She wished she could’ve told Ray about Vardaman standing up to her and reaching out to grab her by the snatch. He would’ve found a lot of humor in the way she knocked his spray-tanned ass sideways with the framing hammer. Sitting there bleeding from his temple, all the son of a bitch could do was nod and nod, listening to what Fannie knew and what she could do about it. She held his fucking saggy nuts in the palm of her hand. And with him, Chief Robbie, and Marquis Sledge up in Memphis in line with her, Buster White didn’t matter worth two shits. It had taken a while, but, goddamn, she had it all. Everything she wanted. And everything Ray had trained her for.

She heard a car coming in from the south and she watched it slow near the mounds, turning in and parking by her Lexus. Fannie couldn’t see the make or model, some kind of black sedan, maybe a Cadillac or a Lincoln. A big man crawled out and closed the door. He had his head down, hands in his pockets, as he approached her. Fannie’s hand reached for the little gun in her pocket, ready to pull and shoot if he made a false move. As he walked closer, she could tell it was the man the Chief had told her about, a big, strapping Indian with long black hair, a wide, flat face, black eyes, and a busted nose. He looked like old pictures of Jim Thorpe.

“Miss Fannie?”

She nodded.

“You wanted to talk in person?”

“That’s right,” she said. “You’re a big one, aren’t you? You look familiar as hell. Have me met?”

The man shook his head. His wore his hair pulled into a ponytail, a black leather jacket, jeans, and black cowboy boots. Chief Robbie had told her about the man and what he might do for her and for Vardaman. She didn’t know his name but heard he was a military badass back in his day, some kind of Green Beret Special Forces dude that had come home to become the Chief’s personal and loyal pit bull.

“How soon can you do it?” she asked.

“I will need help.”

“OK.”

“Someone good.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The man stood there in the cold, a truck rambling past on the two-lane kicking up leaves and dirt, lights momentarily shining across his dark face. He kept staring at her, no expression at all.

“I do know you,” she said. “Or you know me?”

“I know who you are, Miss Hathcock,” the man said. “I’ve heard many stories about you.”

Fannie shifted on her nice Italian booties, taking a drag of a cigarillo. “Whatever you heard about Miss Fannie has been greatly exaggerated.”