The Lost Ones (13 page)

Dinah walked around his office, studying the photos on the wall and looking out the single window to the bridge over the Big Black River. There were thick bars over the window, and little wires within the glass.

He’d probably need to show the book to Lillie and then to Kenny and the others. Maybe he’d make another trip after working hours back to the migrant camp and see if he spotted anyone familiar.

“Can I keep this for a day?” Quinn asked.

“See anything?”

“Nope.”

Most of the photos were of men, but a few women, too. Many of them were identified by gang tattoos or scars. Some pretty hardened hombres and even harder-looking women. They came from faraway places like Juárez, Monterrey, Zacatecas, and Tampico. They were all associated with the Zetas and with a man noted as El Tigre.

“Who’s this El Tigre?”

“He goes by the name Tony the Tiger.”

“Guess you’re gonna tell me he’s not a very nice man.”

“I could tell you a lot of stories about him,” Dinah said. “After a while they all sound the same. These people try to outdo each other in horrific violence. They kidnap and kill anyone suspected of going against them. The Zetas were always having a turf war with the Gulf Cartel, though they’ve mostly won now. Rivals, politicians, and their families will show up dead, hanging from trees, or their body parts scattered on roadsides. This stuff is like something out of the Middle Ages.”

Quinn absently flipped through more pages, ready to call Lillie in and have her take the book for a while. If one of these guys had set foot in Jericho, he was pretty sure Lillie would know it. As he got into the final pages in the book, a picture of a woman made him return two pages back. The photo showed a slender, sad-faced girl with thick black hair pulled into a ponytail, wide eyes, and a full mouth. She stood against a board that showed she was
1.8 meters
and she held a sheet of paper showing her arrest was on
24-Diciembre—10
.
Zuniga Huizar
. Her first name was Laura. Quinn stared at the photo and pictured her with a shy hand across her face and downcast eyes as he leaned into Donnie’s truck to welcome him back from the front.

What did Donnie call her? Luz?

“You see something?” Dinah asked.

Quinn shook his head and closed the book. “I’ll pass it around.”

BEFORE HE GOT A LOOK
at the new guns, Johnny Stagg offered Donnie a piece of pecan pie. They sat in the main dining area of the Rebel Truck Stop in the back booth that was always roped off for Stagg himself. The booth sat up into the back corner, seats padded with seafoam green vinyl, the white walls behind them covered in even more photos than Stagg’s office of more politicians, weathermen, and country music stars. He’d apparently spent a lot of time with the Tiffin family, a daddy, momma, and daughter, who’d cut a record called
Ain’t But One Man
.

“What ever happened to the Tiffins?” Donnie said, digging into some pie. “They used to come every year and sing at church. I wonder if they’re still out singing at tent revivals and street fairs.”

“I hadn’t talked to them for some time,” Stagg said. “They implied falsely that I’d made advances toward their daughter.”

“That’s some hair they all got. Take a lot of hair spray make it that tall.”

“Singers need to have some show about them,” Stagg said. “If not, nobody will pay attention.”

“Good pie, Johnny.”

“You finished?”

Donnie nodded, and Stagg got up, walking into all the noise of the kitchen. Three large black women worked the grill, sizzling with bacon and burgers. An older black man worked the big brick barbecue pit built into a back wall. Some Mexican women washed the dishes, and a couple Mexican men were stocking the walk-in refrigerator with thin dinner T-bones and whole chickens. Donnie lit up an American Spirit before he even hit the back door and the rain that was soaking the wide lot where about fifty or so truckers had stopped off. Stagg had his lot lizards carrying umbrellas and wearing knee-high rubber boots. They wandered through the aisles. Within a couple hours, the big neon sign of the mud-flap girl would be shining down on Highway 45.

“How many?”

“Fifty, like you ordered,” Stagg said. “These folks don’t fool around.”

“Well, shit,” Donnie said. “I got the money. Who’s drivin’?”

“You?”

“And as soon as I’m off this here lot, it’s my ass.”

“You want to bring in someone else?” Stagg asked, stopping dead still in the rain to run his hand over his red neck. “Figure it’s smart we just keep this deal kind of local. I don’t want to kick loose any of my cut, and nobody wants an extra mouth shootin’ off. Can’t you drive a semi?”

“I can drive anything with wheels.”

“How long’d you drive with that outfit in Tupelo?”

“Two years,” Donnie said. “Only lost my job ’cause the Guard kept sending me back. The Guard fucked me.”

Stagg took him into the big maze of trucks, most of them Macks and Peterbilts, humming along, keeping that electricity going so the truckers could sleep in some AC, kick back and watch some movies in the cab, or make some friendly time with one of Stagg’s girls. They turned another corner, and another, Donnie feeling his mouth getting dry, because if Stagg wanted to cut his ass out of this business arrangement, this would be the time and the place. Stagg could drop him right here and pack him in the back of a Tyson chicken truck headed for Tucamcari.

Stagg stopped at a tractor trailer marked batesville casket company.
Drive Safe. We’re in No Hurry to Do Business.

“Kind of a cute sign, ain’t it?” Donnie asked. He stepped back and let Stagg be the one to open those doors. No way in hell would he let his ass be snatched and pulled inside. Stagg grinned at him, knowing he was making him nervous, and the thought of it pleased Johnny Stagg. He pulled out a set of keys from his hip and opened the big doors.

“Go on. Here, take this.”

Stagg handed him a flashlight and hammer, and Donnie lifted himself up into the trailer, shining the light at floor-to-ceiling wooden boxes in lengths that would befit caskets. He let out a long breath, Stagg joining him inside, following the light. Stagg motioned him over to the row on the far right.

“Man, this is like Christmas morning,” Donnie said, using the claw end of the hammer and pulling open the top. He found gun boxes packed inside instead of caskets, all in a mess of Styrofoam peanuts. He pulled out the first box and sliced through the plastic bands with a box cutter. He had the last bit of cigarette clamped into his jaw as he extracted the gun, the magazine and muzzle not yet attached. He turned to Stagg and then back to the gun, checking out the manufacturer details, noting that unless this was a hell of a fake, it was indeed made by the fine people at Colt in West Hartford, Connecticut.

He ghost-fired the gun without the magazine, feeling the quality of the mechanisms and the familiar feel of the weapon. During his time in Iraq and Afghanistan, he and his M4 ate, slept, and shit together. For a long while, it felt like a damn extension of his hand.

He looked over at Stagg.

“You want to check all the boxes?”

“Would I be a fool to trust you?” Donnie said.

“You gonna have to unload ’em,” Stagg said. “You’ll see what you got. All the same. All come from the same place.”

“How’d Campo get ’em?”

“Does it matter?”

“Nope.”

“Then I wouldn’t ask, son.”

16

THE TIBBEHAH COUNTY SUPERVISORS MET ON WEDNESDAYS, TWICE A
month, at the County Courthouse just south of town. It was an old building, as most buildings were in Jericho, constructed sometime in the early 1900s, with all the aesthetics of a hay barn. It had two functional floors with a single courtroom, several musty offices, and a big hall where the supervisors gathered on a high dais. Their seats were backed by dark wood paneling embossed with the official seal of Tibbehah County, the head of Issatibbehah, the Choctaw chief who’d sold his land in exchange for a one-way ticket for his people on the Trail of Tears. Quinn and Lillie sat in the second row, waiting for the third agenda item to get cleared up, a proposed tax on logging trucks using county roads. The five supervisors spun the idea around and around, debating just to show they possessed the skill.

About twenty minutes in, Johnny Stagg, the board president, finally held up his hand and asked if they’d like to take a vote. District Four supervisor DuPuy, a black slumlord who ran Sugar Ditch, was too busy having a personal conversation on his cell phone. The supervisor from the northwest part of the county where Quinn lived, a short, obese man named MacDougal, agreed with Stagg to never tax a money generator, but he seemed to agree with Stagg on most things. MacDougal was so intent on the consideration that he even took the time to remove his foot from the dais where he’d been clipping his toenails since the Pledge of Allegiance.

“Bet you wish you were back in combat,” Lillie said.

Quinn didn’t answer. They had two more agenda items to go until they got to the issue of opening up the old County Barn to fuel and service county vehicles.

“Whew,” Lillie said. “This could’ve been for nothing.”

They both watched as Betty Jo Mize, the editor, reporter, and owner of the
Tibbehah Monitor
, wandered in and took a seat in the front row, opening her steno pad. She was thin, small, white-haired, and enjoyed Jack Daniel’s and dirty jokes as much as a Sunday sermon.

The supervisors didn’t take but a minute to agree three members should attend a rural county planning conference in Panama City, Florida. The only dissenting vote came from Sam Bishop, the only voice on the board that Quinn respected. Sam’s father still held the office as county clerk and had been Quinn’s scoutmaster years ago. Sam Jr., the supervisor, was in his forties and ran the county co-op.

After a short discussion of a water association running line on a county right-of-way, Stagg coughed and shuffled his paper. “Next item is on the old County Barn.”

Stagg looked to MacDougal, whose beard couldn’t hide his lack of a chin or his fat neck. He peered over a pair of half-glasses as if this item was giving him gas pains.

DuPuy shut off his cell phone and began to shuffle papers, too, that being the thing you did when you did nothing. He smacked gum and listened to Stagg outline the proposal: “The refurbishment of the old facility, upkeep, and new employees would prove more than the county can afford. But I believe Sheriff Colson wishes to speak on the matter. That right?”

Quinn stood, dressed in his blue jeans, a stiff pressed khaki shirt, and polished boots. He’d showered and shaved before driving over to the meeting. His Beretta 9mm rested on his hip.

“Go ahead, Sheriff,” Stagg said.

Stagg sat in the middle of the dais, scratching his neck, waiting. DuPuy and MacDougal flanked his right. Sam Bishop and a spark plug of a little redneck named Bobby Pickens flanked his left. Pickens was the wild card, a self-proclaimed independent who’d been elected to office because the previous supervisor had left his wife of thirty years for a nineteen-year-old Piggly Wiggly checkout girl.

“I believe y’all have the rundown of expenses on county vehicles for the last four years,” Quinn said. “A pretty conservative rundown still shows us cutting our expenses in half by using the barn.”

Stagg smiled and shook his head, looking again at his buddy MacDougal for support and then over to DuPuy. Quinn could tell the matter had been decided as soon as it had turned up on the agenda. Stagg sucked on a tooth, and gave a long, dramatic pause, before he began to lecture down to Quinn. In the front row, Miss Mize sighed, knowing she’d have to hear the same old argument.

“Sheriff, we all appreciate you bringing ideas to us,” Stagg said. “That’s kind of the nature of what we do as county elders. But before you bring up something, you might want to run some numbers on how much this here thing’s gonna cost.” Stagg grinned some more, showing off his big veneers. He shifted in his seat. MacDougal looked down at the agenda but couldn’t stop snickering like a third grader. “This thing could cost us a couple hunnard thousand.”

“Did you read my report?” Quinn said.

“I read it.”

“It doesn’t ask for new equipment or tools,” Quinn said. “I’ve asked for three employees to be added to the payroll. A manager and two more mechanics. They will take care of the building. We’re only one of two counties in Mississippi who don’t purchase our own fuel.”

Quinn saw Betty Jo Mize lean forward from her seat, scribbling notes.

“You know about hazards of gas pumps and safety concerns,” Stagg said. “It ain’t like fillin’ up a couple canisters for your bass boat.”

Quinn let him get it all out, let him hang himself as he threw out the facts. “I’m the one who had that old rickety barn closed when I took office,” Stagg said. “It was a dangerous place. We had graft. County officials were fillin’ up their momma and daddy’s cars or their girlfriend’s. I’m not backing any plan that opens up that can of worms.”

Quinn looked over at Betty Jo, who had bit down on her lower lip, scribbling word for word.

“So almost all gas and maintenance should continue through your truck stop, Mr. Stagg?” Quinn said. “Maybe you might consider selling the county gas at cost.”

You could hear the supervisors’ chairs creak and a couple stray coughs from the crowd of four more folks. Someone behind Quinn laughed.

“It’s no secret that I operate one of the largest truck stops in north Mississippi,” Stagg said. “If you hadn’t noticed, I do advertise the fact on big billboards out on Highway 45.”

Sam Bishop nodded while he made some notes, waiting for Quinn’s reply. Bobby Pickens stared at Quinn. Bobby was caught off guard, red-faced and sweating in his ill-fitting Sunday best, not sure which way to side. DuPuy gave a sly grin, watching Quinn work, savoring the moment. He tilted his head in a little bit of appreciation and put his feet up before him, hands behind his head.