Damn, it was fun to be back in the goddamn saddle.

“We waited and waited, Mr. Pratt,” Stagg said. “And you never showed. Seems like you was trying to make a monkey outta me.”

“I wasn’t trying to make a monkey out of no one,” Pratt said. “Please. Can he please let go of my neck? I got back problems and need to use the toilet.”

Stagg reached down and patted Chester’s cheek, looking up to Bishop and nodding. “Me and you had a done deal,” Stagg said. “Don’t tell me you’re rethinking my kind and most generous offer?”

“No, sir,” Pratt said, standing up and rubbing out some kinks from his neck, red marks across his skin where Bishop had grabbed hold of him. “Everything’s just gotten kind of complicated. I know you said you could get me out of trouble with the law. But at the moment, that’s not my most urgent and pressing concern.”

Stagg leaned back into his swivel chair, nodding, waiting for the bullshit to flow from Chester Pratt like creamed corn out of an old goose. “Mm-hmm,” Stagg said. “And what would be more urgent and pressing than keeping your ass on good terms with the law?”

“Just how were you figuring on helping?” Pratt asked. “Just for conversation. You got a line on that Quinn Colson? Do you have some kind of photos or something to make him back off? Maybe Sheriff Colson and the girls from over at the old Booby Trap doing the dirty bop?”

“How I work and what I do ain’t none of your concern, Mr. Pratt,” Stagg said. “I told you the law wouldn’t be on you about what happened to that Byrd woman. And you agreed to make me a full partner in your business right across the road there. That seems about as simple as simple can be. Mr. Bishop? You got that agreement with you?”

Bishop hadn’t stopped staring at Chester Pratt. He stood wide-legged and jackbooted in camo pants and a camo vest over a gray hoodie, smelling of kerosene and cigarettes. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the contract folded long and halfway and placed it nice and gentle on Stagg’s desk. Stagg appreciated the man’s professionalism.

“I’ll even let you use a special pen given to me by the chancellor of Ole Miss this Christmas,” Stagg said. “Sent me a handwritten note and everything. Ain’t that class?”

Pratt didn’t seem to be listening. He just leaned against Stagg’s desk and closed his eyes. Mr. Bishop stood not a foot behind him, stroking his brushy beard, looking like he would take a great deal of pleasure in kicking the dogshit out of ole Chester Pratt.

“It ain’t that simple.”

“It ain’t?” Stagg said, finding himself laughing. “Seems simple to me.”

“I didn’t kill that woman.”