by Ace Atkins
“How many times did you go to the lodge?” Quinn asked.
“I only did it once,” she said. “Those men creeped me out. Skylar would call us when they’d be having another one of those rich daddy parties and I’d drive Brandon out to the woods and set on a time to meet back. I always got scared we were going to get caught. I think that was most of the fun for Brandon and me. He’d tell me what he’d saw and then we’d go back to the high school and develop those pictures. He’d set a meet and then we’d all split up the money. I guess that was my first dose of reality, the ways of the world. How men will do damn-near anything for sex.”
“How long did y’all keep this up?”
“Maybe three months,” she said. “Brandon was smart. He always had them leave the money in public places. Most of the time, the town square. And he never showed up himself. He had this old black man named Mooney do it for him. Mooney hung out at the pool hall and for five dollars would do anything you asked. Never once looked inside the bag. I remember me and Brandon one time skipped school and blew through five thousand dollars in a damn day up at the Galleria and the Peabody Hotel. He bought me a pair of diamond earrings.”
“What happened to Skylar?”
Ansley looked to Quinn, nodding, black bangs chopped right above her eyebrows. “You know,” she said. “Y’all were the ones who dug her out of that hole.”
“Who did it?”
“It wasn’t Vardaman,” she said. “But it was his people. I was with Brandon when they caught him. We thought we were safe, hiding in that shack. It had a roof then, some kind of damn protection in the rain. We should have kept on running. Brandon walked out to protect me. After they took him away, I ran and ran. I was scared to death and never ever looked back.”
“Did you see Brandon get shot?”
Ansley shook her head.
“But you saw them take him away?”
She nodded, crying hard now, her face a damn mess with the white makeup streaked with black eyeliner. Sobbing, almost retching, as she stood there with Quinn. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.
“When we were hiding in the cabin, Brandon told me they made him watch as they buried Skylar,” she said. “When he turned and ran, they hunted him like he was some kind of animal. He said they were having a hell of a time, yelling and hollering, chasing him on four-wheelers. We’d already agreed where to meet, here at the cabin, like always, Brandon hiking in the woods and leaving me with his truck. But they found the cabin. They didn’t even know about me, had never seen me, so Brandon said he’d go out there and I should keep hiding. But they snatched him up, driving him off in his own truck. I guess that’s how they got his hunting rifle. Most days, he kept it up under the front seat.”
“You remember what Vardaman’s people looked like?”
“Not really,” she said. “Everything happened so damn fast and I was hiding when they found us. I tried to make myself as small as possible and didn’t look out until I heard that old truck start up. I prayed that they’d let Brandon go.”
“Why’d you reach out to the Taylors now?” Quinn said. “You’ve spent half your life hiding from the men who did this.”
“When I saw that man’s face on TV, running for governor of Mississippi, some old goddamn piece of me just broke. I had to stop hiding.”
* * *
* * *
“Help yourself,” Jimmy Vardaman said.
“I think I already have,” Fannie said, reaching for the bottle of champagne she’d ordered from the back room hostess and pouring a second glass. Moët & Chandon imperial rosé. “Want to join me?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “Little early for me.”
“Since when?” Fannie asked. “Probably don’t screw with the lights on, either. Have the Baptists damn well neutered you, Vardaman? Goddamn. I know who you are. You can be yourself with Miss Fannie. Me and you together, straight fucking shooters.”
“What’s on your mind, Miss Hathcock?” Vardaman said, refusing to sit at the big oval conference table. Only he and Fannie in the back room of the steakhouse, Bentley leaving them alone and heading back to the bar. “Now, how about we get to the fucking point. I had to skip a church fish fry over in Okolona.”
“I heard you got yourself a little trouble and old Buster White won’t man up to handle it.”
“Who’s Buster White?”
“Big, fat son of a bitch who talks like he’s got jambalaya gagged down his craw hole and funds your whole campaign?” she said, tipping her glass. “You were just down at his casino a few days back. I got bitches everywhere. Why? Forget already?”
Vardaman, still standing, nodded and held the leather headrest of the catbird seat of the conference room. Someone had laid out a half-dozen bowls of nuts and potato chips to feed half the swinging dicks in the state senate. Guess no one informed them this was a private meet.
“You mind me asking how you did it?” Fannie said, setting down the flute of champagne, those fine-ass little bubbles rising to the top. “A few years ago, these old grits-in-the-mouth, secret-handshake douchebags wouldn’t let you mow their goddamn lawns. Me and you ain’t their kind of people, Vardaman.”
Vardaman moved the headrest from side to side, the chair’s wheels squeaking along the floor. “The party needed a little wake-up call,” he said. “Mississippi has wandered way the hell out in the woods. Outsiders trying to make Mississippi something it’s never been and never will be. This is a damn lovely state full of rich history, tradition, character. Look at what those folks did up at Ole Miss. Killing off Colonel Reb and not letting the band play “Dixie”? Like I tell my people, don’t ever forget where you come from. We’re a proud people who want to take all that back.”
“I grew up on the Coast,” Fannie said. “Wasn’t too damn great for me. I’ve been working hot pillow joints since I started shaving my legs. It wasn’t exactly Scarlett O’Hara and Tara down there. Fanciest thing I knew was my trailer park was called Camelot. But don’t try and spoon-feed me a hot-shit sundae. I know your game here and it doesn’t have damn thing to do with tradition. This ain’t about a thing but old-fashioned money and power.”
“Maybe,” he said, grinning. “Mr. White bankrolled me when these people wouldn’t take my phone calls. They laughed behind my back, called my supporters a bunch of dumb, uneducated rednecks. Hicks. Now they’ll do anything to sign checks, kiss ass, and tee up every fucking ball on the fairway. And now I don’t need them. Or Buster White. Or you.”
Fannie took a sip of champagne, looking up at Vardaman. Staring up at his face, she decided he was one of the most unattractive men she’d ever met, and she had a long memory for ugly folks. Not just pure classic ugliness, but he had a weird symmetry of parts. His arms were too long, his hands too short. He had a big belly and a weirdly shaped head, like the face had been carved out of red country clay.
“You want to cornhole my fine ass on account of that third-string Baptist preacher Skinner,” she said. “You think that old fossil can deliver Quinn Colson’s nuts to you on a silver platter? Please. Jesus God. Skinner can’t do anything of the kind. Not the way you want. All you did was fuck me and Buster White at the same time. All those lies and bonfires of bullshit he started didn’t do a goddamn thing. Now what, Vardaman? You got two weeks until your election and, fuck a goddamn duck, you’ve hit a bunch of goddamn potholes. Two dead kids lost in the boogerwoods, a redneck Hansel and Gretel story. Damn, I’ll give it to you. You sure know how to throw some parties.”
Vardaman smiled, walking slow, lost in thought, around the table, coming up to Fannie at the end and offering her his small, bony hand. She also smiled and stood up, looking bad-ass in a sleeveless pink chiffon blouse, so thin you could see the lace of her black bra. Vardaman rested a hand on her bare, sunkissed shoulder. “And you can do better?”
“Nobody needs to know your troubles.”
&nb
sp; “This ain’t your business, Fannie,” he said.
Fannie nodded. She could smell his breath, his face in front of her, onions and charred meat. He reached out with his free hand and stuck it up under her dress, grabbing her quick and hard by the coot. “Now you listen to me,” Vardaman said, squeezing tight. “Don’t you ever come to my town and shit in my bed. You hear me? I tell Buster White what you’re doing and your head will end up rolling up on Panama City Beach.”
Fannie stared right into his face, reaching down into her Birkin bag and extracting her titanium framing hammer with its hickory handle. Before Vardaman could even see what was going on, she knocked the son of a bitch sideways, sending him tumbling down on the ground and howling. The door busted open and a small little honey in black running shorts and a white T-shirt three sizes too small came rushing in.
“Get some ice and towels,” she said. “Man can’t handle his liquor.”
Vardaman was sprawled the fuck out on the ground, legs wide, holding a goose egg spreading through his fingers, blood spiderwebbing down his face.
“Now you listen up and you listen up good,” she said. “I’m your best goddamn chance of packing up this Tibbehah County shitshow. I’ll take care of your problems if you take care of me. Vienna’s Place ain’t going anywhere. You hear me? Buster White is so over the hill I hear he’s already singing hymns about crossing the River Jordan. It’s me, you, and the Chief now. Understand? I own your fucking bony ass now. Or do I need to give you another whack to get through that goddamn thick skull?”
Vardaman didn’t answer.
Tashi Coleman
Thin Air podcast
Episode 8: THE WITNESS
NARRATOR: Here at Thin Air we seldom use unnamed sources. We ask everyone we interview to use their real names in an effort to make them stand behind what is said. However, in cases of a source feeling that harm may come to them, we are able to make exceptions. The woman you are about to hear was a close high school friend of Brandon Taylor. She said she kept in constant contact with Brandon in the weeks and months that proceeded his death.
She also said something else: that she was an eyewitness to his murder.
She spoke to us on the condition of anonymity, fearing that those responsible would try to find her. Even twenty years later. At the time of the killing, she was only fifteen. She said she’s been running ever since. We were the first to speak to her about what happened. This was the second time we met, this time at an interstate rest stop before she made her way to a new city, adopting, she says, a new name.
[CAR DOOR OPENS AND STARTS TO CHIME. DOOR SLAMS.]
WITNESS: This is so hard to talk about.
TASHI: Maybe we can begin with what happened later? Your life since Brandon died? And why you don’t want us to use your name.
[HIGHWAY NOISES. TRUCKS WHOOSHING PAST. KIDS WALKING PAST CAR, LAUGHING.]
WITNESS: OK. [A SIGH.] Sure. I’ve tried to block it out for a long time. I saw a therapist when I lived in Memphis, trying to deal with all the garbage in my life. I had substance abuse issues, tons of toxic relationships, and was trying to get some clarity. It was maybe my third, fourth visit to see him when I started to talk about Brandon. About his death and having to leave Tibbehah.
TASHI: Did people know what you saw?
WITNESS: No. Not even my mother. I swore to myself I’d never tell a soul.
TASHI: So why did you? What made you come forward?
WITNESS: You want me to talk about that now? I thought that part came later, what we did and what we saw? Isn’t that how these things work? You string your listeners along until the whole thing comes together.
TASHI: That comes in editing. But you were the one who wanted this case open? Right?
WITNESS: I reached out to Brandon’s sister, Shaina, about a year ago and told her the family might ask some more questions. I didn’t tell her the whole story, but I gave her enough. And didn’t tell her my name. I didn’t want to be involved. All I hoped for is that these people who killed Brandon would be exposed.
TASHI: Why didn’t you just step forward to the police and tell them what you knew?
WITNESS: Are you kidding?
TASHI: Because you felt threatened?
WITNESS: Two friends of mine died because of what they knew. They were kids and were murdered. One of them dropped into a ten-foot hole and was lost for years. No one even looked for her. No one cared. I was given a gift: I got away alive. Even though it made me leave Tibbehah County and start my life over as a teenager, dancing in nude clubs, hustling. There wasn’t any other way.
TASHI: And you fear these people would still want to do you harm?
WITNESS: Absolutely. You promised not to use my name. Right? You won’t use my name. I can’t have that.
TASHI: I promise.
WITNESS: Have you ever known a damn secret so bad and horrible that just thinking about it scared the hell out of you? Woke you up in the middle of the night, just trying to breathe. I would’ve done anything, and pretty much did, to escape living down in that shithole and getting found out. These people don’t think like you and me. Tibbehah County is a dark, evil place, and I pray to God every damn day that I’ll never have to go back.
TASHI: What if this all leads to a new investigation, a new trial?
WITNESS: I’ll be long gone. After me and you talk right here, you’ll never hear of or see me again. My car is packed with everything that I own. I’ve done it plenty of times before and I’m happy to do it again. That’s how sure I am about what I’m about to tell you.
TASHI: Now? Are you sure?
WITNESS: Let’s go. The light is red. Is that thing still on?
TWENTY-SIX
That’s some real Caligula shit going on there, Quinn,” Agent Holliday, aka Jon Ringold, said to Quinn. The men leaning against the tailgate of Quinn’s F-150 outside Maxwell Federal Prison Camp in Montgomery, Alabama. Quinn had driven three and a half hours, leaving at daybreak, to meet the federal agent. “Only problem is that you and I both know that Johnny Stagg won’t ever say shit about something with Vardaman. He and Vardaman threw in together a long time back. I talked to the prosecutor, and, sure, he’s willing to make a deal with Stagg. But he’s gonna have to come up with something real juicy and solid and worth our time.”
“I know the when and where and why,” Quinn said. “Just not the who.”
“But you’re sure it’s not Vardaman?”
“Pulled the trigger?” Quinn said. “Yep, I’m sure. But who made the call? That’s what I need Stagg to answer. Back then, he was king of north Mississippi.”
“This kid had balls,” Ringold said. “Trying to shake down a state senator and all his crooked shitbird pals. Damn. He must’ve had a pic of Vardaman screwing a billy goat.”
“Maybe,” Quinn said. “All I found were pictures of the hunt lodge and the woods around it.”
“Anyone in them?”
“Nope,” Quinn said. “And no damn goats, either.”
“Stagg doesn’t have to know what you’ve seen or haven’t seen.”
“No, sir,” Quinn said, nodding. “He does not.”
Holliday had grown his beard out long again, nearly down to his chest, his head clean-shaven, looking like some sort of hipster monk. He had on a black T-shirt and black leather biker jacket with jeans. Holliday had been undercover when he and Quinn first met, going as Jon Ringold, gun for hire, under Stagg’s command out at the Rebel Truck Stop. There’d been a time when he nearly exposed himself to Stagg, saving Quinn’s ass during a shoot-out with a motorcycle gang. Real fine folks called the Born Losers.
Quinn walked around to the passenger side of his truck and pulled out a box of Liga Privadas he’d been keeping for a special occasion. He handed them over to Holliday, offering his hand.
“Congrats on the marriage,”
Holliday said. “Should’ve known you’d make a good thing out of a bank robber case.”
“Maggie and Brandon are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Sorry about your truck,” Holliday said, shaking his head. “That was one good-looking pickup. Rest in peace, Big Green Machine.”
Quinn leaned against the tailgate, looking over at the flat, one-story brick prison building and then back to Holliday. “I know you can’t say much.”
“We’re working on it,” he said. “You know Nat Wilkins? She and I have been talking regular about north Mississippi. After we shut down the Pritchards, things have just gotten worse. I can’t talk about what we have, but I’m not exactly surprised about the relationship between Vardaman and the Syndicate boys. We’ve had eyes on Buster White’s casino for a long while.”
“Election’s next week.”
Holliday cut open the cigar box with a folding knife and pulled out a Liga Privada, pulling it loose from the cellophane and whittling a little hole at the tip. Quinn clicked open his old Zippo, offering him a flame.
* * *
* * *
“Let me know what you hear from Stagg,” Holliday said. “We all got an end game in mind. You, me, Nat, and more folks in Oxford. You know how much damn time we’ve put in this whole thing? Sure was fun bringing down old Johnny Stagg’s crooked ass. But it seems we missed this Mississippi shitshow by a goddamn mile.”
“Wish that could happen before the election.”
“Wish in one hand and shit in the other,” Holliday said, puffing on the cigar, getting the tip glowing red.
“See which one gets full first,” Quinn said.
“I appreciate you letting me tag along,” Lillie Virgil said, riding shotgun with Reggie Caruthers in his cruiser. “I wouldn’t miss seeing Fannie’s face for anything in the world. Maybe we can get the DJ at Vienna’s to play, ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.’”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Reggie said, driving, turning down the long shot of Jericho Road, passing the Piggly Wiggly, old Hollywood Video, and headed toward signs pointing the way to Highway 45. “I don’t care a bit for Fannie Hathcock. But don’t you hate that this is Skinner’s doing? Fannie is cutthroat, but Skinner is a moral train wreck.”
