TWENTY-SIX

That’s some real Caligula shit going on there, Quinn,” Agent Holliday, aka Jon Ringold, said to Quinn. The men leaning against the tailgate of Quinn’s F-150 outside Maxwell Federal Prison Camp in Montgomery, Alabama. Quinn had driven three and a half hours, leaving at daybreak, to meet the federal agent. “Only problem is that you and I both know that Johnny Stagg won’t ever say shit about something with Vardaman. He and Vardaman threw in together a long time back. I talked to the prosecutor, and, sure, he’s willing to make a deal with Stagg. But he’s gonna have to come up with something real juicy and solid and worth our time.”

“I know the when and where and why,” Quinn said. “Just not the who.”

“But you’re sure it’s not Vardaman?”

“Pulled the trigger?” Quinn said. “Yep, I’m sure. But who made the call? That’s what I need Stagg to answer. Back then, he was king of north Mississippi.”

“This kid had balls,” Ringold said. “Trying to shake down a state senator and all his crooked shitbird pals. Damn. He must’ve had a pic of Vardaman screwing a billy goat.”

“Maybe,” Quinn said. “All I found were pictures of the hunt lodge and the woods around it.”

“Anyone in them?”

“Nope,” Quinn said. “And no damn goats, either.”

“Stagg doesn’t have to know what you’ve seen or haven’t seen.”

“No, sir,” Quinn said, nodding. “He does not.”

Holliday had grown his beard out long again, nearly down to his chest, his head clean-shaven, looking like some sort of hipster monk. He had on a black T-shirt and black leather biker jacket with jeans. Holliday had been undercover when he and Quinn first met, going as Jon Ringold, gun for hire, under Stagg’s command out at the Rebel Truck Stop. There’d been a time when he nearly exposed himself to Stagg, saving Quinn’s ass during a shoot-out with a motorcycle gang. Real fine folks called the Born Losers.

Quinn walked around to the passenger side of his truck and pulled out a box of Liga Privadas he’d been keeping for a special occasion. He handed them over to Holliday, offering his hand.

“Congrats on the marriage,” Holliday said. “Should’ve known you’d make a good thing out of a bank robber case.”

“Maggie and Brandon are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Sorry about your truck,” Holliday said, shaking his head. “That was one good-looking pickup. Rest in peace, Big Green Machine.”

Quinn leaned against the tailgate, looking over at the flat, one-story brick prison building and then back to Holliday. “I know you can’t say much.”