“Wasn’t him,” Lillie said. “His girlfriend might’ve killed a good friend of mine. Cut her up into little pieces and tossed her into a trash barrel.”

“That’s some sick shit,” D’Shawn said. “Must be a white girl.”

“How’d you know?”

“Shit,” D’Shawn said. “My momma told me a long time ago not to mess with a white girl. They turn your ass inside out. Fuck up your damn mind.”

“Not all of us are bad.”

“Maybe so,” D’Shawn said. “Cutting up her own mother? Y’all fucking with me?”

“No, sir,” Hodge said.

“Which shake joint?” Lillie said again.

“Right back down the road at Dixie Belles,” D’Shawn said. “Domino works that lunch shift with the buffet bar. Chicken wings, onion rings, and hot dogs. Horny old men coming right off the airplane and needing some snacks, good loving, and their monkeys jacked. Ain’t no shame in it. It’s just a job.”

“No judgment,” Lillie said, offering her palms. “How about you, Charlie?”

“None whatsoever,” he said. “Everybody’s got to make a living.”

“Don’t call ahead,” Lillie said. “Okay? We’ll keep this between us. Maybe Domino will be so grateful we showed up to help that Christmas might come early.”

“Y’all better watch your ass,” D’Shawn said. “My Domino is a whole lot of woman.”

“So am I, D’Shawn,” Lillie said, turning back toward the steps. “So am I.”

*   *   *

Dusty and Flem had cut work for the day, the rain coming down too long and too strong to stay up on a ladder. They were cold, tired, and soaked, Dusty turning on the heater in their ’87 Chevy Silverado as they headed right for Varner’s Quick Mart, picking what was left of the daily lunch specials. Some fried chicken, green beans, and mac and cheese. The old man at the counter, none other than Luther Varner himself, held a cigarette that looked about a mile long and stared at them as if they weren’t nothing but shit on the bottom of his shoe. Him and Daddy didn’t give the old gray-headed fool the satisfaction of meeting his eye and hustled the Styrofoam containers and cold six-pack of Busch on back to the truck where they ate in silence, smacking their food and slurping their beers like Momma Lennie wouldn’t allow back home.

“Ain’t you glad I was hard on you, boy,” Daddy said. “Or else you might’ve turned out just like that Chester Pratt, soft as warm butter.”

“You was hard on me till you wasn’t,” Dusty said, mawing on a chicken leg. “Me and Darlene took our revenge against you. ’Specially when you was drunk.”