The Shameless

by Ace Atkins

  “Why there?”

  “Well,” Shaina said. “That place isn’t far from where they found him. Right? If you went as the crow flies and not by any map.”

  Quinn nodded. He didn’t want to lead her. But she was right.

  “Y’all thinking that man knows something about Brandon?” Rhonda Taylor asked.

  Quinn looked down at his boots and back up at the Taylors. “I don’t know,” Quinn said. “But I’m betting he’s never been asked.”

  Rhonda Taylor sat down, leaving her smoothie on the counter. She reached across the table and grabbed Shaina’s hand, squeezing her fingers, as she started to cry. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s all we ever wanted. Someone to ask about him. We sure do appreciate this, Sheriff.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Caddy and Jean were at the high school track, walking laps around and around, as they tried to do at least three times a week. Jean had already lost a ton of weight, laying off the carbs and sweet tea, still not doing so good with her weekly box of chardonnay. The whole thing getting to be a bone of contention with them both. Caddy knew her momma drank too much. And Jean Colson straight out didn’t give a damn and told her so.

  “Has he called?” Jean asked, wearing a blue velour tracksuit with a GRACELAND baseball hat and sunglasses. “Maybe he didn’t mean what he said. Maybe Bentley’s just worried about Quinn on his own.”

  “We talked it through,” Caddy said. “I asked him a lot of questions at the Huddle House.”

  “How’d y’all end it?” Jean asked, rounding the bend of their fourth lap out of eight. For an older woman in her sixties, she had set a pretty nice pace.

  “I told Bentley the Huddle House was the perfect place for country trash to break up,” she said. “I told him it’d make a hell of a story for his prep school buddies down in Jackson. Hope they all don’t choke on their scotch laughing.”

  “You didn’t,” Jean said.

  “Damn right, I did, Momma,” Caddy said. “There wasn’t a reason in this world for the boy to be sniffing around The River other than wanting to get into my business and Quinn’s business. Only reason I let my guard down was on account of him knowing Daddy. And, in hindsight, that should’ve been a warning more than anything.”

  “Jason Colson can be charming,” Jean said. “It’s a side of your father you never saw.”

  “Hard to see any side of a man who was never around,” Caddy said. “Please don’t go and be making excuses for Daddy now, too. I just don’t think I can stand it. I told Bentley he was a two-faced son of a bitch and to never call on me ever again. I took the damn check and ripped it in a million pieces, scattering it right there in his French fries and ketchup.”

  “I wish you’d heard him out,” Jean said. “You and your brother have quick tempers. Quinn likes to fight and you like to dog-cuss folks. I saw the way Bentley treated you, the way he looked at you when you couldn’t see him. I don’t know why he came down to The River. I figured it was all about his family foundation. But I know he loved you, Caddy. Don’t be thinking of anything otherwise because that will eat you damn-near whole and we all can’t go there again.”

  Caddy quit walking, red-faced and out of breath, but not on account of the exercise. Her mother always, always knew how to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and go right for the soft spot in her. It was a talent most mothers had with their daughters.

  “You don’t want to go there again?” Caddy said. “I sure would hate to disappoint you, Momma, if I went off the rails again and ended up in a black ditch like those times before. I sure don’t want to be an inconvenience around the holidays. Don’t say things like that. And don’t you dare make excuses for Bentley Vandeven. You want me to be real honest with you, daughter to mother? I let my guard down because he was handsome, had good hair and nice teeth, and seemed to have eyes for me. I hadn’t been with a man I cared about since Jamey died. And it felt real good to have that again. I should’ve known it was all bullshit. A man six years younger than me wanting to get into my pants.”

  “Caddy.”

  Caddy was so damn mad she wanted to spit. She turned her head and did spit, on the track, and kept on walking, following the same lane, Jean walking up beside her, pumping her arms, staring straight ahead through her sunglasses. The bleachers were empty, the aluminum seats glinting in the sun.

  “Caddy.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Momma.”

  “You said he warned you about Quinn?” Jean Colson said. “Just what did he mean?”

  “I told Quinn about it.”

  “Now tell me.”

  “Bentley said some friends of his dad had been talking,” she said. “He said they’d do anything they could to get rid of that cocky son of a bitch up in Tibbehah County. They called out Quinn personal.”

  “Why?” she said.

  “Bentley swore up and down he didn’t know,” Caddy said. “But he believed it had something to do with the man shot dead at the jail. And maybe something to do with Brandon Taylor.”

  “Brandon Taylor?” Jean said. “What on earth?”

  “Nobody in this county wants to talk about unpleasant things,” Caddy said. “It doesn’t matter if we have schools that can’t pay the light bill or buy books or even if half of Mississippi is going hungry, we’re supposed to smile and talk about hospitality. When Brandon Taylor was found, y’all told us kids not to talk about it. Like it was some kind of nasty disease needing to be contained. Everybody just wants those kinds of things to disappear without ever trying to find what went wrong. Maybe that’s why we can’t do a damn thing to get better.”

  Jean kept walking, silent for several minutes. Caddy pretty sure Jean was about to deliver the Sermon on the Mount or pass along a bit of wisdom Elvis told the Memphis Mafia. Still pumping her arms, Jean turned full onto Caddy and said, “But did you really have to tear up that check?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Quinn had already left the sheriff’s office for home when Tashi Coleman called, rambling and out of breath, scared, asking if he could stop by the Traveler’s Rest Motel. As he drove, the sky broke purple and black, scattered wild clouds over the rolling hills toward the north part of Tibbehah.

  “Slow down,” Quinn said. “Who and what happened?”

  “Those damn Watchmen people,” Tashi said. “They followed us all the way from Tupelo. We didn’t see them until we stopped off at this Chick-fil-A and they were there, watching us in the parking lot. They followed us all the way back to Jericho. I can see them right now from across the street.”

  “Why were they following you?”

  “I tried to talk to Vardaman at his rally,” Tashi said. “They pushed Jessica down and stole our equipment. We filed charges in Tupelo. But they’re not quitting.”

  “What are they driving?”

  “Black Chevy Tahoe,” she said. “It has a cracked windshield, one side kind of scraped up. I see two of them. But there may be more.”

  “Roger that,” Quinn said, making a U-turn on Highway 9, ten minutes from the farm. Hondo was riding shotgun. Quinn rubbed his neck and told him supper was going to have to wait.

  * * *

  * * *

  Quinn saw the Tahoe down the old Tupelo Highway, parked sideways in front of a defunct Texaco station right across from the Traveler’s Rest. Quinn knew the motel, had stayed there when he’d first come back home from Fort Benning, the sign outside still offering COLOR TV, WI-FI & FREE FISHING IN OUR BASS POND. It wasn’t much, but would do until they decided to bring a Ritz-Carlton to Tibbehah County.

  Quinn radioed Reggie, who was coming up in the opposite direction, Kenny and Dave Cullison on standby if there was any trouble. He didn’t expect any. If the Neshoba County Fair was any indication, these guys would fold pretty easy, wanting to intimidate more than engage. He slowed about a hundred meters
from the Tahoe, turning on his blue lights as he parked, Reggie rolling in behind the Tahoe. Quinn prepared for any quick action, watching the two men seated in the front seat. Neither of them moving, staring straight ahead and trying to look tough.

  Quinn approached the driver’s side as he would any traffic stop, the window slowly rolling down. Reggie approached from the back.

  “What’s the problem, Officer?” the driver asked, smirking. A little bit of tobacco under his front lip.

  Quinn hadn’t seen the man before. This guy was beefy, with a goatee and black glasses, some kind of black do-rag on his head labeled AMERICAN SNIPER. He wore a thick, braided silver chain around his neck like a dog collar. There was another guy in the passenger seat, a lot older, with a short white beard and reddened, chapped skin. He turned to give his best hard, tough look at Quinn. Both wore black military gear, tactical vests, and cargo pants.

  As he turned in the passenger seat, Quinn spotted a gun under the older man’s windbreaker.

  “You fellas lost?” Quinn said. “Long ride from Tupelo.”

  “We ain’t from Tupelo,” the old man said. “I wouldn’t be from Tupelo for all the money in the world. Hellhole of bullshit upon this earth.”

  “License and registration.”

  “How you gonna ticket a man when he’s parked?” the driver said, snorting. “Y’all in the damn KGB? This is America, last time I checked.”

  Quinn glanced over at Reggie, nodding slightly. These guys were a couple of Grade A shitbirds, itching to make some kind of trouble for the sheriff’s office.

  “Can’t a man take a drive without being harassed?” the old man said. “That’s what this is. Pure and old-fashioned harassment.”

  Quinn looked at the older man, with his yellowed teeth and saggy jowls. He could smell his sour breath from outside the vehicle. His nose bulbous, broken veins across his cheeks, like a professional drinker. “You have a permit for that weapon?”

  “Bet your damn ass,” the old man said. The driver stayed silent.

  Quinn stared down into the car, keeping a safe distance between himself and the open window. Reggie had already pulled his sidearm, standing there behind the Tahoe, waiting for Quinn to give an order. The driver looked into his rearview mirror and shook his head. “Y’all really taking the affirmative action thing serious,” he said. “How many white men would kill to have that job?”

  “How about you just quit talking for a while,” Quinn said. “Let your brain catch up with your mouth.”

  “We got a dang lawyer,” he said. “Whole damn team of ’em.”

  “Damn straight,” the older man said. His skin was pinkish, his small eyes bright blue and beady like a pig’s. “Goddamn right.”

  “Both of you, step out of the vehicle,” Quinn said, motioning for Reggie to take the older man on the passenger side. He didn’t like the look of either of them, both of them shifty and nervous, not exactly the types to think something through.

  “In all my life, I ain’t never been treated like some kind of criminal,” the driver said, crawling out. “A white man has rights in Mississippi.”

  “License and registration.”

  Quinn watched the driver reach for his wallet, slow and easy. The man’s stubby fat little hands shaking a bit as he handed over the cards. Quinn gave them a quick glance, asking the driver to move toward the front of the vehicle, Reggie doing the same with the passenger, keeping the two in the headlights of Quinn’s truck. It was nearly dark, sky going orange and purple now, with black shadows down the highway.

  Quinn spotted Tashi Coleman standing out by the motel registration desk, watching them. Her arms hugging her waist as if she was cold, wanting both men to see her and know she wasn’t afraid.

  “What’s your name?” Quinn asked the older man. Already knowing the driver was Joseph Gibson. Ugliest damn driver’s license pic he’d ever seen. The man looked like he had a live wire switched up his ass as the photo had been taken, hair sticking up and eyes bugging out of his beefy head.

  “Norm Southwell.”

  “Concealed permit, Mr. Southwell?”

  Southwell reached for his wallet and handed Quinn a card.

  “This is a hunting license.”

  “What’s the damn difference?”

  “Plenty,” Quinn said. “Keeping that automatic under your jacket is a felony. You didn’t announce it when I came up on the vehicle. Please place your hands on the truck.”

  “You’re full of damn shit,” Southwell said, mouthing off but doing what he was told. “I know why you’re here. I’ll have you know those two girls come to harass Senator Vardaman at his rally. They didn’t have no right to push their way through permitted folks and start asking a bunch of crazy-ass questions. That rally was a private event for the senator’s fans and friends. They weren’t on no list. And we got one of those fucking free speech zones or whatever you call that shit over by the bathroom. They want to run their Yankee mouths and pop a squat, they can go to it. They nearly knocked the senator’s teeth out with that big microphone of theirs. We videoed the whole dang thing.”

  Quinn nodded, pulling the man’s gun from an inside pocket of his jacket. A fully loaded Ruger SR9 with a nitride finish.

  “You’re crazy,” Norm Southwell said. “You know what kind of shit you’re gonna stir up?”

  Quinn kicked the old man’s legs wider, his military pants wrinkled and sagging off his bony ass, the crack of his butt showing. The back of his neck thick with white unshaven hair. He had on unlaced military boots and a sheathed knife on his belt. The man was mumbling something unintelligible under his breath as Quinn took the knife, turning for a short moment to spit down on Quinn’s polished boots.

  “You can’t arrest him,” the younger, fatter man said. “He didn’t do nothing wrong. You don’t need no carry permit in Mississippi. That’s right. That sure is right. Governor done signed it and everything. You hear me?”

  “He had it in his waistband,” Quinn said. “Not in a holster and not in plain sight. You need a concealed carry permit to do that. It’s the law. You want to stick around and bail him out in the morning? Glad to find you a comfortable place to sleep at the sheriff’s office.”

  Joseph Gibson glared at Quinn, still wearing his sunglasses at dusk, standing there like he was about to do something he wasn’t. Quinn stared right back at him. He knew the type, a man with no mission in life who found comfort in the well-oiled machinery of a gun. People like that just kind of wandered, pissed off at the world, convincing themselves of any lies filling their ears. All the damn gear and weaponry Gibson bought online would never make a soldier out of him. A good soldier fought with training and purpose, not with costumes and props.

  “I dealt with folks like you when I came home,” Quinn said. Reggie cuffed the old man, Southwell, and pushed him toward the back of his patrol car. The man cussing up a storm, spit flying from his mouth, his face turning a deep shade of purple. Reggie grinned while he placed him inside, Southwell’s hands cuffed tight behind his back. “Only difference is y’all used to hide in the woods. Now you’ve crawled on out into the daylight.”

  “You’ll be sorry.”

  “Already am,” Quinn said.

  Reggie drove out of the parking lot, saluting Quinn from behind the wheel, heading onto Tupelo Road back toward town. Quinn stood in front of his truck until Gibson pulled out in the Tahoe and headed east, hopefully out of town. He crossed the back highway in the coming darkness, finding Tashi Coleman standing by a Coke machine, her hands in the pockets of her hoodie.

  “What happened?”

  “You were right to call.”

  “They took our gear,” she said. “Our recorder. Our microphone. Jessica’s camera and her phone. They couldn’t get mine. I wouldn’t hand it over. I dared them to touch me.”

  “They said you nearly busted Senator Vardaman i
n the mouth.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Nope.”

  “They’ll come back,” she said. “They won’t stop us from asking questions.”

  “And I’ll be here to stop them,” Quinn said, sticking a dollar in the Coke machine and getting two bottles back. Hell of a deal. He offered one to Tashi.

  “I’m so damn mad I can’t even think.”

  “Where’s Jessica?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “How about we all have a talk?” he asked. “Did y’all get to eat?”

  “No,” she said. “We drove off from the drive-through when we saw them. We haven’t eaten all day.”

  Tashi looked up at Quinn, Quinn noticing the girl couldn’t be more than five foot two. Her hands still plunged deep in her hoodie pockets, her small, lean face drained of all color. She took the Coke as they headed back into the U-shaped motel, its doors facing what used to be the pool. Years ago, someone had filled it all in, but you could still see where it had been, the ground soft and sunken. Back in high school, kids used to come here after the prom, the night manager not giving a damn if they were underage.

  “We have to find Ansley,” she said.

  “Working on it.”

  “Work harder.”

  “I have a friend,” Quinn said as they got to Tashi’s motel room door, fluorescent corridor lights sputtering on for the night. “She’s damn good at tracking folks down.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Thirty-six hours later, Lillie Virgil walked into Quinn’s office, pulled up a wooden chair, and took a seat. She lifted her suede boots up onto his desk, folded her hands in her lap, and said, “You can’t rely on me and the U.S. Marshals Service for all your needs, Sheriff,” she said. “Just because this woman may or may not be a witness in a high-profile case isn’t a concern for us. She’s neither a felon nor an escaped convict. I’m not inclined to go out and find Ansley Cuthbert for you unless I’ve got a court order. And I don’t see that coming for a long while.”