The Forsaken Page 2

  Stevens leaned back into his chair, his office filled with historic photos of Jericho, Mississippi’s last hundred years, from its days as prosperous lumber mill and railroad town to the day last year when a tornado shredded nearly all of it. One of them was a picture of Jason Colson jumping ten Ford Pintos on his motorcycle back in ’77. The office seemed to have remained untouched since then, windows painted shut and stale air locked up tight, dust motes in the sunlight, the room smelling of tobacco, whiskey, and old legal books.

  “Maybe the reason you joined the Army?” Stevens said, smiling a bit, motioning with his chin.

  Quinn was dressed for duty, that being the joke of it for some: spit-polished cowboy boots, crisp jeans, and a khaki shirt worn with an embroidered star of the county sheriff. He wore a Beretta 9mm on his hip, the same gun that had followed him into thirteen tours of Iraq and Trashcanistan when he was with the Regiment, 3rd Batt. He was tall and thin, his hair cut a half-inch thick on top and next to nothing on the side. High and tight.

  “You liked all that danger and excitement like your dad?”

  “I liked the Army for other reasons,” Quinn said. “I think my dad just liked hanging out with movie stars, drinking beer, and getting laid. Not much to the Jason Colson thought process.”

  Stevens smiled and swallowed, looking as if he really didn’t know what to say. Which would be a first for Stevens, known for being the best lawyer in Tibbehah County when he was sober. And the second-best when he was drunk.

  He was a compact man, somewhere in his late sixties, with thinning white hair, bright blue eyes, and cheeks flushed red from the booze. Quinn had never seen him when he was not wearing a coat and a tie. Today it was a navy sport coat with gold buttons, a white dress shirt with red tie, and khakis. Stevens stared in a knowing, grandfatherly way, hands clasped on top of the desk, waiting to dispense with the bullshit and get on to the case.

  “OK,” Quinn said. “How’s it look?”

  “Honestly?” Stevens said. “Pretty fucked-up.”

  “You really think they’ll take our case to the grand jury?” Quinn said. “I answered every question the DA had honestly and accurately. Never believed they’d run with it. I thought I’d left tribunals and red tape when I left the service.”

  Sonny Stevens got up and stretched, right hand in his trouser pocket jingling some loose change, and walked to a bank of windows above Doris’s Flower Shop & Specialties. The office had a wide, second-story porch and a nice view of the town square, most of it under construction right now as a good half was ripped apart by that tornado. There were concrete trucks and contractors parked inside what had been a city park and veterans’ memorial. Now it was a staging area for the workers who were trying to rebuild what was lost. “I just wish you’d called me earlier,” Stevens said. “The DA has had a real time turning a pretty simple, straightforward story into one of intrigue and corruption. I might could’ve stopped this shit from the start. But now? Politically, it’s gone too far.”

  “What’s to study on?” Quinn said. “Deputy Virgil and I met those men to get my sister and my nephew back. A sniper up in the hills killed two men, and when we looked to get out, Leonard Chappell and his flunky tried to kill me.”

  “And you shot them?” Stevens said, staring out the window.

  “I shot Leonard. Lillie shot the other officer.”

  “Can you step back a little, Quinn?” Stevens said. “Tell it to me again, as straight and simple as possible. The cleanest and easiest version is the one a jury will believe. Start with Jamey Dixon. How’d you end up driving out to that airfield with him?”

  “That convict Esau Davis kidnapped my sister and nephew, Jason,” Quinn said. “Jason was four. Davis had sunk an armored car in a bass pond before he was incarcerated. He blamed Dixon for beating him to the car and taking the money.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “Those two convicts had bragged to Dixon about all that money they stole and hid. You know Dixon was a chaplain at Parchman? He came out of there a full ordained minister.”

  “And started that church out in the county,” Stevens said. “The one in the barn. The River?”

  “Dixon used their confessions and told Johnny Stagg about that armored car, who used some of that money for Dixon’s pardon and took the rest for his trouble.”

  “But that part can’t be proved,” Stevens said. “Just stay with the basics. Two escaped convicts kidnapped your sister, who was Jamey Dixon’s girlfriend, and her young son.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And those convicts demanded their money back?”

  “One convict,” Quinn said. “The other one got killed while on the run.”

  “So that one convict, Esau Davis, wanted to exchange cash for your sister and nephew? You were scared as hell they might be harmed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “Lillie found a vantage point in the hills by that old landing strip. She was to provide cover if Davis started shooting. You know Dixon only had twenty grand on him? And that wasn’t from the bank job. That was from donations after the tornado.”

  “And how did Chief Chappell and his officer figure into this?”

  “They were waiting for all of us to show,” Quinn said. “They knew about the exchange and came for the money and to protect Stagg’s interests. They also had a sniper in the hills on the opposite side of Lillie who took out Dixon and Davis. When the shooting started, that’s when Chappell and his man turned on me.”

  “Me and you both know Leonard Chappell was a joke as police chief and the head stooge for Johnny Stagg,” Stevens said. “But one lawman killing another lawman makes for bad press and lots of political pressure on the DA.”

  “Leonard had no reason to be there but to steal that cash.”

  “Of course,” Stevens said. “But the story the DA will tell is that they came to save the goddamn day and that you and Lillie killed them both to cover y’all’s ass. That way all that money was yours without witnesses.”

  “Bullshit,” Quinn said. “They had another man up in the hills. He killed the two men there to make the money exchange. No one seems to be wondering who killed those convicts, Dixon and Davis.”

  “They’re going to say it was Lillie Virgil.”

  “Guns didn’t match,” Quinn said. “State tests prove it.”

  “They’ll say she brought another gun.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “You bet,” Stevens said. “But you better prepare for that part of their story.”

  Stevens swallowed and moved from the window. He reached for a cut-glass decanter at a small bar near his desk and motioned to Quinn. Quinn declined. It was two in the afternoon. Stevens poured some bourbon into a coffee mug and swished it around a bit. He was deep in thought, looking across his old office, with all those barrister bookshelves and faded certificates, Citizen of the Year and Outstanding Ole Miss Alumnus, as he sipped.

  “They can twist the story as they please,” Stevens said. “We got two dead lawmen, two dead convicts, and a shitload of cash, flying wild and free, after this all went down. They claim nearly ten thousand is still unaccounted for.”

  “You know how many people went out into the hills after this happened?” Quinn said. “Families went there on weekends with butterfly nets and duffel bags. That money was found but never turned in.”

  “However this goes, it’ll destroy your name,” Stevens said. “They’ll destroy Lillie’s, too. They’ll ask questions about y’all’s relationship, relationships she might have with other, um, individuals. You got an election in April.”

  “You saying I should make a deal?”

  “No, sir,” Stevens said, sipping a bit more from the mug. His light blue eyes and red cheeks brightened a bit, him inhaling deeply as things were getting settled. “There’s no deal to make. Not yet. Just preparing you for the sh
itstorm as we go into an election year. I don’t think that fact is lost on anyone, particularly not Johnny Stagg.”

  “Mr. Stevens, how about we not discuss Johnny Stagg right now,” Quinn said. “I just ate lunch.”

  “Whiskey makes it a little easier,” he said. “Soothes the stomach. Stagg’s been running the supervisors for a long while. I’ve gotten used to the fact people like him walk among us.”

  “Lillie saved my ass,” Quinn said. “I shot Leonard Chappell because he was about to kill me. But Jamey Dixon and Esau were killed by someone else.”

  “Could’ve been any one of Stagg’s goons.”

  “This individual wasn’t a goon,” Quinn said. “This person was a pro, a hell of a precise shot at a distance.”

  “You see anything at all?”

  “Hard to look around when you hit the ground and crawl under a pickup truck.”

  “Imagine so,” Stevens said. “And Lillie?”

  “No, sir,” Quinn said. “But you need to ask her.”

  “How could you be sure Leonard wanted you dead?”

  “He was aiming a pistol straight at my head,” Quinn said. “This was an ambush.”

  Stevens turned and leaned back against the windowsill and stared out at the rebuilding of downtown Jericho. Among the piles of brick, busted wood, and torn-away roofs, all that remained standing on that side of downtown after the storm was the old rusted water tower by the Big Black River. Now they were even repainting the tower from a rusted silver to a bright blue. New sidewalks. New roads. The Piggly Wiggly had reopened, with the Dollar Store not long to follow. There was word that Jericho might even be getting a Walmart.

  “Did you hear Stagg is going to cut the ribbon when they reopen the Square?” Stevens asked.

  “I did.”

  “To read about it in the papers, he is the sole person responsible for the rebirth of this town with the grants and handshakes he’s made in Jackson.”

  “I guess anyone can be a hero.”

  “We’ll get this matter straight, Quinn,” Stevens said, “don’t you worry. Just keep doing your job. Lots of folks appreciate all you done for this place since coming home from the service.”

  “And what can I do while we wait to hear from the DA?”

  “Not much,” Stevens said. “But if they indicate for a moment this goes beyond just an inquiry, you better have my ass on speed dial.”

  • • •

  In Memphis, Johnny Stagg slid into a booth at the Denny’s on Union, across from the Peabody Hotel and down the street from AutoZone Park. He accepted the menu but shut it quick, telling the waitress a cup of coffee and ice water would be just fine, smacking his lips as he watched her backside sway in the tight uniform. His new man, Ringold, took a seat up at the bar near the kitchen, giving Stagg a little space for when Houston arrived. Houston had called the meeting, saying it was about time, as Stagg always had someone else talking business, making the exchanges, and figuring out just what in Memphis was black and what was white. Stagg had relayed one message since Bobby Campo was put in prison: All of Memphis was nothing but green.

  Stagg toasted Ringold with his coffee mug. Ringold nodded back. Man probably didn’t weigh a hundred eighty pounds or stand much higher than five foot ten. He was plain and bland as Wonder Bread, with a shaved head and stubbled black beard, his blue eyes almost translucent. While you wouldn’t notice Ringold in a crowd, he probably had a hundred ways to kill a man with a salad fork.

  Ringold had come to him that summer, not long after the storm, looking for work and laying out credentials that made him smile. He was three years out of uniform, a former Special Forces soldier, Blackwater operator, and all-around bad dude with a gun. Stagg had made some calls to some people Ringold had worked for and they couldn’t say enough about how he handled himself. Stagg figured losing Leonard had been a damn blessing. He’d traded out a goddamn Oldsmobile for a Cadillac.

  Stagg sucked a tooth, turned the Denny’s fork, and grinned a good long while when Houston and his four thugs walked into the restaurant. Ringold stopped the thugs and motioned Houston to go take a seat in that back booth facing across the alley to the Rendezvous rib joint. Houston was black, short and muscular, wearing a flat-billed St. Louis Cardinals ball cap and hexagonal rose-colored glasses.

  Houston didn’t look happy when he joined Stagg at the booth or when he said, “No offense, Johnny, but we a package deal. My fucking boys don’t sit at no kids’ table.”

  “C’mon, Mr. Houston,” Stagg said, grinning. “You’re the one that wanted to meet. Come on. I’ll buy you and your boys whatever you want. Grand Slam breakfast? Santa Fe Skillet, Banana Caramel French Toast?”

  “I wouldn’t let my dog eat that shit,” Houston said. “And he licks his ass.”

  “How about coffee, then?”

  “Don’t drink coffee,” Houston said. “I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs.”

  “Ain’t that something?” Stagg said. “What some folks might call ironic.”

  “It’s my fucking religion,” Houston said. “I made it out. What I heard, you made it out, too. Where you get your start? You don’t look like you came from no trust fund, coming out the cooch with a silver spoon.”

  Stagg just grinned at him, bony hands warming up on his coffee mug. He wore the tattersall shirt he’d bought on the Oxford Square during football season, with a red Ole Miss sweater-vest and pleated navy pants. He wasn’t ashamed to say he’d spent nearly three hundred dollars on a pair of handwoven moccasins to be worn with fancy socks. Stagg recalled when his momma made him and his brother exchange underwear on different days of the week because she hated doing wash. Stagg brushed at his chapped, reddened cheek, motioning away the waitress with the nice backside for a few moments while they discussed all the options Denny’s, America’s Favorite Diner, offered them.

  “My people from Marshall County,” Houston said. “You heard of R. L. Burnside, the blues player? He was my great-uncle. Man could rip the shit out of a guitar. Women in France would rip their bras off and hand them over just to hear him play.”

  “Sure.”

  “You don’t know him?”

  Stagg sucked on his tooth, rotating the warm mug in his hand. “I don’t listen to nigger music, Mr. Houston.”

  Houston grinned wide, showing some gold teeth. Stagg knew the man would like him to cut through the shit, get right to the point, that this wasn’t about them becoming buddies and pals, but just how they would keep the goddamn Mexicans out of the city and keep a good thing going. There really wasn’t much to consider. Stagg moved it. Houston sold it. Now Houston wanted more of a cut and that wasn’t exactly surprising to Stagg. What was surprising is that Houston would want to be seen anywhere near Stagg, as you could bet sure as shit that the DEA or FBI or ATF or who the hell ever would be bugging their Banana Caramel French Toast this morning, wanting Stagg to follow his old pal and mentor Bobby Campo to the Cornhole Suite at the federal pen.

  “You got kids?” Houston said.

  “I got one.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “Boy,” Stagg said. “Don’t see that it matters.”

  “I got twelve kids,” Houston said. “I got two of them with a Mexican woman I met when hiding out from Johnny Law down in Mexico. You ever been with a Mexican woman? Whew. Damn straight, with all that sweet brown skin and black hair. I’d live down there if those motherfuckers hadn’t decided they wanted to have me killed.”

  “Those Mex sonsabitches mean business,” Stagg said. “We had some of those boys in Tibbehah a year or so ago. They found out this local boy was trying to screw them out of a gun deal. Lord have mercy, they rode into Jericho like they was Pancho Villa wanting to fill him full of a million holes.”

  “They kill him?” Houston asked.

  Stagg shook his head. “Gave himself up to the Feds. I’m still waiting to
read about him getting shanked by ole Speedy Gonzales in the shower.”

  Houston nodded. “Man, you a trip.”

  Stagg studied him, tilting his head a bit. “Son, are you wearing two watches?”

  “Yep,” Houston said. “One is platinum and one is gold. East Coast and Central.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “’Cause I’m expanding.”

  Stagg laughed. Even through all that black shuck-and-jive bullshit that never made any sense to him, Stagg liked the boy. He liked that he’d called the meet, liked that he was going to ask for a larger cut, and liked that he’d crawled up from a world of shit to control his future. Stagg had been born to a manure salesman out of Carthage. Houston had come from a goddamn inner ring of hell in the Dixie Homes housing project.

  “Sure you don’t want breakfast?” Stagg said. “It’s on me.”

  “OK,” Houston said. “Maybe some of that French toast shit.”

  “With the fruit or without?”

  “All the way.”

  “Figured that’s what we got.”

  “Or maybe I want some of that goddamn Moon Over My Hammy,” Houston said. “But that don’t mean I’m gonna eat the whole thing. You can have your half and a few extra bites. I ain’t asking to go equal on this shit. Just give me a little of that ole Hammy and maybe some hash browns and shit and a sip of Coke.”

  “I know,” Stagg said, holding up his hand, “ain’t nobody that goddamn stupid. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t in agreement.”

  Houston snapped shut his menu. The waitress arrived and he told her that he just wanted pancakes and hash browns and to bring a bottle of ketchup.

  “A whole bottle?”

  “You know, Mr. Stagg, you ain’t at all like Bobby Campo.”