Ace Atkins - Wicked City

“You can speak freely,” Fuller said.

“I’d rather wait,” Arch said.

“You need a shave. Come on, let Georgia take care of you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Arch, you look terrible. Look like you haven’t bathed in a week.”

“I said I don’t want a fuckin’ shave. Now, get your snatch out of here and let’s talk.”

The woman’s head snapped back as if Arch had slapped her and she dabbed off the last bit of shaving cream from Fuller’s face and briskly walked out of the room.

“Arch, there was no need for that.”

“Did you break your goddamn head, too?”

“No.”

Arch leaned in and whispered, “I need to know what you did with that gun.”

“It’s taken care of.”

“What did you do with it?”

“It’s gone. Ain’t nobody gonna find it.”

Arch nodded and leaned back into his seat. He looked around Fuller’s huge garage apartment and four racks of guns by the front door. Western movie posters were tacked to the walls, along with wanted posters and mug shots, maps of Russell County and Columbus. A framed picture of Fuller with Big Jim Folsom and another with Lash LaRue.

“I have news,” Arch said.

Fuller raised up with a groan and placed another pillow behind his back.

“Si is coming back. He plans on resuming his duties as attorney general.”

“What about… you know,” Fuller said and made a circular motion with his index finger around his ear.

“He said he’s well. I spoke to his brother about an hour back.”

Fuller nodded. “I pray for him.”

Arch snorted. “You pulling my leg?”

“No, sir,” Fuller said. “I pray for his soul. I pray for you, too, Arch.”

“Jesus H. Christ, you’ve gone off your rocker.”

“I think those rocks set me straight. When I came to, I saw everything so much clearer. It was like being at the movies when the picture ain’t in focus and someone up in the booth sets it right. That’s the way I feel. I didn’t tell anyone about it till I told Georgia on Sunday. And she had me talk to the preacher. He brought me up front and placed his hands upon my head. All I can say is that I felt a change in me. I don’t see things like I used to. I’ve been washed in the blood of the lamb.”

“Goddamn.”

“Not in here.”

“What?”

“Don’t speak like that in my home.”

“You live in a garage, Bert.”

“I pray for you.”

“I don’t need prayer. I need you to pull your head out of your ass. I need for the goddamn Guard to leave town. Hell, I need a goddamn drink.”

“Georgia?” Fuller called out. And the woman came to him, giving a sour, skeptical look at Arch before sitting in a small chair by Bert Fuller’s side. “Get your Bible, darling. Mr. Ferrell is in some pain.”

“There is nothing wrong with me. You’ve lost your mind.”

“Mr. Arch,” Fuller said. “I’ve never been better in my life. Would you pray with us?”

Arch shook his head, and, as he reached the door, he heard Fuller and his whore girlfriend singing the first verses of “The Old Rugged Cross.”

IT WAS MIDNIGHT, AND JOHNNIE BENEFIELD RAN HIS HUDSON to the redline, taking hard turns on country roads for the hell of it, kicking up dust and grit and spinning tires. You couldn’t see far ahead, clouds covered up the moon that night and out in the country, the headlights sliced across the countryside like knives.

“That’s twin H-power under the hood, buddy. That 308 can press the sonofabitch to 170 horses. This little Hornet can fuckin’ fly. Listen to that buzz. Listen to that.”

Reuben sat in the front seat with his two-tone cowboy boot on the dash, nursing along a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, as he liked to do most nights. Moon sat in the backseat, a sullen child taking up most of the bench.

The fat man ate an ice-cream cone, working his leviathan tongue around the pink mass and slurping on the milk dripping down his hands, wiping his chin on his fatty arms.

Johnnie looked back in the rearview, taking the turns now with one hand on the wheel. “Jesus Christ, Moon. I believe you’d eat till you bust at the seams.”

Reuben took a hit of Jack. He passed it back to Moon, who washed down a big bite of ice cream with the whiskey. He handed it back, and Reuben wiped the mouth with the flat of his hand.

“I ever tell you about the night Big Nigger died?” Johnnie asked. “See, me and him was supposed to crack this safe in Newnan. It was a big job, one of those walk-in Wells Fargo numbers. We got word that this sonofabitch kept all his money in the back of his hardware store. We figured maybe a hundred grand in cash and guns and jewelry and all. But before we could get to it, a couple niggers robbed it on Halloween night. I mean real niggers, not Big Nigger. I don’t know how they knew, but they knew, and we think it may have been one of the stickmen at the Bamboo who told. Anyway, Big Nigger was mad as hell. We had the job all lined up. I could’ve cracked that sonofabitch in five minutes with a stethoscope and a drill. But those goddamn thieves went to it with crowbars and blowtorches. I shit you not. I heard the safe was rigged with tear gas, and one of those boys got it in the eyes real good. I would’ve paid to seen that.”

Reuben jostled a bit as Johnnie fishtailed out onto the paved road and went up and down some small hills on the outskirts of Phenix. He took another hit of Jack. He could smell Moon’s animal stench behind him, and that and the goddamn jitters made him want to puke.

“So ole Jim, Big Nigger, went over to where those boys lived and hopped on one and started choking the ever-living shit out of one of ’em, but he didn’t know the other was there hiding in the kitchen and, when he stood up, the sonofabitch jumped up behind him and blew the back of his head off.”

Reuben nodded, lulled by the long ribbon of blacktop.

“We took both those boys out to the river, shot them just like ole James was shot and kicked ’em right into the river.”

Reuben nodded again.

“Say, what’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“This ain’t my idea.”

Johnnie laughed and drove with one hand while he punched the lighter on the Hudson’s dash. “No, it ain’t your idea, but you’ll sure as shit spend the money we’re about to get paid. Just sit tight and I’ll do all the work. We ain’t paid to think.”

“What if we get stopped?”

“Quit pissin’ your britches. Everything is copacetic.”

He turned down Summerville Road, and they coasted and twisted down the hill past a couple white-clapboard churches and little cottages strung along the road. Most of the lights were out, and they didn’t see a single jeep or roadblock. They soon turned into a little neighborhood on Twenty-eighth Street, and Johnnie took the big engine down to a little purr and killed the lights as they wound their way around the little ranch houses and cottages. Little postage-stamp pieces of lawns with nice mailboxes and short little driveways. Folks who worked in Columbus but lived in Phenix City because it was cheaper.

Soon Johnnie stopped and killed the big jet engine. The windows were down, and Reuben wiped his face with his hand. Moon had worked the ice-cream cone down to a nub and chomped in the backseat until Reuben looked back at him and he stopped.

The air smelled of the pink-and-red box roses planted outside the little houses and gardenias, all heated and freshly watered. They sat there until there was a light flecking on the windshield, the short patter of rain, and then more rain, and Johnnie sat there and smiled and smiled. And Reuben asked: “What’s so goddamn great?”

“This is good. This is better.”

“Will it still go in the rain?”