The Innocents (5 page)

“You pick a stage name yet?” Damika said.

“No.”

“Don’t ever tell anyone your real name,” the woman said. “Don’t ever let anyone know the real you.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Damika said.

“How about a song?”

“‘Wrecking Ball,’” Milly Jones said. “Miley Cyrus.”

•   •   •

I
t was nearly seven, but Quinn found Boom Kimbrough still at the County Barn, working on one of the patrol cars, the one that had been Ike McCaslin’s before his long-awaited retirement. He had the hood up, bent at the waist, reaching deep into the guts of the old Crown Vic, turning something with a ratchet attached on his prosthetic arm. The arm having been a casualty of his time in Iraq with the Guard.

Lillie Virgil sat on a discarded car backseat now used as a sofa. She was drinking some of Boom’s burnt coffee in a paper cup. She smiled and gave Quinn a silent salute with two fingers.

“You payin’ overtime, Lil?” Quinn asked.

Boom didn’t budge, grunting, working on tightening something up. “It’s my pleasure to stay late,” Boom said. “Sheriff lets me work on some real classics.”

“Classic pieces of shit,” Lillie said.

“Supervisors won’t get y’all new vehicles yet?” Quinn said.

“What do you think?” Lillie said. “They blow what they don’t skim on kickbacks on conferences in Biloxi or Tunica. If we didn’t have Boom, we’d be riding around Tibbehah on bicycles.”

Boom pulled himself from under the hood. He reached for a rag, wiping the grease from the ratchet and turning it free of the artificial
arm. A tall and substantial black man, he grinned at Quinn and shook his head. “Damn good to see you, Quinn.”

Quinn wrapped his right arm around Boom’s hulking body and patted his back. He handed him a box of Cubans he bought in duty-free on the way back home. Boom said he couldn’t tell a Cuban from a Puerto Rican, but he sure loved the way those sticks smelled. Quinn reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handmade silk scarf that he offered to Lillie.

“Ha,” Lillie said. “You can take a hint.”

“Bought it in a bazaar in Herat,” Quinn said. “It’s your favorite color?”

“Nope,” Lillie said, taking the scarf from his hand and wrapping it around her neck. “But it’ll do.”

“’Bout time you stopped by,” Boom said.

“Had to deal with a few things.”

Lillie grinned but didn’t comment, left leg crossed over the right, kicking her foot up and down, as she sat on the old backseat. She was examining the end of the scarf, probably making sure Quinn didn’t buy it at the local Walmart.

“You get those things straight?” Boom asked.

“Nope.”

Boom nodded. He used a pocketknife to slit open the cedar box, smelling the twenty-four neatly aligned cigars. He grinned and widened his eyes. “Go ahead,” Quinn said.

“I can wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“Special occasion.”

“Seems like one right now.” Quinn cut a cigar for Boom and offered
another to Lillie. Lillie declined but said she just might take a puff off Quinn’s.

“Since you made good and actually remembered me,” she said.

“I always think of you, Lil.”

“Bull-fucking-shit,” Lillie said.

The inside of the County Barn was pin neat, with its clean concrete floors, aligned tools on pegboards, and four large Husky toolboxes on wheels. Quinn noted Boom had gotten a new
Playboy
lingerie calendar since the last time he’d stopped by. A woman looked coyly over her shoulder, a blue sweater slipping down over her shapely back. Just the kind of woman who’d be hanging out in a Jericho, Mississippi, garage.

Quinn clicked open the old stainless Zippo he’d had for years. Busted and dented, the lighter had made it through four tours of Vietnam before being handed over to Quinn for thirteen in Iraq and Afghanistan. He lit Boom’s cigar and then his own, filling the space with the rich tobacco smell. All the movements and sounds in the garage amplified with a deep echo.

“Heard about that thing at your farm,” Boom said, puffing on the cigar, the end starting to glow bright orange. “D. J. Norwood is one crazy son of a bitch. Almost as bad as his entire worthless family.”

“I think Lillie might’ve knocked some sense into him.”

“She’d have to hit him pretty damn hard.”

“No idea what y’all are talking about,” Lillie said, reaching for Quinn’s cigar and taking a puff. “I practiced restraint with that shitbag. If I hadn’t, they’d have found his head in Eupora.”

“Shit,” Boom said. “Let’s get the hell out of here and go get a beer.”

Quinn nodded, looking to Lillie, a little surprised Boom was drinking again. The last time Quinn and Lillie caught him drinking, he’d nearly leveled an entire juke joint down in Sugar Ditch.

“Don’t worry,” Boom said. “One beer. All a sheriff can be seen drinking. And all I can handle.”

“Fine by me,” Quinn said. “Southern Star?”

“Like we got somewhere else to go?” Lillie said.

“Always the Booby Trap,” Quinn said, smiling.

“Ain’t no more,” Boom said. “Hadn’t you heard? Woman bought it has gone high-class. It’s called Vienna’s or some shit.”

“Fannie Hathcock spells class with a capital
K
,” Lillie said. “That’s one evil bitch, if you ask me.”

“Come on,” Boom said. “We’ll get you up to speed on all this shit. I’ll shut down and meet y’all in town.”

Lillie stood, still in green uniform, red scarf wrapping her neck. Some chatter heated up her police radio before she walked out the open mouth of the barn and into the lot. Quinn followed into the fading gold light, Lillie now talking on her cell phone, and then turning to him. “Sorry,” she said. “But I have to go.”

Quinn looked to her and waited.

“Some moron is robbing the Gas & Go up in Blackjack,” Lillie said. “We got Reggie Caruthers and Kenny headed up there now. I better head on.”

“I’ll catch Boom later,” Quinn said. “Been a long while since we rode together.”

“Sure,” Lillie said. “What could go
wrong?”

Q
uinn had never met Sammi Khouraki but knew and liked his father, a tough old Syrian who used to work at Luther Varner’s Quick Mart. His dad was a surly little guy who chain-smoked and kept the local sports book before taking over a string of convenience stores. The old man had a thick accent, but Sammi talked like someone who’d grown up in Mississippi, country twang by way of the folks in Sugar Ditch. He wore a flat-brimmed baseball cap and a blue Memphis Grizzlies T-shirt. His face was a mess, bloodied lip and swollen-shut right eye. To hear Sammi tell it, he’d just been careless and walked into a wall.

“Pretty fucking mean wall,” Lillie said.

They all stood outside the Gas & Go, sun finally going down in Tibbehah County. Dust from the county road had kicked up, leaving a soft yellow haze in the fading gold light. Quinn leaned against Lillie’s
Cherokee as she interviewed Sammi, Reggie and Kenny already back on patrol. No money taken. A victim who wouldn’t press charges or even admit anything happened.

“How about the security tapes?” Lillie asked.

“Busted,” Sammi said.

“That a fact . . .” Lillie said.

“It is.” Sammi nodded. “We need to get that camera fixed.”

“You wouldn’t have happened to have a run-in with any of the North Side Boys?” Lillie said.

Sammi, fat lip and swollen eye, shook his head. “Never heard of ’em.”

Quinn hadn’t said a word since they’d found Sammi outside, sitting next to the gas pumps with a bloody towel on his face. It was good to see Lillie again and always a pleasure to watch her work.

“Never heard of the North Side Boys?” Lillie said. “Now, that does amaze me, Sammi. There isn’t shit to do up in Blackjack but join a gang or watch the Illinois Central pass. I seen plenty of those boys hanging out at your store, doing a little business outside.”

“Nope.” Sammi said.

“Nito Reece?” Lillie said. “Everyone around here knows Nito. He’s a real mean motherfucker.”

“You sure don’t talk like a sheriff,” Sammi said.

“Really?” Lillie said. “A good sheriff should talk in a way to elicit an answer to a question. So far, you haven’t told me jack shit about who messed up your face. If I were you, I’d relay a little information so it didn’t happen again. You don’t want to get in thick with any of the North Side Boys. Especially Nito Reece.”

Sammi looked to Quinn and nodded. Quinn nodded back. Sammi
knew him but didn’t know his name. Could recognize he was somebody from Jericho, maybe even remembered him as the sheriff. Sammi looked away.

“We get a call that a young black male is in your store waving around a gun,” Lillie said. “But you didn’t see it because you were too busy walking into walls.”

“Yeah,” Sammi said. “That’s right.”

“Sammi,” Lillie said. “Son of a bitch. Don’t lay down for these boys. I had one of them in last night. Once you make excuses for them, they’ll eat your ass up.”

Sammi looked over Lillie’s shoulder, again to Quinn, and said, “Don’t I know you?”

Quinn nodded. “Maybe,” he said. “I knew your dad. Back when he worked for Mr. Varner at the Quick Mart. How’s he doing?”

“He owns three gas stations now,” Sammi said. “And a tobacco super-outlet and cell phone store over in Tupelo. He doesn’t like Tibbehah County. He says people cheated him here.”

“He’s right,” Quinn said.

Sammi looked confused. Easy to look confused with a big flat-brimmed ball cap and lots of blood on your face.

“Johnny Stagg used to put the squeeze on him,” Quinn said. “He made him pay protection for his store until I became sheriff.”

Sammi looked doubtful, wiping the blood from his lip. “Which one of you is in charge?” Sammi said. “Because I’m confused who I’m supposed to be talking to.”

“Come again?” Lillie said.

“Which one of you is the sheriff?”

“She’s the sheriff,” Quinn said. “I’m just the impartial observer.”

“But you were the sheriff.”

“Yep.”

“I heard you were just like all the rest,” Sammi said. “Isn’t that why you didn’t get reelected?”

“No, sir,” Quinn said. “Not at all.”

“I heard you shot some men,” Sammi said. “And that you got state people to cover it up.”

Quinn grinned, just a bit, and shook his head. He looked to Lillie and her face had turned a bright shade of red. She took a long, deep breath and Quinn lightly touched her arm. Wasn’t worth it. “We want to help you,” Lillie said.

“I don’t want help.”

“Don’t take their shit,” Lillie said.

“I walked into a wall.”

“Keep on doing that and it’s gonna tumble down on your thick fucking head, kid.”

Sammi stood up from the gas pump island, looked at the blood soaked through the rag, and tossed it in the trash. He shook his head and walked back into the Gas & Go.

“Still miss being the law?” she said.

“Hearts and minds, Lillie.”

“And sometimes a swift kick to the nuts doesn’t hurt.”

•   •   •

M
a’am, it sure is good to finally meet you,” said the young man across from Fannie. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from some important folks.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy said. He was probably in his late twenties but
looked nineteen. Unkempt shaggy hair, wrinkled khakis, blue button-down with an Ole Miss tie. “You have a top name in the hospitality industry. We just wanted to make sure you had gotten our messages of welcome.”

Fannie nodded. She reached for her pack of cigarettes and pulled out a skinny brown cigarillo. She lit it with her Dunhill lighter and waved away the smoke that clouded the space between her and Junior.

“We just never heard back, is all,” said the boy. “And some folks thought I might just stop by and say hello. You know, see if there was anything at all you needed.”

“What’s your name?” Fannie said.

“Bentley Vandeven.”

“Of course it is,” Fannie said, leaning back in her office chair. The office had been scraped clean of every inch of Johnny Stagg, painted a smooth beige, nothing hung on the walls. New light fixtures and a glass-topped desk. “And you came all the way to Jericho just to say hello?”

“Well, ma’am,” Bentley said. “Some folks have just gotten a little worried. They’re wondering if you don’t want our company.”

“Speak English, Bentley.”

“Folks wanted me to make sure you wanted to continue the same arrangement as Mr. Stagg’s,” he said. “People look to this county as an important little sliver of Mississippi, being so close to Memphis and all. They think on it as true Mississippi hospitality.”

“Because of the free pussy?” Fannie said.

“Ma’am?”

“Because of the free pussy afforded to all those assholes from the capitol.”

Bentley’s young, smooth face colored a bit. She blew out some more
smoke from the side of her mouth and adjusted the cuffs on her red silk top. She cocked her head and studied Bentley a bit more, waiting for him to shift a little in his chair. If those important men had any sense at all, they would have sent someone more substantial.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“You don’t know if your folks in Jackson want more pussy?”

“They just wanted to make sure you were our friend,” he said. “You know who has a big spread of land here?”

“I do.”

“And you know what a good friend he’s been to Mr. Stagg.”

“Couldn’t keep him out of the federal pen in Montgomery, Alabama.”

“That was Mr. Stagg’s own doings,” Bentley said, grinning. “But for a long while he was given a lot of friendship, lots of protection.”

Fannie nodded. “Well, I don’t need any of that shit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, I don’t need any more friends, Bentley,” she said. “I don’t need protection and I’m not interested in kickbacks from chicken shit road-and-bridge projects if it means sucking up to a bunch of big fat assholes from Jackson. You may have not noticed, but I am not Johnny Stagg in any shape or form. And if your people down there want to do business with me, they need to come themselves, not send some jack-off kid from Jackson Prep.”

“How’d you know I went to Jackson Prep?”

“Bentley,” Fannie said. “Go back into the Rebel and have a meal on me. The chicken-fried steak is very good, but our barbecue is better. Enjoy yourself up here and then go back to Jackson and tell the boys to leave me the hell alone.”

Bentley shook his head. His face dropped. And, from where she sat,
Fannie noticed his khakis were wrinkled and his loafers scuffed like a kid who’d always had money and didn’t give a damn to appreciate it. Fannie ashed her cigarette in a little gold tray set neatly on the side of the desk.

“I’ll pass on the message,” Bentley said, trying to look cocky as he stood and shook his head. He brushed the longish hair from his eyes. “But they’re not going to like it. And they’ll probably send someone not as nice as me to tell you how things are going to work.”

Fannie smashed out the last bit of her cigarette and reached down for her Prada bag, reaching deep inside and finding the familiar handle. She smiled and waited, taking a long, slow breath.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Hathcock,” he said. “I bet you were a real knockout when you were young. But you can’t set up the kind of business you’re doing without some friends. I’d be real careful if I were you.”

Fannie stood up quick and pulled a twenty-ounce claw hammer from her purse. She raised it high as she stepped around her desk and told Bentley he better get going.

“I heard you were one crazy bitch,” he said.

“You heard right,” Fannie said. “Now get the hell out of here.”

“You don’t get it, ma’am,” he said. “You don’t know what kind of folks you’re messin’ with.”

Fannie smiled. “Son,” she said. “I think you have it the other way around.”

•   •   •

M
illy’s father, Washburn L. Jones, who most folks just called Wash, hadn’t said two words to her since she got off her shift and brought him home his damn Subway sandwich. Extra ham with extra mayo.
He grunted as he ate, watching a rerun of
Dancing with the Stars
with his live-in girlfriend, Charlotte, a woman who weighed about three hundred pounds on her lightest day. Charlotte snatched up the pickles he’d tossed aside, munching on them as she tried to tell Milly who had talent on the show and who had flat feet. Charlotte knew she was an expert on the matter since she taught dance and tumbling at a strip mall out by the highway.

“Wadn’t that girl’s daddy killed by a sea snake?” Charlotte said.

Wash grunted and shook his head. “Got barbed by a fucking stingray right in the chest,” he said, wiping the lettuce off his T-shirt. “Where the hell you been, Milly? You said you’d bring me a sandwich.”

“What’s that in your hand?”

“Damn about starved to death,” her daddy said, still chewing. “I said, where were you?”

“Work.”

“They change your shift?”

“I got a second job.”

“Good for you,” Charlotte said. “Baby, you gonna eat those chips?”

“Yeah, but you can have a couple,” Wash said. “Don’t eat ’em all. Shit. Second job? Where?”

“Walmart,” she said. “Pet section.”

“Hmm,” Wash said, turning his eyes on her. “Pets? Ain’t what I heard.”

Milly didn’t say anything, waiting until he swallowed that big wad of sandwich in his cheek. Wash just took another bite, more fixings landing on his white T-shirt, as he watched Bindi Irwin launch into a slow routine with some boy with wild blond hair. She dedicated the dance to her late father, who she called a ray of sunshine.

“I know that boy with her is queer as a three-dollar bill,” Charlotte
said. “But to look at ’em, you’d think they was in love. He’s got a lot of grace about him.”

“Sick,” Wash said. “This goddamn country is headed into the toilet. Damn, don’t eat all the chips. I said, just eat a couple. Son of a bitch.”

“Good night,” Milly said. “I’m beat.”

“You gonna tell us the truth or just lie to our faces?” Wash said, tapping at his chest with his knuckles to stop a burp. “Charlotte got a call that you was out dancing at the titty bar tonight.”

Milly shook her head.

“Right or wrong?” Wash said.

Charlotte looked to Milly and gave a weak smile before shifting her eyes down to the carpet, unsure what to say or do. Charlotte never knew what to say or do unless Wash Jones told her the way. She had on a pair of XXL pink sweatpants and a huge sweatshirt that said
DANCE LIKE NO O
NE’S WATCHING
. Milly didn’t think there was much trouble with that.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Milly said.

“You just like your momma,” Wash said. “Let you loose and you’re a wild-ass whore.”

“Wash,” Charlotte. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t talk that trash.”

“Her momma tosses her out and I open my gosh-dang home,” Wash said. “But I ain’t giving no shelter if she’s gonna whore it out. You know how embarrassing that is? You don’t think people gonna be talking about it?”

“Like when you got busted for running drugs?”

“Shit,” Wash said, shaking his head. He turned away from staring at her and concentrated on the television. The couple had dressed up like they were in
Dirty Dancing
in that finale where Patrick Swayze picked up Jennifer Grey up over his head. Milly liked the movie, but she
preferred Swayze much better in
Road House
. They didn’t make men like that anymore.

“You sure that boy is queer?” Wash said.

“I read it in
Us Weekly
,” Charlotte said. “Or was it
People
?”

“Damn,” Wash said, chawing on the sandwich.

Milly turned to head back to the small room behind the kitchen. She had her overnight bag and a Dell computer and a pink puppy stuffed animal she’d had most of her life. That was pretty much it.

“Hold up,” Wash Jones said.

Milly stopped and looked behind her, eyeing her father, who wadded up the sandwich paper and fingered the ham caught in his teeth. Her daddy looked her over, lingering on the makeup on her face, and shook his head like he’d just seen the sorriest sight of his life. He reached for the level on his La-Z-Boy chair and hoisted his bad back up to straight and got to his feet. He was a short, round little man. His chin quivered with anger before he spoke. “Get your things and get gone.”