The Shameless Page 19

  “That’s pretty much what I told them,” Quinn said. “And they haven’t come around since.”

  “They still bugging Maggie?”

  Quinn nodded, moving through the hundreds of folks who’d gathered for the free barbecue, coleslaw, baked beans, white bread, and iced tea. It had also been moonshine and whiskey when Stagg ran things. Quinn couldn’t help notice the gathering wasn’t what it had been when he’d first come back to Tibbehah and been elected sheriff. Stagg was a Grade A turd, the crookedest man ever to hold an office in north Mississippi, but the son of a bitch sure knew how to throw a party. Now Skinner ran the show like a church picnic, as if it’d been all his idea.

  “Just be glad you’re not with Caddy,” Quinn said.

  “Where’s Caddy?”

  “She agreed to attend a fund-raiser with Bentley Vandeven down in Jackson.”

  “Jackson?” Lillie said. “Christ Almighty. Your sister sure must want that new building out at The River pretty damn bad to be fucking that frat boy.”

  “Come on, Lil,” Quinn said.

  “Come on?” Lillie said. “The kid’s got the personality of a damn dildo.”

  Across the grayed heads and baying laughter, Quinn spotted men in black ball caps, wearing black Watchmen T-shirts, and strolling about the Good Ole Boy as if on security detail. Quinn saw the short, stubby guy from the Neshoba County Fair with his arms crossed by the chicken spit. He tried to give Quinn a hard stare, but it was hard to look tough once you’d been grabbed by your nose and brought to your knees. Lillie saw the men before Quinn even mentioned it.

  “Who the fuck are these assholes?” she asked.

  “They travel with Vardaman.”

  “Like fan boys?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Lillie lifted her chin over by the fire, Skinner shaking hands and posing for cell phone pictures with Vardaman. “If they make trouble, I bet a few of ’em have jumped bail,” she said. “I know that look. Goddamn chicken fuckers.”

  “They know their place,” Quinn said. “We had a talking-to at the Neshoba County Fair.”

  Lillie wasn’t listening, watching Vardaman standing tall by the blazing fire. “Speaking of Satan . . .”

  “His people say I make him feel uncomfortable.”

  “Hot damn,” Lillie said, grinning. “I guess we are here for a reason. Let’s walk over to the fire so I can warm up my ass.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Where’d you go?” Bentley said. “They love you in there. Twenty people must’ve come up to me in the last half hour wanting to know who the hell you are. You’re like Cinderella in cowboy boots.”

  “You tell them I’m just a redneck girl you found up in Tibbehah County?”

  “Nope,” Bentley said. “But I did tell them about The River and all the good work you’re doing. Folks are ready to write you a check on the spot.”

  “That’s not why I came here,” Caddy said. “For money.”

  They stood together at the edge of the horse barn. But to call it a horse barn would be doing it a disservice. Bentley’s family had constructed the place, about twenty miles outside of Jackson, from polished stone and thick wooden beams like some kind of damn palace, larger than an airplane hangar inside, where they had a country band and an open bar. White café lights hung from the entrance down toward the pasture, where several horses milled about. Caddy wondered if her father had worked with any of these animals. Jason Colson had slipped back into Mississippi from California years ago without telling his own family and was more a part of Bentley’s childhood than he had ever been of hers. After spending some time back in Tibbehah a couple of years ago, he’d left again. Neither she nor Quinn had heard from him since.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to get the outreach building finished?” Bentley said. “You said yourself you couldn’t afford to put a roof on it yet.”

  “That will come,” Caddy said.

  “Why wait?” he said, smiling, looking handsome in a navy linen suit, white dress shirt open at the throat. Caddy had bought a new outfit at Belk’s in Oxford for the occasion, a simple blue shirtdress, little suede boots, and a small brown leather purse. She wanted to look nice but sure didn’t want to look like country come to town. Caddy had done her best to dial back on the makeup, just a few pieces of jewelry. She wondered if Bentley had told his mother what Caddy used to do before she’d gotten clean and straight with her family and God. It wouldn’t be the most pleasant of conversations. Momma, my new girlfriend used to work the pole up in Memphis.

  “Let me ask you something,” Caddy said. “What was my father like when he was here? The first time. Was he a mess?”

  “Your father is one of the finest men I’ve ever known,” Bentley said. “I would trade every man in the stables for one Jason Colson. I told you about my dad, what he was like before he fell apart. Your dad was there the whole damn time, looking out for me, getting me to ride, teaching me to shoot skeet. I remember the last intervention with my father, it was your dad who got me away from the house, all that yelling and crying. We rode horses all day. Did you know he has this trick horse named Hooper? He can damn well do anything, including drink Coors beer.”

  “Oh, yes,” Caddy said, holding her purse against her thigh. “I know Hooper. Big Jason left him with Quinn when he blew town.”

  “You’re kidding me,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’d sure love to see that horse.”

  Caddy shrugged. The music and laughter filtered out from the stables, the band starting into a nice rendition of Dolly and Kenny’s “Islands in the Stream.” She and her mother had always talked about how Kenny Rogers had gotten a rough shake of it lately. “The Gambler.” “Lucille.” “Coward of the County.” Those were some damn fine songs. If he hadn’t gone and had all that plastic surgery, he’d be up there with the all-time country music legends.

  “Quinn isn’t great about having visitors to his farm,” Caddy said. “I think he’s worried about me. And I don’t have the best luck with men. They either make a damn mess of my life or get themselves killed.”

  Bentley smiled and leaned over and kissed Caddy on the mouth. “I don’t plan on doing either one.”

  Caddy smiled back at him, touching his smooth, handsome face, still wondering what the hell she was doing with a boy six years younger than her. She was even more surprised at what a great time she’d been having. Bentley’s mother had done some nice work with the caterer, having three open bars, a huge table piled high with steak, shrimp, lamb shanks, and sushi. There must’ve been five or six hundred people there, paying five hundred dollars a ticket to mingle with the high rollers from the foundation.

  “Your mother is kind to me.”

  Bentley laughed. “Of course she is,” he said. “You’re Jason Colson’s kid.”

  “I still can’t believe what you said,” Caddy said. “Your mom is so sweet. Elegant and smart. Why the hell would she consort with a man like Jason Colson?”

  Bentley took her hand, squeezing it. “Women do love cowboys.”

  “My dad was never a cowboy,” Caddy said. “He just played one on TV when they needed someone shot or to fall off a building.”

  “Come on,” Bentley said, steering her back toward the stable entrance, the band switching into “Jolene,” the singer really hitting those high notes. “Give me five minutes and you’ll have that roof paid for. Wouldn’t be a bad thing. Would it?”

  “I’m not here for that,” Caddy said.

  “Then why are you here?” Bentley said, whispering into her ear, already knowing the answer. His arm, wrapped around her waist, pulled her in closer.

  * * *

  * * *

  Vardaman saw Quinn before Skinner did, the old man’s back turned, talking about some potential companies visiting the industrial park and who they’d selected to be grand marshal for this year’s
sweet potato festival. Vardaman nodded at Quinn, his eyes not leaving him as he walked close, causing Old Man Skinner to turn his stiff neck around and stare at Quinn and Lillie. Vardaman held out his hand by the fire, Quinn getting close enough to feel the heat on the cool September night. Skinner stepped back, blank-faced, not offering any bit of recognition of him or Lillie.

  Against his better judgment, Quinn shook the man’s hand, noting again how unusually small it was. Vardaman’s eyes burned bright with energy, roving over Quinn’s face, trying to get a read on why he was there, whether he was going to make trouble or just eat some barbecue chicken. His face a doughy mask of deeply tanned skin with hooded eyes, the silver hair swept up off his large forehead.

  “Glad to see you, Sheriff,” Vardaman said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate Mr. Skinner’s hospitality.”

  “Oh, just burning some old brush and cookin’ chicken,” Skinner said, his jowly face closely shaved, looking red and chapped in the firelight. “It’s all about tradition. Can’t disappoint half the gosh-darn state.”

  Quinn turned to Vardaman and introduced Lillie. Lillie gave a cursory nod as Vardaman asked if she was his wife. Lillie started to laugh.

  “Damn,” Lillie said. “You’re much funnier in person, Senator.”

  Vardaman smiled.

  Lillie said, “Taller, too.”

  Quinn watched three of the Watchmen gather by the bonfire, exchanging looks with Old Man Skinner. They were definitely all familiar with one another. Skinner looked uneasy, stepping back, nearly tripping over a stray piece of firewood onto his ass. Quinn had to reach out and grab the old man’s forearm to keep him upright, his Stetson nearly falling off his old bald head. Skinner found his footing, his face flushed with embarrassment.

  “Can I ask you something, Sheriff?” Vardaman said.

  Quinn nodded.

  “You mind if we talk confidentially?”

  “You mean away from my wife?” Quinn said.

  Lillie scowled at Quinn, squinting, but seeing the humor, too.

  “You don’t mind, honey?”

  “Oh, fuck no,” Lillie said. “I’ll just go talk to the ladies about how they dish out that juicy peach pie.”

  Skinner had composed himself, his Stetson still crooked on his head, stepping up to their little circle. “Lillie Virgil,” Skinner said, watching her backside as it disappeared out of the firelight. “Used to work around here. Now she’s a dad-gum Marshal. Ain’t that something? The world’s gone PC on us.”

  “Best shot in the state,” Quinn said, standing wide-legged with his hands on his hips. “Lillie was a star member of the Ole Miss Rifle Team and a great law enforcement officer here and up in Memphis. I wouldn’t knock her, Skinner. You of all people should know better.”

  “How ’bout we take a walk, Sheriff,” Vardaman said, handing Skinner his red Solo cup. “You don’t mind. Do you?”

  They moved away from the fire and the barn, the loose gathering of Watchmen standing their ground, watching Quinn, with their guns on their hips and their knives at the small of their backs. They all wore polos or T-shirts with the Watchmen logo and their sunglasses perched above the bills of their caps. The sawed-off man Quinn had grabbed turned his head and spit in the fire.

  “Skinner’s a tough ole nut,” Vardaman said. “He thinks he’s running everything himself but doesn’t understand we’re all the same. You don’t serve at his pleasure. You’re an elected official same as us.”

  “He knows,” Quinn said, moving into the shadow of some tall oaks toward Jericho Road, more cars heading into the party. Headlights shining through a thicket of pines, moving toward the barn. “He just doesn’t care.”

  “Well,” Vardaman said. “We don’t need to communicate through Skinner anymore. There’s not a reason in the world why you and I can’t be friends.”

  “There’s a few reasons,” Quinn said. “Want me to list them?”

  Vardaman kept walking. He was wearing a red-checked shirt with fancy jeans and distressed brown loafers. His hair looked freshly cut, brushed back from his bronzed face. He was nearly Quinn’s height, maybe an inch or two shorter, but walked tall and straight like a man wanting to be noticed. “Don’t worry about all that business before,” he said. “At the summer rally.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I think you know what Tibbehah County means to me,” he said. “It ain’t just some little old postage stamp in the state. This place has become my home, where I hunt and fish, and have become part of the people and the whole fabric. I do everything I can for this county, passing legislation, bringing in industry. I want you and me to be able to communicate about your needs down here. Things are changing. Problems you’ve had in the past with sin and vice won’t be around much longer.”

  “Since when do you tell the Syndicate what to do?”

  Vardaman stopped and stared at Quinn. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Your people sent two men to my jail to murder a man in federal custody,” Quinn said. “And then you come back to Tibbehah wanting to talk about old-time values and turning back the clock in Mississippi?”

  “Don’t we all want the same thing?” Vardaman said. “When you first came back to Jericho, it was overrun with meth dealers and crooks. Now folks are shopping on the town square, opening coffee shops, little boutiques. It’s like it used to be.”

  “I think you see a South that never existed,” Quinn said. “We don’t want the same things.”

  “Funny to hear a military man talk like you, Sheriff Colson,” Vardaman said, still grinning. “We do believe in the same thing. Duty to God and country, putting America above all else. You want to split hairs with me on the way things get done.”

  “Next time you come to Jericho, get your goddamn permits straight.”

  “We all have to make compromises,” Vardaman said. “Haven’t you figured that out yet, Sheriff?”

  Quinn looked at Vardaman, half in the light from the barn and half in the shadow of the woods. The man looking eager, nostrils flared, waiting for Quinn to accept that he’d won.

  Quinn just looked at the man in his fancy jeans, with their spangled pockets and brass snaps, and said, “Bullshit.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Skinner stayed out on his property long after the Good Ole Boy had ended. Vardaman had parked his tour bus along Jericho Road, the side splashed with a good picture of himself looking tough and determined to all the passing cars and trucks. STAND YOUR GROUND, MISSISSIPPI. Skinner spent most of the last hour picking up red Solo cups, disappointed to smell all the liquor brought to the event, paper plates filled with chicken bones and congealed beans, and discarded business cards and church fans with candidates’ names on them. There had been some fine stump speeches but none better than Jimmy Vardaman’s, nearly as good as his namesake, a distant cousin who’d been governor of Mississippi at the start of the twentieth century, back when all was right with the world.

  “Can I get you some pie?” Skinner asked.

  Vardaman sat in an Adirondack chair out by the fire. Holding a Solo cup in his hands, he leaned back in comfort and took a long sip, before turning down the offer of pie.

  “We got plenty,” Skinner said. “My wife made a lemon icebox pie that would break your heart. She saved a thick slice for you in the freezer.”

  “Sit down, Skinner,” Vardaman said. “Enjoy this first cool evening by the fire. You can feel fall blowing in. How about a whiskey? The tour bus is filled with some wonderful ole stuff.”

  “No thank you,” Skinner said, taking a seat on a log, his old knees raising up toward his chest, feeling the changing of the seasons down in his joints. “We sure do appreciate you coming here, Senator. And for everything you do for our little ole backwoods county. You’re a true Mississippian through and through.”

  Vardaman studied Skinner in the f
irelight, his longish face and swept-back gray hair looking almost damn-near royal. Skinner couldn’t have been more damn proud to have a man like this rooting for Tibbehah County.

  “I tried talking some sense into your sheriff.”

  “And?” Skinner asked.

  “Just like you said,” Vardaman said. “He just wants to make trouble for us, poke right at the working man who supports him, pays his salary, and feeds his family. He’s not gonna stop until he makes a damn mess of things happening a long time back.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Skinner said. “Don’t you worry about nothin’, sir. I got that all taken care of. Everyone’s done something in their past to be ashamed of. But if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us of all unrighteousness.”

  “Amen to that,” Vardaman said, toasting Skinner with his cup of whiskey.

  “That’s what’s been done. Right?” Skinner asked, removing his hat, playing with the brim in his hand. “You’ve asked for forgiveness and now walk with our Lord a new man?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Vardaman said. “No doubt. I sure do appreciate your support. Now, would you mind walking back to my bus and filling up this cup? It’s a damn lovely night under the stars.”

  “For what?” Skinner asked, studying the man through the smoke.

  “Watching the fire,” he said. “Don’t you just love the smell of smoke?”

  Tashi Coleman

  Thin Air podcast

  Episode 5: THE SHERIFF

  NARRATOR: The one thing you’ll constantly hear about the late Sheriff Hamp Beckett is that he was a good man.

  WOMAN’S VOICE [BACKGROUND NOISE OF BUSY DINER]: I never met a man who stood taller than Sheriff Beckett. He was like John Wayne and Buford Pusser in one. People were afraid to break the law when he was in office. Folks would see his patrol car rolling down the road and wave. We all knew we had someone to look out for us. The way he wore that old cowboy hat and rancher coat, he looked just like he’d stepped out of the Wild West.