The Redeemers (8 page)

“You know what he said?” Quinn said.

“What?”

“So far, so good.”

“That doesn’t give me a lot of comfort, Quinn,” Anna Lee said. “Slow and easy. OK?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said, pulling her even closer, kissing her. “I’ll do my best.”

7.

J
ohnny Stagg had been holding court in his red vinyl booth at the Rebel for nearly two hours, glad-handing and arranging favors for county employees and the like, by the time Larry Cobb showed up, wanting two eggs sunny-side up and two pieces of well-done bacon with no toast. Cobb told Stagg he’d been trying to watch the carbs and that he and Debbi had been on this diet they learned about from watching Dr. Phil, wanting to know if Stagg ever watched the program.

“I don’t watch a lot of TV, Larry,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “If I do, it’s the television news or a good ole-fashioned Western.”

“Me and Debbi watch Dr. Phil and that other guy, the one who knows Oprah, too. He’s the real doctor, wears scrubs and all. He talks about how exercise and good eating can add ten years to a man. Debbi and me been working our whole lives—hard work—to earn what we got. Last thing I need is another heart attack to keep me away from fishing or the ski slopes. We’re going back to that time-share in Aspen in February. You should fly up to Colorado sometime, Johnny. I think you’d just love it.”

“I been there,” Stagg said. “Lots of rich women in fur coats and men dressed up like queers. No thank you, sir.”

The waitress set down a ceramic mug for Cobb and walked off, checking on other tables, giving Stagg the privacy that everyone knew he needed at the corner booth. If Johnny had company, everyone knew to set down the food, or coffee, and walk away. Let Johnny tend to his business. The truck stop was filled this morning, eighteen-wheelers backed up nearly ten slots for the diesel pumps, credit card receipts unrolling, register bells jingling.

“So how you been, Larry?”

“Fine,” Cobb said. “I ain’t complainin’.”

“You sounded worried on the telephone.”

“Nah,” Cobb said. “I ain’t worried. Just trying to get things straight. Make sure everything’s working out with the bridge. I hadn’t heard a word in two months. I just figured that . . . Well, you know.”

“That it was a done deal?”

“Yeah,” Larry Cobb, that greedy son of a bitch, said. “Yeah, that’s about it.”

“It is.”

Cobb was a man of medium height and impressive girth. He hadn’t done manual labor since the eighties but shuffled his feet and bounded around as if he were a big man on account of his thickness. He had a big fat stomach and big fat arms that he’d cross over the bulk with a lot of self-satisfaction. He was bald, with white hair ringing his head, and kept his white beard just short enough not to look like a redneck Santa Claus. Two of his teeth were gold, and he’d taken to wearing a Mississippi State jacket just to show he didn’t care a whit for Johnny’s beloved Ole Miss. Mainly, he just lorded over his world—a single-wide trailer out back of north Mississippi’s biggest lumberyard.

“Johnny, I appreciate the business and all, but a man’s got to go and plan ahead. You know? I got to turn down business to take on a project like this. And I got other folks, equipment people up in Memphis, who are wanting to go ahead and get paid. I mean, you can’t just talk about building a big highway bridge on a Monday and start work on a Tuesday. We need to start clearing them woods.”

“I’m pretty sure I know how this all works, Larry,” Stagg said. “Maybe the reason that you and Debbi can fly up to Colo-rado and queer around with all them California folks like Mississippi come to town.”

“I didn’t mean nothing, Johnny,” Cobb said. “It’s just that it’s been—”

“Two months.”

“Yeah—”

“Eight weeks.”

“Well,” Cobb said, a plate with two eggs and bacon sliding in front of him. The way the cook had arranged the plate made the breakfast look like a man’s face. Two yolks for eyes, and a big wide bacon grin, burnt to a crisp just like Larry Cobb’s big old fat ass liked it. “Yeah,” Cobb said, slurping on his coffee, bent over the breakfast and shoveling it into his mouth. Making those
Mmm-mmm
sounds. Son of a bitch.

The place in front of Johnny Stagg was clean, a rolled-up paper napkin around the silverware, an unsoiled place mat showing a cartoon image of Mississippi and all the famous things that happened across the state. Elvis in Tupelo. Faulkner in Oxford. And Faith Hill over in Ridgeland. Stagg sure loved to hear that woman sing. He was a true fan of her talent and her beauty.

“You want me to butter your bread for you?” Stagg said.

Cobb sat up just a little straighter and eyed Johnny, getting the message, putting down the knife and fork and licking his lips. He nodded and nodded as he thought, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Easy for you,” Cobb said. “Ain’t it? You don’t have no physical investment in the project.”

Stagg grinned, looking over Cobb’s shoulder, and spotted Sam Bishop, Jr., Tibbehah County Supervisor for District 1, walk through the door. Stagg waved at Bishop and Bishop waved back, coming in with his wife and two daughters, taking a booth toward the front door. Christmas lights and fake holly hung over the glass. The waitress walking right on up and bringing them some ice waters.

“Sorry, I had something in my ear,” Stagg said. “You were saying how I’m not a part of some business around here?”

“Smile all you want, but it ain’t your money,” Cobb said. “It’s a hell of an investment for me and Debbi. We had to make some hard decisions, family matters, to come up with that kind of cash. We even had to cut back on our tithes at First Baptist.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, you’re full of shit, Larry Cobb,” Stagg said. “You know what it costs to do business with the State of Mississippi and you became a rich man because of it. Go and give the hardworkin’ redneck shuck to one of your truckers you ain’t paying right.”

Cobb gave him a hard look, which wasn’t much since the man had pig eyes and no chin. Stagg took a drink of water, the ice melting but still clicking in the glass. He shrugged it off, and Cobb’s hard look turned to a grin, trying to be a hard-on just for the hell of it. Now that he saw Stagg couldn’t get a guarantee on that dirty money any faster, he would switch over to the old, portly, hardworkin’ man and go right back to chawing on the breakfast. Sure enough, Cobb just shook his head and picked up a piece of burnt bacon. “Just makes me nervous,” Cobb said. “You know how that goes?”

“Eat up, Larry,” Stagg said. “You been eating up in this county trough a long time. This is the first time I ever heard any complaint about your seat at the table.”

Cobb swallowed and nodded. “During that storm and cleanup, me and you shared and shared alike,” he said. “Made rich men even richer. That durn storm was the best thing that ever happened to either of us.”

Stagg turned a fork around a circle on the Formica table, looking up to Larry Cobb. “You want me to get you a microphone so you can broadcast our business to everyone in north Mississippi?”

“No,” Cobb said, cutting into his eggs, busting the yolk. “But don’t you ever make me out to be some kind of charity case. Me and you shared plenty over these years. We all got a little dirt on us.”

“Go on. Go on. Spell it on out.”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Cobb said, yellow running down his white-bearded chin, snorting in some air. “Just pass me some of them jelly packs. Will you, Stagg?”

Stagg eyed the bloated piece of shit on the left side of him and chose the right side of the big red booth to make his departure. He got out, made sure the Ole Miss sweater-vest was flat over his chinos, and stood above Cobb. Cobb didn’t look up, hunkered over the wheel and sopping up everything on his plate. At the swinging door to the kitchen, Ringold leaned against the cash register, sipping on coffee. He met Stagg’s eye and nodded.

Stagg nodded back, hit the front door, and walked around to his office.

•   •   •

W
ell,” Peewee Sparks said. “Fuck a duck.”

“How much?” Chase asked, browsing through the Gold Mine pawnshop off Interstate 65, somewhere south of Birmingham. The Gold Mine hadn’t opened up yet, the barred door locked behind them, lights off overhead but shining bright in the glass cases, with their jewelry, pistols, rare coins, DVD players, and shit made during the Civil War.

“We can walk out of here with three grand,” Peewee said. “But I could burn though that in fifteen minutes at Temptations on Bourbon Street. That’s just an introduction to those women doing serious business. Not to mention your cut is a damn third.”

“How about this other deal you’re talking about?” Chase said. “The one in Mississippi?”

“Don’t know enough about it,” Peewee said. “Could be something. Could be jack shit. People always trying to shit you in this world, kid.”

“I say we do it.”

“Oh, you do,” Peewee said, his crazy owl hair sticking up wild, the lenses of his big gold glasses dirty. “I sure do appreciate the advice since you don’t know nothing about it.”

“I ain’t telling you what to do,” Chase said, spotting a real sweet little gun, a silver .32 with a pearl grip inlaid with a joker playing card. “I’m just saying let’s move on. It ain’t like we can drive back to Mountain Brook and tell those people we’d been lied to.”

“We’ll see,” Peewee said. “I’ve been dreaming about raw oysters and titties for weeks.”

“Can you ask that fella what he’ll take for that pistol?”

“What pistol?”

“One right there,” Chase said. “In the glass case. It’s got a really fancy grip on it with the joker card. It looks like something out of a comic book.”

“Thought you’d like one with the Bear on it.”

“They make one like that?”

“Shit, I’m just funnin’ you.” The older man reached into his sagging blue jeans and brought out a blue bandanna. He sneezed into it, wiped his nose, and then used the same rag to clean his glasses. He hitched up his blue jeans, sagging down under his stomach. “I don’t mess with guns. You want to buy the gun, you talk to the man. But I’m not gonna be the one to buy you the pistol that gets you killed.”

“How you figure?”

“I ain’t telling your momma that,” Peewee said. “Everyone always talking about how the Sparks boys are bat-shit, they ain’t never met your momma. She makes all her brothers seem like goddamn Ruritans.”

“Sure,” Chase said. “That’s fine with me. Just give me what I got coming.”

Peewee waddled back past the glass counters and through a shower curtain hanging over a back doorway. Chase heard the men talking low and kind of mumbled. For a second, he thought he might just be able to slip a hand under the glass counter and get the gun. But he spotted a lock, and when he glanced around the showroom at its four corners—all the stereos, TVs, DVDS, computers, leather jackets, and tools—he spotted no less than five fucking security cameras. Uncle Peewee was right.
Fuck a damn duck.

Peewee wandered out, counting out hundred-dollar bills in his hand and sucking on a lollipop. He handed Chase a green sucker and then counted out a thousand into the boy’s waiting hands. Peewee tucked the rest of the roll down deep into his underwear and then scratched the stubble on his chin. He was wearing a red-and-green plaid shirt over the T-shirt Chase had given him for Christmas. It was of the Grinch and that little old brown dog of his, the one that got screwed, always having to do the heavy lifting. The shirt read
GRINCH BETTER HAVE MY PRESENTS
.

“We headin’ over to Mississippi?” Chase said.

“I said, I don’t know.”

“We might just see what they got to offer.”

“I might fart the theme to
Green Acres
out my ass,” Peewee said. “Or I might not. I just said it’s something.”

“Something is good when you ain’t got nothing.”

“Boy,” Peewee said. “You ain’t never held a woman’s coot. And you ain’t never felt that much cash in your hand. Be grateful.”

“I am,” Chase said. “I appreciate it. I just figured it wouldn’t hurt having a gun. Especially if we’re gonna cross the border.”

“You ever been out of Alabama?”

“No, sir.”

“Haw, haw,” Peewee said. “Shit, do what you want. I’m gonna walk right over to that Cracker Barrel, take me a dump in a clean stall, and then get a Uncle Herschel’s Favorite with country ham and an extra order of hash brown casserole.”

“OK.”

“You really want that little peashooter?” Peewee said. “How about you just wait on something bigger?”

“I just like how it looks, is all,” Chase said. “It’ll do right.”

“Don’t give a shit what name your daddy gave you,” Peewee said, fluorescent lights flickering on over their heads. “You are a Sparks.”

A foreign fella, who was Chinese or Mongolian or from Hawaii, walked on past them to the front door and turned on a couple neon signs and unlocked the door. Chase nodded at his Uncle Peewee and turned back to the man, fluorescents still trying to come to life. He nodded to his uncle and his uncle turned and walked away and out the door, strolling across the parking lot over to the Cracker Barrel. Chase moved up to the gun display and unwrapped his free sucker. “Excuse me, sir?” Chase said. “You speak any English?”

•   •   •

Q
uinn borrowed Caddy’s truck, a beaten-to-shit ’72 Ford that he’d bought while at Fort Benning, to drive north on the Natchez Trace without being spotted. He brought with him a couple good cigars, La Gloria Cubana Blacks, and a couple tall coffees from the Fillin’ Station diner. The Trace took him up into the rolling hills of Tibbehah County, past the turnoff to his farm and the hamlets of Fate and Providence, and on into southern Lee County and a visitors’ center with public bathrooms and a covered area with a view of the mounds where the Chickasaw had buried their dead and made temples to their warriors. As usual, it was empty. And, as expected, the lean, bald man with the beard was waiting for him.

“You know, they didn’t even have shovels,” the man said. “Did the whole damn thing with baskets, filled with dirt.”