Houston didn’t look happy when he joined Stagg at the booth or when he said, “No offense, Johnny, but we a package deal. My fucking boys don’t sit at no kids’ table.”

“C’mon, Mr. Houston,” Stagg said, grinning. “You’re the one that wanted to meet. Come on. I’ll buy you and your boys whatever you want. Grand Slam breakfast? Santa Fe Skillet, Banana Caramel French Toast?”

“I wouldn’t let my dog eat that shit,” Houston said. “And he licks his ass.”

“How about coffee, then?”

“Don’t drink coffee,” Houston said. “I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs.”

“Ain’t that something?” Stagg said. “What some folks might call ironic.”

“It’s my fucking religion,” Houston said. “I made it out. What I heard, you made it out, too. Where you get your start? You don’t look like you came from no trust fund, coming out the cooch with a silver spoon.”

Stagg just grinned at him, bony hands warming up on his coffee mug. He wore the tattersall shirt he’d bought on the Oxford Square during football season, with a red Ole Miss sweater-vest and pleated navy pants. He wasn’t ashamed to say he’d spent nearly three hundred dollars on a pair of handwoven moccasins to be worn with fancy socks. Stagg recalled when his momma made him and his brother exchange underwear on different days of the week because she hated doing wash. Stagg brushed at his chapped, reddened cheek, motioning away the waitress with the nice backside for a few moments while they discussed all the options Denny’s, America’s Favorite Diner, offered them.

“My people from Marshall County,” Houston said. “You heard of R. L. Burnside, the blues player? He was my great-uncle. Man could rip the shit out of a guitar. Women in France would rip their bras off and hand them over just to hear him play.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t know him?”

Stagg sucked on his tooth, rotating the warm mug in his hand. “I don’t listen to nigger music, Mr. Houston.”

Houston grinned wide, showing some gold teeth. Stagg knew the man would like him to cut through the shit, get right to the point, that this wasn’t about them becoming buddies and pals, but just how they would keep the goddamn Mexicans out of the city and keep a good thing going. There really wasn’t much to consider. Stagg moved it. Houston sold it. Now Houston wanted more of a cut and that wasn’t exactly surprising to Stagg. What was surprising is that Houston would want to be seen anywhere near Stagg, as you could bet sure as shit that the DEA or FBI or ATF or who the hell ever would be bugging their Banana Caramel French Toast this morning, wanting Stagg to follow his old pal and mentor Bobby Campo to the Cornhole Suite at the federal pen.

“You got kids?” Houston said.

“I got one.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy,” Stagg said. “Don’t see that it matters.”

“I got twelve kids,” Houston said. “I got two of them with a Mexican woman I met when hiding out from Johnny Law down in Mexico. You ever been with a Mexican woman? Whew. Damn straight, with all that sweet brown skin and black hair. I’d live down there if those motherfuckers hadn’t decided they wanted to have me killed.”

“Those Mex sonsabitches mean business,” Stagg said. “We had some of those boys in Tibbehah a year or so ago. They found out this local boy was trying to screw them out of a gun deal. Lord have mercy, they rode into Jericho like they was Pancho Villa wanting to fill him full of a million holes.”

“They kill him?” Houston asked.

Stagg shook his head. “Gave himself up to the Feds. I’m still waiting to read about him getting shanked by ole Speedy Gonzales in the shower.”

Houston nodded. “Man, you a trip.”

Stagg studied him, tilting his head a bit. “Son, are you wearing two watches?”

“Yep,” Houston said. “One is platinum and one is gold. East Coast and Central.”

“May I ask why?”

“’Cause I’m expanding.”

Stagg laughed. Even through all that black shuck-and-jive bullshit that never made any sense to him, Stagg liked the boy. He liked that he’d called the meet, liked that he was going to ask for a larger cut, and liked that he’d crawled up from a world of shit to control his future. Stagg had been born to a manure salesman out of Carthage. Houston had come from a goddamn inner ring of hell in the Dixie Homes housing project.

“Sure you don’t want breakfast?” Stagg said. “It’s on me.”

“OK,” Houston said. “Maybe some of that French toast shit.”

“With the fruit or without?”

“All the way.”

“Figured that’s what we got.”

“Or maybe I want some of that goddamn Moon Over My Hammy,” Houston said. “But that don’t mean I’m gonna eat the whole thing. You can have your half and a few extra bites. I ain’t asking to go equal on this shit. Just give me a little of that ole Hammy and maybe some hash browns and shit and a sip of Coke.”

“I know,” Stagg said, holding up his hand, “ain’t nobody that goddamn stupid. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t in agreement.”

Houston snapped shut his menu. The waitress arrived and he told her that he just wanted pancakes and hash browns and to bring a bottle of ketchup.

“A whole bottle?”

“You know, Mr. Stagg, you ain’t at all like Bobby Campo.”

Stagg nodded. “Appreciate that, sir.”

“I never sat down at the table with Bobby Campo.”

“He made a lot of mistakes,” Stagg said. “He was reckless. A fuckup.”

Houston readjusted his rose-colored shades and grinned. Two of his teeth were gold with diamonds inlaid. He smiled some more, adjusting each watch on each wrist. “Who you got up there by the door?” Houston said. “He don’t look old enough to shave.”

Stagg sipped some coffee. Put down the mug, warmed his hands as the heat curled up to his face. “Oh, just a new friend.”

“Funny how you being all cool with the meet and greet and all that shit.”

“Me and you got a good thing going,” he said. “If someone were to try and break it up, I just want to make sure he knows he ain’t invited.”

“I think you and me gonna make a fine team,” Houston said. “Don’t let anyone fuck with my people.”

“Good to hear that, Mr. Houston,” Stagg said. “Much appreciated.”

You could just marry Ophelia Bundren and move into her house in town,” Lillie Virgil said, “or y’all could just move in together. Everyone in town knows y’all are screwing like rabbits anyway. People say you’re the first warm thing that girl has held in her hand in a good long while.”

Quinn hadn’t been inside the sheriff’s office two minutes when Lillie had walked into his office and started talking about his personal life. It usually took her at least four or five. Lillie was his chief deputy and was never really good at appropriate workplace conversation.

“I met with Stevens,” Quinn said, tossing his ball cap on the desk and taking off his ranch coat. He hung the coat by the door and sat down behind his desk, propping up his cowboy boots. “He thinks the DA may go after murder charges on both of us.”

“Hot damn.”

“Seriously, Lillie?” Quinn said. “This might go to the grand jury when they’re in session. They’re going to say I killed Leonard Chappell in cold blood. And that you shot those three men yourself.”

“Well, that would make me look pretty impressive,” Lillie said. “But how exactly do they say I killed the two other men?”

“Stevens said you brought two rifles with you,” Quinn said. “That’s the reason the bullets don’t match.”