Hello, Momma,” Quinn said as he walked into his farmhouse and removed his ranch coat and dark green ball cap, hanging them on a single hook. He lifted the Beretta 9 off his belt and locked it away in the side drawer of his office desk, while Jean Colson followed him, drying her hands on a dish towel, a worried look on her face. She had on a gold scarf draped around her neck and an oversized green sweater dotted with snowflakes and gold ornaments. She was a slightly heavy but beautiful woman with a lot of red hair and love for all things Elvis Presley. A long time ago she’d ridden around north Mississippi on the back of Jason Colson’s Harley, wearing hot pants and boots.
“She wants to see him,” Jean said. “All she’s been talking about this morning is little Jason. I think it’s a terrible idea. She looks like hell.”
“She sure does.”
“No six-year-old boy needs to see his momma like that,” Jean said. “It might do her some good, but it will scare the boy.”
“Roger that,” Quinn said. “We all need to keep them far apart. I don’t care what Caddy wants right now. She’s not in her right mind.”
“Oh, Lord,” Jean said. “This whole thing’s a mess. You want some coffee?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I finally got her to sleep in your room,” Jean said over her shoulder. “Hope that’s OK. Luke told me to double those pills if they weren’t working. It made her tired, but she wouldn’t stop talking. Kept on rambling on about things that didn’t make any sense. She was remembering some trip you and her took to Opryland as kids. You recall that?”
“I do.”
“Where was I?”
“That was after you and Dad had separated,” Quinn said. “Uncle Hamp drove us to Nashville to meet up with Dad. We got to see the Oak Ridge Boys open for Dolly Parton.”
“Did you meet Dolly?”
“Dad got us backstage passes.”
“Of course he knows her, too,” Jean said. “He probably has played with her big titties.”
“Mom.”
“Well, would it surprise you?”
Quinn had no answer as he followed his mother back through the long shot of the house, morning light streaming through leaded-glass windows, to the kitchen. She had a fire going in an old black stove, the room smelling of burning red oak and fresh coffee. Quinn sat down at the kitchen table, covered in red-and-white-checked oilcloth, and his mother brought him the coffee. He kicked off his cowboy boots. It had been a long night on patrol. Two drunks. One domestic. And an arson at an abandoned convenience store. Fire department was handling that mess.
“Did Luke say anything else?” Quinn said.
“He said if she didn’t get professional help, she’d go right back to where you found her.”
“And Caddy thinks she’s fine.”
“She says she just slipped,” Jean said. “Says she’s back on track since praying on it. Said she’d started to think about what happened in the storm, with her house being torn up. And with—”
“Jamey Dixon.”
“You bet,” Jean said. “That’d throw anyone for a loop.”
Quinn drank some coffee and looked out a side window at a half-dozen peach, apple, and pear trees neatly aligned down a sloping hill. His cattle dog Hondo trotted through the thick of them, covered in mud and shit from his daily messing with the cows. Despite all Quinn’s attempts, man cannot change a dog’s instincts. Hondo was a tough, strong Australian shepherd with two different-colored eyes, one of the smartest animals he’d ever known.
“I found this place in Tupelo,” Quinn said. “Actually, Lillie found it. It’s a nice facility not far from the mall. Lillie checked out the staff and called some folks at Tupelo PD for recs.”
“Well, we can’t force her,” Jean said. “You know how Caddy can get. You force her into something and she’s gonna take another path. Luke said it has to be her idea.”
“Bullshit.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Quinn Colson,” Jean said. “This hasn’t been easy. She’d been so good. Done so well with coming back last time. I thought all this was over. And now I’m back raising Jason. I love that boy, but I’m not his mother.”
“I guess it’s time for the finger-pointing and tears,” Quinn said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Intervention.”
Jean put her hand to her mouth, nodding and thinking. After a few moments, she said, “I guess we should bring in Diane Tull, too. Boom and Lillie. Ophelia, of course.”
“Maybe not Ophelia.”
“Why’s that? She’s Caddy’s friend.”
“Have you forgotten about the steak dinner?” Quinn said. “That knife thrown in my kitchen wall?”
“Can you blame her?” Jean said. “You just told her that you didn’t have deep feelings for her. That you didn’t ever see y’all getting married. Ophelia wasn’t trying to hit you with that damn knife. She was just trying to make a point.”
“Appreciate that, Momma.”
“OK,” she said, still thinking about the list. “Well, Jason can’t be there, but he can write a letter.”
“Which Jason?”
“The good one.”
“You don’t think her own father should be there?”
“Jason Colson hasn’t earned a place at our table,” Jean said. “He forfeited that right about twenty years ago to go chase tail around Hollywood and race dirt bikes in the desert.”
“Or he could have stayed in Jericho and been hung from the tallest tree by a motorcycle-riding group of thugs,” Quinn said. “And have all of us threatened and harassed. Things were more complicated then and you know it.”
Jean Colson shrugged and looked out at the field, out at the orchard, where Hondo had disappeared. Soon Quinn heard scratching at the back kitchen door. And Jean got up, walked to the door, and let in the dog. Quinn told her she better not, on account of the dog being covered in cow shit and most likely heading right for the couch to take a rest.
“Then why do you let him in this house?” Jean said.
“After I hose him down,” Quinn said. “That dog can’t resist cow shit.”
“Not a lot of difference between a dog and a man.”
Quinn raised his coffee mug. “So when?”
“Sooner, the better?” Jean said.
“Tonight?”
She nodded with a weak half smile and turned back to the farm sink, nearly overflowing with soap bubbles, and continued with the dishes. From the window, Quinn could see way out in the pasture to the silhouette of his father, working on that old cherry-red Firebird. The older man’s body bent over the engine, taking inventory of rusted parts that he didn’t have the money to replace.
• • •
Lillie Virgil had already had a hell of a morning even before coming on the day shift. Her three-year-old Rose had woken up at a quarter to five, screaming and terrified with a nightmare, and then after Lillie had gotten her calm, the phone rang, waking the child again, crying and wanting Lillie. She finally said to hell with it, getting up, making breakfast for them both, and then, before they were headed out the door to day care, a plate of eggs and fruit got dumped across Lillie’s uniform. Change of clothes, change of attitude, and race across town, and she was still late by fifteen minutes. Her hair was damp from the shower but pulled back into a neat bun; she was wearing a pair of Levi’s and a fresh uniform shirt, the one with the star on the pocket and the embroidered title Assistant Sheriff, under a warm satiny jacket with TIBBEHAH SHERIFF on the back.
The big door of the County Barn was open, and inside the metal-frame building she saw her vehicle up on a lift and Boom Kimbrough under it with an orange bucket. The barn smelled like gasoline, diesel, and engine grease, the place where all the county’s vehicles were fueled up and maintained and where backhoes, bulldozers, and mountains of crushed rocks sat waiting for the roads that haven’t been paved yet.
“Don’t smoke,” he said. “I’m draining out the gas.”
“Fuel pump?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Boom said in his deep but somewhat soft voice for a man who was six-foot-six and two hundred and sixty pounds. Boom had dark skin and a wide, flat face. He moved slowly, with a lot of purpose, and spoke in careful, deliberate ways, often communicating more with his eyes than his mouth. One of his arms had been severed at the elbow while delivering water for the National Guard in Iraq. He wore a prosthetic hand with fittings for various tools he needed as a mechanic.
“How long?”
“Right after lunch,” Boom said. “Unless there’s more.”
“There’s always more.”
“Not always,” Boom said. “Fuel pumps in these Jeeps are always going out. Surprised this didn’t happen two years ago.”
“Maybe I’ll get a new vehicle?”
“Doubt it,” Boom said. “New sheriff said he was cutting the budget. Figure my ass is gone.”
“You work for the county supervisors.”
“You know how I got this job,” Boom said, fitting a flat-bladed tool into his hand, reaching up under the Jeep, and scraping away. He used another hand to twist and pry and he came down with a fuel-soaked pump in his hand, dripping gas.
“I’m gone, too,” Lillie said.
“What did Rusty say?”
“Doesn’t matter what Rusty says,” Lillie said. “Quinn’s out and so am I. Besides, I’d really rather not raise my daughter in Tibbehah County. Both of my parents are dead. Most of my kin who have sense have moved away. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Fixing shit.”
“Besides fixing shit?”
Boom wandered over to a long tool bench and set the bad pump on a dirty rag. He craned a light overhead and began to write down something in a notebook. “My dad’s alive, most my brothers and sisters still live here. I leave and things don’t get done at my dad’s farm. At the church.”
“Screw ’em.”
“Way it works.”
“How the hell could this goddamn place do this to Quinn?” Lillie said, slipping her hands deep into her coat pockets. A chill coming in through the open bay door, despite heaters burning bright from the ceiling.
“You hear from Miss Jean?” Boom said.
“About the intervention?” Lillie said.
Boom nodded. He crossed his good arm over his chest and held the upper part of what was left of the bad one. Behind him, all of his tools had a place, gleaming silver and bright in the lamplight. On this year’s Playboy calendar, Miss December wore a red bikini and frolicked poolside.
“You going?” Boom asked.
“I don’t think Caddy Colson gives a shit what I have to say.”
“But Miss Jean—”
“OK,” Lillie said. “Son of a bitch.”
“All you got to do is be there,” Boom said. “No one is asking you to hold hands and sing and shit.”
“I guarantee there will be plenty of church folks around,” Lillie said. “Quinn and Jean don’t think they know about Caddy and where she’s been. But, come on. They all know she’s a mess, back on drugs. I heard she was wasted out at The River right before Thanksgiving. She was unraveling. Couldn’t keep her shit straight.”
“You blame her?” Boom said, slitting open a box and pulling out a new pump. He set it on the table, picked up a hanging light, and hooked it under the Jeep to shine the light bright and deep. “Besides,” Boom said. “Miss Jean is cooking. I ain’t missing that.”
“Do all mechanics keep calendars of women posing as sex objects?”
Boom fitted a new tool under his hand and nodded. “Most I know.”
Lillie nodded. “That one’s got a pair of aftermarkets up top, not to mention no hips. A woman’s got to have hips.”
“Didn’t notice.” Boom looked to the calendar and studied it a bit as he tightened the prosthetic. “So I’ll be seeing you tonight?”
“Hell, yes.”
• • •
Mickey drove into Jericho and parked out on the town Square, the centerpiece being a big white gazebo and a big marble monument to all the local soldiers who’d died, from the Civil War to all that recent business overseas. The oak trees were bare but full of white lights from Christmas, the shops open for business, which still seemed strange to him, as most of downtown Jericho had been barren for his whole life. Even that shitty old movie theater where that crazy-ass preacher had been hung from a homemade cross was open for business again, showing new and old movies for two dollars a ticket. The side of the downtown that had been taken out by the twister now had a Greek restaurant and two women’s shops. And there was still the Western Wear shop, Doris’s Flowers, and a big coin laundry that was jam-packed this morning. Mickey got out and walked across the street to the little place his ex owned. For some reason, Tonya thought Jericho could really use a combination coffee shop and tanning parlor.
And there she was leaning over the counter, talking to Betty Jo Mize, who ran the local newspaper, glancing up once at him and then returning to her conversation. Despite it being late December, the girl was as brown as a nut. She’d be the same way buck-ass naked. Her skin looked like some kind of stained wood against that gray baseball shirt with red sleeves. Her blonde hair as bleached as her big toothy smile. Her hair was cut up and styled like that woman on television with all those kids, like a barber had taken an axe and chopped off a good hunk.
Miss Mize had a Styrofoam cup in her hand as she passed him. He smiled at the old woman and she spoke back, her being friendly with him since he’d laid down some high-traffic wall-to-wall at the Tibbehah Monitor office last year. As she went out the door, Mickey grinned and set his elbows across the counter.
Tonya put her hands on her hips. “What the hell?”
“I just want some coffee.”
“Hell you do.”
“Your momma come by yesterday to see me,” Mickey said. “Do you know what she said?”
“Good riddance?”
“Nope,” Mickey said. “She wanted to know ‘Who the fuck did I think I was?’ Where does an old woman learn to talk like that?”
“Before she married Daddy, she drove trucks. And after she married Daddy, she drove a backhoe. If she couldn’t dog-cuss those boys out at the lumberyard, they’d walk right over her. You know that.”
“She didn’t need to come to my place of work.”
“Did it hurt your feelings?” Tonya said, smiling just a bit. The first time she’d smiled since he’d walked in the door.
“No,” he said. “Your momma couldn’t do that. What hurt my feelings is that you told her I was late on alimony. That hurt me real bad.”
“You are late,” she said. “You owe me money.”
Mickey tried to look sad, shaking his head. He glanced away and tried to give her a soft, kind of wistful smile, the way he’d done when they first started going out. He’d give her that sad look and say he couldn’t believe she didn’t want to go to bed with him. He’d been so lonely since his wife had left, but that she didn’t give him no love at all anyway. He told Tonya that the woman had shattered his heart.
Tonya wasn’t buying it anymore, walking out from behind the counter and over to a little table where someone had left a couple mugs and a half-eaten muffin. He found himself talking to her back.
“It’s not that I don’t owe you,” he said, “I do. That’s why I came here. I brought you a check. I just finished on a big job. Them people hadn’t paid me a dime till this morning.”
“Then why are your feelings hurt, Mickey?” Tonya said, tossing the muffin and setting the dirty mugs on the counter. “’Cause of what happened a couple weeks back?”
“No,” he said. “I mean, yes. Hell, yes. I mean, I didn’t think you’d turn on me like that. What happened was really beautiful.”
“Come on,” she said. “Must have been the song playing in your truck. I don’t recall nothing beautiful about giving you a quick hand job outside the Southern Star.”
“Meant something to me.”
Tonya shook her head, smiling to herself, finding Mickey kind of funny. And that was fine. He didn’t have any problems with that. As long as she wasn’t pissed at him. She was pissed at him, everything was going to turn to shit. All he wanted was a little room to work.
He looked her over, in those tight jeans with those bejeweled ass pockets and that tight baseball shirt with the words COWBOY UP written across her titties. She stared back, knowing something was turning in his mind. “What?” she said. “What is it?”
He reached into his wallet and pulled out a cashier’s check, getting it official, as she might not have accepted one from Walls Flooring.
“You sure are tan.”
“No shit, Mickey.”
“And you smell nice.”
“I’m not going out to your truck,” she said. “That wasn’t me. That was the Jäger working.”
“I don’t want you in my truck,” he said. “How’d you like to ride down to the beach with me for New Year’s?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and just stared. She looked doubtful as hell, but she was listening. Just as he was about to lay it on out, some fat woman in sunglasses and a big heavy coat walked out from a back room. He bet her big ass was the color of a belt. She thanked Tonya and headed out the front door, waddling as she walked.
“Go on.”
“I don’t want to spend the New Year in Jericho,” he said. “Florida Georgia Line is headlining at the Flora-Bama. You know how much I like that song ‘Sun Daze.’”
“So?”
“So?” he said. “I hadn’t forgot those times.” He leaned into the counter, noticing that a cup of coffee cost three dollars and five tanning sessions cost thirty. He wondered if you could drink the coffee while you tanned, and, if you did, could you get some kind of discount.
“You are two months late on alimony, walk in here complaining about my momma being a real bitch, and now you think I’m going to jump in your truck and head down to the Gulf for some quick hot sex and country music?”
Mickey’s mouth hung open for a second. And then he closed it. “That’s about the long and tall of it.”
Tonya rubbed her hand over her face, lightly enough not to smear all that makeup. She looked up at the ceiling as if dear God himself was going to answer if she should head down to the Flora-Bama. She stared at him long and hard for half a minute until two Chinese women from the restaurant across the street walked in, talking Chinese between themselves.
“What do you say?” Mickey said, giving her a big old smile.
“OK,” Tonya said.
“We’re going to have a hell of a time.”
She pointed the folded-up check at his head. “We better.”