“I seen it,” Stagg said. “I know he’s getting out. Ain’t no surprise to any of us. Story in the Daily Journal about who LeDoux is and what he’d done.”

“I did what I could,” Stillwell said. “I don’t think Diane Tull wants this out in the open. She’s a real private person. If she’d told everything and pushed the sheriff’s office, maybe then.”

Stagg nodded. He opened his hand toward a chair in front of his desk.

Hank Stillwell took a seat, all jittery and nervous, leg pumping up and down like a piston. Stagg just watched the beaten man, a man he’d known when he’d been cocky as hell, with all that leather and denim, long red hair and long red beard. Man used to look like a Viking. Now he looked about as tough as some blue-haired old lady.

“I could do with some more money,” Stillwell said.

“That’s why you come?” Stagg said. “More? For doing what?”

“I appreciated what you give me,” Stillwell said, “but I’ve run out of food. And the bank says they gonna take my trailer. If I could just get another thousand till the end of the month, I can make it back. I got a job interview coming up at the Home Depot up in Tupelo. Gardening Department. Plants and stuff.”

Stagg nodded.

“If I were you,” Stagg said, “I’d shag ass out of town.”

Stillwell looked like he might be a little drunk, although he wasn’t slurring his words a bit. The man’s coat reminded Stagg of what quail hunters used to wear when he was growing up. This one looked just about as old, plaid and washed out of any color. Stillwell’s leg kept on jumping. Maybe he was on some kind of prescription pills.

“So what if he comes to town?” Stagg said, feeling his face twitch a bit. “What the hell could he do?”

“Blow both our brains out.”

Stagg felt his cheek twitch a bit. He swallowed, leaning back into his big chair. “He doesn’t want to go back to getting his dance card punched every night,” Stagg said. “He’s crazy as hell, but I know the truth about LeDoux. LeDoux is a damn businessman. He’s already trying to shore up a pipeline between here and El Paso. The other night, he had a fiesta for the cartel boys left in Memphis. They had whores and skag and one hell of a time. A goddamn revival. That’s what’s on his mind.”

“He thinks I’m the man who put him in prison,” Stillwell said. “I’m pretty sure he wants that squared.”

“Did you?” Stagg said, grinning. This was part of the Stillwell story that he’d never heard. Stagg liked it when the story picked up, adding another layer, getting interesting.

“I took some money from the Feds once,” Stillwell said. “Long time ago. They fucked me in the ass and walked away like I was on fire. I ain’t proud of it.”

Stagg shook his head as if Stillwell was the sorriest piece of shit he’d ever seen. It was one thing to stoke the fire with LeDoux now. But to throw in with the law back when you rode with the man? That was an altogether different matter.

“Always heard they had someone on the inside,” Stagg said. “LeDoux pissed off a dear and personal friend of mine up in Memphis. He was the one who sicced the big dogs on them bikers. But I guess they couldn’t have done it without you, Mr. Stillwell. Congratulations. No wonder you’re leaving skid marks in that chair.”

Stagg laughed. Stillwell was shaking all over as if he’d caught a chill. “You got something to drink?”

“We got thirty-one flavors like anyplace else.”

“I need some whiskey,” Stillwell said. “I need it bad. I had a hard time just keeping my car heading straight.”

Stagg craned his head at the bank of television monitors and the black-and-white images of the convenience store, diner, and restaurant. He saw the classic Plymouth parked sideways under a tall lamp. “Fine automobile,” Stagg said. “Yes, sir.”

Stillwell’s teeth chattered and he clutched that old mackinaw coat across his body. His eyes were almost colorless, broken blood vessels across his cheeks. Johnny Stagg didn’t think he’d seen a more sorry son of a bitch in his entire life. Almost felt some pity for him. Almost.

Stagg let out his breath, picked up the telephone, and told Jelly—a girl who’d gone from top-of-the-pole to fat-in-the-ass and now worked behind the bar—to bring them a bottle of Jack. “What color is that car of yours?”

“Metallic green.”

“Original color?”

Stillwell nodded, still shaking. “Bought it brand-new.”

“Well, I’ll be . . .”

•   •   •

Sometimes Lillie listened to crazy-ass talk radio coming out of Tupelo just for the fun of it. To hear the right-wing nut jobs, a person would think they needed to stock up on water, canned food, weapons, and seal the walls up around them. It seemed to the brain trust operating out of Elvis’s hometown that a new Civil War was brewing between those in the White House and regular hardworking families who didn’t want to give “urban people”—a new racist code word—free money while American morals were being flushed down the toilets by Hollywood gays. Right after the host advised a caller that the government shouldn’t reward people for being unemployed, there was a station break, with a commercial for the network. They desperately needed donations to keep American morals and Christian thoughts alive and well.

Lillie had heard enough. She turned the radio to Classic Country 101 and one of her favorite George Jones songs. God rest the possum.

It was about nine o’clock when she saw Hank Stillwell lumbering on out of the Booby Trap, tilting side to side. He looked as drunk as a goat, wandering in the snow. Maybe he’d gotten some companionship inside for forty dollars a song or a hundred to finish things off.

Men . . .

Lillie craned her head from where her Toyota sat in the shadows and watched as Stillwell started to extract the keys from his pocket. She couldn’t let him drive, but she wasn’t ready to leave.

She had to stop him and reached for her door handle just as Johnny Stagg emerged from the front door, striding across the lot and through the snow, bigger than shit. Lillie stopped. And waited.

•   •   •

Stagg reached Stillwell and grabbed the drunk man by the arm. He’d never in his life seen a man drink down a half bottle of Jack like it were nothing but milk. He held the man upright and told him that he sure had him. OK, he’d hold that note on the Road Runner. He’d even give him until the first of March. Just as a good friend would do.

“But if you can’t come up with the thousand,” Stagg said, “I can’t pull no more favors.”

“Yes, sir,” Stillwell said.

Stagg handed him an envelope and Stillwell reached into his pocket for his keys. Stagg sought out the one for the car and handed the rest back. Hell, he wasn’t about to take the man’s trailer, too. Just then, Jelly’s fat behind wriggled out into the parking lot with the dumb girl wearing a nothing of a dress and holding a transparent umbrella over her head to stop the snow.

“Jesus, don’t you have no coat?” Stagg asked.

The girl shook her head. She looked to Stagg with those same dumb eyes she had when he told her she was gonna bend the goddamn pole. And so he’d put her to work at the bar, selling tank tops and tearing tickets.

Stagg put his hands inside the warm coat he’d bought at Hinton & Hinton in Oxford, treated canvas lined with Indian blanket. “Go ahead, Hank,” Stagg said. “The girl is cold.”

He stripped off the threadbare mackinaw and handed it to Jelly.

Stagg was getting tired of doing business out in the open, looking around the lot and seeing nothing but the great silent trucks with red parking lights glowing in the dark. He patted Stillwell on the back. “Make sure this man gets home and don’t get run over,” he said to Jelly.

“Everything’s gonna be just fine,” Stagg said, turning back to the Trap. “I got Mr. Chains a nice welcome-home gift. Keep him nice and warm.”