“I’d never give you advice, Lillie,” Quinn said. “But maybe you should clean up your language? Some folks may find a way to twist it and use it against you.”

“Fuck ’em all,” Lillie said. “And wait and see. You’ll see I’m spot-on about TJ Byrd.”

“I saw her last night.”

“And?”

“Not much of a conversation,” Quinn said. “She walked out onto the porch pointing a twelve-gauge at me and Reggie.”

“What did I say?”

“Isn’t it the boyfriend or husband almost ninety-nine percent of the time when something happens to a woman?”

“That Byrd house is a tinderbox, Quinn Colson,” she said. “Trust me. I’m just surprised it hasn’t blown up sooner.”

FOUR

Saw that Pratt fella came crying to you,” Bishop said.

“Seemed more concerned about those whiskey bottles you broke,” Stagg said. “Not the interest he done owed me.”

“Can’t do much about the man’s intelligence,” Bishop said.

“Chester Pratt ain’t dumb,” Stagg said. “Only shiftless. Lazy and crooked as a tomcat’s peter.”

“Don’t think I ever saw a tomcat’s privates.”

“Damn things look like a bent-up corkscrew.”

Johnny Stagg stood with Bishop in the hollowed-out sheet metal shell that used to house Vienna’s Place. The only thing he’d kept was an antique bar Fannie Hathcock owned that had once been in a saloon in Kansas City, Missouri, and was shipped to Tibbehah County piece by piece. That’s where they’d serve Coca-Cola, fruit punch, pizza slices, cookies, and candy. Little kids getting into all that wholesome family fun with their very own cowboy hat, a mess of them he’d bought special from all the way over in Hangzhou, China.

“On Monday, they start building the town,” Stagg said. “We’re gonna have a general store and a saloon. The livery stable is gonna be the game room where they can play Pac-Man and Space Invaders. Whatever the hell kids are into these days. Only thing I was sure about was having some Skee-Ball and maybe a few of them air hockey tables. In the middle will be the Gold Mine, an inflatable set of tunnels and slides where those children can go buck-ass wild.”

“Quite an idea, Mr. Stagg.”

“Don’t patronize me, son,” Stagg said. “I know what you got on your mind. Chaos, dissension, and anarchy. But sorry, there’s not gonna be no second Civil War. I’ve known for a long time that ole Zeke Coldfield should’ve been institutionalized. Man got his first hard-on watching Mary Pickford at a picture show. All he did was rile you boys up that you were gonna be able to turn back the clock, reset things back to the good ole days when colored people worked the fields and y’all could ride around the Square on horseback. Your head held high while toting an AK-47.”