The Redeemers (34 page)

“He doesn’t have kids,” Lillie said. “Do you, Mick?”

Mickey shook his head. Man, he looked like hell. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and had obviously slept in his clothes. He stunk, too. Lillie could smell him from across the table, wanting to issue him a bar of soap and toothbrush and let him head on over to the jail. If they couldn’t arrest him, maybe they could just hose him off in the parking lot.

“We know you and Kyle were talking on New Year’s Eve,” Lillie said. “Kyle’s phone records show y’all calling back and forth twelve times. You talked six times after midnight on the first.”

Mickey wouldn’t look up from the table, he just nodded along to show he was listening.

“I think you’ve already established Mr. Walls and Hazlewood are friends,” the lawyer said. “Don’t you call your friends on New Year’s Eve?”

“Not a dozen times,” Lillie said. “That would annoy the shit out of me.”

“I thought you folks were headed somewhere new,” the lawyer said. “My client is very tired.”

“We want to ask him about Peewee Sparks and Chase Clanton,” Rusty said.

“He told you he never met those gentlemen,” the lawyer said. “Never heard their names.”

“I met Peewee Sparks,” Lillie said. “I assure you, he’s no gentleman.”

“Regardless, I don’t understand why you wanted my client to return to the sheriff’s office,” the lawyer said. “As I’ve said, this presents an air of guilt in a small community. Money is lost. Trust is eroded.”

“Do you know them?” Lillie said.

Mickey looked to the lawyer. The lawyer again gave his blessing.

“No, never met them.”

“Have they ever been in your house?” Lillie said.

“He said he didn’t know them,” the lawyer said.

Rusty Wise stood up, really getting into the role of sheriff now, even Lillie finding his act credible in some small way. He walked away from the table and stretched off camera but spoke loud enough for all of them to hear. “Funny, we got a bunch of beer cans and likker bottles out of your house with those boys’ prints all over them,” Rusty said. “Looks like y’all had a hell of a party, watching football and maybe some adult films.”

“Bullshit.”

“We got ’em,” Lillie said. “So why don’t you quit jerking us around, Mickey. You lied about knowing Sparks and Clanton, and you lied about talking to Kyle. You ran the whole damn operation from down in Gulf Shores, and when it went to hell, you boogied on back up the highway to get things straight. You want me to keep going?”

“What else do you have?” the lawyer said. “Because I’m not hearing a word that links my client to a shooting of your deputy or the burglary of Mr. Cobb. If we’re done here, I need to get on back to Memphis.”

“Shooting another commercial?” Lillie said. “Can’t wait.”

“Mickey?” Rusty said, leaning onto the conference table, mouth close to the mic. “We’re going to go ahead and place you under arrest for working as an accomplice to the robbery of Mr. Cobb. But I’ll tell you, I’m working like hell to show you were running those sonsabitches when they shot Kenny. I’ll nail your ass for that.”

Lillie smiled. She looked up at Rusty Wise with a grin to show her appreciation of his cussing and sticking it to Walls like he needed.

“Y’all are making a hell of a big mistake,” the lawyer said. “Do you know how much revenue this man has lost already?”

“Mickey?” Lillie said. “You want to say something?”

Mickey looked down at the table, head slung down, rounded back and flat face. He shook his head and closed his eyes. “I’m just tired,” he said. “I’m so goddamn tired.”

“I know you want to help,” Lillie said.

“Mr. Walls—” the attorney said.

“I didn’t want to,” Mickey said.

“Mr. Walls—” the attorney said.

“They came over,” Mickey said, not moving a bit, speaking in almost a whisper. “Kyle wanted to get back at Cobb after what he’d done. He brought along those two boys from Alabama. They had a plan, they wanted me to be a part of it.”

“And what did you say?” Lillie said.

“I told Kyle I didn’t want no part of it,” Mickey said. “I tried to get him to change his mind. I wanted to help him. I told him those two boys were bad news and they’d sell him out for a nickel.”

“Do you think he’s dead?” Rusty said.

Mickey stayed silent for a half minute. A tear ran down his left cheek as he then said, “Can someone get me a glass of water? Damn it, Kyle was a good man. One of my best friends.”

•   •   •

J
ohnny Stagg pulled into the Piggly Wiggly on his way home, his wife telling him he needed to pick up a bottle of Diet Pepsi, a loaf of Wonder Bread, and some Triscuits. He parked in the cripple space, since he had one of those tags hanging from his ElDo’s rearview. Ain’t no one in Jericho gonna ask Johnny Stagg if he had the right or was he a cripple, they’d just assume it was something official. Stagg had crawled out, heading to the Pig’s front door, when he saw that official black car slide down the row of cars and park right behind his Cadillac. The Trooper got out of his vehicle, nodding to Stagg, leaving his fucking door open and engine running like Johnny was supposed to hop up into the car like a dog or some truck stop whore.

“Come on, Stagg,” the Trooper said as he’d gotten within earshot.

“No, sir,” Stagg said. “I don’t think so. Last time I seen you, you put a nine-millimeter in my mouth like it was a man’s peter. I think I’ll go about my grocery shopping without any interference.”

“Didn’t you make a call to the good senator?”

“That’s between me and him,” Stagg said. “Now, how about you get the hell out of my way.”

“Fine by me, Johnny Stagg,” the Trooper said. “But don’t you want to know what I’ve found out?”

Stagg stepped close, leaned in to the man’s old, gray buzz-cut head, and whispered, “I told Vardaman that you were a stone-cold nut. They need to lock your ass up in Whitfield. You weren’t acting on no one’s authority but your own. I’ll cut your ass down at the knees.”

“C’mon, Johnny,” the Trooper said. “Let’s take a ride.”

Stagg brushed past the Trooper, walking toward the image of that big smiling pig wearing a butcher’s hat, just as pleased as punch that the grocery was cutting off his hog parts, wrapping them up, and parceling them out to folks. The Trooper grabbed his arm and said, “Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?”

“How’s that?” Stagg said. “Or you want to try and violate me again in public?”

“I want to violate something, I’d do better than a broken-down crook like you, Stagg.”

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

“You need to listen up.”

“I may not win, sir,” Stagg said, stepping toward him, “but I’ll go down with fists flying and teeth gnashing.”

“Your boy Ringold ain’t what you thought.”

Stagg stopped cold. Parked by the front door, Miss Dorothy Castleberry, garden club president ten years running, tooted her horn and waved her fat arm out the window. Stagg parted lips, showed his teeth, and grinned, waving back, the Trooper’s hand feeling like a vise on his arm. “Who is he?” Stagg said through clenched teeth.

“Your boy is a goddamn federal agent,” the Trooper said. “Unless you get your head out of your ass, everything you got in this county is about to burn to the ground.”

“Bullshit,” Stagg said. “Why the hell should I trust a man like you? I’d just as soon trust a piss-sucking goat.”

“’Cause you’re the one who made the call,” the Trooper said. “’Cause you doubted him first. You fault ain’t in your fucking stars, Johnny. It’s up your goddamn ass.”

The man turned his back, walked back to his cruiser, and sped away. Stagg shook his head, marching on, not knowing if anyone had just seen what had transpired in open view. He still had Diet Pepsi, Triscuits, and Wonder Bread to bring home and that bastard wouldn’t shake it.

•   •   •

Q
uinn and Lillie met late afternoon at a turnaround along Jericho Road, not far from the Choctaw Lake pier. You could see the water from where they’d parked their vehicles, Quinn now driving the old Ford truck, a nice gold glow setting down across the rippling cold water. Lillie had on her sheriff’s office jacket and sunglasses. “I feel like I’ve been living the redneck version of
Rashomon
. Not one of those shitbirds has told their story straight.”

“How about Mickey Walls?”

“He’s the worst of them,” Lillie said. “And, unfortunately, the only bird in hand at the moment. He’s blaming the whole damn thing on Kyle Hazlewood. Says Kyle wanted to get back at Cobb for fucking him over on that dozer work and that he’s the one who recruited Sparks and Clanton. Mickey said Clanton shot Kenny and now believes those two turned on Kyle.”

“Mickey thinks Kyle’s dead?”

“Yes, sir,” Lillie said. “Said that a couple weeks ago, Kyle had come to him and wanted to turn himself in and give back the money. Mickey thinks those Alabama boys took it all and buried his ass deep.”

“You’ll find them.”

“Yeah,” Lillie said. “They’re running together. Got some video of them both at a truck stop outside Birmingham. Looks like Sparks had arranged the meet before he had a sit-down with us.”

“How’d that go?”

“Sparks calls his busted-ass van a rolling sex palace,” Lillie said. “Apparently, he just has to slide open that door and women will jump in.”

“Is he a handsome man?”

“If you call five-five, two-fifty, and a face like a bulldog handsome.”

“Someone for everybody.”

“We’ve charged Walls as an accomplice to the burglary and shooting,” Lillie said. “But, damn, I’d hoped we could have gotten Kyle. You know as well as I do we could have reasoned with him. It makes sense what Mickey is saying about him stepping forward, but I don’t believe for a second that Mickey is clean. Or that this was all Kyle’s idea. He’s no schemer.”

“Got any idea on where Sparks and Clanton would go?”

“After they busted through Cobb’s house, they kept on rolling down to New Orleans,” Lillie said. “They spent more than five grand at a titty bar on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. They were staying at the Holiday Inn by the Superdome and ran up some incredible charges there. Security finally had to ask Sparks to leave, he had so many hookers coming and going out of the place. The guard down there I spoke to said they left their hotel room looking like something inside a monkey cage. Apparently, they had to replace the carpet and burn the bedding.”

“And folks from Alabama look down on us.”

Lillie shook her head, the sun shining white and cold down upon the lake. The only activity came from a handful of ducks and a big mess of Canada geese. By summer, the lake would be filled with bass boats and kids in inner tubes, old men stalking the edges with their fishing poles trying to break bass and crappie records. Quinn pulled a cigar from his coat and leaned against the old truck built eight years before he was even born. The truck a faded two-tone blue and white. The stock AM radio inside still worked and picked up racist talk radio and good old-fashioned gospel.

“Listen, you need to know something,” Quinn said.

Lillie turned her head, Quinn catching a glimpse of himself in her sunglasses before she turned back to the lake. Her hands were deep in her satiny coat. “If this is about you and Anna Lee, I’d rather you keep personal matters to yourself,” Lillie said. “I imagine you both think you’re both meant to be, but I’m waiting for the demolition derby to start.”

“Appreciate that,” Quinn said, flicking on his lighter, burning the tip of his cigar. He held it out in his hand, watching the end burn. “But, no.”

They stood so close to each other at the grille of the truck that their shoulders touched. Lillie had her legs out straight in front of her, butt leaning against the truck, grinning, glad she’d maybe hit a nerve. “The heart wants what it wants,” she said. “I think I read that on a greeting card at Walmart.”

Quinn had the cigar clamped in his back teeth. “There was more in that safe than just buckets of cash.”

“Please, God, tell me there aren’t photos of Larry and Debbi doing it.”

“Yes, Lillie,” Quinn said. “A whole photo album of Larry in a double-XL pink nightie.”

“I know he had some pistols,” Lillie said. “A rare Civil War pistol. Some old coins and earrings he gave Debbi for their thirtieth anniversary. He wrote out a list.”

“And some books,” Quinn said. “Solid, handwritten records of the last decade of dirty deals with folks in Jackson. Roadwork, bridge building. Larry kept details of every kickback he received and the bank accounts where they traded.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“And there’s more,” Quinn said, grinning.

“Goddamn Johnny Stagg.”

“Some good stuff, Lil,” Quinn said. “Some really, really good stuff.”

“Are you sure it’s January?”

“Why?”

“Because, god damn, it feels like Christmas,” she said. “Who has this stuff?”

“FBI office in Oxford,” Quinn said. “I’m expecting the Rebel to be raided just about any day now. Stagg will be charged with so much dirty shit, he’ll never get out.”

“This is it,” Lillie said. “I know you love Anna Lee. But, god damn, isn’t this why you stayed? Now, get out of this shithole.”

Quinn smiled. The bare trees shook in the wind as a dust devil kicked up some dead leaves in the gravel, scattering them out onto the lonely road. Lillie took off her sunglasses and placed them in an inside pocket. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Talk to Rusty,” she said. “If your contact’s got raids coming down on Tibbehah, we should know. We can help. It’s a respect issue. Besides, I’d like to be there when they snatch up Stagg’s ass.”

Quinn nodded, puffing on the cigar.

“Is it someone I know?” Lillie asked.

“What’s that?”

“Y’all have someone inside,” Lillie said. “Who is it? One of his pole dancers? Can you imagine busting your ass through Quantico and then having to show your tits and ride the gold pole for Johnny Stagg?”

Quinn winked at Lillie, pushed himself off the old truck, and walked around to the driver’s-side door.

31.

F
igured you’d want to know we’re bringing in Stagg tomorrow,” Ringold said. “Larry Cobb, too, and a few other local shitbags.”