“You hadn’t been out of jail two weeks when you got busted stealing a trailer full of work tools.”

“That was a misunderstanding.”

“Maybe you should’ve shown up in court, then,” Quinn said. “Told your side of the story.”

“That fella said I could borrow them anytime I liked,” Curtis said. “Me and him drinking buddies at the Southern Star. Must’ve had Jäger on the brain the night he offered ’em because now he’s acting like me and him never even met.”

The Essential David Allan Coe kept on playing. “Need a Little Time Off for Bad Behavior.” Looks like I’ve been too good for too long . . . The air hazy under the fluorescent lights, the windows dark and covered with thick metal bars. Curtis had on an Under Armour hoodie and paint-splattered jeans tucked into his mud boots. His sallow face and thin graying beard shadowed under a ball cap, sunglasses resting on the bill.

“I know folks sure do miss you in Tibbehah,” Lillie said. “Maybe you can get that girlfriend of yours to bring you more Popeyes fried chicken.”

“I ain’t seeing her no more,” Curtis said. “Said I wasn’t willing to spiritually grow with her, whatever the fuck that means. Some real Oprah shit going on. I guess that’s what you get when you date a black woman. Did y’all really drive all this way to come and give ole Curtis a hard time? If I knew this was the way my night was gonna turn out, I would’ve packed my toothbrush and a few pairs of underwear.”

Quinn looked to Lillie and Lillie nodded back. Curtis’s hair grew long and stringy down the back of his skinny neck in an epic mullet. His hands down at his sides as he stayed on his metal stool. Quinn couldn’t see a gun anywhere, although Curtis was the type to pick up a chain saw, let her rip, and clear a path for the nearest door.

“The last time we busted your ass, you had a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills in your pocket,” Lillie said. “You’d just gotten back from a long weekend down on the Coast. Said you’d hit the big time playing blackjack.”

“That’s right.”

“You were big-time,” Quinn said. “That work shed of yours looked like the inside of King Tut’s tomb. Fifteen pickup trucks, a tractor trailer. Rolexes, gold chains, diamond rings. Forty guns. You’ve really taken a step down.”

“You got a hell of a memory, Sheriff,” Curtis said, grinning. “I might’ve dabbled from time to time helping folks sell a few things. I didn’t know being a goddamn businessman was a fucking crime until y’all busted in my shop like Navy SEALs on Bin Laden’s ass, making me damn near shit my drawers.”

“Being a fence isn’t a vocation,” Lillie said. “It’s more of an affliction.”