The Redeemers (17 page)

“What?” the DJ said.

“George-goddamn-Jones,” Stagg said. “Play it now or you can go back to cleaning out truckers’ toilets.”

The boy found the song real fast and maybe it did slow down the mood of the party. Some of the younger folks griping, Stagg hearing them groan, but in all—full credit to the Mexican gals and even, he was glad to see, one white girl—they just rolled with it. Moving those slender hips and big ole titties to that sweet old anthem.

Stagg toasted them with his sweet Dr Pepper, taking a cherry from the ice and sucking it for a long while before it came loose from the stem.

•   •   •

T
he inside of the Southern Star was warm and crowded for Quinn’s farewell, packed with familiar faces of family and old friends. A beer appeared in his hand the moment he walked in the door. Someone took his ball cap and old jacket and he was led toward the stage, where Diane Tull sang the song he’d been named for, “The Mighty Quinn.” But she didn’t sing it fast and upbeat like Dylan’s version, but slow and melodic, like a version he’d heard from Kristofferson that he liked a great deal. Folks patted him on the back, they brought him shots of Jack Daniel’s and one tequila, and he accepted them all, not to be polite, but because he was a Ranger and he’d never known a Ranger to refuse a free drink. Diane launched into Waylon’s “Slow Rollin’ Low,” and then Quinn found himself cornered by his Uncle Van, who started telling him a long, elaborate story about how much his Uncle Jerry wanted to make it, too, but he’d been saddled with trucking some transformers over to Valdosta and wouldn’t be back to Jericho until the second. Quinn’s father was there and soon joined them, saving him from a story Uncle Van was about to tell about how mean their daddy had been. Although Quinn had never known his grandfather—the man died when he was two—he had to agree that no kid wanted to cross the old man when he was high on shine. The Colson family had been notorious moonshine runners back in the day.

Jason took his son by the elbow and moved him over to the bar, where he ordered two beers, acting as if he was buying, although Quinn knew all draft and wine was free that night. Someone had collected some cash for the send-off and Quinn was pretty sure it had been Lillie, maybe Diane Tull, or even Jean Colson, although his mother couldn’t make it tonight on account of watching little Jason. Quinn’s dad talked a lot about the farm as if it would be a salvation for both of them. And Quinn had a pretty good buzz going when Jason told him that he’d be bringing over the horses next week. There was talk of an early planting of collards and then tilling up another acre or two just for corn. Jason had plans for that corn, using most of it for feed for the horses and the chickens. Chickens? Yes, chickens. Guineas, too, Jason said. You know, they eat ticks. Best damn eggs you’ll ever eat, if you can find the bastards. Quinn nodding, sipping on a tall Yalobusha draft, feeling good, maybe not so bad about the new arrangement. He knew it was the beer or Diane Tull singing an a cappella “Hope You’re Feelin’ Me (Like I’m Feelin’ You),” and then being joined by J.T., who ran a local garage and body repair shop, and Uncle Van himself on bass.

Quinn glanced across the room in time to see Ophelia Bundren. She had her curly brown hair up in a loose ponytail, long bangs dropping across her eyes. She held a beer and was laughing with a man Quinn didn’t recognize. Over the man’s shoulder, Ophelia met his eye and gave him a weak smile. Quinn smiled back, recalling some really good times, thoughts of them moving in together, making a real go of it. He hadn’t seen her since that bad wreck in November when those Ole Miss kids got killed.

Boom was there, too. But his friend hadn’t talked to him yet. He was on the other side of the bar talking up a pretty young woman who worked at the courthouse. Quinn nodded to Boom and Boom nodded back.

“Don’t waste a good thing,” his father said. And Quinn looked at him, not knowing what the hell he was talking about. All he could think about was chickens, horses, and pig shit. God, had he said something about pigs, too? But his father repeated it at the edge of the bar and nudged his shoulder, Quinn looking in the same direction and seeing Anna Lee standing there, watching Diane Tull and her boys play. The neon light in the bar made her strawberry blonde hair seem more of a deep red, head cocked back, moving a little with the music, in a tall-collared white coat and jeans. She still had on those big diamond earrings she’d gotten from Luke. Quinn heard his dad talking more about something between him and his mother, Quinn wanting to hear what he was saying but was being pulled to the center of the bar. More hands on his back. “You done good.” “Sure gonna miss you.” “See you at church.” Quinn kept moving, spotting Ophelia across the bar again, her walking toward him. He smiled at her, turning full in her direction, wondering if things didn’t have to be so tough between them, and then found himself nose to nose with Anna Lee.

“Brought you something,” she said. “Set it on the bar.”

“Strychnine?”

“Ninety proof, seventeen-year-old.”

Ophelia saw them together and ducked in another direction, taking Jason Colson by the arm and laughing at something he said. She met Quinn’s eyes once more and then walked away and toward the front door.

“Didn’t expect you to be here.”

“How could I not?” Anna Lee said.

There was a lot of sound, a lot of movement, but Quinn didn’t hear any of it. Those big earrings sure could sparkle. Boom stood in the corner, blasted face shielded in shadow. He watched Quinn, shook his head ever so slightly, and turned away.

“People will talk,” Quinn said.

Anna Lee looked at him good and hard, chin lifted, eyes on him. “I don’t give a good goddamn,” she said. “How about you?”

•   •   •

F
uck, man,” Chase said, not feeling real good about what he was seeing in that closet. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“That cussin’ ain’t helpin’, son,” Peewee said, half-glasses on, studying the red digits on the big safe’s keypad. “Can someone go fetch me a glass of water?”

“What the hell you need water for?” Kyle said, rubbing his graying beard as if it were magic or something. “How’s water gonna help you open up that safe? You gonna try and flood that money out?”

“I need me a water for my damn dry throat,” Peewee said. “I got to be steady and cool about things. How about you just excuse yourself for a while? This goddamn closet is getting too cramped. How many fucking flannel shirts and overalls can a man own? I can’t even think on things with all this shit around me.”

“Think on what?” Kyle said. “Christ Almighty! We tried the combo Mickey gave us and it ain’t worth a shit. And now his expert safecracker, his backup plan, doesn’t know what the hell to do.”

“Did I say that?” Peewee said, getting up, slow and pained, off one knee, where he’d been studying the lock. “Did I say that? I said go get me a goddamn glass of water and let me get my mind right. You ain’t no more help than a dog licking his balls while you on a hunt.”

Kyle dog-cussed Peewee a bit and left the closet, Chase not knowing what the hell they were talking about the closet being small. The closet was twice as big as the damn room where he’d grown up in back in Gordo. Shit, it was still nicer than where he lived now. A big top section, with hunting shirts and flannels and dress shirts, and a bottom section, with Carhartt pants and fancy boots made out of snake hide and crocodile. Uncle Peewee went back to his knee again, just like football players did to pray after the big game, studying that dial on that gun safe. Chase couldn’t wait for that old boy Kyle to watch his uncle crack that son of a bitch and try to talk with a big helping of dog shit in his mouth. That sure would be something.

“You know you don’t have to wear that thing inside,” Peewee said. “Damn, son.”

“What?”

“The fucking turtle mask,” Peewee said. “I swear to you, I’m not so sure that we’re kin sometimes. I think you got too much of your daddy in you.”

“I don’t know why you’re saying all that mess about my daddy,” Chase said. “You said yourself you didn’t know him that well. He might’ve been a good man.”

“Lots of good men over in Kilby,” Peewee said. “And crooks dumber than shit, too.”

Kyle walked back into the closet, holding a plastic cup from Sonic. Peewee was sweating, hand a little shaky as he reached for it and told Kyle thank you, he didn’t mean to cuss him none. “I just get a little edgy when I’m trying to think without some weed. Hey, boy? You go down and get me a little smoke down in the van? It’s over the visor.”

Kyle stood in the doorway, mouth looking like it was about to hit the damn floor. “Wait one minute. Are you saying we all need to stick around in a house we just busted into while your boy goes down and fetches you a joint? Are you shitting me, man?”

“You want me to think? Or not?”

“What I want is for you to admit that you don’t know jack shit about safes and that you tricked Mickey into thinking that you’re Butch Cassidy. You thought you were just going to kick open that back door, use his code, and walk out with some cash? How’s that deal sounding to you now?”

“Why don’t you just calm down,” Peewee said, tapping in some numbers. “Hell. I can’t even hear myself think. Both of y’all get out of here. I need to be alone with this baby. How we doing for time, Chase?”

“Been in here twenty minutes,” Chase said.

“Well,” Peewee said. “We counted on an hour. Them folks gonna be gone till tomorrow. If you hadn’t figured it out, this is Plan B we’re working on. Give me a second. Y’all just clear out and let the master do his thing.”

“Don’t you have a pair of them things a doctor uses to hear people’s hearts?” Chase said.

“You talking about a stethoscope?”

“I guess.”

“It don’t help if you don’t have no tumblers,” Peewee said. “Just get me a hammer and a chisel.”

“Oh my God,” Kyle said from the other room. “A fucking hammer? Are you shitting me?”

Peewee looked to be in pain on that one knee, glancing up from where he was working, nodding his head toward the other room. “Keep that bastard away from me, son,” he whispered. “This is professional work here. You understand? He’s messing with my mind.”

“Yes, sir,” Chase said.

Chase walked back out into the big room and sat down on the floor, where he could keep Kyle from coming in and out. They’d kept the lights off and he had to use his flashlight to read old copies of
Field & Stream
and
Guns & Ammo
. He found a section in the back of
G&A
about women with big titties shooting firearms to raise money for veterans. All the girls wore bikinis and got to shooting damn machine guns and bazookas and shit. He sure wished he could see them on video and get all the vibrating action of them pulling the trigger, recoil, and such.

“Hey, man,” he said to Kyle. Kyle sulking, leaning against a wall, smoking a damn cigarette in the dark. “You got to see this shit.”

“We been here almost an hour.”

There was the tap-tap-tapping sound of the hammer and chisel in the rich man’s closet. A few times Chase heard Uncle Peewee say “Shit” and once say “Hot damn.” But the “Hot damn” was soon followed by an “Oh, shit” and he knew he wasn’t getting any closer to opening that son of a bitch. About fifteen minutes later, Chase had moved on to reading an article, “Best Days of the Rut,” when Peewee walked out, mopping his face with a handkerchief, thick eyeglasses fogged all to hell. “God damn,” he said. “I ain’t seen nothing like it. That son of a bitch is thicker than I thought. Locked up tight.”

“It’s a safe,” said Kyle from the shadows, smoke all in the room now. “It’s what they do.”

“I never met a safe acted this way,” Peewee said. “I need some more muscle. This one is a like a woman who just don’t want to put out.”

“How much muscle?” Kyle said.

“Shit, man,” Peewee said. “I’m about tapped out. But I don’t think a man can do it.”

“Can you blow it?”

“You mean, like, explosives?” Peewee said, using his sweaty handkerchief to clean his glasses. “I ain’t got none.”

“Great.”

“How about a jackhammer or some shit?” Chase said. “Them things could bust that door wide open.”

“You know where to get one?” Kyle said.

Chase shook his head. He closed the magazine, a picture of a big fat doe staring up with big doe eyes, and got up off the floor. He looked at the time, knowing that Mr. Kyle was right. They’d just farted away a dang hour and hadn’t so much as budged that door. He sniffed and moved the turtle mask back over his face. He figured they maybe should be heading on to Gordo right now. He was too young to end up like his daddy.

“Fuck it,” Kyle said. “I got something will open it up.”

“What is it?”

“Ever heard of the Jaws of Life?” Kyle said, stepping up close to where he stood with Peewee. He blew smoke in both of their dang faces.

“Like firefighters use on wrecked cars?” Peewee said, pig-snorting a bit. “Shit. How the hell we gonna find one of them?”

“Because you’re looking at the chief of his volunteer fire department,” Kyle said, plugging another smoke into his mouth, lighting up. “You two Alabama shitbirds stay here and keep watch. I’ll be right back.”

15.

L
ook at it,” Mickey Walls said. “Ain’t it beautiful?”

“It’s fucking cold, is what it is,” Tonya said. “Come on, let’s go back to the bar. You owe me a shot of Jäger.”

“I owe you two shots of Jäger,” he said. “You beat me on that video game fair and square. Damn, you got a mean punch.”

They stood together at the edge of the beach out back of the Flora-Bama Lounge, watching the waves hit the shore, frothy and cold, loud country music playing from the bandstand. Tonya had on her pink faux fur coat and Mickey wore his old Carhartt work coat over his Hawaiian shirt, refusing to admit they were in the dead of winter. He looked out at the Gulf of Mexico, moonlight turning the tips of waves all pretty and silver, and hugged his ex-wife tight to him. “How come you don’t call me Big Daddy no more?”

“You want me to call you Big Daddy?”