The Shameless

by Ace Atkins

  * * *

  The high-rise tower and bar at the Choctaw casino had always reminded Fannie of an enormous pecker. The long, cylindrical luxury wing with golden windows was topped with a large, bulbous rotating lounge that had to have come from some pretty unsophisticated minds, some on the Rez saying it was a monument to Chief Robbie’s true skill set. Fannie figured that was about right. He didn’t have much upstairs, so God would’ve had to have blessed him in more obvious ways. She looked up at the tower in the casino parking lot and crushed her cigarillo under her new Sergio Rossi suede boots and headed toward the grand entrance, the inner workings of the casino familiar as hell from the old days, the beeping, whirring, and mind-numbing bullshit of it all.

  The Chief knew to expect her, told her to come straight to the floor and he’d come down and meet her at the bar. The casino floor looked a little shopworn from when she’d been working down here. Back then, the casino had just opened, with fresh paint and carpet, every bit of it new to the touch. Now it looked like the interior of an old Chevy truck about to be traded in by its redneck owner. The floor was threadbare and worn out, the baseboards scuffed and dirty, brass railings needing a good polishing. She looked around at the hundreds of slot machines, blackjack tables, and roulette wheels. The games all worked by folks from the tribe, that being Chief Robbie’s big claim to fame for his people. He brought the money back to Mississippi. Or at least that’s what his press agent said.

  Fannie had gone all out for the meeting. Not only the Rossi boots but a Burberry long-sleeved silk dress hitting her about mid-thigh. She’d dabbed a little Chanel Gardenia between her tits and put on her finest pair of black lace panties in case she had the opportunity to uncross her legs in the right company. The Chief had tried for the jackpot before but never gotten it. When she’d worked the girls at the Rez, she hadn’t been a bit turned on by a grown man who spent his leisure time wrestling alligators.

  “You’re a very bold woman,” Chief Robbie said.

  Fannie turned around. Chief Robbie himself, live and in person, standing there in his Canadian tuxedo of denim on denim with a large chunk of turquoise around his neck and on his wrists. His long black hair combed straight back off his flat Native face and tied into a ponytail. The man’s shirt must’ve had five pearl buttons undone to make the point he still pumped a little iron. He looked like Engelbert Humperdinck had fucked the hell out of Pocahontas. The real one, with the hatchet face, not the hot Disney chick with the long legs and nice tatas.

  “There was a time when I would’ve had you arrested on sight,” Chief Robbie said, hands on his hips, staring right through her with his coal black eyes.

  “Really?” Fannie said. “I’m glad those times are long gone.”

  Chief Robbie sniffed at the air, looking like one of the good Indians from the Westerns, maybe getting down to one knee and running his fingers over the worn carpet. Two salesmen from Slapout, Alabama. Walked toward the seafood buffet.

  “What would you like to drink?”

  “I can get it.”

  “Not here,” he said. “I’ll have drinks brought to us. Follow me.”

  She told the Chief about her special drink, the exact relationship of the grenadine to the gin to make a Dirty Shirley, and followed him toward what used to be their signature steakhouse but had now been sealed off with Visqueen sheeting and drop cloths for painting. He opened a door marked WET PAINT and led her into a big, empty room, where she kept aware of her nice new boots and the splatters of white paint throughout. Her heels made slapping sounds on the plastic as Robbie made his way to a large round table with a half-dozen stiff-backed metal chairs around it. He waved his hand toward a chair and sat at the opposite end. Fannie feeling silly, since likely nobody else would be joining them.

  Ceiling fans worked above, lightly lifting the sheets of plastic, making it feel like waves were running beneath the floor. A woman in a tuxedo shirt and a string tie walked in and set two drinks on the round table. A pink gin for Fannie and what looked to be a neat whiskey for Robbie, although she wasn’t sure he actually ever drank. This looked to be some kind of ceremonial deal.

  “Whatever happened to those motorcycle people you had working for you?”

  “There was some trouble,” she said. “And they just kind of scattered. Why?”

  “Just wondering who you can trust now,” he said. “I heard about your predicament with Mr. White.”

  Fannie raised her eyebrows, not liking so small of a word for such a big-ass problem. A predicament was shitting your pants while at church. Losing control of the entire north Mississippi corridor was a flaming, full-tilt fucking problem. She stirred the cocktail with a swizzle stick. Chief Robbie didn’t touch the glass. He stared at her from across the table as if he were still pissed from four years ago. Christ Almighty. Let it go, man.

  “Were you surprised?”

  “No,” Chief Robbie said. “I had asked for Mr. White to get rid of you a long time ago. I think you’re a wild card. Not to be trusted. Instead, he handed you half the state.”

  Fannie took a sip of her drink. Too much goddamn grenadine. She liked the Shirley dirty, not syrupy sweet. “Buster White is a prehistoric slab of whale shit,” she said. “You were right. He shouldn’t trust me. Any more than I trust him. Or you. Can we all just admit we’re each in this business for ourselves, only sticking together when it’s beneficial?”

  “How’s your drink, Miss Hathcock?” the Chief asked, folding his massive arms over his chest.

  “It tastes like Rainbow Brite took a squat in my glass,” she answered. “It makes my teeth ache.”

  “I know who I am and what we do,” the Chief said. “I work for no one. I never have. But being nice, making friends, is never a bad thing in this state. You made nice with Ray and that got you a seat at the table.”

  “I got my own fucking seat.”

  “You played nice with Buster White and you got yourself a start-up strip club after running a chicken-choking business from double-wides.”

  “I got my own fucking club,” she said. “The most profitable in the Mid-South.”

  “Is that before or after Buster White’s money wash?”

  “You know I control more than all the titties in north Mississippi,” Fannie said. “Ask Marquis Sledge up in Memphis if he gives a shit about Buster White. Besides, I never heard you complain about the way I ran my cooze.”

  “Never was a problem, Fannie,” he said. “Until you up and decided you’d rather be chief. The girl you used nearly destroyed my life. My second wife left me. I nearly got voted out as chief. Dirty, dirty business.”

  Fannie laughed, spilling a little of her drink, licking the wetness off the back of her hand, using the cocktail napkin to sop it up. She leaned back and crossed her legs, thinking what a big goddamn waste it was to wear a pair of hundred-dollar panties.

  “I am a chief now. I don’t need Buster,” she said. “You don’t need him, either. But you still need me.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I’ll be working our incoming governor like the joystick of a claw machine.”

  Chief Robbie shook his head, not believing a word she was saying. “Go into business with you? Maybe with Ray. Ray was a very good man. Honorable.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The compliment was not intended for you,” Chief Robbie said. “You weren’t his wife. Or family.”

  Fannie just smiled, the expression cold and frozen on her face, waiting for him to grow more curious. But he just sat there in the empty white room, the plastic drop cloths undulating, a blank look on his thick, heavy-browed face. The ceiling fans rocked and creaked overhead.

  “White doesn’t run Vardaman,” she said. “Nobody runs Vardaman. Yet.”

  “And how do you plan on doing it?”

  “The hellhounds are coming for his ass,” she said. “And I’m
the only person who knows how to stop ’em.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The T-shirts. Holy fuck. All the damn T-shirts. Tashi Coleman couldn’t help but see everyone at the Vardaman rally as a walking billboard for their own personal agenda. I’LL KEEP MY GUNS, Y’ALL KEEP THE CHANGE . . . PRO-LIFE, PRO-GUN, AND PRO-GOD . . . YOU AIN’T ENTITLED TO NOTHIN’. And the one that brought an audible gasp from Jessica as they walked up into the high seats at the BancorpSouth Arena in Tupelo. JOURNALIST. ROPE. TREE. SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED.

  “Did I just see that?” Jessica said. “Did we just enter a parallel dimension?”

  “Keep walking,” Tashi said. “We’re not here to judge. Only observe. By the way, are you getting all this?”

  “You mean the radio guys raffling off the AR-15, the youth chorus singing a song called ‘Mississippi Matters,’ or those two women getting into a fight over who was going to get their daddy’s four-wheeler when he died? I mean, the last one was hard to pass up. Did you see me just kind of hang there by their car, acting like I was checking my iPhone? The one woman said she’d choke that bitch if she even thought about getting on Daddy’s Yamaha.”

  “Nicely done.”

  “Vardaman isn’t going to speak to us.”

  “Nope.”

  “So why are we here?”

  “Local color,” Tashi said, taking a seat and looking far down onto the arena floor, a large stage set up at the end draped in American and Mississippi flags. Mississippi still featuring the stars and bars of the old Confederate flag. One of the episodes would focus entirely on Tibbehah County history, a major battle fought for control of the railroad supply chain across the state. “This story has always been about more than just Brandon Taylor. Those photos Hubie Phillips found just gave us a reason.”

  “And why would a kid be taking pictures of Vardaman’s hunting lodge?” Jessica said, scrolling the scanned photos on her phone. “You can clearly see it’s the same structure. The roof is a different color and there’s that massive addition. But it’s the same house. No doubt in my mind. Yeah, this is a big help.”

  “Not that we needed a reason to stick around Mississippi,” Jessica said. “I see Cirque du Soleil will be here next week. We’ve can cover that, too. And, later on, Disney On Ice: World of Enchantment. Featuring Elsa the Ice Queen. Fuck Times Square and Broadway.”

  An old man in overalls with a bushy white beard held up a sign reading DEPLORABLE LIVES MATTER. A woman seated next to them wearing an American flag vest over her frilly blue shirt had a sign that said GOD BLESS MISSISSIPPI. Down on the arena floor, a college-aged boy had dressed up like an elderly Confederate colonel, with white hair and a fake beard and a giant red-sequin hat. He pretended to walk with the assistance of a cane but would occasionally dance a little jig in case someone got confused about his real age.

  “The interview we got with Betty Jo Mize about the New South being dead?” Tashi asked. “That comes right before this rally. This is exactly what she warned us about.”

  “I feel like I’ve taken some peyote,” Jessica said. “Or need some.”

  A contemporary Christian band on stage sang a song about opening the eyes of your heart to Christ. Most people didn’t seem to be listening, talking and laughing, deaf to the words, or taking selfies with their phones. The band finally finished up two songs later and another local politician gave an introduction to “Mississippi’s next governor.” Vardaman took the stage, with his hands raised, to lots of applause, yelling, and whistling. Someone in the rafters had an air horn. A song called “Take Back Our Country” played on the PA system. Don’t tread on me. Don’t you tread on me . . .

  “What’s this shit?” Jessica said.

  “Sounds like the theme to Monday Night Football,” Tashi said. “With even dumber lyrics.”

  Vardaman thanked the crowd too many times, arms and palms outstretched wide, in front of the dueling national and state flags. Tashi noted he looked like a study in humility, closing his eyes, nodding his head. So very thankful for each and every person there. He was silver-haired and spray-tanned, in a navy blue suit and a long blood red tie. People screamed and yelled his name. Too many American and Confederate flags flapping to count.

  “This election, I need y’all’s prayers, support, and friendship more than you know,” Vardaman said. “This is our time. We don’t recognize our state anymore. The traditions we find important don’t matter to my opponent. What are we without our history and tradition? This is a fight to restore our culture. Modern times, radical ideas, and political correctness have created uncertainty and instability in our society. We unite in our shared history and our faith and for our children. Things must return to the way they were. This is a battle for opposing visions of our state. We’re all here to take it back. Faith, family, and values. Those aren’t just words, friends . . . Our way of life must be restored. We will not compromise.”

  Off-the-charts applause as Tashi scanned the people seated down on the floor and then over to a side exit where several Watchmen stood. There were maybe a dozen of them, in the black hats, black T-shirts, and military-style gear. All of them had guns on their hips. Another half dozen flanking the stage as Vardaman spoke.

  “None of y’all asked for any handouts,” he said. “Y’all aren’t those kind of people. Am I right? We all pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps to feed our families. We are all hardworkin’, tough-talkin’, God-fearin’ rednecks. And we owe it to our children, and our children’s children, to stand our Southern ground. Too many good men, good people, fought and died for what was taken away from us. So much blood spilled not more than five miles from where we stand.”

  Huge, gushing, thunderous applause and lots of rebel yells. Jessica cut her eyes to Tashi. She’d seen the Watchmen, too. Jessica shook her head, leaned into Tashi, and said, “We’re not getting anywhere near him.”

  “What are they going to do?” Tashi said. “Shoot us?”

  “Maybe,” Jessica said into her ear. “Yeah. That’s a distinct possibility.”

  “I’m going to ask him,” Tashi said. “I’m headed right down after the speech to put the microphone in front of his face and ask him about those pictures of his hunt lodge.”

  “And then what?” Jessica asked. “So Brandon Taylor was on his land. What do we ask as a follow-up question?”

  “I just want to see his reaction,” Tashi said. “See how he handles it.”

  “What if he doesn’t react at all?” she said. “What if he acts like he has absolutely no fucking clue?”

  Tashi didn’t answer, transfixed by everything she was hearing. The crowd standing on their feet, yelling and screaming to take back their country, their Mississippi. Fists raised and flags waving. “I’m still working on that part.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Do you recognize anything from these pictures?” Quinn asked, spreading the photos Hubie Phillips had given them out on the Taylor family kitchen table.

  Both Rhonda and Shaina Taylor sat with him. Shaina held a little lapdog, a white Shih Tzu, that went for Quinn’s throat the moment he walked in the door. Rhonda Taylor had on pink sweatpants with PINK written across her backside. Her daughter, Shaina, was ready for work, dressed in blue jeans and a white blouse, a blue Dollar General vest with her name tag attached hung over a nearby chair. Her styled blonde hair falling over her shoulders. The women looked so much alike it was a little strange sitting with them both at the same table.

  “Where’d you get these?” Shaina asked.

  “I can’t say,” Quinn said. “But I was hoping y’all might make some sense of them.”

  The women picked up the black-and-white photos at random, as if selecting pieces for a jigsaw puzzle. Most of the photos were obvious, teenagers doing teenager business at high school. Most of the faces Quinn had IDed on his own. One of the photos featured Caddy decorating the halls before some footb
all game, standing on a ladder and taping up a banner. WILDCAT PRIDE! Another one showed Hubie Phillips sitting on top of his desk, surrounded by a dozen or so kids from the yearbook staff. He wore a big smile, hands thrown up in mock exasperation. Others were stark shots of the woods in the winter, dead leaves in the mud, animal tracks and twisting trails leading into darkness. A dead deer covered in frost. They could’ve been about anywhere in Tibbehah County. Quinn wasn’t sure if they meant much to Brandon beyond the quality of light and composition.

  “What’s this?” Rhonda Taylor said, looking down at a photo of the Vardaman compound, then up to where Quinn stood.

  “A big place in the north part of the county,” Quinn said. “I don’t think it had been there long back then. You know it?”

  Rhonda Taylor snatched the half-glasses hanging from around her neck and pursed her lips as she studied it. “Can’t say I do. Shaina?”

  Shaina held it up to the light coming from the kitchen window. She nodded as she studied it and then leveled her eyes on Quinn, a curious look on her face. “That’s the Vardaman place, ain’t it?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “What was Brandon doing out there?”

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said. “Was hoping y’all might tell me.”

  “Then why didn’t you just ask that straight off,” Rhonda Taylor said, scooting back the little wooden chair and waddling into the kitchen. She poured out the rest of a green smoothie shake into a tall glass. “Why’d you make us look at them football games and test shots for Most Beautiful and Most Athletic. Might’ve saved us some time, Sheriff.”

  Quinn placed his hands on his hips and nodded to the women. “Brandon ever tell you about hiking out there?”

  “Never,” Rhonda Taylor said, stirring the smoothie with the handle of a wooden fork.

  “I’ve seen it,” Shaina said. “But not for a long time after Brandon died. We went up there during Christmas. The Vardamans were having some kind of party and he had the place all lit up like a winter wonderland. I remember he brought in some company from over in Georgia to make fake snow. Kids at school were talking about it, but we couldn’t get in. Got stopped right there at the big gate. It was only for rich folks. People who wouldn’t consort with us. We had to turn around and go home. But I saw it. And then I passed by there a few years ago, just driving on the back roads, thinking on things with Brandon.”