The Broken Places (9 page)

“He was putting on a show for his woman,” Esau said. Lots of rolling farmland and open barns with heavy equipment zoomed past. Along the county road stood cattle, some donkeys, and a large, hilly pasture dotted with goats. “You know Dixon is starting to believe his own bullshit now? He can’t be connected with men like us.”

“And who the fuck are men like us?” Bones said.

Esau scratched and smoothed his beard. “Men with the road map to hell who quit caring about fifty miles back.”

Bones grinned and turned west on another county road right before the Jericho Square, passing an old gas station that had been turned into a diner and a cinder-block building with a big picture window advertising extensions and weaves. Men worked on the loading platform of a county co-op, heavy sacks of feed on their shoulders. A VFW sign told about a fish fry and country band on Friday night.

“I’ll meet with Dixon alone,” Esau said. “If he turns me in, make sure you kill him.”

“Done.”

“You know, he may never have touched that armored car,” Esau said. “Maybe he’s trying to keep clean and wants to sidestep things he used to do. Maybe that car’s still buried deep with them dead men.”

“
Bull
shit.”

“Yeah,” Esau said. “You’re right.”

“Why don’t we just go down to that bass pond tonight and see if it’s still down there? We might can’t get the money, but we sure as hell can see if he’s pulled it out the car.”

Esau stared out at the greening countryside and dark clouds on the horizon, more fucking rain over the big forest, a dense fog clouding the top of the hills. He leaned forward in the passenger seat, staring down the road as they got close to the hunting lodge.

“What’s eatin’ on you?”

“Up there,” Esau said. “Whose car is that?”

Bones kept driving up into the forest and the wooded hills, toward the big lodge tucked into the old-growth trees. A tired old Honda Accord, red paint worn thin on top, sat parked crooked by the front path. Esau was out of the car before Bones had fully stopped.

“Hey, man,” Bones said. “Hey! Let’s just keep going. No need for this shit. Let’s just keep going.”

“Don’t you want some steak and eggs?”

“Hell yeah,” Bones said, falling in beside him. “But I don’t want to have to kill a motherfucker to eat ’em. Let’s keep it cool till we get our money and drive out of Shitsville.”

“You know I grew up in a county just like this,” Esau said. “Back in Alabama.”

“Ain’t that nice.”

The hunting lodge’s side door was cracked open, and Esau and Bones walked right through the big kitchen, the appliances humming softly, a couple more lights on in the great room, making the dead animals’ glassy eyes stare numbly at them. Doors lined the walls downstairs and up along a squared balcony that overlooked the space. Somewhere up there, Esau heard a shower going.

He reached for the .357 at his waist and walked the steps above.

“God damn,” Bones said to his back. “Sure hate to fuck up such a good thing.”

•   •   •

Quinn had come into
Mr. Jim’s barbershop fifteen minutes earlier to get his weekly high-and-tight. Keeping his hair blade-short was just something he couldn’t shake after leaving the 75th. He woke up every day, checked his weapon, shaved his face, and ran a hand over his head to see if he was getting sloppy. As he waited for the old man ahead of him, he thumbed through a new copy of
Field & Stream
, a story on “16 Early-Season Wall-Hangers and the Tactics That Took Them.” He was also interested in a consumer story about the “Best Hunter’s Hatchets,” Quinn always feeling that a man and a hatchet could survive a good long while out in the woods.

Mr. Jim stared at the television atop the Coke machine showing
The Price Is Right
and sadly shook his head. “Sure miss Bob Barker. I don’t care for this goofy son of a bitch in glasses. He ain’t funny atall.”

“What else do you all watch?” Quinn said.

“I have to admit I got hooked on
General Hospital
about fifteen years ago,” he said. “Don’t think I’ve missed a show since.”

Quinn read a little more about a hatchet with a carbon blade and a handmade handle. He felt like he’d been sitting on that same mustard-yellow Naugahyde sofa most of his life. His father, Jason Colson, had first taken him to Mr. Jim for haircuts. And then when Jason left Jericho for good, everyone knowing that Jason had made it big as a stuntman in L.A., Uncle Hamp had tried to make Quinn keep his hair short and his attitude straight. When that failed, he pointed the way to the local Army recruiter.

Luther Varner, smoking down an extra-long cigarette, sat in a chair by the gumball machines. He wore a mesh baseball cap with the words
DA NANG
printed above the bill, forearm showing a faded
Semper Fi
tattoo. Luther glanced up at the television set and agreed with Mr. Jim. “Since when do they got men showing off the prizes?” Luther said. “What happened to the women in bikinis?”

Mr. Jim spun around another old man in the barber chair, showing the man the mirror. He pointed out the work he had done and made sure it was to his liking. The customer, a bald man with a thin strip of hair over his ears, nodded with satisfaction.

“Quinn,” Mr. Jim said, motioning that it was his time.

Quinn closed the magazine and stood. He waited till the man had paid his ten bucks and then took a seat. Last year’s football schedule for the Tibbehah High Wildcats hung on the walls among the stuffed ducks and deer and an old electric clock advertising Dr Pepper. Outside the glass door, there was a spinning barber pole and a flag that Mr. Jim, a veteran of Patton’s 3rd Army, brought in and folded every night when he closed up shop.

“My road’s a mess,” Mr. Jim said. “I was gonna plant corn this weekend, but ground’s too wet.”

“Why waste your time?” Luther said, lighting up another lengthy cigarette. “I gave up farming when they opened up the Piggly Wiggly.”

“Who’s minding your store?” Mr. Jim asked.

“Peaches,” he said. “She’s working the Quick Mart regular since Donnie’s been gone.”

“Any word on his sentence?” Quinn asked.

“His lawyer wants him to make a deal,” Luther said, a long ash on the end of his cigarette. “He has to say he stole those Army guns and they take off charges he helped the illegals smuggle them out.”

“Sounds like a solid deal,” Quinn said.

“When have you ever known my son to do the sensible thing?” Luther said.

Quinn shrugged. Mr. Jim fluttered a cutting cape over Quinn’s chest and lap and tied it at the neck. He reached for the clippers, setting them on the lowest level possible, a notch up from a straight razor.

“Ever think of trying out a different style, Quinn?” Mr. Jim said.

“Nope.”

“You know you could do this yourself and save ten bucks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“I appreciate y’all’s entertainment value.”

In the mirror, Quinn watched Mr. Jim and Luther Varner exchange looks. Luther ashed the cigarette into the palm of his hand and walked to the trash can. On TV,
The Price Is Right
stopped for a moment and the news station cut in with an update on the storms. There was a lot of footage of downed trees and power lines up in Memphis, roof damage and flooded roads in north Mississippi. The weatherman said they could expect more of the same for the next few days, a front headed in from Oklahoma, listing flash flood and thunderstorm warnings for most of the mid-South.

“Maybe I should prep my johnboat,” Luther said.

“You hear about those boys who escaped Parchman day before yesterday?” Mr. Jim said. “They stole a couple horses and rode about twenty miles up to Tutwiler, where they stole a car. Law hadn’t caught them yet.”

“We got an alert yesterday from the highway patrol,” Quinn said. “They think they may already be in Alabama. One of the convicts is from there. And a third son of a bitch got through the front gate. All of Parchman is on lockdown.”

“Hell, maybe they’ll all drown,” Luther said.

“Rats always find higher ground,” Mr. Jim said, lathering up Quinn’s neck and pulling out his straight razor. “The way of the world.”

Bones asked Esau to shag ass one final time before he said fuck it and walked back to the lodge kitchen, leaving Esau to walk up the steps to the second-floor balcony. That’s where Esau had heard the shower and could see the steam coming out from the cracked door. He inched along the upstairs railing, looking down into the big square opening of the room, silent and still with all those dead animals and cold guns. He used the .357’s barrel to crack open the door and stepped inside a small bath just in time to see the flash of a woman’s naked leg emerge from the tub. Esau slipped the gun into his belt and reached for a monogrammed beige towel and walked toward the woman with a grin.

She let out a shriek, covering her mouth, her titties jiggling a bit, as she’d gotten a start from seeing Esau. She reached for the towel, laughing, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and then wrapping the towel around her body. Damn if Becky didn’t look better and better to him. Trusted and true, going through all them years at Parchman for nothing but a throw every few weeks at the visit house and eight bucks a year. Man, it was good to see her when they didn’t have a guard waiting with a stopwatch and fifty horny stinking men waiting in line to use the same damn room. Never was much time for cuddling in that trailer.

“Door was open,” Becky said. “Just helped myself. You say this is your buddy’s place?”

“That’s right,” Esau said. “He wanted me and you to have somewhere special to go when I got out.”

“I never saw a refrigerator like that in a house before,” she said. “Hell, I could live in there.”

Esau put his rough, stubby fingers on her and pulled her close, reaching up under the towel and feeling her large and firm butt. “Damn, I love how you smell.”

“You still smell like prison,” Becky said, pulling away, twisting her wet blond hair in her hands, wringing out the water. She walked to the bathroom counter, where she’d stowed a zebra-print overnight case, and pulled out a fresh pair of panties and some cutoff jeans. First thing Esau had noticed about Becky at that Tupelo Waffle House where she waited tables was her legs. And she hadn’t lost any of it. She slipped into the panties and shorts, and then fit a red bikini top over her head and asked Esau to tie the back.

“What you putting that on for?” he said.

“Duh,” she said. “Hadn’t you even seen the pool? That’s the best part of this log cabin. I turned on the heater and set out some chairs. Let us make some margaritas and play around. I don’t care if it rains on us or not. I’ll put on some Kenny Chesney and we’ll pretend we’re in Florida.”

“How about we just go back to one of them bedrooms and I’ll fuck you?”

“Which one?” she said. “They got about forty of ’em.”

Esau pulled her pale body in close to his chest. He nibbled at her ear a bit, saying some dirty ideas that had come to him in prison. Esau marveled at the sight of them together in the mirror till he spotted something move down the hall and come toward them. Sure as hell wasn’t Bones. He pushed Becky away, pulled the .357, and aimed it hard and fast at the white man sneaking up on them.

The little guy flinched, dropped to one knee, and covered his head. At first Esau thought he was shaking from fear but then realized he was giggling.

“Little jumpy, ain’t you, Red?” Dickie Green said.

He slowly got up, hands raised. And Esau set the pistol back on his belt.

“What the hell?”

“Went to Miss Becky’s house in Coldwater and she tole me she was comin’ to you,” Dickie said. “Figured we just ride together. Ain’t this something?”

Esau looked down over the railing onto the first floor. Bones stood in the center of the big room, shaking his head. “Dickie,” Bones said up to the balcony. “Good to see you.”

“See?” Dickie said. He wore a flannel shirt without sleeves and a pair of Wranglers. Bald head shining in the lamplight. “Y’all still need me.”

“How’s that?” Esau said to Dickie, but more looking down at Bones.

“Dickie?” Bones said. “Didn’t I hear you can swim real good?”

•   •   •

Quinn stood at the edge
of the Rebel Truck Stop parking lot, watching the 18-wheelers come and go, a large grouping of trucks, maybe fifty or so, hooking into free cable and Wi-Fi, until their next leg or word from the dispatcher. The Rebel’s sign along Highway 45 was a girl’s silhouette often seen on mud flaps against a neon blue-and-red Confederate flag.

Lillie pulled up her Cherokee two feet from Quinn and got out.

“You must have a good reason for calling me over here,” Quinn said. “I haven’t had much sleep.”

“Maybe I just wanted some of the Rebel Truck Stop’s fine chicken-fried steak.”

“Their chicken-fried steak tastes like shit.”

“Or maybe today is the day that we finally break down the door to Johnny Stagg’s strip club and raid them for prostitution?”

“And they’ll open an hour later.”

“Or maybe we got a vehicle here possibly connected to a robbery in Webster County.” Lillie motioned Quinn to a Chevy Caprice Classic parked over toward the neat rows of 18-wheelers. “Car belongs to a cook over in Eupora who was working the late shift. Man never stopped by the owner’s house last night, as was custom, to deliver the earnings.”