Ray knew he wasn’t going to let go of the whole Fannie Hathcock debacle, knowing Ray and Fannie were intimate friends on occasion. The Chief once remarked to Ray that he could smell evil all over him. Ray thought it was some kind of Indian trick, but then he realized he meant the Chanel No. 5. Not to mention, there was also the matter of a young kid named Mingo who had worked for both Chief Robbie and Fannie. When push came to shove, the kid went to Fannie. God forbid if the Chief ever knew how all that shit turned out.

The Chief nodded and accepted Ray’s hand.

The big man’s grip was like putting walnuts in a fucking vise. Ray could feel the old cartilage in his hands crack and pop. He squeezed back as hard as he could and gave the man a solid wink. They were pals now, friends again, the sun would shine down on Mississippi for their wonderful ole confederacy of crooks.

“Before you go,” Ray said, smoothing down the edge of his silver mustache, “I have a favor to ask.”

“For Vardaman?” he said. “Or for you?”

“For Mr. White.”

The Chief folded his arms across his chest and listened as Ray told him about the unfortunate incident of Wes Taggart being arrested in the motel in Biloxi.

“Could he hurt us?” Chief Robbie asked.

Ray didn’t say anything, just leveled a dead-eyed stare at the big Indian and nodded.

*   *   *

“I don’t have to talk to none of y’all,” Wes Taggart said. “My goddamn American rights have been shit upon ever since this dyke bitch busted into my motel room in Biloxi and aimed a pistol at my peter.”

Lillie looked up at Quinn. “He’s right,” she said. “I didn’t mirandize his pecker. But it was so damn small I couldn’t see it.”

“See what I’m talking about?” Taggart said. “You hear the kind of shit she’s pulling on me? I’m a fucking white man in America and don’t need to be treated like a crackhead.”

Quinn stood over him in the interview room at the Tibbehah County Jail. The interview room wasn’t much; an eight-by-eight cinder-block holding cell with walls painted a light green. Somewhere Quinn had heard the lighter color soothed the inmates, but his first suspect had taken off his pants and shit on the walls trying to spell out his name. They painted over it the same green as it had always been.

“You know me?” Quinn said. He left his gun on his desk and kept his clenched fists under his biceps.

“Naw,” Taggart said. “Why would I?”