by Ace Atkins
Caddy swept the pile onto a piece of cardboard and dumped the dirt and glass into the trash can. Bentley walked over and took the broom from her hands. Up close in the fading sunlight, she could tell he’d been crying. He didn’t say a word, only turned from her and started on the floor, working as he had for the last several months, following along and trying to help with the chores.
“My father said they didn’t have a choice,” Bentley said. “He said it had gone too far and they had to work with a bad situation. They can’t control Vardaman anymore. He’s running everything now. But this thing I told you about? About your brother? I can’t be a part of that. I told my father I’m done. I quit the foundation. I quit everything. I want to be here with you. I don’t want their money. I don’t want to be around my father ever again.”
Caddy had been holding her breath, watching him sweep, sloppy and not even knowing how to gather the dirt, before she inhaled deeply. “Do I look like I give a damn about Vardaman?” she asked. Her mouth felt dry and dusty, and her own words sounded strange. “I want to know who the hell you think you are to con me and my family. To slip into my bed, whisper shit into my ear, spy on my damn brother. Who are these people you work for? What the hell do they want?”
“I can’t stop what’s happened,” he said. “It was wrong.”
“Damn straight it was wrong,” she said. “This is a sacred place for me. I opened up to you and told you all about what I’ve been and what I hoped to do. That must’ve been damn funny to you. Some piece of country stripper trash who’s found the Lord. Did you have to sleep with me or was it just something to do while you kept tabs on me down here? Maybe you were just bored?”
“I wanted to be with you, Caddy,” he said. “I came here for the wrong damn reasons, but you set me straight. That’s why I’m back here now. I wanted to tell you what I’ve done and warn you about Quinn. These folks are serious. Just let me stay here. I’ll sweep the floors, I’ll take out the garbage, I’ll fix the roofs and do the laundry. Just forgive me.”
Caddy snatched the broom out of his hands, tired of watching his bad technique. She held on to the handle and stared at him. “What do you know about Quinn? Or is that just another lie?”
“They want him gone.”
“Who?”
“Vardaman,” he said. “The Watchmen. Quinn’s trying to make trouble for him for something that happened a long time back. With that kid Brandon Taylor. Quinn’s trying to embarrass the senator about some parties he used to throw a long time ago. It could turn into a real mess, damage his time as governor.”
“Sure hate to see that,” Caddy said. “Such a fine man.”
“I don’t want to be a part of this anymore, Caddy,” he said. “I’m finished. I swear to God. Just give me back the broom. I want to help you. I want to be part of your life. Me, you, and Jason.”
Caddy looked at Bentley’s smooth face—no wrinkles. His full head of hair without a single gray. He wore an earnest expression as he stood there in the sunlight cutting through the barn doors. She nearly felt sorry for him but was too disgusted. He’d been dumb enough to follow those people. They didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything, only wanted to take and use whatever they could get. “Don’t ever say my son’s name again,” she said. “Just go. Please just get the hell out of here and out of my life. You’ve humiliated me and my family enough.”
“Please,” he said. “Just listen to me.”
“I hope you find your purpose, Bentley,” Caddy said. “I really do. But it’ll never be here. Or never be with me. For once in your life, you’ll have to find your own way. Who the hell are you, anyway?”
* * *
* * *
Three days later, Quinn drove to Oxford to see Holliday. The federal agent arranged for them to meet at a law office on the Square. It was an old building with a plaque outside saying it was the first structure built after the town was burned during the Civil War. Quinn took the steps up to a wide porch looking out at the old courthouse, white Christmas lights strung from buildings around the structure up to the clock tower. Holliday was smoking one of the cigars Quinn had given him while looking out at the marquee to the Lyric Theatre.
“I felt guilty after I left you in Montgomery,” Holliday said, looking down at the cigar. “Aren’t I the one who should be giving you a wedding gift?”
“Sounds like you got one.”
He followed Holliday around the corner to a small metal table where a manila folder sat waiting. Quinn pulled his own cigar from his pocket, fired it up with the Zippo, and flipped open the file.
“Stagg’s one crooked, mean bastard,” Holliday said. “But the son of a bitch delivered. He kept the copies in a safe-deposit box in a bank in Water Valley. It’s there. Just like he said.”
Quinn shuffled through several dozen black-and-white eight-by-ten photos of old flabby men in a variety of compromising positions with young women, most looking like very young teenagers. The photos were clear, taken by Brandon Taylor with a long lens, but Quinn didn’t recognize a single face.
“Any IDs in Stagg’s hidey-hole?”
“Nope,” Holliday said. “We’re working on it. Couple of those old fat fellas look like they’re about to have a coronary. You see that one shot? That good ole boy resting his whiskey glass on top of the girl’s head? Now, that is damn arrogance in motion.”
“Just check the register of your local Jaycees.”
“That’s hard, Quinn.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“I believe this state deserves better.”
“Ever read Faulkner?” Quinn said. “It’s been like this for a long while. Mississippi was founded as a place to plunder. What kind of territory attracts folks like that?”
Holliday nodded, ashing his cigar off the white railing. Quinn closed the file and turned away.
“Take it,” Holliday said. “That’s your copy.”
“Not much I can do with it.”
“Yeah?” Holliday said, walking toward the other side of the building facing the Van Buren.
It was twilight, and the marquee to the Lyric Theatre cut on, flashing white lights, the sign reading HAPPY HALLOWEEN BASH. A couple of kids appeared in the bow window of an old storefront, now a taco shop, standing as still as mannequins to fool passersby.
“Remember what Faulkner said about Mississippi,” he said. “‘I don’t hate it. I don’t hate it.’”
“I don’t hate it, either,” Quinn said. “Or else I wouldn’t have come back.”
“Faulkner’s brother Jack was an Army man and a longtime federal agent,” Holliday said. “He was brought in from the El Paso office to Chicago by Melvin Purvis to help catch John Dillinger. He was there when they shot him down at the Biograph. Several agents shot Dillinger, but none of them wanted to know who killed him.”
“I always heard nobody wanted to take the credit.”
“I think they were just glad the son of a bitch was finally dead.”
* * *
* * *
Maggie turned up the volume on the stereo while she cooked, flipping over the chicken in the black skillet, listening to Ray Stevens singing “Everything Is Beautiful” and thinking about her dad. She’d been dreaming a lot about him lately, about driving with him in The Blue Mule on his runs over to New Orleans or up to Memphis, that one time he brought her up to Jericho when Brandon died. Maggie Powers, not yet sixteen, standing there with folks she barely knew or hadn’t met, staring at that slate-colored casket, closed and covered with flowers. Jesus loves the little children of the world . . . Ray Stevens somehow making it all better.
Jessica wandered into the kitchen in cutoff sweats and a T-shirt, grabbed herself a glass and filled it with water from the tap. She was barefoot and had a trucker cap down in her eyes, her hair pulled into a ponytail and threaded through the snap back.
“You’r
e going native,” Maggie said. “Real Mississippi style.”
“I got the hat at the Salvation Army,” she said. “Like it?”
“Perfect,” Maggie said. “What’s it say?”
“‘Billy Beer,’” Jessica said. “Isn’t that fantastic? I can’t wait to show my dad. He used to have a can of it until it finally corroded and drained all over his bookshelf. It was a real mess. You ever smell beer that’s forty years old?”
“Hope I never do,” Maggie said. “You OK with chicken?”
“I thought you were vegetarian?”
“I am,” she said. “But I’ve learned to cook for everyone. Not everyone is so much into a nice big salad for dinner . . . We have a full house tonight. You and Tashi. Boom. Brandon and hopefully Quinn.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Soon.” Maggie flipped over the chicken, which was turning a nice brown color, Maggie taking pride in her cooking even though she wouldn’t touch it. She’d seen and read enough about the industrial farming complex to turn her stomach. But these birds had been local, raised and killed in Tibbehah County. Quinn always said it was more honest to look what you ate in the eye.
“Is he bringing liquor?” Jessica said, smiling. “He promised some good wine, too.”
“He’ll grab some in Oxford,” Maggie said. “Always does. Good wine makes life tolerable.”
“My head feels like it’s going to explode,” she said. “We’ve come so damn far with this. We’ve been down here for nearly three months and learned so much.”
“It’ll come together.”
“It’ll take us well into next year just to put together the podcast,” Jessica said. “And then it may not run until this summer. Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit on a story like this? We have to just sit back and watch Vardaman get elected and we can’t do a damn thing about it.”
“Quinn’s not happy about it, either.”
“Tashi and I talked about it,” she said. “If we had more, we’d share the story. Take it to someone who could get the information out there. The papers in Jackson and Tupelo. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe CNN. I mean, this is a big story. Do some damage to Vardaman’s campaign. But Ansley won’t go public. And all we really have is her word on what happened and some blurry pictures of the outside of that hunt lodge. We can tell this story in the podcast. But that’ll take time. And then it’ll be too late.”
Maggie forked the chicken and set the pieces on some paper towels to soak up the grease. She reached down and wiped her hands on the apron she was wearing over her jeans. Looking pretty domestic except for the sleeveless Marc Bolan T-shirt. She’d been trying to keep it all slow and easy on the farm, keep the doors and windows open to the nice cool fall air, make sure everyone was fed and happy, and pretend like all of this wasn’t so damn personal to her. She didn’t want Brandon to feel a damn bit of how she felt at the moment.
“This will work out,” Maggie said, walking over to the table, straightening the flowers she’d picked and put in an old whiskey bottle.
“How can you be so sure?”
“It takes time,” Maggie said. “Quinn’s reopened the case. He’s talking to people. Making sure folks are accountable.”
“But, Christ,” Jessica said, waiting a moment to drink down some water. “Knowing something and being able to tell it are two different things. Brandon Taylor has been dead for twenty years.”
Maggie held on to the edge of the sink and closed her eyes. “I know how long Brandon has been dead. He was my friend and I loved him. Still do. Y’all didn’t even know him. It’s just a story to you. Words and memories strung together.”
Jessica was silent. Maggie reached up into the cabinets for some plates, the clatter reverberating in the still room, the Ray Stevens record hitting the center grooves, the needle going over and over the same spot with little clicks and whooshes.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“No,” Jessica said. “It’s not. It’s the not knowing that’s getting to us. Maybe we shouldn’t have come here. We’ve invaded your space and your life too long.”
Maggie was about to answer when she heard Hondo barking from the front porch. That dog could hear Quinn’s truck from a mile away. A minute later, she heard the truck door slam shut. She could hear Quinn talking with Boom outside, Hondo clambering down the steps and running out to greet him, barking and barking.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “We’ve all been through a lot. Help yourself to supper. I’ll check on the wine.”
Quinn moved into the room, tall and spit-shined, dressed in his sheriff’s office shirt with the tin star and crisp dark blue jeans with cowboy boots. Maggie hugged him as he grabbed a piece of the chicken, nearly burning his fingers, and set it back down. He kissed her full on the lips, and she could smell his bay rum aftershave and feel his short-clipped hair in her hands.
“Did you bring wine?”
“Always.”
Quinn looked over her shoulder and said hello to Jessica. “Time to change that record. What is it?”
“Ray Stevens,” she said. “‘Everything Is Beautiful.’”
Quinn smiled and nodded, knowing what that meant. She felt a pang of guilt for bringing all this into his life so soon after they got married. She watched as he walked over to the refrigerator and grabbed a can of Coors. “Join me outside for a moment?”
“I was just about to set the table.”
“Let’s let that chicken cool,” he said, giving her a wink. He walked over to the kitchen table where Jessica was sitting with her half-full glass of water and dropped the manila folder right in front of her.
Jessica looked up at Quinn but didn’t say anything. The folder within an inch of her right hand.
“Let us know when you’re ready for supper,” he said. “Might take a moment for me to finish this beer.”
Maggie followed him out onto the porch. Quinn lifted the beer to his lips, looking out onto the rolling land. Boom was sitting on the tailgate of his truck, talking to Brandon, and Hondo had hopped up beside him.
“What’s in that file?” Maggie asked.
“Damn-near everything,” Quinn said. “Is Caddy still coming to supper?”
Maggie nodded, watching Quinn’s face in the darkness of the porch. She walked over and cut on the multicolored lights that he had never managed to take down from last Christmas, saying he liked the way they looked no matter the time of year.
“You think she could recognize Bentley Vandeven’s daddy, even twenty years back?” he asked. “I heard that man always keeps a whiskey glass nearby. No matter what he’s doing.”
* * *
* * *
Fannie was on the Natchez Trace south of Tibbehah County, out in the cold and the dark, smoking cigarillos and staring out at the big mounds where the Choctaws used to honor their dead. Only two cars had passed in the thirty minutes she’d been there, hands in the deep pockets of her red Burberry cashmere coat, thinking back on that cemetery where they buried Ray, the city of the dead down in Metairie. All those marble crypts and angel statues watching as they settled him into a mausoleum with the rest of his old Italian family. She couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there, getting turned around on the way, the place like a beautiful fucking maze.
She wished she could’ve told Ray about Vardaman standing up to her and reaching out to grab her by the snatch. He would’ve found a lot of humor in the way she knocked his spray-tanned ass sideways with the framing hammer. Sitting there bleeding from his temple, all the son of a bitch could do was nod and nod, listening to what Fannie knew and what she could do about it. She held his fucking saggy nuts in the palm of her hand. And with him, Chief Robbie, and Marquis Sledge up in Memphis in line with her, Buster White didn’t matter worth two shits. It had taken a while, but, goddam
n, she had it all. Everything she wanted. And everything Ray had trained her for.
She heard a car coming in from the south and she watched it slow near the mounds, turning in and parking by her Lexus. Fannie couldn’t see the make or model, some kind of black sedan, maybe a Cadillac or a Lincoln. A big man crawled out and closed the door. He had his head down, hands in his pockets, as he approached her. Fannie’s hand reached for the little gun in her pocket, ready to pull and shoot if he made a false move. As he walked closer, she could tell it was the man the Chief had told her about, a big, strapping Indian with long black hair, a wide, flat face, black eyes, and a busted nose. He looked like old pictures of Jim Thorpe.
“Miss Fannie?”
She nodded.
“You wanted to talk in person?”
“That’s right,” she said. “You’re a big one, aren’t you? You look familiar as hell. Have me met?”
The man shook his head. His wore his hair pulled into a ponytail, a black leather jacket, jeans, and black cowboy boots. Chief Robbie had told her about the man and what he might do for her and for Vardaman. She didn’t know his name but heard he was a military badass back in his day, some kind of Green Beret Special Forces dude that had come home to become the Chief’s personal and loyal pit bull.
“How soon can you do it?” she asked.
“I will need help.”
“OK.”
“Someone good.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The man stood there in the cold, a truck rambling past on the two-lane kicking up leaves and dirt, lights momentarily shining across his dark face. He kept staring at her, no expression at all.
“I do know you,” she said. “Or you know me?”
“I know who you are, Miss Hathcock,” the man said. “I’ve heard many stories about you.”
