by Ace Atkins
* * *
“Wow,” Tashi Coleman said. “Just wow.”
Tashi and Caddy were now at a dive bar on Madison Avenue in midtown Memphis called the Lamplighter. They’d spent more than two hours at the strip club. All that smoke and cherry-scented perfume had been a little much for Tashi. She needed a drink in a bad way. They sat at a tattered booth across from the old jukebox playing some classic soul. Syl Johnson, Ann Peebles, Otis Clay. Above the jukebox was a velvet painting of Elvis Presley as a toreador fighting a bull.
Caddy sipped on a Coca-Cola while Tashi downed a Pabst Blue Ribbon. They’d gotten a tip at Dixie Belles that Ansley Cuthbert used to tend bar here and still hung out on occasion. So far no one seemed to know her. Caddy and Tashi decided to stick around for a few more songs, Tashi ordering a second beer and a shot, asking Caddy if she wouldn’t mind driving them back to Tibbehah County. The jukebox now playing “Take Me to the River.”
“Haven’t you ever been in a strip club before?” Caddy Colson asked, which might sound like a strange question coming from a woman known for her rural outreach ministry. Caddy wore her hair in a short pixie cut, dressed in a neat little cowboy shirt and with a simple silver cross around her neck. She looked like she should be teaching Sunday school and probably did.
“Of course I’ve seen strippers,” Tashi said, turning up the bottle of Pabst, feeling more at home and safe here than at the club. This place reminded her of plenty of dive bars she frequented back in Brooklyn with Jessica and their friends. A place where you kept quarters handy for the old jukebox and kicked back with a game of darts or foosball. The light was dim from a few vintage lamps and beer signs. There were shabby chairs and a threadbare sofa, a short little bar toward the back where they sold bottles of cheap beer and made burgers and grilled cheese sandwiches.
“But not a strip club like that,” Caddy said, smiling at Tashi.
“No,” Tashi said. “I guess not. I guess I’ve been to more like burlesque shows my friends were in. They’d dress up in retro lingerie and do routines to Billie Holiday or the Beastie Boys. Dixie Belles was a little more explicit. That show with those two girls in the canary cage . . .”
“It wasn’t a show,” Caddy said. “It was an anatomy lesson. Maybe I’m nostalgic, but I remember working the pole more in my day.”
Tashi smiled. “Did you have any favorites?”
Caddy played with the straw in her glass of Coke, looking up and shrugging. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I really responded to G N’ R. Anytime I took the stage, the DJ had me on a rotation of ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ and ‘November Rain.’ Oh, I did have this great routine to ‘Welcome to the Jungle.’ Oh, God. I found this leopard-print bikini and this necklace made out of bones that just made the men go crazy. That was something I only did on a hot night, when I knew the money was there. It was something kind of special.”
“Sounds like you didn’t hate it,” Tashi said. “At the time.”
“Are you recording me?” Caddy asked. “Because it’s a little difficult to explain.”
Tashi nodded, the microphone right there in plain view on the table. She carried it with her so much people forgot it was even on. Caddy looked like she might have changed her mind about talking about this stuff, her face changing a little bit in the bar light, looking over at a life-sized cutout of Vampirella, the sexy bloodsucking heroine. Tashi had seen one of the films at the Spectacle on cult movie night.
“Hold that thought.”
“What is it?”
Caddy Colson was already up out of her chair and headed to the bar. A dark-headed woman in her thirties leaned over it to talk to the bartender. The girl had on old Levi’s and a man’s white tank top, showing off a sleeve tattoo on her left arm. Her black hair tied up in a red bandanna like Rosie the Riveter. When she saw Caddy, she jumped up in excitement and wrapped her arms around her in a big embrace. Tashi stayed at the table, drinking her beer, still trying to come down from being in that club for the last hour. The bad music, the horrible smell of air fresheners and disinfectant, the live sex acts she’d watched performed on stage, would stay with her for a while. She reached for the shot of Jack Daniel’s and tossed it back. God, she hoped this story was headed somewhere.
Caddy waved her over. Tashi met the two women at the bar. The girl with the sleeve tat a little glassy-eyed and giggly. She cut a glance over at Caddy and then back at Tashi. “Did you really think I was dead? Now, that’s funny.”
* * *
* * *
Bentley had been coming to the same steakhouse in Jackson since he was a kid. His dad used to take him in the dank, smoky building and set him up at the bar, ordering a Roy Rogers and a Macallan neat, making a joke to the bartender about who got the scotch. Everyone there seemed to know his dad, bringing him a second drink without asking, not ever needing to know how he liked his filet cooked. Before they added flat-screens to the restaurant walls, next to all the pictures of athletes, politicos, and country stars, Bentley used to just sit there alone and observe. Gray-headed men huddled over small tables, cigarettes burning in ashtrays, conferring in private. His dad often disappeared back behind the bar and through the swinging doors to the kitchen. Where did he go? Bentley didn’t know and only asked once, his dad winking at him behind the wheel of the big black Mercedes he always kept. “Tasting the soup,” he said.
The steakhouse had been there ever since he could remember, a small stand-alone building toward the county line, anonymous and tucked away among all the gas stations, motels, and strip malls. Sitting at the bar now, he made small talk with a waitress, feeling bad for her having to wear a tight black T-shirt and black jogging shorts, old men eyeing her as she held trays loaded down with bloody steaks and fat baked potatoes. Her tee so tight it looked like it was about to bust.
“Where’s your dad?” she asked.
“He’s coming.”
“He sure is funny.”
“Oh, yes,” Bentley said. “This is his second home.”
“How about another?” she asked, pointing at his glass.
Bentley looked up and grinned. “Twist my arm.”
The waitress brought him another full glass of Maker’s Mark, writing her phone number and a smiley face in the corner of the napkin. Bentley could never tell if the girls here really liked him or only cared about his family. Either way, he couldn’t call. He had too much trouble as it was and planned to get good and stinking drunk tonight. He’d leave his car here and Uber it back to his apartment. He was supposed to be back in Tibbehah County, doing whatever it was he was supposed to be doing for his foundation, by noon tomorrow. A new grant. Finish that all-purpose building for Caddy.
He sipped his bourbon, studying his face behind the bar—delicate yet handsome, is what his mother would say. He lifted the drink and toasted no one in particular. A pro football game played on all six screens in the room as he sat there alone, a bowl of mixed nuts in front of him instead of dinner, waiting to be ushered back to taste the fucking soup.
The goddamn thing of it all was he never intended to get in so far. He figured he really might be doing some good up there, his family always looking to give away money, as that was the best way to get your picture in the society rags. And, damn, if his mother didn’t love hosting a party. Her acceptance and appreciation of Caddy Colson was real. Caddy Colson was exactly the kind of tragic case she just ached for. His daddy, on the other hand . . . His daddy had other ideas.
Bentley took a sip, lifting his eyes again beyond his shaggy-haired reflection and over at the flat-screen, watching the Titans taking on the Texans. He really could give two shits about pro football, those spoiled rich assholes trying to knock one another’s goddamn heads off. Once those boys left Ole Miss, he was done with them and on to the next season.
“Are you gonna eat?” the waitress asked, back now, even more flirty, standing close, resting her bare arm on the bar. She
even did a nice little hair flip, playing a little with the ends.
“Waiting.”
“OK,” she said. “You tell me if you need anything at all.”
Damn. Caddy. He liked her. He really did. Bentley had gotten into north Mississippi politics on his dad’s urging back when Stagg ran the show. There was even a time when he thought he had a true partner in Jason Colson. The entire point of him being up there was to work as a go-between for Stagg and his daddy’s friends. But when Jason bailed again—no wonder his kids hated him—he was left to comfort Caddy, check in with her, spend some time at the waystation she called The River, and keep tabs on the new people, Skinner and that nasty bitch, Fannie Hathcock. How damn stupid had Bentley gotten to believe he was now doing some good, drinking the holy water Kool-Aid Caddy Colson served at her Sunday service? What in the world would his pals at Jackson Prep and Ole Miss think about him now? Maybe his daddy had been right. After the party at their horse barn when his dad met Caddy, he told Bentley, “Why don’t you learn from your mother? You can sleep with country trash, but don’t bring ’em back to where you live.”
The story he told Caddy about his dad and rehab had been partly true. His mother wanted to hold an intervention. The only problem was no one wanted to come and tell his daddy how to do his business. It wasn’t an all-out lie, more of a way to assimilate with whatever Caddy had been through. He was a little jealous of her strength, that she’d undergone an actual trial by fire and had walked out stronger and even more faithful to God. That was a hell of a thing, something that, as a faltering believer, he truly admired. Caddy Colson had guts. And she was so goddamn beautiful. She wasn’t some spray-tanned honey from the Delta. Caddy Colson was the first true woman he’d ever been with.
Bentley felt a solid clasp on his shoulder and looked up to see the manager of the steakhouse. A short, squat Greek man who’d been there for years and years, a brother-in-law to the owner. Bentley left his bourbon and followed the man behind the bar and through the swinging doors of the kitchen, the steaks hissing and burning on the grill, black men in all white tending to hot bread and making salads. None of them looked up from what they were doing, knowing never to make eye contact with those headed into the back room.
The door was open and the manager spread his arms wide to welcome him in. The room nothing too fancy—wood-paneled walls, a long bookcase filled with footballs from bowl games and trophies from celebrity golf tournaments. A few pictures of pro wrestlers and a lot with the steakhouse owner and a big-titted blonde woman fishing and playing golf. A half-dozen men sat at a long table in red leather swivel chairs. It could’ve been any conference room in corporate America.
Although his father wasn’t there, Bentley knew all the men. And at the head of the table, J. K. Vardaman stood and offered him a seat at the end. There were no handshakes. Another waitress in a tight top and jogging shorts appeared to take new drink orders. Vardaman, tanned and silver-headed, placed reading glasses at the end of his nose and looked down at a legal pad. “Let’s cut the bullshit, gentlemen, and get right down to business. How about one of you boys go shut that goddamn door.”
The old men looked to Bentley. He got up and closed the door with a sharp click.
* * *
* * *
“God, I haven’t seen you for how long?” Ansley Cuthbert said, turning up a cold Pabst, looking like a Southern version of Amy Winehouse, with her stiff-teased hair up in the red bandanna and with sharp-drawn eye makeup. “Five years? Ten years? I wanted to find you so many times, Caddy, but I knew what you had been doing back home and didn’t want to make any trouble. I wasn’t so sure you wanted to hear from me.”
Tashi didn’t say a word, sitting beside Caddy Colson in a worn-out booth under a blazing PABST BLUE RIBBON neon sign, wondering if any of the audio would be worth a crap so close to the jukebox. She’d watched Ansley Cuthbert load a pocket full of quarters to play nothing but Johnny Cash and Elvis. Get rhythm when you get the blues . . .
“More like ten,” Caddy said. “And you can come see me anytime. I’m not embarrassed by my past. You know how Jericho can be. Everyone knows it anyway. What does it even matter?”
“How’s your kid?” Ansley asked. “A son. Right?”
“Jason,” Caddy said. “He’s eleven.”
“And you’re a preacher now?” Ansley said.
“Never,” Caddy said. “I run a nonprofit out toward Sugar Ditch that helps low-income families with meals, healthcare, and spiritual growth.”
“Damn, girl,” Ansley said. “Look at you. Me? I’m still slinging cocktails five nights a week at a new place over by Overton Square. They call me a master mixologist, whatever the hell that is. I work part-time at Goner Records and volunteer some at the Pink Palace. I guess that’s something. Better than the old days. Oh, God. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about back then, should I? I’m so sorry.”
Caddy shook her head as she placed her hand on Ansley’s leg and told her there were no secrets between them. Tashi studied the long curl of tattoos on Ansley’s left arm, trying to decipher their meaning. The tattoos were well done, all in black ink. Stars, a Buddha, a black rose, Escher’s twirling staircase. And a year. 1997? Did she see that? Ansley caught Tashi staring, moved her arm off the table, and turned to her with a smile.
“I heard y’all were in Tibbehah,” Ansley said, leaning forward, gripping her left elbow with her right hand, covering up the tattoo. “That Brandon Taylor thing is a real sad story. Do y’all really think someone killed him?”
“We think there is a strong possibility,” Tashi said. “Did you hear the sheriff’s office dug up a body of a young woman on the same land where Brandon used to hunt?”
“No kidding?” Ansley said, nodded, taking a long sip of beer, closing her eyes for a moment and then opening them again. “That sure is something. Do you have a picture of Jason, Caddy? God, I’d love to see him.”
“I wonder if you might talk to me outside?” Tashi asked. “It’s hard to hear over Johnny Cash.”
“You don’t like Johnny Cash?” Ansley asked, with a little bit of an edge.
“No, I love him,” Tashi said. “But we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Brandon Taylor,” Tashi said. “That’s why we’re here. I know you were close friends.”
“Sure, I knew him,” Ansley said. “So what? Did you track me down for that, Caddy? Shit. I thought we were friends. When did I ever talk to you about Brandon? That was a long time ago. And private. Christ Almighty.”
“You told me he was your boyfriend,” Caddy said. “You said you loved him and that his dying about busted you in two.”
“Bullshit.” Ansley crawled out of the booth, knocking her beer over and not bothering to pick it up. “I don’t give a damn about that crazy-ass kid.”
Hands on her hips, Ansley looked down into the booth at Caddy and Tashi sitting side by side. Some of the spilled beer poured into Tashi’s lap, but she didn’t look away from Ansley Cuthbert. That woman knew a hell of a lot more than she was saying.
“I’m sorry,” Caddy said. “I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t think this was important.”
“Who else did you tell about me?” Ansley asked, arms crossed over her chest.
“No one,” Caddy said.
“Do you promise?”
“Of course, Ansley,” Caddy said. “Listen, you can trust this woman. She’s been told a pack of lies about Quinn and Brandon having some fight over hunting land. I need you to explain that time to her. No one knew Brandon better.”
“Quinn and Brandon?” Ansley said. “God. Where’d she hear shit like that? Those two didn’t exactly run in the same circles. Did Quinn even know Brandon? Quinn was a lot older.”
“Right,” Caddy said. “Can you just sit back down and talk? All you need to do is set a few things straight. That’s all. I promise.”
Ansley closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, and shook her head as if deciding something. “I can’t,” Ansley said. “I can’t do it. I talk to you and they’ll know where to find me. I’ve kept free of this shit for too many years. Goddamn it. Why the hell did you have to bring Tashi Coleman up to Memphis? That’s not how it was supposed to work.”
That stopped Tashi cold, looking at Caddy in the booth and back at Ansley Cuthbert. “How was it supposed to work, Ansley? Were you the one who first reached out to us? You can talk to me. On or off the record. I’ll keep your whereabouts safe. I promise.”
“‘I promise, I promise,’” Ansley said, mocking her. “God. Is there any more foul a statement? Everyone lies. Everyone promises you something. And then you’re left with a big steaming pile of dog shit at your front door. Not this time, girls. I’m fucking out of here. And don’t you dare try and find me. I don’t want a goddamn thing to do with those people.”
“What people?” Tashi asked. But Ansley was already out the door.
“Sorry,” Caddy said.
“Will she come around?”
“Ansley Cuthbert?” Caddy said. “Oh, hell, you never know. That girl has always been a wild card.”
TWENTY-ONE
Quinn wasn’t exactly sure how they ended up in bed, but there they were, he and Maggie, twisted under a white sheet trying to catch their breath. The topic of conversation hadn’t been all that sexy, Quinn leaving the late shift that morning, carrying the news of the forensics on the girl they found out at the Pennington property. Maggie had dropped off Brandon at school, still dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, drinking coffee on the porch when he got back to the farmhouse. He sat on the porch with her and laid out all of it. The girl was a teen or in her early twenties, buried at least twenty years ago, maybe more, the state folks saying she died from a massive blow to the head, several broken bones. They said her skull had been cracked in a dozen places, leaving them with a probable cause of death.
