“You want to cornhole my fine ass on account of that third-string Baptist preacher Skinner,” she said. “You think that old fossil can deliver Quinn Colson’s nuts to you on a silver platter? Please. Jesus God. Skinner can’t do anything of the kind. Not the way you want. All you did was fuck me and Buster White at the same time. All those lies and bonfires of bullshit he started didn’t do a goddamn thing. Now what, Vardaman? You got two weeks until your election and, fuck a goddamn duck, you’ve hit a bunch of goddamn potholes. Two dead kids lost in the boogerwoods, a redneck Hansel and Gretel story. Damn, I’ll give it to you. You sure know how to throw some parties.”

Vardaman smiled, walking slow, lost in thought, around the table, coming up to Fannie at the end and offering her his small, bony hand. She also smiled and stood up, looking bad-ass in a sleeveless pink chiffon blouse, so thin you could see the lace of her black bra. Vardaman rested a hand on her bare, sunkissed shoulder. “And you can do better?”

“Nobody needs to know your troubles.”

“This ain’t your business, Fannie,” he said.

Fannie nodded. She could smell his breath, his face in front of her, onions and charred meat. He reached out with his free hand and stuck it up under her dress, grabbing her quick and hard by the coot. “Now you listen to me,” Vardaman said, squeezing tight. “Don’t you ever come to my town and shit in my bed. You hear me? I tell Buster White what you’re doing and your head will end up rolling up on Panama City Beach.”

Fannie stared right into his face, reaching down into her Birkin bag and extracting her titanium framing hammer with its hickory handle. Before Vardaman could even see what was going on, she knocked the son of a bitch sideways, sending him tumbling down on the ground and howling. The door busted open and a small little honey in black running shorts and a white T-shirt three sizes too small came rushing in.

“Get some ice and towels,” she said. “Man can’t handle his liquor.”

Vardaman was sprawled the fuck out on the ground, legs wide, holding a goose egg spreading through his fingers, blood spiderwebbing down his face.

“Now you listen up and you listen up good,” she said. “I’m your best goddamn chance of packing up this Tibbehah County shitshow. I’ll take care of your problems if you take care of me. Vienna’s Place ain’t going anywhere. You hear me? Buster White is so over the hill I hear he’s already singing hymns about crossing the River Jordan. It’s me, you, and the Chief now. Understand? I own your fucking bony ass now. Or do I need to give you another whack to get through that goddamn thick skull?”