The Innocents Read online

  “Well, ma’am,” Bentley said. “Some folks have just gotten a little worried. They’re wondering if you don’t want our company.”

  “Speak English, Bentley.”

  “Folks wanted me to make sure you wanted to continue the same arrangement as Mr. Stagg’s,” he said. “People look to this county as an important little sliver of Mississippi, being so close to Memphis and all. They think on it as true Mississippi hospitality.”

  “Because of the free pussy?” Fannie said.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Because of the free pussy afforded to all those assholes from the capitol.”

  Bentley’s young, smooth face colored a bit. She blew out some more smoke from the side of her mouth and adjusted the cuffs on her red silk top. She cocked her head and studied Bentley a bit more, waiting for him to shift a little in his chair. If those important men had any sense at all, they would have sent someone more substantial.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You don’t know if your folks in Jackson want more pussy?”

  “They just wanted to make sure you were our friend,” he said. “You know who has a big spread of land here?”

  “I do.”

  “And you know what a good friend he’s been to Mr. Stagg.”

  “Couldn’t keep him out of the federal pen in Montgomery, Alabama.”

  “That was Mr. Stagg’s own doings,” Bentley said, grinning. “But for a long while he was given a lot of friendship, lots of protection.”

  Fannie nodded. “Well, I don’t need any of that shit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, I don’t need any more friends, Bentley,” she said. “I don’t need protection and I’m not interested in kickbacks from chicken shit road-and-bridge projects if it means sucking up to a bunch of big fat assholes from Jackson. You may have not noticed, but I am not Johnny Stagg in any shape or form. And if your people down there want to do business with me, they need to come themselves, not send some jack-off kid from Jackson Prep.”

  “How’d you know I went to Jackson Prep?”

  “Bentley,” Fannie said. “Go back into the Rebel and have a meal on me. The chicken-fried steak is very good, but our barbecue is better. Enjoy yourself up here and then go back to Jackson and tell the boys to leave me the hell alone.”

  Bentley shook his head. His face dropped. And, from where she sat, Fannie noticed his khakis were wrinkled and his loafers scuffed like a kid who’d always had money and didn’t give a damn to appreciate it. Fannie ashed her cigarette in a little gold tray set neatly on the side of the desk.

  “I’ll pass on the message,” Bentley said, trying to look cocky as he stood and shook his head. He brushed the longish hair from his eyes. “But they’re not going to like it. And they’ll probably send someone not as nice as me to tell you how things are going to work.”

  Fannie smashed out the last bit of her cigarette and reached down for her Prada bag, reaching deep inside and finding the familiar handle. She smiled and waited, taking a long, slow breath.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Hathcock,” he said. “I bet you were a real knockout when you were young. But you can’t set up the kind of business you’re doing without some friends. I’d be real careful if I were you.”

  Fannie stood up quick and pulled a twenty-ounce claw hammer from her purse. She raised it high as she stepped around her desk and told Bentley he better get going.

  “I heard you were one crazy bitch,” he said.

  “You heard right,” Fannie said. “Now get the hell out of here.”

  “You don’t get it, ma’am,” he said. “You don’t know what kind of folks you’re messin’ with.”

  Fannie smiled. “Son,” she said. “I think you have it the other way around.”

  • • •

  Milly’s father, Washburn L. Jones, who most folks just called Wash, hadn’t said two words to her since she got off her shift and brought him home his damn Subway sandwich. Extra ham with extra mayo. He grunted as he ate, watching a rerun of Dancing with the Stars with his live-in girlfriend, Charlotte, a woman who weighed about three hundred pounds on her lightest day. Charlotte snatched up the pickles he’d tossed aside, munching on them as she tried to tell Milly who had talent on the show and who had flat feet. Charlotte knew she was an expert on the matter since she taught dance and tumbling at a strip mall out by the highway.

  “Wadn’t that girl’s daddy killed by a sea snake?” Charlotte said.

  Wash grunted and shook his head. “Got barbed by a fucking stingray right in the chest,” he said, wiping the lettuce off his T-shirt. “Where the hell you been, Milly? You said you’d bring me a sandwich.”

  “What’s that in your hand?”

  “Damn about starved to death,” her daddy said, still chewing. “I said, where were you?”

  “Work.”

  “They change your shift?”

  “I got a second job.”

  “Good for you,” Charlotte said. “Baby, you gonna eat those chips?”

  “Yeah, but you can have a couple,” Wash said. “Don’t eat ’em all. Shit. Second job? Where?”

  “Walmart,” she said. “Pet section.”

  “Hmm,” Wash said, turning his eyes on her. “Pets? Ain’t what I heard.”

  Milly didn’t say anything, waiting until he swallowed that big wad of sandwich in his cheek. Wash just took another bite, more fixings landing on his white T-shirt, as he watched Bindi Irwin launch into a slow routine with some boy with wild blond hair. She dedicated the dance to her late father, who she called a ray of sunshine.

  “I know that boy with her is queer as a three-dollar bill,” Charlotte said. “But to look at ’em, you’d think they was in love. He’s got a lot of grace about him.”

  “Sick,” Wash said. “This goddamn country is headed into the toilet. Damn, don’t eat all the chips. I said, just eat a couple. Son of a bitch.”

  “Good night,” Milly said. “I’m beat.”

  “You gonna tell us the truth or just lie to our faces?” Wash said, tapping at his chest with his knuckles to stop a burp. “Charlotte got a call that you was out dancing at the titty bar tonight.”

  Milly shook her head.

  “Right or wrong?” Wash said.

  Charlotte looked to Milly and gave a weak smile before shifting her eyes down to the carpet, unsure what to say or do. Charlotte never knew what to say or do unless Wash Jones told her the way. She had on a pair of XXL pink sweatpants and a huge sweatshirt that said DANCE LIKE NO ONE’S WATCHING. Milly didn’t think there was much trouble with that.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Milly said.

  “You just like your momma,” Wash said. “Let you loose and you’re a wild-ass whore.”

  “Wash,” Charlotte. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t talk that trash.”

  “Her momma tosses her out and I open my gosh-dang home,” Wash said. “But I ain’t giving no shelter if she’s gonna whore it out. You know how embarrassing that is? You don’t think people gonna be talking about it?”

  “Like when you got busted for running drugs?”

  “Shit,” Wash said, shaking his head. He turned away from staring at her and concentrated on the television. The couple had dressed up like they were in Dirty Dancing in that finale where Patrick Swayze picked up Jennifer Grey up over his head. Milly liked the movie, but she preferred Swayze much better in Road House. They didn’t make men like that anymore.

  “You sure that boy is queer?” Wash said.

  “I read it in Us Weekly,” Charlotte said. “Or was it People?”

  “Damn,” Wash said, chawing on the sandwich.

  Milly turned to head back to the small room behind the kitchen. She had her overnight bag and a Dell computer and a pink puppy stuffed animal she’d ha
d most of her life. That was pretty much it.

  “Hold up,” Wash Jones said.

  Milly stopped and looked behind her, eyeing her father, who wadded up the sandwich paper and fingered the ham caught in his teeth. Her daddy looked her over, lingering on the makeup on her face, and shook his head like he’d just seen the sorriest sight of his life. He reached for the level on his La-Z-Boy chair and hoisted his bad back up to straight and got to his feet. He was a short, round little man. His chin quivered with anger before he spoke. “Get your things and get gone.”

  “What?”

  “This is the last time, Milly,” he said. “It’s for your own good.”

  “Wash,” Charlotte said.

  “You shut the hell up,” he said. “Ain’t your daughter out there shaking her titties for a couple bucks. I never thought I’d ever live to see such a thing.”

  “You won’t do nothing about it like you didn’t do nothing about Brandon.”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “You didn’t do nothing to help him.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “You only cared what folks thought of you.”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Milly said. “I’m gone. I’d sure rather be a whore than a fucking coward.”

  On the way out, she found his goddamn stash under his bed—Ziploc baggies full of pills and weed—and stuffed them into her pockets. She didn’t get a half mile before she tossed the pills out on the roadside but kept the weed for herself.

  7

  Quinn didn’t get back to the farm until late, after drinking a few beers with Lillie and Boom at the Southern Star and catching up on the local gossip and bullshit. As he hit the farmhouse, he spotted the colored Christmas lights glowing from his dad’s trailer and heard music and talking as he walked through the back fields. He moved past his dead cornfields and down a well-worn path to find his dad and a young man he’d never seen before drinking clear liquid from Mason jars.

  “This is Bentley,” Jason Colson said. “His daddy and I go way back.”

  Quinn shook the young guy’s hand. He had a limp, soft handshake and careless hair. He told Quinn it was a real honor to meet him and appreciated all he’d done for the country. The kid looked to be drunk on Colson moonshine.

  Quinn nodded but didn’t sit down.

  “I taught this boy to ride at the spread in Pocahontas,” Jason said. “Bentley knows horses. We’ve been talking about the family plans we have here for the ranch. I told him it didn’t seem like much now, but after some backhoe work, this place could really be something.”

  “It’s something now.”

  “I know, I know,” Jason said. “But you know what I mean. Say, you want a little nip?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Getting late,” he said. “Just wanted to say hello and good night.”

  “C’mon, son,” Jason said. “One drink isn’t gonna kill you. I was just telling Bentley here about how many Dodge Chargers were ripped up on the Dukes. Damn, I wish I could’ve saved just one of those cars. I’d be rich, wouldn’t need any help on this deal. I heard John Schneider had gotten into refurbishing. I think he sells them for nearly a hundred grand each.”

  “You better finish that ’78 Firebird first,” Quinn said.

  “You bet,” Jason said. “Yeah, we did most of the work at the back lot in Burbank. They shot the first five or six episodes in Georgia, but that was before I came along. The producer was impressed I came from the South but didn’t believe me when I told him I’d run shine myself. He thought I was pulling his leg. Quinn’s grandfather made some of the finest stuff in north Mississippi. Damn, we gave the local sheriff hell.”

  “Who later became my uncle.”

  “Damn,” Bentley said, taking another pull. “Whew. This is some good shit.”

  “So what do you, Bentley?” Quinn said.

  “Sales,” Bentley said. “I was coming up this way and my daddy told me to stop by. I hadn’t seen Mr. Colson in a long while. We just been catching up and talking a little business.”

  Jason winked at Bentley and Bentley closed his big mouth, filling it with some more warm moonshine. Jason motioned Quinn to an empty metal chair that had been on the porch at the farmhouse the last time he’d seen it. Jason passed him the shine and Quinn smelled it before handing it back. He preferred a good aged bourbon.

  “You were the sheriff here?” Bentley said.

  “For a bit.”

  “You ever have to deal with that Hathcock woman who bought the Rebel Truck Stop?”

  “After my time,” Quinn said. “I’ve been gone most of this year. She came into the picture after Johnny Stagg went to jail.”

  Bentley shook his head. “Sounds like Mr. Stagg was taking the fall for some other folks,” he said. “You can’t trust half of what you see in the media.”

  “He was convicted in a federal court,” Quinn said. “He was a crook who’d grown sloppy in his company. Trust me. He was long overdue.”

  Bentley nodded, looking like he didn’t believe a word of it. “I just heard some bad things about that Hathcock woman,” he said.

  “Like what?” Quinn said, finding the rest of the Cuban in his T-shirt pocket and snapping open his Zippo. The cigar cracked and burned back to life. Quinn readjusted in the seat and crossed his legs.

  “Like she’s running whores at the truck stop and at that old motel across the street.”

  Quinn gave a hard look to his father and then settled his gaze on Bentley. Quinn let some smoke out of the side of his mouth, nodding. “And how’s that different from Johnny Stagg, kid?”

  Jason Colson held up a hand and grinned, knowing Quinn wasn’t one to back down over the subject of Stagg. The older man got to his feet and poured out what looked to be the rest of the moonshine from a plastic jug into Bentley’s glass. He talked about how doing business in Hollywood was a damn cakewalk compared to the folks he had to deal with back in Tibbehah County.

  “I heard Hathcock used to be a whore herself,” Bentley said. “Made her money on the flat of her back until gravity took her titties and closed down that cooch.”

  “Is that a fact?” Quinn had met a lot of boys like Bentley from Jackson and none of them had been worth a shit, either. Jason Colson just had a true and authentic knack of being drawn to money and influence and didn’t give a good goddamn what kind of company he kept. Quinn figured Hollywood, California, could do that for a man.

  “Whether he’s a crook or not, we’re going to have to reach out to Stagg,” Jason said, smoothing his long gray goatee. “We’re going to have to make him an offer on that old property.”

  “We have a lot to discuss,” Quinn said to Jason Colson.

  “And we need to come up with a couple more investors,” Jason said. “Bentley and his daddy can help with that. And I got some other people in mind.”

  “Like I said, we need to talk,” Quinn said.

  “We got one hell of a piece of property here,” Jason said, craning his neck around, looking but seeing nothing in the damn dark. “It was even better years ago, before your stupid uncle pieced it off bit by bit.”

  “He may have been a crook,” Quinn said, “but Uncle Hamp wasn’t stupid.”

  “Man, this shine sure is good, Mr. Colson,” Bentley said, not paying attention or even listening. “You make it yourself?”

  “I know this black fella down in Sugar Ditch,” Jason said. “He used to work for my daddy and knows how to work the magic on the still. He has some real sweet stuff he makes for special occasions called birthday cake shine. I’ll get some for you, if you like. I know your daddy appreciates a good scotch, but he ain’t above his raising.”

  “I know he’d like that, Mr. Colson,” Bentley said, getting to his feet and having to hold the rail of the chair for a little balance. “Good to see y’all
. I’ll talk to some folks and see what kind of interest we can get down here. Always appreciate the hospitality.”

  Bentley nodded at Quinn and Quinn knocked off his cigar ash with the heel of his cowboy boot. His dad took a sip of moonshine and stood to give Bentley a hug and a solid old pat on the back.

  After he was gone, Quinn turned to his father.

  “You taught that boy to ride?”

  “Sure did,” Jason said. “Got real good at it, too.”

  Quinn just nodded and walked back to his house, the glowing lights of the front porch welcoming him back.

  • • •

  I got nowhere to go,” Milly said.

  “You got me,” Nikki said. “You can sleep on my couch tonight. I got an entire shithole trailer I rent from my folks. We could be roomies.”

  “You’re about busting that trailer, as it is,” Milly said. “You and Jon-Jon don’t need me and my crazy-ass problems busting into that single-wide.”

  Nikki nodded and passed the joint back to Milly, who took a long, deep drag and held it. They sat on a big pile of concrete blocks near the Gas & Go dumpsters, the Gas & Go being the only real action in Blackjack. It had closed up an hour earlier, but if you wanted to find friends and meet up, open or closed, this is where you came. On a good night, if you were lucky, the train might rush through town at two a.m.

  “Wasn’t that woman any help?” Nikki said. “That author in Tupelo?”

  “Hell, no,” Milly said. “I had to pay $29.95 for her book, too. I told her I had a story to tell and she asked me how I wanted my book signed. I wanted to tell her I couldn’t afford a damn book, but it was too late. There was a line behind me as we talked and it was like she wasn’t even listening. Just scribbling in her shitty book. All she wanted to know is if I had made a pact with God about not having sex until I was married. You know, that’s her thing. She writes something called The Sacred Promise series and she’s up to a book now called The Christmas Promise. Basically, every book is about how a man keeps on trying to get his girlfriend to take off her panties, but she knows how this might really piss off Jesus. She’s gotta decide between Jesus or getting laid. You got to read the whole three hundred pages until they get married and she can get nekkid. That’s what keeps you flipping pages.”