The Redeemers (14 page)

“You see all those logs?” Mickey said, sitting in the backseat with Peewee Sparks’s fat ass.

“Yes, sir,” Chase said.

“Well, that whole yard belongs to Larry Cobb,” he said. “Every stick.”

“Damn,” Chase said. “That’s a lot of timber.”

“No shit, kid,” Mickey said, smelling Sparks’s bad breath every time he exhaled or coughed as they rode around Jericho. He just kept on imagining holding that first cold beer at the Flora-Bama tonight, a kick-ass concert, and getting laid on the beach.
Baby you a song, / You make me wanna roll my windows down and cruise.
Hell, yeah.

“Biggest lumber mill in three counties,” Mickey said. “Cobb may be a supreme asshole, but does just fine for himself. So just listen to your uncle back here and shut the hell up.”

“Hey, man,” Chase said, turning to the backseat. “I don’t need your shit.”

Peewee ignored him, leaning forward between the front seats and poking his finger toward the Cobb house and the long gravel road. “Only one road up there?”

“Yep,” Mickey said.

“Any gates?”

“They got a gate by the road,” Mickey said, catching Kyle’s eye in his rearview mirror. “And it will be locked. But it doesn’t matter. The reason I want y’all to go tonight is that I know for a fact the man who checks on the lumber ain’t going to be doing shit. He’s a lazy-ass drunk and will be passed out by midnight. Kyle’s handling that. Y’all can park in the yard and walk up to the house.”

“Carl don’t show, most nights,” Kyle said. “He’ll be passed out at home. I’m headed over later to give him a bottle of Rebel Yell to make sure.”

“So your boy is goin’ drinking and then keep watch for Johnny Law while me and Chase take care of the hard work?” Sparks said, snorting. “What’s your name again?”

“Kyle,” he said, arm hanging out the window, pulling it back in to take a hit off his cigarette. “Damn, he just said it.”

“Kyle what?” Sparks said.

Kyle glanced up to his rearview again, not answering.

“That’s all you need to know,” Mickey said. “No need to pass out fucking business cards ’round here. I told you, Kyle’s one of my best friends. Me and him have known each other since we were ten years old. He’s representing me on this deal tonight. Whatever he says goes. Ain’t no difference between him and a foreman. Kyle’s in charge. Understand?”

“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” Peewee said. “A foreman should be the man on the site who’s got the most experience. That’s the way it should work. How many safes you busted, man?”

Kyle didn’t answer, rolling the steering wheel under his right hand, tires crunching hard on gravel, as he U-turned and headed back into Jericho. The mountains of logs and timber corralled by a long chain-link fence ran along the road until they hit the highway and Kyle sped off.

“This isn’t a question of experience,” Mickey said. “Y’all ain’t installing cabinetry. You boys wouldn’t know about this hidey-hole if it wasn’t for me. And if it wasn’t for me being on such bad terms with Larry Cobb, I’d be right there beside you. But Kyle being here is the next best thing. Once you bust that safe open, Kyle will hand off the money we agreed on.”

“You said twenty grand,” Peewee said.

“That’s right.”

“What about for Chase?” Peewee said.

“You can deal with him on your own,” Mickey said. “Whatever you think is fair.”

“What I think is fair is another five thousand dollars,” Peewee said.

“Shit,” Mickey said. “Come on, now.”

Kyle dragged on the cigarette and then tossed the butt out the window. Mickey knew he was getting ornery, rethinking this whole thing. “Son of a bitch,” Kyle said, and rolled down Cotton Road past the Hollywood Video and the Sonic. “What if it’s empty?”

“It’s not going to be empty, man,” Mickey said. “That’s Larry Cobb’s hidey-hole. You know that. The place he keeps his dirty money and all his damn secrets.”

“If it’s empty, it ain’t our problem,” Peewee said. “You hired me to break it open. I break it open and you get squat, I get paid the same.”

“Agreed,” Mickey said. “I’ll leave some money with Kyle, if that happens. But you’ll only get that extra five if it’s loaded. I never asked for you to bring this kid with you.”

“I ain’t no kid,” Chase said. “I’m eighteen years old. I screwed more women and kicked more ass than you ever have. But don’t worry. If you say this ole bastard driving is the coach, then I agree he’s the coach. I know how to use the goddamn playbook.”

“Whatever happens, no one calls me,” Mickey said. “Once you let me out of this truck, none of us can speak to each other for a while.”

“Fine by me,” Chase said. “I’m tired of talking to y’all already.”

Kyle slowed down his truck a little as they shot past a Tibbehah County sheriff’s cruiser speeding in the opposite direction past the softball fields. Jericho was soon behind them, and he turned the truck onto the county road heading out to Mickey’s house, passing more farms and trailers, old cars, and cows. Peewee Sparks sat silent beside him, scenery whizzing by while he picked his nose and wiped his finger on his trousers. He coughed a little and straightened in his seat.

“Y’all got anything else in this town besides churches and funeral homes?” Sparks said.

“Sure,” Mickey said. “Why?”

“Well, I don’t plan on getting caught in neither.”

12.

A
re all those things true about Colson’s dad?” Rusty Wise asked.

“What things?” Lillie said.

“About how he used to be real famous,” Rusty said. “That he was the go-to stuntman for action pictures back in the seventies and eighties. Did he really jump a rocket car over a river in that movie with Burt Reynolds and Jan-Michael Vincent?”

“Hooper.”

“Yeah,
Hooper
,” Rusty said. “Was that really him?”

“They didn’t actually jump that car,” Lillie said. “It was special effects with a miniature. You can see it’s fake if you slow down the movie frame by frame. He’s a lot better in this trucker movie called
White Line Fever
. That man wasn’t scared of nothing. Listen, it’s good to see you this morning, Rusty. But can I help you with something?”

Rusty Wise sat on the old flowered couch that had belonged to her dead mother, like every other stick of furniture she owned, and sipped on some coffee from a flowered cup. While they talked, Lillie’s three-year-old daughter Rose played with her new Doc McStuffins, the doll attending to the medical care of a couple stuffed animals and one toy monster truck. The little girl wore pajamas, and Lillie wore sweatpants and a navy Ole Miss T-shirt. She hadn’t expected Rusty that morning, but there he was, bright and early, knocking on her front door and wanting to talk. She hoped this wasn’t the way he operated.

“I just wanted to connect before tomorrow,” he said. “Make sure you were all set.”

“Of course.”

“Well.” Rusty, a little butterball of a man with fiery red hair, took a sip of coffee and paused. He was already wearing a
TIBBEHAH COUNTY SHERIFF
golf shirt and had a gun on his hip. “I guess I just had heard a few things from the grapevine about you maybe moving on from the sheriff’s office. Something about a job up in Memphis?”

“People sure do love to run their mouths.”

“Is it true?”

Rusty smiled as he held the small flowered cup with both hands as if warming himself. Rose fixed a wobbling wheel on the monster truck and pushed it alongside the two stuffed animals. Another satisfied patient for Doc McStuffins. The child had been born in Mexico to unknown parents and had come to Lillie two years ago after a bust of some local shitbirds trying to sell kids on the Internet. Lillie had dark thoughts about those people and tried to not to think on it too long. But she did pray every night that someday they’d be caught and tried for their actions.

“Maybe,” Lillie said. “Better schools. More opportunity.”

“I can’t fault you for that,” Rusty said. “I didn’t come over here to put some pressure on you, trying to make you stay. I just wanted to let you know that you’d be a big help if you’d just commit to seeing through the year.”

“Can’t do that, Rusty,” Lillie said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever leave Jericho. But I committed to Quinn to stay on as long as he was around. Now that’s over and I’m trying to examine some things. I hadn’t been back here too long when my mother died. I’m still living in her house surrounded by her things. I haven’t even had time to clean out all the closets.”

“I understand,” Rusty said. “But I’m offering the same kind of deal you had with Quinn. I got no issue at all with the way you live your life. That’s a personal matter.”

“Come again?” Lillie said, lifting Rose off the floor and rolling the truck down the hallway so she would chase after it. Lillie wanted the child out of earshot in case she had to unload some profanity on Rusty Wise. She knew it was coming sooner or later. Rose carried the doll by its loose arm while she moved down the hallway. Lillie turned up the volume on the television, playing the morning show out of Tupelo.

“I just don’t want you thinking I’m one of those people who have problems with it,” Rusty said, laughing. “That’s your own deal as long as you don’t go marching in parades, waving flags, or something.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Rusty gave a little snort. “Oh come on, now. I’m no Bible-beater. I’m just looking for the right folks to do the job. You’re the best one around here.”

Lillie shook her head, looking Rusty right in the eye. She smiled and laughed a little, wrapping her arms over her chest. “Are you saying you don’t mind if I’m a Methodist?” she said. “Because it might really cause some trouble in the sheriff’s office if someone saw me drinking cold beer on Sunday. I also believe women can be in positions of power. Is that OK by you?”

“Fine by me,” Rusty said, dumb smile on his face, cheeks glowing as red as embers. He swallowed, trying to look relaxed but not doing a good job at it. “I didn’t mean anything. I was just coming over to say that it was all right. Whatever you do. I mean, on your own private time. Long as it isn’t something that’s all out in the public eye, I don’t see where they’d be any problems. You obviously didn’t have any issues with the adoption board. Everything worked out good for little Rose. Didn’t it?”

Lillie stood up and reached down to tighten the string in the waistband of her sweatpants. She pushed up the T-shirt sleeves on each arm and walked toward Rusty. He slurped his coffee while she took a wide stance and asked, “You done with that coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” Lillie said. “Because I got shit to do.”

“I didn’t—”

Lillie held up the flat of her right hand in an effort to tell Rusty to shut the hell up. She turned to see Rose, oblivious to the conversation, standing two feet from the television, the weatherman predicting a gorgeous kickoff to the New Year, but with a cold front on the horizon.

As Rusty stood up, shaking his head, saying, “Aw, hell,” she spotted their reflection in an old beveled mirror behind him. Lillie stood there, broad-shouldered and tall, hair in a ponytail and not a speck of makeup on, and the little round man, maybe a head shorter than her, was already wearing his gun, his shirt two sizes too small.

“How about we keep this between you and me?” Rusty said.

Lillie walked ahead of him and held the front door open wide. “Sounds good, Sheriff,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

•   •   •

Q
uinn drove Caddy to Tupelo.

They hadn’t spoken for about twenty miles, her head propped against his passenger window, the radio playing “Behind Closed Doors,” Charlie Rich singing the old favorite with a smooth and easy confidence. Quinn had always loved to hear that man sing.

“You should have let me see my son,” Caddy finally said. “That was wrong.”

“It would’ve been wrong for him to see the shape you’re in.”

“You and Momma are just talking shit.”

“Nope,” Quinn said. “You’ll be glad later. He knows you’re well. And safe. That’s all he needs to know right now.”

“Whatever.”

“You were going to pray on it last night,” Quinn said. “Is that all you came up with?”

“Don’t throw Jesus in my face,” she said. “You, of all people.”

“I’m not giving you a lecture,” Quinn said. “How about you do me the same courtesy?”

Caddy snorted and shook her head, bringing her legs up into the big seat and pulling her knees close to her chest. “The thing is, everyone in that room last night has their own problems,” she said. “When’s the last time you’ve seen Momma without a glass of wine in her hand? Or Uncle Van when he wasn’t stoned? We all like things that aren’t good for us.”

“Human nature,” Quinn said. “Difference is, those things aren’t going to kill us. At least not yet. Luke says you should have died.”

“Luke is a tender heart,” Caddy said. “I don’t care what he thinks, and women don’t find that attractive.”

They passed signs for the Brice’s Cross Roads Battlefield, where a thousand-plus Union soldiers had died or were taken prisoner by Nathan Bedford Forrest’s much smaller forces. When Quinn was a kid, he used to imagine being part of the boys who’d stalled the cavalry on that muddy road, making the Yankee infantry double-time it to catch up, bone-tired and on half rations. The graves of the soldiers who died that day were buried out back of the new church, one they had built long after the battle. Now the site was just an acre surrounded by gas stations and fast food and nail salons.

As they passed, Caddy gave a sloppy salute in reference to what Quinn had done as a kid.

“This won’t be long.”

“Someone will bring a guitar,” Caddy said. “Someone always has a guitar at these fucking places.”

“I thought you cared for that stuff,” Quinn said. “The singing, old-time hymns.”

“My brain is fried,” she said. “How can you believe a word that comes out of my mouth?”

Quinn drove on, turning off the main road, following the signs to the clinic where he’d check in Caddy for detox. The radio played Ferlin Husky, “I Wouldn’t Treat a Dog Like You’re Treating Me.”