The Shameless

by Ace Atkins

  Mrs. Taylor poured him a cup of coffee and handed him the mug, advertising COBB LUMBER MILL, and he accepted the hot mug with both hands. She nodded her head toward the living room and a grouping of two blue chairs and a tweedy-looking sofa. Quinn had his notebook and pen out, making sure he nailed down all the specific dates and information for a new case file on Brandon’s death. He wanted to limit the embarrassment to the sheriff’s department as much as he could. That’s all he needed, a couple women down from New York City wanting to think no one in the county knew how to type up a report.

  “You want to talk about Brandon?” she asked. “Don’t you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said. “With it being twenty years now, some folks have renewed interest. You know I was only two years older than your son. And there isn’t much left from back then at the sheriff’s office.”

  Mrs. Taylor’s eyes wandered away, nodding at nothing in particular. “Not a lot of folks I’ll discuss Brandon with,” she said. “But I remember how you helped out in those early days. You worked with your uncle in the woods, walking those same trails from when you got lost as a boy. I believed Brandon would come out of those Big Woods same as you. You were the town hero after surviving all that time. Gave me some hope.”

  Quinn nodded, feeling his face flush.

  “How’s Maggie?” she asked.

  “Just fine.”

  “I love that little girl,” Rhonda said. “She never lost touch with me or Shaina. I don’t think a month’s gone by she hadn’t called or sent me a letter. Birthdays, Christmas. So many of them. She never forgot our Brandon.”

  “Her son,” Quinn said. “Our son is named for him.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said. “I met him when he was just a baby. She brought him up here to see us with that man she’d married. I know I shouldn’t say this, but I didn’t care for that man at all. He had a wild look in his eye, always wanting Maggie to shut up and let him talk, walking around and looking at his watch, something on his mind.”

  “Say what you want,” Quinn said. “The man was a liar and a thief. He was mean as hell to Maggie and Brandon and tried to kill me before blowing up my favorite truck.”

  “Sometimes the Lord works like that,” Rhonda said. “Any man who’d blow up another man’s truck oughta be in prison.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Quinn drank some coffee, the little room reminding him a lot of the house where he grew up, nearly the identical blueprint, probably built by the same people. Basic sixties ranch style, brick and wood, with a wide porch outside and a view of the forest. Brandon had had two sisters, Shaina and an older sister named Charlene. Charlene had been in Quinn’s class, a heavyset girl who’d been manager of the town’s Hollywood Video back when folks still rented movies. Last Quinn had heard, Charlene had moved to Orlando with her second husband, a used-car salesman named Tommy Reeves who played high school ball with Quinn.

  “I’ll tell you what Shaina told those women from New York City,” Mrs. Taylor said. “I figure they’ve come to see you, too. I don’t really know what to make of those folks. One of them has blue hair. Why do they care so much about what happened to our Brandon? Why would they come all the way down to Tibbehah County to start shining a flashlight in the dark, looking for an answer nobody seems to know? Just ’cause Shaina asked them? I don’t believe for a hot second that’s true. There aren’t too many of us left, really. My Tim’s dead, Charlene’s gone to Orlando. About the only people still left are Shaina, Maggie, and me. Kind of a small club, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said. “I promised my wife and those women I’d do my best to find some answers.”

  Rhonda’s face didn’t change, her slightly opened mouth still, eyes looking right into Quinn. She looked as if he’d betrayed her in the same way, although he believed he was doing the right thing. What Maggie wanted him to do. What Shaina Taylor said she wanted.

  “Why?” she said. “Just to get the blame off your uncle?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Excuse me?”

  “Hadn’t you heard?” Mrs. Taylor said. “He let that awful old man go. Hubie Phillips had all the answers and he just let him go. Tail tucked between his bony legs and skittering on out of this county like some kind of perverted animal.”

  Quinn nodded as he wrote down some notes. “I heard he might be up in Memphis somewhere?”

  “Why don’t you ask those New York women?” she said. “Them Bobbsey Twins. Seems like those gals are two steps ahead of you, Sheriff.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Fannie took the call back at her office at Vienna’s, which she had fumigated, painted, and filled with brand-new furniture after those shitbirds J. B. Hood and Wes Taggart vacated the premises. Ole J. B. Hood in a pine box somewhere in Alabama and Taggart now sitting in the county jail, probably with his teeth kicked in by the sheriff. As Ray came on the line, she stood from her glass-top desk and wandered out to the catwalk that looked over the show floor. It was a few hours from opening. Two new hires were vacuuming and scrubbing down the leather chairs of last night’s party fun, men spilling drinks and exploding like champagne corks all over her rugs and finery. Damn, it was hell keeping a class place in north Mississippi.

  “Sweet baby.”

  “Money is time, Ray,” she said. “What you got for me?”

  “Maybe I just wanted to thank you,” Ray said. “Tell you how much fun I had at your last visit. Mimosas. Bloody Marys. Maybe take you for a big T-bone dinner at the Como Steakhouse and get you some New York cheesecake for dinner.”

  “I thought you liked cherry pie, Ray.”

  “Sometimes it’s so damn hot, I just might burn my tongue.”

  “Shush your mouth,” Fannie said, spotting a nasty new stain on the rug leading into the VIP room. She whistled for one of her workers, a Mexican man named Jorge, and pointed to the stain. “I just might blush.”

  “Since when?”

  “Money,” Fannie said. “Time.”

  “You’re gonna have a couple guests check in at the Golden Cherry tonight,” Ray said.

  “OK?”

  “They won’t be in town long. But perhaps you can arrange for some company to help them while the time away.”

  “How important?”

  “Why’s that matter?”

  “Depends on if you want the damn Junior Varsity or my starters, Ray,” she said. “My talent doesn’t come cheap. Longer I keep those girls off the floor, the less we all make.”

  “Whatever they want,” Ray said. “Just make sure they’re girls you can trust. They may have to account for some lost time in the next twenty-four hours. Good to know they were being serviced all throughout the day.”

  “Oh, shit,” Fannie said. “What the fuck is going on now?”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty red head a bit,” Ray said. “I can’t tell you what’s happening, but you’ll sure like the outcome.”

  “Then why won’t you tell me?”

  “And spoil the surprise?” Ray said. “Not a chance, doll.”

  EIGHT

  It took Jessica less than two minutes to find Hubie Phillips on Facebook. The profile matched the age, education, and background for the source they hoped to find. Although some details were blocked, they saw his profession was retired educator and that he’d been in Memphis since 1998. Although there had been no mention of Jericho or Tibbehah County, they decided to take a flyer and Jessica sent out a friend request. Within fifteen minutes, they heard back, asking, Do I know you? Tashi and Jessica decided direct and honest was the best way to proceed and answered back they were journalists looking into the death of Brandon Taylor.

  For two days they heard nothing, but on the third day Jessica received a message from a man named Arthur Kelm from a Gmail account who said he’d like to meet and find out if they had the best interests in mind for his friend Hubie. He w
anted to meet in Memphis at a public spot and they chose the food court at an aging mall in east Memphis on Poplar Avenue. Tashi went alone with her recorder and a notebook and found a small table outside a Starbucks, on the first floor, right by the entrance to Macy’s.

  She drank a matcha green tea latte and checked her phone, waiting for thirty minutes and then an hour. She texted Jessica back at the Traveler’s Rest Motel saying, Looks like a no-show. But Jessica remained firm, saying, Kelm said he was running late. Stick tight. He’ll show.

  Nearly an hour and a half from the agreed meeting time, a slight, older man with thinning gray hair, dressed in a short-sleeved plaid shirt and khakis, walked up to her table. He looked as bland and inoffensive as an insurance salesman. “Are you Jessica?”

  “Tashi,” she said, giving her best welcoming smile, pointing to an empty chair. “Jessica is my producer. She couldn’t make it.”

  The older man looked worried, his sagging cheeks ashen, his eyes, a clear blue, darting around the mall, looking as if a SWAT team might swoop in at any moment, knocking over coffee cups, muffins, and Danishes. “I agreed to meet Jessica. I don’t know you.”

  “You don’t know Jessica, either,” Tashi said, still smiling. “But we showed you who we are and what we’re working on. Can I buy you some coffee or something to eat? There’s a Chick-fil-A right around the corner. We could talk there.”

  The man didn’t sit, just kept on looking around the mall. Foot Locker, U.S. Apparel, a GNC store offering BUY ONE, GET ONE 50 PERCENT OFF! LIT ON-THE-GO IN TANGY ORANGE. He was skinny and slump-shouldered. His tennis shoes were sensible white canvas with spotless laces.

  “I promise, I don’t bite.”

  The man shook his head and turned, walking fast back toward the center of the mall to the water fountains and glass elevator she’d passed on the way in. Tashi grabbed her purse and recorder and left her empty cup, following Arthur Kelm through the few people who still came to malls, walking and window-shopping for shit no one needs. Cart vendors tried to sell her bootleg fragrances, cheap sunglasses, and 3-D family portraits etched in glass. Kelm turned toward a staircase heading up to the parking lot and she pursued, the air smelling of the Auntie Anne’s pretzels at the corner, free samples wafting right in front of her face.

  “Mr. Kelm,” she said, yelling up the steps. “I believe Hubie Phillips might know what really happened. I know he was Brandon’s friend.”

  Kelm quit walking. He didn’t turn, just stood there on the landing, holding the handrail, staring up at the daylight as he bowed his head. Tashi took the steps two by two and got within earshot. “Can you please just relay a message?” she said. “We only want to know about Sheriff Beckett. We need to know more about his investigation. Everything has been destroyed. We are starting from the very beginning. November 1997. Sir?”

  The older man turned to her, out of breath, face drained of color. He looked down at a cell phone in his hand and then back at Tashi. “OK,” he said. “Just don’t lie to me. You lie to me once and I’m done.”

  “Mr. Phillips?” Tashi asked.

  The old man nodded. “I sure loved that boy.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Work didn’t stop in Tibbehah County, not for Wes Taggart or Brandon Taylor, and that afternoon Quinn had been tipped Pookie Williams was spotted up in Blackjack milling about the new Dollar General, shoving candy bars and beef jerky into his pant pockets. He radioed into dispatch he was headed into the store, but as soon as he was through the door, the clerk, a chubby, balding dude named Buddy Smallwood, leaned against the register and pointed to the far back corner. Smallwood had a toothpick hanging from the side of his mouth and somehow looked curious and bored at the same time.

  The store seemed empty except for some loud music playing down the cereal aisle. A big Bluetooth boom box perched above a Lucky Charms display blasted a Kane Brown song Quinn had heard all summer. “Used to Love You Sober.”

  Quinn reached down for his mic and radioed in that Williams was inside the store.

  Cleotha radioed back, asking if Tibbehah 1 needed backup.

  “No, ma’am,” Quinn said, turning down the radio and walking down the far wall filled with refrigerators and freezers.

  “What’s that shit you listening to?” Cleotha said, radioing back.

  “Keep this channel clear, please.”

  The glass cases held about everything you needed to get by in the country: milk, sausage, ice cream, Popsicles, and big sacks of frozen biscuits. He looked up at the circular mirror in the corner and spotted a man, two aisles in, moving fast toward the front of the store. Quinn walked back the way he came to cut him off, past the bags of potato chips, cheese puffs, beef jerky, and mixed nuts.

  Pookie had his head down, hands cradling his bulging sweatshirt like a pregnant woman as he walked. When Quinn called out his name, Pookie looked up, said, “Oh, shit,” and dropped sacks and cans of food on the floor. He darted back the way he’d come and disappeared around the corner.

  Quinn knew he wasn’t armed, but letting Pookie Williams escape the sheriff in the Blackjack Dollar General might prove embarrassing as hell. He moved back toward the front of the store and nodded to Buddy. “Back door locked?”

  “’Course it’s locked,” Buddy Smallwood said. “Dang. You think I like getting robbed just for the fun of it?”

  “Exit door?” Quinn asked.

  “Fire door?” Smallwood said. “Oh, well. Yeah, but it’ll set off the alarm.”

  Quinn ran back toward the far corner of the store, toward the big paper towel display. Pookie had gone in the opposite direction, back where they sold kids’ clothes, T-shirts, and underwear. The back displays offered Christmas and Halloween decorations year-round for fifty percent off.

  “Pookie?” Quinn said.

  He heard feet in the next aisle and turned to see Pookie running down the toy aisle, knocking down boxes of Barbies and action figures behind him as if it would block Quinn’s path. He got nearly to the front of the store when Buddy Smallwood blocked Pookie’s escape with a revolver in his hand. Quinn called out for Buddy to put it down but Buddy wouldn’t listen, standing there in a Dirty Harry pose, legs wide and chomping on his toothpick. If Quinn didn’t get him settled, they’d be picking up Pookie’s brains on aisle 6.

  “Pookie,” Quinn said. “Son of a damn bitch.”

  Pookie ran so fast he got tangled up in a Mylar balloon display, tripping and falling but getting back to his feet, running like hell with several pink and green balloons wrapped around his legs. Quinn headed for the fire exit, knowing that it was the only way out, but Pookie was hopped up and ready, beating him there and busting through the door, the alarm going off in the store. Quinn finally caught him by the dumpsters and throwaway boxes outside, tackling him to the ground, balloons and all.

  They fell in a heap, crushing boxes under them, as Quinn flipped Pookie onto his face and searched his pockets for the knife he knew he’d find. He pulled out a retractable blade inside a pair of brass knuckles etched with a profile of a dragon breathing fire. A nasty little setup anyone could buy at their local gas station for five bucks.

  “Damn it, Pookie.”

  Pookie turned his head and spit. His lip was busted and his face scratched as he looked up at Quinn. “Damn,” he said. “I sure am sorry, Sheriff.”

  “Buddy Smallwood almost shot you in the back.”

  “I didn’t steal nothing,” he said. “I dropped everything but these damn balloons all over my ass.”

  “You robbed Miss Peaches at the Dixie Gas station,” he said. “You pulled this knife on that nice old woman.”

  “Did I?” Pookie said. His eyes were glazed, as Quinn helped him to his feet, and he looked authentically confused.

  “You sure did.”

  “Shit, Sheriff,” he said. “Last week’s sure as hell been a blur. I can’t reall
y say what I done or not done.”

  “We got you on video.”

  “Oh.”

  “And your momma’s worried sick about you,” Quinn said, opening up the back door of his truck. Pookie’s hands were cuffed behind him and Quinn had to help him up onto the rails. “I would’ve hated to tell her you got shot over some Slim Jims and Cheetos.”

  “I’ll get straight,” Pookie said. “I promise you, Sheriff. I’ll get straight.”

  * * *

  * * *

  They walked toward Dillard’s.

  “I’m sorry,” Hubie Phillips said. “That wasn’t exactly a time in my life I want to remember. It was pure and absolute humiliation.”

  “How soon after Brandon’s death did you leave Jericho?” Tashi asked, glad to have some of the mall sounds on the recording. A little side action always made things sound better. You could hear the fountain, the slight murmur of people talking and walking.

  “I left around graduation in ’98,” he said. “I didn’t want to go. I loved teaching. I’d been at Tibbehah High for more than twenty years, but no one made it comfortable. The principal, the school board—everyone was against me except for a handful of students. I was guilty in the eyes of everyone in town.”

  “Was it because you were gay?”

  “Is it that obvious?” Phillips said, smiling for the first time. “Is it my sensible shoes?”

  “I’ve talked to several people,” Tashi said. “They say that’s why you were the first suspect.”