“There was a time when I would’ve had you arrested on sight,” Chief Robbie said, hands on his hips, staring right through her with his coal black eyes.

“Really?” Fannie said. “I’m glad those times are long gone.”

Chief Robbie sniffed at the air, looking like one of the good Indians from the Westerns, maybe getting down to one knee and running his fingers over the worn carpet. Two salesmen from Slapout, Alabama. Walked toward the seafood buffet.

“What would you like to drink?”

“I can get it.”

“Not here,” he said. “I’ll have drinks brought to us. Follow me.”

She told the Chief about her special drink, the exact relationship of the grenadine to the gin to make a Dirty Shirley, and followed him toward what used to be their signature steakhouse but had now been sealed off with Visqueen sheeting and drop cloths for painting. He opened a door marked WET PAINT and led her into a big, empty room, where she kept aware of her nice new boots and the splatters of white paint throughout. Her heels made slapping sounds on the plastic as Robbie made his way to a large round table with a half-dozen stiff-backed metal chairs around it. He waved his hand toward a chair and sat at the opposite end. Fannie feeling silly, since likely nobody else would be joining them.

Ceiling fans worked above, lightly lifting the sheets of plastic, making it feel like waves were running beneath the floor. A woman in a tuxedo shirt and a string tie walked in and set two drinks on the round table. A pink gin for Fannie and what looked to be a neat whiskey for Robbie, although she wasn’t sure he actually ever drank. This looked to be some kind of ceremonial deal.

“Whatever happened to those motorcycle people you had working for you?”

“There was some trouble,” she said. “And they just kind of scattered. Why?”

“Just wondering who you can trust now,” he said. “I heard about your predicament with Mr. White.”

Fannie raised her eyebrows, not liking so small of a word for such a big-ass problem. A predicament was shitting your pants while at church. Losing control of the entire north Mississippi corridor was a flaming, full-tilt fucking problem. She stirred the cocktail with a swizzle stick. Chief Robbie didn’t touch the glass. He stared at her from across the table as if he were still pissed from four years ago. Christ Almighty. Let it go, man.

“Were you surprised?”

“No,” Chief Robbie said. “I had asked for Mr. White to get rid of you a long time ago. I think you’re a wild card. Not to be trusted. Instead, he handed you half the state.”