The Sinners Page 7

  “Get your ass down here,” Tyler said. “Or I’ll shoot your nuts from here to Tishomingo.”

  The man started laughing, keeping that cigarette loose on his lips, walking down the steps, hands held high. Tyler moved forward, Glock on the man, waiting for Cody to swing back behind him. “Damn, boys,” the man said, still giggling. “You done grown. Good to see you boys. But that’s a hell of a way to welcome home your Uncle Heath from Parchman.”

  “Fuck me,” Tyler said, lowering the Glock. “Nobody told us you was getting out.”

  “Come on inside the old homeplace,” Uncle Heath said. “I got a real funny story about this dead nigger we got out in the field.”

  6

  “Son of a bitch,” Tyler said. “This goddamn boy’s heavy.”

  “Take ’em to the garage,” Cody said. “Shit. We can’t leave his ass out here for the buzzards.”

  Tyler had the black man’s feet and Cody carried him under the arms. He’d bled out onto the roadside and they’d have that mess cleaned up with some dirt. If he bled any more in the garage, they’d just toss down some kitty litter like they did with the oil and transmission spills.

  “If it were me,” Uncle Heath said, “I’d tie that bastard down with some blocks and dump him out there in Choctaw Lake. Ain’t nobody’ll ever find him.”

  “And let everyone in town see us?” Tyler asked. “You know how many boats are out right now, fishing for crappie? Y’all the ones who wanted to have your goddang pancakes and cigarettes while we figured this out. And just what did Aunt Jemima tell us?”

  “I don’t know,” Uncle Heath said. “I don’t recall asking that woman nothing.”

  “This ain’t our damn problem,” Tyler said, he and his brother dropping the body on the oil-splattered ground where they’d just been working on their car. He stood back under those buzzing fluorescent lights and shook his head, looking to see if Uncle Heath showed any kind of remorse for the shit he’d caused. “You’re the one who done killed him. Ain’t nobody asked you to come back to this farm tonight. That’s your own doing.”

  “This is family land,” Uncle Heath said, looking down at the dead man and then up at his two nephews, shaking his head like he was the one disappointed. “We all own this dirt. Remember when y’all used to come over to Parchman with your momma and Aunt Missy with your damn toy trucks and little wrestling action figures? You’d always bring me a carton of cigarettes, hug my dang neck, and tell me how much you loved me. Ain’t nothing thicker than blood.”

  “We didn’t have a choice,” Cody said. “Our momma made us. When she left, we didn’t have to go no more.”

  “Just where is your momma?” Uncle Heath asked.

  Tyler looked down at the dead man and then up at Cody. Cody met his stare and shook his head. “Last I heard, she was down in Florida,” Cody said, shrugging. “Somewheres around Tampa.”

  “After our stepdaddy died, she never was worth a shit,” Tyler said. “We had a lot of ‘uncles’ coming and going. She’s somewhere, smoking her damn brains out, without anyone in Tibbehah County to tell her she ain’t doing right.”

  “She would’ve listened to me,” Uncle Heath said. “Pritchards take care of Pritchards. The way I see it, it don’t really matter who killed this damn nigger. We just have to make sure that ole Johnny Law don’t find his black ass. We all need to configure some kind of goddamn disposal operation.”

  Tyler mashed the heel of his hand to his eyeball, tired as hell, full of whiskey and weed. He’d been dreaming about hitting his bed the whole drive up Highway 45. Now he was talking about hiding a dead body before the sun came up. He stepped closer to the body, squatted down, and turned the man’s head. He hadn’t recognized him in the dark. But in the fluorescent light of the garage, he knew exactly who Uncle Heath had shot dead.

  “Shit,” Tyler said. “Goddamn, son of a bitch. That’s Ordeen Davis.”

  “Holy shit,” Cody said. “He was in my history class. Thought he was pretty durn smart, too. Knew all kinds of shit about the Civil War. Said Nathan Bedford Forrest was a fucking racist just ’cause he started the Klan.”

  “Damn good football player, too,” Tyler said. “We used to get high and watch him play linebacker for the Wildcats. Tough as nails. I always figured he’d turn pro.”

  “I asked if y’all knew him,” Uncle Heath said. “Not have some kind of memorial service. I don’t give a good goddamn if we got Denzel Washington down there. We got to get rid of this mess.”

  “Did you really have to kill him?” Tyler said. “Couldn’t you just have tied him up or something till we got home? Ordeen Davis. Holy hell. Maybe he just came over to see us. Get some weed.”

  “No, sir,” Uncle Heath said, reaching into his skintight jeans for a cell phone. “Not a damn chance. Take a look at all this damn shit, all these fucking pictures, and tell me that boy wasn’t all over your ass. I got to admit, I didn’t see just what all you boys accomplished while I was incarcerated. I’m damn impressed. Y’all did some things down in that hidey-hole, in all those Conex containers, with all that new technology, that’s just impressive as hell. Looks like fucking Epcot Center down in the earth.”

  Tyler didn’t like Uncle Heath knowing their business and exchanged another quick look with Cody. Cody shuffled around the garage, their old dog wandering in, sniffing at Ordeen’s blood. Damn if everything they’d worked for and built up was about to get split into a third piece of the pie. This land, the house, the barns, and most of what they owned legally belonged with their Uncle Heath. How come no one had told them? Why didn’t Momma warn them about that little fireplug bastard getting loose?

  “I can’t believe that Ordeen Davis, superstar, was spying on us,” Tyler said.

  “Well, we know who he’s working for,” Cody said. “That shit says it all.”

  “Goddamn Fannie Hathcock.”

  “What the fuck is a Fannie Hath-cock?” Uncle Heath said, scratching his bare stomach decorated with prison tattoos. “Sounds like a rooster that will suck your peter.”

  “She’s the bitch who runs the show,” Cody said.

  “What show y’all talking about?” Uncle Heath asked.

  “North Mississippi,” Tyler said. “All of it.”

  “A woman?” Uncle Heath said. “Holy Christ. What the hell the world’s coming to?”

  “We got an old truck toolbox,” Cody said. “I think we could get him in there if we cut off his arms and legs. We lock that up tight and drop him downriver on the Big Black.”

  “Cut off his arms and legs?” Tyler said, looking his brother over like he’d just met him. “Jesus Christ. What are y’all talking about?”

  “Smart,” Uncle Heath said, standing back, rubbing his chin as if judging a contest. “That’s a right smart idea, Cody. Can we lock that box up tight?”

  “Oh yes, sir,” Cody said.

  Uncle Heath grinned and walked over to the workbench, where they’d plugged in their heated tire groover. He flicked it on, its sharp blade buzzing high in his hands. “Hot damn,” he said. “This oughtta do the trick. Cut through flesh and bone like a hot knife through a stick of butter.”

  Tyler felt those pancakes rise up in his throat and he walked from the garage into some fresh air. He lit a cigarette and watched the first light peek out over the cornfields, thinking of what his momma always said about their Uncle Heath. “Don’t judge him, boys,” she’d said. “He was born a real prick.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Fannie had been up all goddamn night.

  She must’ve called Ordeen fifteen times since three a.m., staying on through the last shift of the girls, closing up Vienna’s herself and sitting at the bar drinking until she could get hold of Lyle up in Memphis. Fannie hated like hell to call on Lyle, the two parting on some real rough-ass terms, Fannie telling Lyle he wasn’t nothing but a worthless tur
d and that he and the remaining members of the Born Losers Motorcycle Club better keep the hell out of Tibbehah County or she’d nail his nuts to the wall. But it was either send in the damn clowns or call up her people on the Coast, and the last thing she needed was the old boys’ club sensing she was weak.

  “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear from you, Fannie,” Lyle said, putting his dirty biker boots up on her velvet sofa. “Me and the boys got us a new clubhouse in Memphis. Been partying like hell, recruiting new members. Drinking all day, fucking all night. You should come on up sometime. Born Losers are back and better than ever.”

  “Ordeen is gone.”

  “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

  “He’s missing,” she said. The houselights dim, a smoky haze in the dull glow of the neon over the bar. “He was supposed to be back here late last night. Won’t answer his cell phone. I even called his momma to check on him and she hasn’t heard a word.”

  “Does he always answer?”

  “Always,” she said.

  “OK,” Lyle said, firing up a cigarette and putting his boots back on the floor. He waved away the smoke and rested his elbows on his thighs. He had on leather pants and a sleeveless black T-shirt. Since she’d seen him last, he’d grown a thick black beard, with his long, greasy black hair pulled into a ponytail. “What the fuck can I do? Put out an AMBER Alert for his black ass?”

  “I want you to ride over to the Pritchards’ place.”

  “You think he’s with them?”

  “He was headed over there last night,” she said. “Those little bastards broke our deal.”

  “Was Ordeen supposed to scare them?”

  “Ordeen?” she said. “There’s nothing scary about Ordeen. He was going to just check on things for me, see how deep those boys have gotten back in business.”

  “Never trusted those little bastards,” Lyle said, spewing smoke from his nose. “But, damn. They sure do grow some fine-ass weed.”

  “Good for them,” she said. “But they’re now making friends up in Memphis. We agreed for them to keep up their little nickel-and-dime-bag chickenshit business. You know, for you real connoisseurs. But working with the folks up there? That was hands-off.”

  “I don’t see it,” Lyle said, stubbing out a cigarette, reaching for the shot of Jack Daniel’s Fannie had poured for him. “Those two country-fried fuckups working up in Black Town? They’d get killed in two seconds. You know they got a brand of weed called Rebel Yell? What kind of black man would smoke that shit?”

  “I think they got him.”

  “The Pritchards?” he said. “For doin’ what?”

  “Sniffing around,” Fannie said. “I shouldn’t have sent him. Goddamn it. I should have called you boys right off.”

  Lyle smiled as big as humanly possible, lighting up a new smoke and settling back into the purple sofa, hands outstretched, looking as if he’d just regained his royal throne. “Shoot,” he said. “Is this your way of offering the Born Losers MC and yours truly an apology? Because if it is, I am touched at the heartfelt gesture.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not. It’s a way of saying I fucked up. Soon as I knew those boys crossed me, I should’ve found a way to light their asses up.”

  “Fucking, fighting, drinking,” Lyle said. “Our boys have a particular set of skills.”

  “Don’t burn down the barn yet,” Fannie said. “I don’t need any shit from Preacher Skinner and the goddamn Moral Majority. I’m lucky to keep this place going by agreeing to let my girls cover up their coots.”

  “Either the coots or the liquor license,” Lyle said. “We all got to make compromises. Even you, Fannie Hathcock.”

  “How about you wipe that stupid-ass grin off your face and round up some of your cretins,” she said. “I want to know what happened to my Ordeen and I want him back here today.”

  Lyle kept on grinning, lifting his right arm off the couch and taking a puff. He nodded along, in deep thought. “And would you think less of me if I asked what’s in it for the Losers?”

  “Baby,” Fannie said. “It’s impossible to think any less of you. But if you want to get on down to the cold hard facts of life, how about we pick up where our old agreement left off?”

  “Free pussy and lap dances,” he said. “With free use of the Golden Cherry Motel when we’re sleeping off the fun?”

  “To keep the peace.”

  “Unlawful order,” Lyle said, blowing more smoke out his nose. “Our goddamn specialty.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Just when did we get a Chinese buffet?” Uncle Heath asked, riding shotgun in the truck with Tyler at the wheel, Cody sitting in the backseat, the body of Ordeen Davis stuffed in the toolbox in the bed. “Tanning salon, pizza joint, and, shit, even the old movie theater is open again. What the hell is a goddamn Transformer? I don’t think I’d believe this was Jericho, Mississippi, if y’all boys didn’t tell me.”

  “Even got a new Walmart out by the highway,” Tyler said, rounding the Square, eyes lifting up into the rearview as he drove nice and slow around the gazebo. “It ain’t no supersized one—it’s what they call a Walmart Market—but it sure as hell beats driving to Tupelo every time you need ammo and Ol’ Roy. Got some jobs coming this fall out at the business park.”

  “That your way of telling me to look for a job?” Uncle Heath said, laughing it up, still walking around in blue jeans, rattlesnake boots, and no damn shirt. “Hell. Figure I just held my own, looking after our land.”

  Tyler didn’t say a thing, heading north on the road up to Blackjack, wanting to ask just how long Uncle Heath planned to stay in town. But he seemed to be having the time of his life, eating a second breakfast, watching some kind of titty movie on Cinemax, and wandering around their garage, talking race cars and the latest standings in the Mid-South.

  “I didn’t expect no balloons and flowers when I got out,” Uncle Heath said. “But would’ve been nice to get picked up by my kin. Didn’t your momma tell you I was about to get released?”

  “We done told you, we hadn’t heard from that woman in two years,” Cody said.

  Tyler kept driving, Uncle Heath craning his head out the window, checking out the yellow and red neon of the Sonic, a new AutoZone, the old VFW, and the Jericho Farm & Ranch. “Right there,” Uncle Heath said. “That’s where that son of a bitch Hamp Beckett and his two-bit Barney Fife waited for me. They tailed me the whole way back to our land, cutting the chain on the gate and leading a mess of folks from the DEA right to my crop. Which I’d planted just as clever as hell.”

  “Not clever enough,” Tyler said.

  “Just where you headed?” Uncle Heath said, lighting up a joint and filling the cab with weed smoke. It was first light, a gray-gold dawn breaking across the flat land of the bottom, stretching clear from the city limits down to where all the blacks lived in Sugar Ditch. “This ain’t how you get out to the lake.”

  “We told you we weren’t going to the lake,” Cody said, leaning between the seats. “It’s fishing season. There’s a little slice of land down south where you can get to the Big Black. Daddy Charlie used to take me and Tyler down there to hunt for arrowheads after it rained.”

  “Your old stepdaddy sure was proud of you both,” Uncle Heath said. “He got to be a real big man when y’all ended up on that TV show. What was that called again?”

  “America’s Funniest Home Videos,” Tyler said, cutting off the main road and following a sandy gravel road with big oak branches overhead forming a tunnel.

  “You know, I seen it at Parchman,” he said. “Got permission from the superintendent to let the whole pod watch. We all crowded around some twenty-inch Sony and seen you knock old Charlie in the nuts with that baseball bat just as plain as day. I never heard as much laughing in my life with the boys. I don’t know if the television wasn’t worth a shit or it really
happened, but we all thought your stepdaddy done turned green before he fell on his side.”

  “He got real sick,” Cody said. “But we also won ten thousand dollars and a trip out to California.”

  “Sure,” Tyler said. “Momma and Charlie left us in that hotel out by the airport while they took off to go get high. Me and you slept in that arcade down in the lobby, asking folks for quarters. We weren’t six years old.”

  “Good times,” Cody said.

  Tyler turned off the main road onto some private land, ignoring all the NO TRESPASSING signs, passing an abandoned trailer covered in kudzu and two trucks up on blocks, rusted and useless. He had the windows down, the radio on low, and he could hear and smell the river from there. That old road, with that busted-ass trailer, brought back a lot of happy memories for him, about a year or so before Charlie got real mean and got himself killed.

  “You sure ain’t nobody out here?” Uncle Heath said.

  “Yeah,” Tyler said. “I’m sure.”

  He stopped the truck and killed the engine, looking out across the tall green grass and the bend in Big Black River, cotton land stretching out beyond its southern border. The sun was barely up and it had already gotten hot as Tyler jumped from the truck and made his way around to the tailgate. That dead son of a bitch was heavy as hell and it had taken him and Uncle Heath both to load that box into the truck. He wished he could drive a little closer to the river, but he could see where the mud had gotten thick. He sure as hell didn’t want to get stuck with no dead body.

  “Is that water deep?” Uncle Heath asked, coming around the truck and looking at the locked toolbox.

  “Deep enough,” Tyler said.

  “How about that blood in the garage?” Uncle Heath asked.

  “Nothing a pressure washer and some bleach can’t handle,” Tyler said.

  “Why you think that nigger was out on our land?”