The Redeemers (13 page)

“Shit.”

“Come on, man,” Mickey said. “That money is dirty as hell. He’s been cheating folks like me and you his whole damn life. Him and goddamn Johnny Stagg’s as thick as thieves. There ain’t no telling what all’s in that safe. Dirty, dirty money.”

Kyle nodded, not saying a word. He reclined the seat and lay back into the headrest, a cigarette held in his lips, staring up at the truck cab. The cold air blew into the cab from the cracked window, clearing out the smoke.

“It’s time for Cobb to get what’s coming to him.”

Kyle nodded.

Mickey offered his hand, and Kyle, head still tilted back, cigarette held loose, reached out to shake it.

“This is gonna change everything, man,” Mickey said. “Now, listen up. OK? This is how I see things are going to need to work tomorrow night.”

11.

Q
uinn and his dad took little Jason to the barbershop early the next morning. Jean was dealing with Caddy, getting her packed for her time in Tupelo, and Quinn and big Jason thought the barber might get the boy’s mind on something other than worry. It was strange to watch Jason up in that spinning chair, head tilted down, as a new barber trimmed the kid’s curly Afro short and close to his head. Old Mr. Jim had been cutting Jason’s hair his entire life, but now Mr. Jim had sold off his business of fifty years to a somewhat younger man from Yalobusha County while he lived out his final days on oxygen, watching daytime television. The younger man had hired two women to work with him, and although Quinn had no problem with female barbers, the entire shop had changed. Most of the deer heads and mounted fish had been taken down. No more girlie calendars, and only one football schedule mounted on the wall. The shop was swept clean. The ancient couches and folding chairs had been replaced with newer stuff.

Jason giggled as the clippers touched the nape of his neck.

Quinn sat next to his dad. Across the way was Mr. Varner, who’d just walked in the door, bringing coffee to the new barber, whose name was Don. The two women who waited at their own stations for walk-ins sat in their chairs, reading magazines. One woman scowled at Mr. Varner, who lit up a six-inch-long cigarette and blew out the smoke. He was an old U.S. Marine and hadn’t changed his standard-issue haircut since his days on Parris Island and in the jungles of Vietnam.

“Boy’s grown,” Varner said, his voice gravelly from thousands of cigarettes.

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said.

“Almost didn’t recognize him,” Varner said, looking up to Jason in the chair. “Looked like a high schooler to me.”

Jason smiled. The elder Jason shuffled in his chair a bit, as he and Luther Varner had never been on the friendliest terms. Varner had always thought of Quinn’s dad as some kind of commie hippie. Jason’s stories of working stunts for Burt Reynolds and Hal Needham while seducing
Playboy
bunnies impressed plenty others but couldn’t have mattered less to Varner. Just the word
California
was usually enough for Varner to excuse himself from the conversation.

“How you been, Quinn?” Varner said.

“Getting along.”

“Big day.”

“Same as any.”

“To hell with this place,” Jason said, looking up from a copy of
Car and Driver
. “Damn supervisors making three times the sheriff salary. Tell me there isn’t something wrong with that picture.”

“You looking for work, Mr. Colson?” Luther asked, squinting through the smoke. He leaned forward on his weathered forearms, decorated with faded skull and dagger tattoos. “I hear you’re good with horses.”

“I am.”

“I know some folks who could use some help.”

“Appreciate that, Mr. Varner,” Jason said. Quinn hung back, watching the two old men ping-ponging over who had the right to hold court at the barbershop. “But Quinn and I have some pretty good plans for next year.”

“Oh yeah?” Varner said, blowing out some more smoke. “And what’s that?”

“Farming.”

“Farming, huh?” Varner said. “You and Quinn?”

“Yes, sir,” Jason said. “Watermelons, mainly. I’ve been doing my homework and know a boy over in Pocahontas who made out pretty good. Of course Quinn has enough land to do a decent bit of corn and cotton. But a watermelon farm is where I see us making a solid living.”

Luther Varner sat there on the couch, ramrod straight, and ashed his cigarette into an empty coffee cup. He kept speaking to Jason but looked to Quinn. “Well, I wish y’all the best with all that.”

Varner had done six tours in Vietnam as a sniper. He once told Quinn that slowing down, quitting fighting, and getting back to what he’d been before was the hardest part. If Quinn had asked, Varner would’ve jumped up at that very moment to fetch the nearest gun to join whatever fight was out there. The old man smiled some more at Quinn while the older Jason, dressed in a black T-shirt with a cow skull on it and a fringed leather vest, ran down the highlights of what he’d learned about watermelon production. “What folks don’t do down here but they do out west is rely on horse manure. I figure with me bringing in horses and getting going, that won’t be a problem.”

“I’m not sure about the horses yet,” Quinn said. “We might start with a few. See how it goes.”

“So you’re saying the secret to this business is horseshit,” Luther said.

Jason gave a wry smile, stroked his gray beard, and said, “Yeah, I guess that’s about the heart of it. Horseshit is pretty much how I make my way, Mr. Varner.”

Varner smiled and nodded. He winked at Quinn. Quinn didn’t say anything, knowing the old man could read his mind and knew that he wasn’t ready to put down the gun.

Up on the spinning chair, little Jason hadn’t been paying attention to their talk, making small talk instead with Mr. Don. Mr. Don asked him about what he’d gotten for Christmas and whether or not he was going to be starting T-ball in the spring.

“At the VFW, you were talking about some overseas work,” Varner said. “With your Ranger buddy in Tennessee.”

“That’s still on the table.”

“Not if y’all got a full-time farm,” Varner said. “My daughter has been running a farm for the last five years and hasn’t taken a single day off.”

Quinn nodded. The barber pulled the cape from Jason and shook loose the trimmed hairs onto the floor. Jason bounded out of the seat and waited for Don to offer him some candy and gum from his bucket. Mr. Jim had done the same when Quinn had been Jason’s age. Don seemed to be a good man, and despite the upgraded decor, he was keeping the same spirit of the barbershop.

“Everything tracking at the home front?” Varner asked.

“Been a rough winter,” Quinn said.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Jason said, smiling and then taking his grandson’s place in the barber’s chair. His long gray hair hit down to his shoulders, his goatee long enough to be held in the old man’s fist.

Quinn moved over to beside Mr. Varner, picking up Jason’s magazine and glancing through it. Varner spoke to the ground, low enough that only Quinn could hear him. “I were you, I’d pack my bags come Monday and put Jericho in your rearview,” Varner said. “But do me a favor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You stumble on some good overseas work, let me know,” Varner said. “I sure do itch for it.”

•   •   •

J
ohnny Stagg met the Bohannon brothers, K-Bo and Short Box, at a hot-wings restaurant they owned off Elvis Presley Boulevard, about a mile from Graceland and next door to a twenty-four-hour car wash. The Bohannons were Craig Houston’s cousins and right-hand men, running the show after Houston’s head ended up in the truck bed of some Mexican cartel folks. “It was a shame what happened to Craig,” Stagg said. “He was a fine man.”

“Ain’t nobody deserve that shit,” K-Bo said. “Couldn’t even bury him right. Didn’t ever find the body. Just the gotdamn head.”

“Disgraceful.”

The brothers were twins.
Identical.
The only way Stagg could tell them apart was that K-Bo had a razor-thin beard and one earring. Short Box didn’t have a beard and had diamonds in each ear. Other than that, they had the same chiseled face, thick neck, and general stocky football player build. They even wore the same V-neck black T-shirts just to confuse folks.

“That’s what we got,” Short Box said. “Not gonna stop till we all dead. We in a battle.”

“It’s y’all’s world, too,” Stagg said. “These people are animals. Don’t have green cards, don’t give two shits for America. This is your home turf. I ain’t never making a deal with those fucking bean-eaters.”

“Craig worked with them,” K-Bo said. “You see where that shit got him?”

Stagg nodded, knowing that it wasn’t his work with the cartel that separated his head from the rest of him. It was working with Stagg and his Mississippi connections instead that took out Craig Houston’s ass. Now he had the Bohannons, two of the meanest motherfuckers in South Memphis, when they weren’t making hot wings or waxing cars. Stagg figured they’d do just fine.

“You want some wings, Mr. Stagg?” Short Box said. “Best in Memphis two years in a row. We got our picture in the
Flyer
and everything.”

“No, thank you, sir,” Stagg said. “I got an ulcer. Me and spicy food don’t mix. Have to drink a glass of milk every night before bedtime.”

“Got some honey-glazed and garlic that will sit right with you,” Short Box said. “I can make up a fresh batch. Hey.” He pointed to the skinny girl watching TV behind the counter and snapped his fingers. The girl rushed up to the table, pen and pad in hand.

“This is our sister, LaTasha,” he said. “Say hello, LaTasha.”

She rolled her eyes at her brother.

“Appreciate it, miss,” Stagg said, grinning, making good with these two shitbirds. “But I got to get going in a minute. I just wanted to come on up and say hello.”

Short Box jerked his head at his sister and she wandered back behind the counter to watch a big-screen television roll some highlights from last night’s Grizzlies game. K-Bo was listening to, but half watching, the television, too. He slapped the table hard enough that Stagg flinched a bit.

“Damn,” K-Bo said. “Check that shit out.”

Stagg didn’t move or turn his head to the game, just kept on grinning, waiting for these two boys to get the full appreciation of why he’d make the trip. He hadn’t come up to Memphis since the trouble with those bikers. And he wanted to make sure the Bohannons weren’t tempted to throw in with all the Mexes buzzing about town. They threw in with the cartel, Tibbehah County and all Stagg had built wouldn’t mean jack shit.

“Have any of those Mex boys sought y’all out?” Stagg said.

K-Bo shook his head. “Had some shit happen a couple months back,” he said, eyes on the television. “They lit up a pool hall we got on Lamar. By the Pirtle’s Chicken. Folks saw a big-ass truck rolling the fuck out of there. Had a picture of Jesus and Mary on the tailgate. Ain’t nobody but a Mexican spray-paint Jesus and his momma on they truck.”

“Damn right,” Short Box said.

“What’d y’all do?” Stagg said.

“Paid a visit to the gotdamn cha-cha club where they all hang out,” Short Box said. “What do they call that shit? That music they listen to sound like a polka. We shot the shit out of their world. Ain’t been no trouble since. What about down in Miss-ssippi?”

“Lots of them a couple counties over,” Stagg said. “My understanding is, they got things running smooth on I-55. Everything coming in straight from New Orleans. People in Louisiana don’t have a bit of class.”

“Where you get your shit, Mr. Stagg?” K-Bo said, looking at him now.

“Wouldn’t y’all like to know?” Stagg said, grinning. “Then you wouldn’t need this ole country boy.”

“You ain’t like most peckerwoods, Stagg,” Short Box said. “Craig said he always trusted you. That means something. You OK, for a white man.”

“Sure do appreciate that, Short Box.”

“But we ain’t gonna lie to you,” K-Bo said. “Mexes been cutting into our world real deep. They get shit fast and cheap. You know what I’m saying? I ain’t naming names, but there are some folks in this town who only care about money. They don’t give a shit about Craig Houston and what he used to do for people. They forgot all the money he gave out to families, to churches, helping people when they down.”

“God rest his soul.”

“But we straight with you, Mr. Stagg,” Short Box said. “You’re cool.”

Stagg grinned. Outside the hand-painted plate-glass window, he watched Ringold lean against his cherry-red Eldorado. He had his arms crossed over his chest, glancing back to the hot-wings joint every few moments, one hand in his pocket and the other stroking his Moses beard. Stagg realized that the only thing coming between him getting his ass chimichanga-ed was that hardheaded military boy and these twin black hoods. It was getting to the point he couldn’t even rely on the good old boys down in Jackson. Stagg offered his hand to the Bohannons. They shook it, K-Bo smiling, still watching the game, paying attention to the highlights from last night, not meeting his eyes. “Hell, yeah,” he said. “You see that shit? God damn.”

“Really something,” Stagg said, not turning to watch.

“Maybe we can get down to Tibbehah soon,” Short Box said. “Meet some of those fine women you keep out at the truck stop. Champagne and titties, just like last time.”

“Y’all are welcome anytime,” he said.

Stagg excused himself. As he walked out the door and out to the parking lot facing EP, he wondered if working with goddamn idiots wasn’t going to be what killed him.

•   •   •

T
hat’s it,” Mickey Walls said, pointing. “Right at the top of the hill.”

Kyle had been riding them around in his truck that morning, showing the Alabama boys back roads and talking about timing, where and when to meet, and how the whole deal was supposed to work. Mickey was in a time crunch—he had to pick up Tonya in thirty minutes or the whole thing was off. That girl was just waiting for him to fuck up.

“Don’t look like much,” the boy Chase Clanton said, riding shotgun, staring up at the single-story brick ranch looking over the lumber mill. “I thought these folks were rich. I was expecting some big-ass mansion like on
Dallas
or some shit.”