The Fallen

by Ace Atkins

  “You know gosh dang well they put on their britches when they saw y’all drive up,” Skinner said. “Don’t you boys know anything about undercover work? I seen a TV show, on that Cops program, where a man had a tiny camera in his hat. Surely y’all can figure something like that out.”

  “Mr. Skinner,” Quinn said, giving the old man a little more respect than he deserved. “I have three deputies on at night. We have more than five hundred square miles of county to patrol. Between the family squabbles, the filling station thieving, and in general drug-induced mayhem over the weekend, we stay a little busy keeping people safe.”

  “Do your job, Sheriff,” Skinner said. “That place is a disgrace to any decent person in this county. Or are you afraid of Miss Hathcock?”

  “I’m not looking out for Fannie,” Quinn said, “if that’s what you’re saying. But that place was never built to cater to this county. That’s why it sits outside city limits near the highway. In an effort to protect and serve, I don’t give a shit if a traveling salesmen from Starkville gets his pecker pulled.”

  “I don’t have time for that kind of filthy talk,” Skinner said, face growing even a deeper shade of red. “I knew you’d hide behind the excuse that that Hathcock woman engaged in a victimless crime. Do you know she threatened me before the board of supervisors with some Jew lawyer up in Memphis? And then started to talk about crotch crickets and her girls’ wild cooters. We had just been speaking to our county road manager about buying some gravel and he’s an ordained minister.”

  “Yeah, I know Jerry,” Quinn said. “I knew him back when he loved Jäger shots more than Jesus.”

  “You’re making us look like fools,” Skinner said. “I made a pronouncement in front of the supervisors and Betty Jo Mize. She has it right there in the paper, in Betty Jo’s weekly column, next to that chili recipe. If that repugnant, vile place is still open by the end of the week, you better start looking for other employment.”

  “And how are you going to fire me?” Quinn said. “Sheriff is an elected position, Mr. Skinner.”

  “Wasn’t when your uncle ran things,” Skinner said. “He knew where his bread was buttered and how that jam got slathered on. Hamp Beckett was a practical man and knew who really ran the show.”

  Quinn stood up so fast Skinner took a quick step back. “Don’t lecture me on my uncle,” he said. “Ever. I had to scrape his brains off the wall of my farmhouse because he couldn’t take the bullshit.”

  “You’re a tough young nut,” Skinner said, running a hand over his weak jaw and sort of grinning. “Think you got things figured out, know the way a watch works. But, boy, you got no dang idea how things really work. Or the mess you’re in if you don’t go and take out the trash.”

  Quinn stared at the man with the long monkey arms and skinny potbelly. The light blue eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses, the ridiculous LBJ hat, and the loose skin hanging from his neck like a prize tom. He didn’t say anything, knowing that the man only wanted to load up on some gossip to spread around the Square.

  “How can any Christian man stomach what goes in that place?” Skinner said. “You call it victimless? What about the lives ruined? Families broken up? Those heated-up harlots, panting and sweating, make men do things they wouldn’t in the real world.”

  “Last I checked, Fannie Hathcock wasn’t holding a gun on anyone.”

  Skinner grinned, planted his feet, and shook his head. “Be sober, be vigilant, young man,” Skinner said, “because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking who he may devour.”

  “Appreciate that, preacher,” Quinn said, sitting back down. “But I got work to do.”

  “You did what no one thought you could,” Skinner said. “You ran Stagg out of town and opened up a world of possibilities for Tibbehah County. This is a time for miracles, Sheriff Colson. Business and jobs returning to our little county. Why would you even risk that for one moment?”

  “I got the ordinance,” Quinn said. “I’ll enforce it.”

  “A tough, tough nut.”

  Quinn nodded. Skinner touched the brim of his Stetson and tromped, splayfooted, from the room.

  • • •

  “Who’d they send?” Fannie asked.

  “Reggie Caruthers,” Mingo said, wiping down Vienna’s bar. “He stayed for a while and watched the girls dance. I gave him a Coke and he insisted on paying for it. I figured he just kinda got bored and left.”

  “And the girls had on their G-strings?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mingo said. “All of them but Vernice wore what I bought in Tupelo. Vernice wanted to wear some kind of homemade shit she’d made with some red satin, a glue gun, and glitter. She thought it looked sexy, but I thought she looked like she was dancing with a damn cookie on her muff.”

  “Tell her the Victoria’s Secret gear is now the uniform,” Fannie said, setting an elbow to the bar and dropping her forehead to the heel of her hand. “Skinner wants all the girls to be registered. I hear a license may be two hundred dollars. That’s a night for most of my girls.”

  “Can’t you just pay it for them?”

  “Of course,” Fannie said. “But that’s not the point. Skinner wants to monetize our little skin game. He claims he’s holier than thou and doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, but that’s proof right there.”

  “Any man buttoned up that tight has issues,” Mingo said, slicing up an orange and placing it in the glass with some cherries and gin. “Either that or his pecker doesn’t work. Probably makes him mad as hell thinking about all the sweaty gyration and releasing going on down on Highway 45. Man only wants to join in the show.”

  “As sorry as I am to say it,” Fannie said, “the VIP room is closed until further notice.”

  “No lap dancing?”

  “Five-foot rule,” Fannie said. “I’ll playing Little Miss Fucking Sunshine until we get all this business straightened out. I’ll be honest, I thought we would have shut this bullshit down right quick.”

  “Why don’t we?” Mingo said, placing a little cocktail napkin down and then serving up her Dirty Shirley. “You’ve dealt with a lot worse.”

  Fannie took a sip, nodding. “Our boys are afraid of him,” Fannie said. “Do you believe that shit? I was told no one wants to mess with Skinner. They won’t tell me who’s behind him, but I’ve got it on rock-solid authority it’s our buddy Vardaman.”

  Mingo let out a long breath. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Johnny Stagg.”

  “Shit,” Mingo said. “You spoke to him?”

  “Spoke to him?” Fannie said. “I saw his broke-down ass in an orange jumpsuit. That’s where I went the other day. Drove all the way over to Montgomery to have a face-to-face. I found out there’s no love lost between him and Skinner. Way I hear it, this shit’s been boiling over for decades.”

  “Vardaman’s a creep,” Mingo said.

  “That’s the best word you can come up with?”

  “At the moment,” Mingo said. “I never liked going out to his place. He’s almost never there. And when he is, you never see him. All those handlers and ass lickers.”

  “With this shit show that goes on at that hunt lodge, would you want anyone to see your face?”

  “He’s got real specific tastes.”

  “So did Hitler,” Fannie said. “He liked women to piss on him.”

  “We’ve seen worse,” Mingo said.

  “I told you when you came on, there’s more excitement working for Fannie Hathcock than joining up with the Ringling Brothers,” she said, taking a sip of the cocktail. “But they both have about the same smell.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Wait ’em out,” Fannie said. “I got my lawyer jamming up these fucking hillbillies until kingdom come. I don’t think we’ll see any registration or permitting for a long while. But in that
long meantime, we play nice. We’re straight titties and likker. Got that? If the girls want to put out on the side, let ’em take it across the street to the Golden Cherry. But here at Vienna’s, we’re going to be cleaner than goddamn Main Street at Disney World.”

  “Two girls are out today.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Vernice and Skylar.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Vernice says she has a cold,” Mingo said. “Skylar says she’s just real tired and staying home to watch Days of Our Lives.”

  “When I worked the pole, I never missed a chance to make money,” Fannie said. “I had those boys from the base just begging me to take their wallets. Hell, I had a steady rotation of a dozen or so flyboys sending me money from bases all around the world. They thought we’d get married when they got home. Or else they said they’d leave their wife and they’d set me up in some crummy apartment by the airfield. Not for me. Not for the best piece of pussy in the state of Mississippi.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Mingo said, leaning by the bar taps, towel thrown over his shoulder. Lean and hard, with all that black hair, he looked just like Jeffrey Hunter all made up in The Searchers.

  “And you never will, kid,” Fannie said, toasting him with her cocktail. “You’re about the closest thing I’ll ever have to a son.”

  “You raised me right, Miss Hathcock.”

  Fannie winked at him and took a long, cold drink.

  • • •

  “Two men came for Ana Maria’s father and beat the tar out of him with lead pipes,” Caddy said. “What is this, Russia? You can’t pull that kind of crap in Mississippi.”

  “Try being black,” Boom said.

  “You get any names?” Lillie asked.

  “Manuel didn’t know them,” Caddy said. “They were white men, a couple roughnecks from the way he was talking.”

  Boom nodded, all of them sitting in the far back room of the Fillin’ Station, a little section of the diner cut off from the rest of the restaurant with an accordion partition. The walls lined with photos of Little League teams from all the years gone by who’d held their end-of-season celebrations there. Sometimes couples had anniversary parties, others rented out the space for after funerals. The Fillin’ Station pulling out the catfish and fried-chicken buffet with swampy green beans and crisp hush puppies. The room always smelled like grease and cigarette smoke, Caddy knowing she’d have to wash her clothes when she got home.

  “Manuel is a crazy-ass drunk,” Boom said. “Hangs out at that pool hall up in Yellow Leaf, where they got tables in that shed. What’s that man’s name who owns it?”

  “Bruce Nichols,” Lillie said.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “You know him,” Lillie said. “Used to run the meat department at Piggly Wiggly. Got busted a couple times for selling pain pills.”

  Boom nodded. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Sure. Cut me some mean T-bones.”

  “I’m pretty sure Manuel knows more than he’s saying,” Caddy said. “I don’t think he would have told me those men’s names if I’d backed up a tanker full of tequila.”

  “That motherfucker can down some tequila,” Boom said.

  Caddy looked up at Lillie, who was inspecting the wall of fame, pointing to a junior high basketball team, Lillie in her uniform, standing a good head taller than most of the girls. “Don’t think he’d talk,” Lillie said, searching for more. “Even drunk.”

  “How about Fannie Hathcock?” Caddy said. “What’d she say?”

  “She claimed she’d never heard of the girls and that Blue was lying.”

  “Bullshit,” Boom said. “His ass was highly motivated to tell the damn truth. Those girls were sold to Fannie. She had them for at least a few weeks.”

  “How do we know?” Lillie said, turning back from the wall, hands on hips, full attention back on Caddy. “I mean, really? We’re taking the word of Blue Daniels? And finding out about some shadow peckerwoods from a Mexican drunk? Y’all got to get me a little more.”

  “I know,” Caddy said, almost whispering. “Someone saw them, but I can’t tell you who. They were there and then they just disappeared.”

  “Maybe they went back home,” Lillie said.

  “These girls don’t have a home,” Caddy said. “Nobody’s left out at Skid Bucket besides Manuel. Tamika’s mother won’t claim her. If we can find these two men, maybe we can find out what happened.”

  Lillie set her eyes on Caddy. “Who do you know inside Fannie’s place?” she said. “One of the working girls?”

  Caddy shook her head. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “If they knew where to find them, I’d know. Lots of girls come and go from that place. Some girls who never even see inside Fannie’s bar. She runs girls from Houston through some people in Biloxi and New Orleans. They get sent to work up north in roadside jerk shacks. Most of the girls are illegals, can’t say shit.”

  “Wait a second,” Lillie said, holding up the flat of her hand. “Hold the fucking phone. You think they got shipped off?”

  Caddy looked to Boom and back to Lillie, nodding. “But why would two teenage girls be so almighty important to Fannie Hathcock? She’s the kind of woman who does as she pleases and gives the rest of the world the finger.”

  “She cares,” Lillie said. “That woman gives a great goddamn what we think about her. I think she’s scared to death Skinner is going to shut down her show.”

  “Fuck that guy,” Boom said.

  “No thanks.” Lillie pushed off the wall and sat down with them at the head of the table. “Y’all are now getting me into Deep Shit City. Not only has this become a missing persons case but now you’ve thrown in assault, possibly attempted murder of Ana Maria’s father and human trafficking with Fannie. I’m glad to sit down with you both and chew the bullshit anytime, but it’s high time we bring in Quinn. We drove way past church camp.”

  “Nope,” Caddy said. “Not yet.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Lillie said. “These girls might be dead. And if there’re more girls, Quinn’s got to talk to his bearded stranger bud up in Oxford. This is some serious bullshit y’all have stirred up. As if we didn’t have our own fucking problems.”

  Boom looked up from his big-ass Mountain Dew. “Y’all caught those bank robbers yet?”

  “Nope,” Lillie said.

  “Got any leads?” Boom said, grinning.

  “Not a fucking one,” Lillie said.

  Boom looked to Caddy and then over at Lillie. “Well, looks like we all in the same boat,” Boom said. “We all don’t know shit about shit. I’m for bringing in Quinn. Ain’t no telling where those little girls went. What Blue did, selling them into that world, just grinds my goddamn teeth.”

  “You want another shot at him,” Lillie said. “Don’t you?”

  Boom smiled and stood, reaching for his cap with his hook hand. Caddy amazed how he could set it down on his head without cutting himself.

  19

  They’d been over and over it. Cord had sketched out the interior of the count room and Opie had run through all the photos Crissley had taken inside the Wing Machine. Opie said he’d studied the pictures so many times he could recount all thirty-one flavors on the menu, from Cool Breeze to Super-Bad Mothers, the real ass burner of the bunch. Crissley had bought a dozen to go, a batch somewhere in the middle called Down and Dirty, and they weren’t half bad, eating them in the parking lot to Graceland with a six-pack of Bud Light. Cord was back at the wheel today, Wilcox riding shotgun in a navy blue GMC Yukon he’d checked out from the lot and would return for an executive detail from his boys in maintenance. Their watches had been set, plans made, and it would all go down like this if the dumb shits complied.

  1. At the set time, Opie would take down the Wing Machine. He’d get them all into the cooler and bolt their ass inside before locking
the front door and turning out the lights. No shots. No mess.

  2. At the same moment, Cord and Wilcox would roll into the detail shop out back. The detail shop was closed on Sunday, but they’d act like they were confused. Get the boys talking, cool and relaxed, and then put an assault rifle up their ass. They could get shot or they could relax and let it happen.

  3. The shooters taken outside would lead them into the count room. The main problem being two cameras inside the Wing Machine and a camera in the alley where they washed cars. But being hit at the same time, double-teamed, would split the Twins’ attention. It’d take some time to drop handfuls of money and flutes of champagne.

  And if the Twins locked down the count room, Wilcox had packed a few surprises. A door-busting shotgun and a few flashbangs. This crew may be the baddest motherfuckers in Memphis, but no one could clear a fucking room like Bravo Company. And this time there were no snipers, no IEDs outside the compound, and they had the wonderful gift of surprise. If these boys kept to schedule, they’d be popping the champagne right now, making sure not to spill a sip on those funky Sunday suits. Hallelujah, motherfuckers.

  “I don’t like the split with that woman,” Wilcox said. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “It’s what we agreed,” Cord said.

  “Everything’s negotiable,” Wilcox said, grinning, checking over the AR-15 in his lap and putting his hand on the Colt .45 on his waist. “Especially after we have the money.”

  “What we said is what we said,” Cord said.

  “Redheads always had a way to mindfuck you, brother,” he said. “Haven’t you read The Art of the Deal?”

  Wilcox had on a black Under Armour hoodie and a pair of utility pants with Merrell boots, pant pockets loaded down with four extra clips. After the deed, if they’d fired the weapons, which Wilcox hoped would happen, they’d dump the guns in the Mississippi, burn their clothes, and lay low for at least a month. Maybe go down to the beach with Opie.

  Wilcox passed out the Trump masks to Opie and Cord.