“And God will make things right?” Tashi said, not recording but recording everything in her mind. “That’s what you believe?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Caddy said, nodding, absolutely sure of it. “It has to. God would never leave us hanging like that. Never.”

*   *   *

It was nearly midnight at Vienna’s Place and most of the election results were in, Vardaman kicking the crap out of his competition, not even damn close, taking the state by more than eighty percent. Not that the news was unexpected, but Fannie poured herself another celebratory glass of pink Veuve Clicquot, the same stuff that Ray always had chilled for her. Tony Bennett on the stereo, the bed turned down with rose petals and chocolate on the pillows. Maybe a few new outfits from Agent Provocateur with all the bustiers, thigh highs, and little snaps and clasps that he liked. Fannie raised her champagne to Ray, that slam dunk election, and to her dearly departed grandmother who set her on the right career path. Don’t you ever take shit from anyone, Vienna always said. And don’t you ever forget that a man keeps his brains in his shorts. Use that pecker like a steering wheel.

Fannie had been working to be in control of her damn life since she was a knobby-kneed teenager, washing stains from the towels and sheets, bleaching all that shit clean, promising herself that she’d be the one calling the damn shots one day. And that she’d always, always be in control. Midnight Man reached across the bar and poured the last of the champagne, turning to the TV she was watching and then shaking his head as he walked off.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t see that coming?” Fannie said, smirking a bit. “Vardaman’s political porn to these fuckwads.”

“Yeah?” Midnight Man said in that low, hoarse whisper, almost to himself. “We always see that shit coming.”

Fannie drank the champagne, tasting so sweet, bubbles tickling the back of her throat. Damn. She and the Chief were finally in charge. After the Chief’s people paid Buster White a visit and laid down the fucking law, that fat bastard was of no more importance than a senile greeter at Walmart. She’d run north Mississippi and now part of the Coast over to New Orleans, and the Chief would take his cut and do his business through the Rez. The Chief had put the terms to Buster White, the son of a bitch not taking it so well, nearly having a heart attack himself, making threats, and promising retaliation that they all knew would come. When Vardaman was in charge, she’d have to keep that fucking leash tight, but she’d still be taking that man out for a walk every week.