The Redeemers Page 5

  “You think you’ll let me come with you the next time?” Chase said. “I don’t like just sitting in the car. Makes my ass hurt.”

  “You can come with me when you can bust a safe. Took me nearly ten years before I got good enough.”

  “How’d you learn?”

  “Same as you,” Peewee said. “I tagged along with this ole fella from up in Corinth, Mississippi, who’d run with Towhead White. Before that, he’d learned the trade direct from the master, a real mean redheaded motherfucker named Head Revel, in Phenix City. This going back some years—a long time back.”

  “Momma doesn’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Oh, she knows.”

  “She says she doesn’t,” Chase said. “I think she just likes me going to your house so I ain’t sitting around playing Call of Duty all day. She says I’m stealing the TV, keeping her from watching her stories. You know how much she loves Days of Our Lives.”

  “You see that sign up there?”

  “What sign?”

  “That sign coming up on the right,” he said. “My glasses are dirty.”

  “Mountain Brook.”

  “That’s it,” Peewee said. “Always like to hit a house with two Mercedes in the garage.”

  “Why don’t we steal the cars?”

  “Been there, done that,” Peewee said. “Ain’t no decent chop shops in west Alabama no more. We cross over into Mississippi and then they get us on federal. Ain’t worth the risk. I’m no car man. I’m a safe man.”

  Chase smiled as the black van turned onto a gentle curve and then wrapped back under the highway bridge. They passed through a little downtown full of jewelry stores, fancy-ass clothes stores, and restaurants, all looking like pictures he’d seen of Germany. Uncle Peewee reached for his pack of cigarettes and lighter. As he got one going, he tossed Chase a folded-up piece of yellow paper with directions and an address on it. “All right, tell me where I’m turning next.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Remember what I said about the walkie-talkie.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t forget what I said about the snatch down in NOLA, neither,” Uncle Peewee said, cracking a window and driving low and slow. “Ain’t nothing like it nowhere.”

  In the console by his cigarettes and Bic lighter, his cell phone buzzed and shook, vibrating the loose change and bottle caps around it. Peewee picked it up for a minute and then turned it off. Chase didn’t see a name, just a location. JERICHO, MS. Wherever the hell that happened to be.

  • • •

  If you think I’m hanging around for this shit show,” Lillie said, “you’re wrong as hell.”

  “So you’ve told me,” Quinn said, looking up as he loaded more boxes, making sure the office was cleared by tomorrow. He didn’t have much—mainly, some books, some personal photographs, and a dozen or so weapons. “It’s not a bad deal. Rusty wants to keep you on as assistant sheriff at more pay than you’re getting now.”

  “Well, I’m not working for that moron,” Lillie said. “He’s got no business being in law enforcement. That son of a bitch just tried to sell me a life insurance policy this spring at the Fillin’ Station. Did you see his ad on those fucking billboards on Highway 45? With his kids, wife, and goddamn dog?”

  “Unfortunately, most of this county doesn’t agree with you,” Quinn said. “I appreciate your loyalty, but you need to think about your family. You’ve got a mortgage and a daughter. Saying ‘Fuck it’ isn’t as easy as it used to be.”

  “Rusty said he’d hire you on, too?”

  “He did,” Quinn said. “But I think he was just being polite. I can find other work.”

  “In Jericho?” Lillie said. “I hear they’re looking for greeters at the new Walmart. You can wear one of those PROUD VETERAN hats with American flag pins. Folks can salute you as they’re leaving with their big-screen TVs and buckets of beef jerky.”

  “Overseas work,” Quinn said. “An old friend from the Regiment does some consulting back in the AFG. I’ve been in touch.”

  “But you won’t go back to the Army?”

  “I haven’t ruled it out,” Quinn said, reaching for a stack of books on his desk. The Nick Adams Stories, the Legends of King Arthur, Greek Myths, and a field guide to tracking animals. “I’d have to go back through selection. But I could return to Fort Benning and instruct.”

  “I thought you hated the idea of being an instructor,” Lillie said. “When I came to find you at Fort Benning, you said you’d rather—”

  Quinn held up his hand. “Things have changed from what we discussed. I’m getting older. I got to go back to what I know best.”

  “Shooting people?”

  “Something like that,” Quinn said. “Rangers do other things, too. We do a shit ton of push-ups, sit-ups, and run all day long.”

  “Thank God, you didn’t shoot those bastards this morning,” Lillie said. “We’d still be filling out paperwork.”

  “Is that all that would bother you?”

  Lillie nodded, moving closer to the desk. She was back in uniform, slick SHERIFF’S OFFICE coat, dark green ball cap with a star logo, and shitkicker boots. “How’s Caddy?”

  “Resting.”

  “What’d Luke say?”

  “He said if you hadn’t found her, she’d be dead,” Quinn said. “I appreciate you pulling in those favors.”

  “She’s my friend, too,” Lillie said. “A royally fucked-up friend is still a friend. Is she with your momma?”

  “No, my dad’s watching her,” Quinn said. “Momma’s coming over tonight.”

  “And little Jason?”

  “Keeping him far away,” Quinn said. “We’re working on getting her into a good place in Tupelo. But she says she won’t go. She alternates saying she’s fine and saying she doesn’t deserve to live. She’s a goddamn mess, Lillie. I don’t know what to do. I want to just force her into the detox, but I think she’ll try and escape.”

  “I’d do what Luke says,” Lillie said. “He’s smart. Maybe the smartest guy I know. I’d trust him.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Y’all get into it?”

  Quinn shrugged. He walked over to a far wall and pulled a framed flag that his friend Colonel George Reynolds had presented him. The flag had flown at Camp Spann in Afghanistan, where Quinn’s platoon had operated for a few weeks. There had been a lot of patrols. A Ranger private from Tennessee had gotten his leg blown off and there was a hell of a fight to get him back to the camp before he bled to death. The flag had been flown to honor Quinn for his integrity and commitment.

  “What’s your dad saying about this whole mess?” Lillie asked.

  “Not much,” Quinn said. “We ate bacon and eggs, and he told me about a three-way he’d had with some hippie women up in the Hollywood Hills.”

  “Jason Colson,” Lillie said. “A real charmer.”

  Quinn taped up the box. He set it beside four others by the door. The door was one of those old-fashioned ones with a frosted-glass pane at the top reading QUINN COLSON, SHERIFF. Before that, he’d had to scrape the name of his dead uncle off the same glass. Now it would go to Rusty Wise, and things just kind of marched on like that. You come back home, shoot it out with some skinheads in the woods, run off a bunch of Mexican gunners, chase down some escaped convicts, see the town through a tornado, solve a couple horrific old murders, run off a biker gang, and the voters send you packing anyway.

  Three pink slips had been set on his desk by the new dispatcher, a black woman named Cleotha who’d been in Quinn’s high school class. All the slips read “Anna Lee Stevens.” Quinn looked up at Lillie to see if she’d noticed. “Don’t quit until you’ve found a new job,” Quinn said. “Promise me that.”

  “There’s an opening with Memphis PD,” Lillie said. “Sex crimes. But you know I fu
cking hate Memphis. I don’t want to raise my daughter in that shithole. Just being up there last night brought on some bad memories. About the only thing good about Memphis is the Grizzlies and barbecue.”

  “You’re not selling me out for staying on,” Quinn said. “You were here before I came home and you’ll be here long after I’ve gone.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Things have grown complicated since I moved back to Jericho.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Personal things.”

  “No shit,” she said, looking down at the pink callback slips. “You think I don’t know?”

  “Might be best if I leave town for a while,” Quinn said.

  “That’s bullshit,” Lillie said. “I’m sorry about your sister, and I’m sorry about this political shitstorm that kicked you out of office. But, other than that, it seems like things are going fine. You have a good family. You got a great dog, a decent truck. You’re getting laid regular.”

  “Lillie . . .”

  “Am I lying?”

  Quinn didn’t say anything.

  “Nobody figured you came home for this fucking job.”

  6.

  Mickey hadn’t picked up a dirty pair of drawers since Tonya Cobb left him. He just kept on buying packs of new Hanes boxer shorts at Walmart and leaving the spent ones on the floor. He hoped one day she’d come back to their big ranch house and get the message that she just didn’t matter. He didn’t pick up much else, either. There were the same old cans of Bud Light and Hunt Bros. pizza boxes racked up on the coffee table right by the television set. And the television set was new, too. He just went for it, getting that eighty-inch plasma to watch State games and episodes of Swamp Pawn and Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team. A man hasn’t lived until he’s seen those tatas bouncing around on an eighty-inch. Mickey was finally living like he’d meant to live. Nobody telling him his business.

  He was headed to work late, Lee Salter calling at eight, saying he couldn’t get the goddamn luan to seal right, and Mickey saying it didn’t have to be perfect, it just had to lay flat for the linoleum. Lee said the problem wasn’t the luan but the damn sealant. Mickey knew Lee just wasn’t getting what he’d been taught and told him to go get some biscuits and he’d meet him at the house.

  “Mickey?” Lee had asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “What the hell is luan anyway?”

  “It’s Filipino for cheap-ass wood.”

  The thing about being the boss, the owner of Walls Flooring, was that he didn’t have to get on his knees as much as he used to. His monkeys did that for him. But he had a reputation, Walls being the business where WE MAKE THINGS RIGHT. OR YOUR MONEY BACK. Mickey figured that was about the whole point of living. Making things right. Maybe that’s why he just couldn’t get out of his mind what goddamn Larry Cobb had done. Mickey would sit up in the middle of the night and see Cobb’s craggy face and want to punch the fucking air. God damn it.

  Mickey changed into his clothes, the nice ones, the ones that showed he was successful. The clean Carhartt pants, the Pete Millar plain shirt, and the wooly vest made by True Grit. He might wear cheap drawers, but, on the outside, people knew Mickey Walls was somebody. The eighty-inch was on, playing the CBS morning show out of Tupelo, as he buttoned up the shirt and zipped up the vest. He reached for his cowboy killers and lit up the first one of the day. He should have told Lee to get him a sausage biscuit, too. And he was just about to call him back when he heard a knock on the garage door.

  Kyle Hazlewood was standing out at the garage by Mickey’s red Hummer, wearing that same confused hangdog expression as yesterday, and the same old leather racing jacket, now worn as hell around the collar.

  “I went by the office,” Kyle said. “You weren’t there.”

  “No shit,” Mickey said. “’Cause I’m here.”

  “What’s eating your ass?”

  “Come on,” Mickey said. “Come on in. I’m just pissed-off ’cause I hadn’t eaten and forgot to tell Lee to get me a sausage biscuit. And I got a hangover to boot.”

  “I can run you up to the Sonic,” Mickey said. “They got those burritos with eggs and tater tots in ’em. They ain’t too bad. Hey, man, can I get a cigarette off you?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Mickey said, holding the door open. “Smokes on the table. You been thinking on things?”

  Kyle nodded, dropped his head, and walked up into Mickey’s kitchen. He didn’t have any coffee on account of forgetting to buy some, the refrigerator was bare as hell, nothing in there but a few cartons of the yogurt that made you need to shit. It had been cold last night and Mickey had kept the water running so the pipes didn’t freeze. They were still running. Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap . . .

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Kyle said, lighting up.

  “Good.”

  “About Larry.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s a real cocksucker.”

  “Sure thing, man.”

  “I mean, Larry Cobb is one prismatic son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah?” Mickey said. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “You know, like a prism, a crystal,” Kyle said. “You twist him around and he’s a son of a bitch from every angle. What they call multifaceted.”

  “Just what I said,” Mickey said. “Am I now making some sense?”

  “I figure,” Kyle said. “But I don’t know if there’s enough time. You’re talking about tomorrow night? What if we get in there and you can’t open the safe? You said it’s been a few months. Larry’s probably gone and changed the lock after you and Tonya broke up. You ain’t exactly his special son-in-law no more.”

  “Yeah,” Mickey said, “I know. I know. But the reason I wanted you to come along is that I can’t be in no way associated with this. Someone busts into goddamn Larry Cobb’s safe and the first thing Quinn Colson is gonna to do is knock on my front door.”

  “He ain’t the sheriff.”

  “I think he’s sheriff for another week or two,” Mickey said. “I seen him cruising around last night in that big-ass green truck. I can’t have him or that Lillie Virgil interfering with my business and my world and wanting to know when and where I was at while someone was giving it high and hard to that son of a bitch Larry Cobb.”

  Kyle rubbed his thin, graying beard and shook his head. “God damn,” Kyle said. “If you’re wanting me to go at this thing alone . . . I ain’t crazy. You got to have two people to watch the road, see who’s coming. Also just to carry all that money. No telling what’s in that safe—”

  “Already thought about that,” Mickey said, holding up his hand. “I’m not leaving you alone. I’m just saying I can’t be around it. You know goddamn well that Larry looks to me if someone has farted in the lumberyard. He blames me for the Bulldogs losing, for his dinner getting burnt, and that fucking global warming.”

  “He doesn’t believe in that shit,” Kyle said. “He told me that himself. He said it was just lies from liberal Yankees and part of the homosexual agenda.”

  “Yeah,” Mickey said, firing up another cowboy killer. “That sounds about like the wisdom of Larry Cobb.”

  “So,” Kyle said, “if you can’t be around this and I’m needing some help, how the hell we gonna bust out a million bucks from that safe and not get our asses a ticket to Parchman? I’m too damn old and tired to get cornholed by some black degenerate.”

  “We need help with opening the safe and transferring the money he’s got,” Mickey said. “I mean, you ain’t gonna just go drop it off at Jericho First National in a bunch of Piggly Wiggly sacks. We need to connect with folks who’ve done this before.”

  “I don’t know any real criminals,” Kyle said. “Not any good ones anyway. My daddy once knocked over a fillin’ station in Meridian back in ’73. He got three years on The
Farm on account of getting thirty-two fifty and a Zagnut bar.”

  “I didn’t, neither,” Mickey said, pointing the lit end of the Marlboro at Kyle. “But I know someone who does. They put me in touch with a real professional.”

  “Someone on your crew?”

  “No, sir,” Mickey said. “My goddamn ex-wife.”

  “Misty?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “She ain’t mentally stable, Mickey,” Kyle said. “What the hell, man? You told me that yourself.”

  “Maybe,” Mickey said. “But she’s loyal. She’d come and tend to me right this moment.”

  “Who the hell does she know?”

  “I ever tell you she’s a Sparks?”

  “Like them crazy-ass Alabama boys?” Kyle said. “Those motherfuckers are a bunch of killers. Come on, man, I ain’t working with any goddamn Sparks. They’ll plug one in the back of my ear before I hear ’em coming. I said I’d help you, not work with any of the goddamn Sparks.”

  “Her uncle ain’t like that,” Mickey said. “He’s not one of the Killin’ Sparks. His name is Peewee. He’s strictly a safe man. He’s got skills. He says he can work a safe like a monkey cracking open a peanut.”

  “I don’t know,” Kyle said. “Shit. I’m not so sure.”

  “Peewee says he knows a half-dozen boys like to be in on a job like this. He called it a real honeypot.”

  “You already called him?” Kyle said. “You called him after me and you talked? I thought this was only about making things right. About me and you getting back at Larry Cobb.”

  “It is.”

  “But a Sparks?” Kyle said. “Man, come on.”