woman flicked her green eyes over him, not smiling, not reacting a bit, just a slight nod of the head. She followed Cord off around back of the hut, knowing Cord had promised to deliver a nice little cut of the action in exchange for a little help.

  “Did that woman say she’d brought some girls?” Opie asked.

  “When’s the last time you’ve been laid, Ope?”

  Opie looked up, closing one eye, giving it some real serious mental energy. He shrugged. “Not really sure,” he said. “Does a goat count?”

  “Girls,” Wilcox said. “Funny how they’re always around when you’re flush.”

  “Women do like bad boys.”

  Wilcox popped the last cigarette in his mouth and grinned at Opie. “Oh, we’re not that bad,” he said. “We’re American folk heroes in the making.”

  Opie looked uneasy at him, dropping the weapon down beside his leg and scratching his neck with his free hand. “Didn’t you always say you never wanted to be a hero because all real heroes are dead?”

  Wilcox snorted smoke out his nose. “Yeah?” he said. “That sounds like me. Profound as hell.”

  4

  “Damn, you’re sentimental,” Quinn said. “Picking this spot for a meet.”

  “I’m sick of the Oxford office,” the man Quinn once knew as Jon Ringold said. Jon Ringold was Jon Holliday, federal agent, now that he was no longer undercover in Johnny Stagg’s organization. “Wanted to get out, breathe a little. Besides, I missed this view. This place definitely puts things in perspective.”

  The men stood shoulder to shoulder, looking across the rolling mounds built by the Choctaws eons ago, just off the Natchez Trace in the far northeast corner of Tibbehah County. Quinn had parked the Big Green Machine by the small viewing area at dawn, only two cars passing since he arrived. The sun had just started to rise as Holliday pulled up in a black Chevy Tahoe with tinted windows and government plates. The rain slowed to a soft patter, dripping down the trees’ bare branches, small patches of earth just turning green.

  “Time?” Quinn asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “Time, war, your place in this world. White folks in these parts are a relatively new phenomenon, although most will tell you their folks have been here forever. People don’t understand the concept of forever. Forever doesn’t exist.”

  “You have been in the office too long,” Quinn said, handing Holliday a cigar. It was a nice Undercrown from Drew Estates, the kind he’d been smoking most of the winter, after he came back on as sheriff. A maduro, wrapped tight, with a nice long burn.

  “Haven’t worked bank robberies in a while,” Holliday said, biting off the end and lighting it. “Did some undercover work with a chop shop up in Southaven, drug dealers on the Coast, and then the time I was with Stagg. How is that piece of shit anyway?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Quinn said. “And don’t care. I haven’t visited him since the trial. Hopefully, he won’t be back for a long while. Federal prison suits him.”

  “Tibbehah must be lot less colorful without Stagg.”

  “You’d think,” Quinn said. “But we’ve had our share of problems.”

  “I heard about the coach,” he said. “And the burning girl.”

  “And now we got three men getting away with two hundred grand,” Quinn said. “Not much for Memphis. But a lot for us. Lillie believes shit rolls downhill and we’ll have to work it.”

  “You sure it was just three?”

  “Two guys robbed the bank,” he said. “And a driver.”

  “Carrying assault rifles.”

  “Hard to tell the type with video,” Quinn said, nodding, “but damn sure if they didn’t look like cut-down AR-15s to me.”

  “And these gentlemen moved fast,” Holliday said. “Bust in the door, quick and hard, shooting up the place a little.”

  “Fired a shot into the ceiling,” Quinn said. “Wore gloves and Halloween masks.”

  “Working the room like a two-man team,” Holliday said, tapping the end of the cigar on the edge of a picnic table. “Over and under, clearing corners, kicking ass and taking names. Almost like they knew what they were doing. And had done it a hell of a lot of times.”

  “Yep.”

  “White guys,” Holliday said. “One about six foot and the other a short guy. Both of them quick and mean. The tall guy thinking he’s funny. Always saying something clever.”

  “Donald Trump masks,” Quinn said. “Funny as an ass ache. Damn, you Feds sure are on the ball. Sounds like you know these turds.”

  Holliday pulled on the cigar and let out a steady stream of smoke. It was strange seeing him now without the bushy Moses beard and nearly shaved head. Quinn wasn’t sure he’d have even recognized Holliday on the street. He wondered if he really had those sleeve tattoos or the Feds knew how to fake those, too.

  “Yes, sir,” Holliday said. “We know them. Looking at maybe eight banks last fall. Three so far this year, including that job in Jericho.”

  “Know much about them?”

  “Only that we’re pretty sure they’re pros,” Holliday said. “If you weren’t in law enforcement, I might suspect you as the main dude. You’re about the same height, have similar training, and move in the same way.”

  “Or you,” Quinn said.

  “Or me,” Holliday said. “Yeah, we know these guys. What scares me about these assholes is that if they fuck up, something goes wrong, and they could end up quickly and effectively shooting a lot of people.”

  “I can get you the video,” Quinn said. “All the interviews we did with customers, tellers, the bank president who they threatened.”

  “They promise to kill him?”

  “Nope,” Quinn said. “They had empathy. Only threatened to shoot his dick off.”

  “In my book, that’s worse than killing,” he said.

  “What do we do now?”

  “Keep vigilant?”

  “Ha.”

  “They’ll screw up,” Holliday said. “They always do. Someone they pissed off will step forward. An angry girlfriend, a partner they’ll screw
over. We’ll keep looking.”

  “You got most of north Mississippi,” Quinn said. “I’ll do my best in Tibbehah County. But unless they come back—”

  “They’ll think you’re an easy touch,” he said. “They’ll want to come back for more.”

  “Appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “Maybe they worked with someone local?”

  “Don’t know why they’d need it,” Quinn said. “I bet they’re a hundred miles from here.”

  “Maybe,” Holliday said, extending his hand. “But keep an eye out. All sorts of shit keeps folks from running too far. Usually it’s booze, drugs, or women.”

  • • •

  Wilcox was still drunk. And tired. He’d screwed some girl twice before passing out. A cute little blonde with a pug nose and lots of freckles. She thought he was real funny, laughing too much, the friend of Cord telling these girls they were some businessmen up from New Orleans. When she’d asked what kind of work he did, he couldn’t resist saying, “Banking,” and just left it that. She seemed impressed with that. And impressed with the six hundred bucks he tipped her. He left the money under the tequila bottle and took the Mexican blanket with him outside to watch the sun rise.

  Opie was sound asleep, cuddled up on the floor with some skinny black girl, talking a lot but being smart and telling her only about their time in the service. He told her a lot about his machine gun. He talked more about that damn gun than he did his own family.

  Wilcox draped the big blanket around his bare shoulders, wearing just blue jeans and boots now, and walked out onto the tarmac to smoke a cigarette and watch the dawn. He could taste the tequila and cigarettes on his tongue and smell that vanilla perfume from the stripper. She’d been sweet to him, liking his tattoos. And the bullet scars even more. A couple of times Opie had called him Sarge, which made him look like somebody to the girl. They’d used fake names, fake places they lived, and fake stories of meeting up with the girls again.

  Halfway through a cigarette, the pug-nosed girl, who went by the name of Tiffany Nicole, came outside and sat beside him. He offered her a bit of the blanket, as she was still wearing a white leather bikini top with her white leather chaps. The fringe blowing in the wind.

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Nope.”

  “We drank a mess of tequila,” Tiffany Nicole said. “Lord, my head hurts. I found a handful of lime slices in my panties.”

  Wilcox grinned. He placed his hand around her shoulder, no reason to kick her loose yet. They were both professionals, doing what they did best.

  “Will I see you again?”

  “Nope,” Wilcox said. “But thanks for a good time last night.”

  “I figured,” she said. “You didn’t have to tip me like that. Miss Fannie paid us fine to come out here. She and that friend of yours are close. I think they’re sweet on each other.”

  “You don’t say . . .”

  “I seen him a few times at the club,” she said. “He goes up into her office. Nobody goes up there. It’s like some kind of fucking birdcage. She can look down on the stages, see us working the pole, and back in the VIP room she has cameras. You don’t steal from Fannie Hathcock. No one messes with that woman.”

  “Fannie Hathcock?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s a hell of a name,” he said. “She owns the club where y’all work?”

  “Vienna’s Place,” she said, beaming. “Best strip club south of Memphis on Highway 45. Prettiest girls in the whole state of Mississippi. Cold beer. Hot women. Haven’t you seen the billboards?”

  “Your momma must be proud.”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  He put a hand on the young girl’s skinned-up knee. “Don’t be falling in love with a rascal like me.”

  Tiffany Nicole turned up her pug nose and smiled. “You’re no rascal,” she said. “You treated me real nice.”

  “You call that nice?”

  “You didn’t dog-cuss me,” she said. “Or make me do any of that sick stuff. My ex used to like to put cigarettes out on my legs.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “It’s true,” she said, pulling up her skirt to show little puckered scars on her legs. “Can’t blame him. He didn’t grow up real good.”

  Wilcox stood up, the blanket drawing off the girl, keeping it high on his shoulders as he walked onto the tarmac and into the morning light. He could use a shower and a shave, a decent breakfast with lots of bacon and home fries. Black coffee and more cigarettes. Keep moving. Don’t stop.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  He looked to the girl, teeth chattering and arms wrapped around her bare waist. Last night, he hadn’t noticed all the makeup she wore. All that eyeliner and lipstick a damn mess on her face now.

  “Who are y’all, really?”

  “I told you.”

  “Bankers?” she said. “Doing some turkey hunting?”

  “Gobble gobble.”

  “I don’t know anyone shoots turkeys with AR-15s,” she said. “My daddy just had a twelve-gauge loaded with Winchester Double X. It kicks like a damn mule but puts out a real tight shot.”

  “What else did you see?” Wilcox said, walking up on her. The wind kicking up that blanket behind his back like a superhero cape. He snatched her quick and pulled her in close to see if she was lying.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. Goddamn. Hey. You’re hurting my arm.”

  “Why were you looking through our stuff?”

  “I wasn’t,” she said. “But I saw y’all’s guns. Just trying to give you some friendly hunting advice. My daddy said a rich man loves his gear but don’t know shit about hunting. I guess that’s true.”

  Wilcox felt that old familiar rage coming up in him, teeth grinding, blood in his face, but he let go of her arm. He felt into his pockets for the pack of cigarettes he’d gotten off that black girl last night. Goddamn Kools with a filter tip.

  “Listen, this thing I’m doing,” she said. “Working for Miss Fannie. It’s just temporary.”

  Wilcox looked at her, cupping his hand around the cigarette to light it. “No,” he said. “No, it’s not. People don’t change. You are who you are. You keep on being that person your whole goddamn life until you die. I hate to piss all over your rose garden, but the sooner you know these things, the better. You working that pole didn’t just start yesterday.”

  “Everybody has a purpose,” she said.

  “And yours is working that pole.”

  “You’re mean as shit,” she said. “You’re a mean man. You know that?”

  “You bet,” Wilcox said. “And if I hear you running your mouth about me or my associates drinking and screwing with y’all over here, I’ll find you. Keep what happened out here to yourself.”

  “My daddy said even the worst kind of people started out with souls,” she said. “Now I’m thinking he was full of shit.”

  “Go with that,” Wilcox said, turning his back to her. “That’ll do you a world of good, Tiffany Nicole. Or whatever the fuck your name is.”

  • • •

  “I appreciate you meeting me for breakfast, Mr. Skinner,” Fannie Hathcock said. “I didn’t want to leave things like the last time. I figured with a new year and all, there was a way to straighten out our relationship.”

  Skinner nodded, fiddling with the rim of his coffee cup, his pale blue eyes looking her over. “We don’t have a relationship, Miss Hathcock,” he said. “And I don’t think we ever will.”

  Fannie nodded, really, really starting to hate this old son of a bitch, but knowing if she wanted to continue to do business in this godforsaken county, she’d have to play nice. She put on her best smile, leaned forward into the corner booth of the Rebel Truck Stop, and placed a hand on his liver-spotted arm. “I don’t believe that,” she said. “I
think we can be friends.”

  Skinner didn’t answer. He just looked at her, neither smiling nor frowning. From time to time, he flicked his eyes around the truck stop café to look for anyone he might know, seeing him and the Jezebel of north Mississippi meeting up over a plate of grits and eggs. She thought of the little breakfast as a peace offering, make nice with the new guard kind of thing.

  “I didn’t expect to ever hold office again,” Skinner said. “I done my time with the supervisors and in public service with the state. I retired to spend more time with my family, my grandkids, and now two great-grandkids. I have sixty head of cattle. A nice little bass pond. Kids call me Pop Pop.”

  “I know those grandbabies are just beautiful,” Fannie said, but thinking if those kids looked anything like Skinner, they’d have bald heads, little potbelly stomachs, and humps on their backs. He was a tall man, thin of frame, with parchment-like skin and clear blue eyes. Every time she’d ever seen him, he wore a pearl-gray Stetson like LBJ, and kept a pack of cigarettes in his right-hand pocket. He was slow to speak and fast to pass judgment. He’d run on a platform to clean up Tibbehah County and restore morals to the place where he’d grown up. He’d called Vienna’s Place a den of iniquity that he’d shut down in his first year in office.

  “You have any children, Miss Hathcock?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Hard to be a woman running a business,” he said. “Particularly the kind of business you run.”

  “You mean hospitality?” she said. “Folks come up from Jackson, down from Memphis. We’re famous throughout the Mid-South. We make folks feel good. Send them down the road with a smile on their face.”

  “More like ‘infamous,’” he said. “Having a brothel in Tibbehah County isn’t exactly something to crow about.”

  Fannie dropped the smile. The plate of bacon and eggs in front of him remained untouched, as did the little bowl of grits and side of Louisiana Hot Sauce he’d requested. Steam lifted off the coffee, ice water on the side. What did you have to do to please this goddamn fossil?

  “I don’t run a brothel,” she said. “Never have. Are you making public statements that there is prostitution going on inside Vienna’s? Because if you are, that’s something perhaps you can discuss with my attorney. That’s slander, sir. I run a legal business.”