The Ranger - Ace Atkins [12]
“Good to see you, boy,” he said, stepping forward and offering his small hand. “I guess we need to talk about this situation here.”
Johnny Stagg came from a family of hill people, moons-hiners and dirt farmers who were unfit for society. They all possessed that same bright red skin, even in the winter, and crooked teeth stained brown from muddy well water. Stagg was a slight man, not even coming up to Quinn’s shoulders, and kept a permanent smile on his face like a man who enjoyed every second of living or found the world a humorous place. Quinn shook his offered hand out of manners, waiting for Stagg to drop the bomb on what he really wanted. His hair was oiled back, as had been the fashion in his day, and he smelled of cheap aftershave and cigarettes. His suit was ill fitting and dark, and he wore an American flag pin on his lapel. He introduced the older man with him as Brother Davis, the pastor at his church.
“Brother Davis was at Hamp’s funeral but didn’t have a chance to speak,” Stagg said. “He thought he’d have a moment with both of us now. Maybe a short prayer.”
Brother Davis had wrinkled skin and a gold tooth. His eyes looked confused behind the dirty lenses of his glasses.
“Y’all want a swig?” Boom asked, holding up the bottle.
Stagg bit into his cheek, the smile fading and then returning. “Naw, I don’t touch that stuff anymore.”
“What are you serving out at the truck stop?” Quinn asked. “Kool-Aid?”
“I don’t have nothin’ to do with that place anymore,” Stagg said. “I sold it two years back.”
Stagg smiled some more. Brother Davis smiled, too.
“God love you,” Quinn said, walking to another junk pile in the front yard and tossing more into the bed of his truck. Stagg followed him, continuing to talk, as if he didn’t find any insult in Quinn turning his back. This pile was mostly Hamp’s old worn-out shoes and coveralls, issues of Field & Stream, and torn pieces of flannel he’d been using to plug holes in the walls.
“I didn’t want you hearing this from a lawyer,” Stagg said, still grinning. Quinn tossed more tattered rags into the pickup and waited a beat to hear him. “Your uncle owed a mess of money up against this old house. I helped him out awhile back with some work, but he never did repay me. I’m sorry, but I can’t go broke on this here deal.”
“Did he sign over the land?”
Stagg looked over at Brother Davis, and the country pastor smiled, showing off a couple of gold teeth.
“I got papers with me,” Stagg said, handing them to Quinn, Quinn holding the papers into the glow of the headlights and scanning a legal document that looked as if it had been typed out by a monkey. Maybe three paragraphs, and Hampton’s scrawl at the bottom.
“This loan here,” Quinn said. “You’re going to have to prove that it wasn’t paid.”
“I’d hoped we could settle it without all that mess,” Stagg said. “Lawyers ain’t gonna do nothin’ but leach off what’s left. Can I have them papers back?”
“Nope,” Quinn said, folding them and tucking them into his coat pocket. “I’ll take this to my attorney in the morning.”
Stagg’s face lit up like a jack-o’-lantern with a crooked-tooth grin. “Just the same, please hand those back.”
“You come out to my uncle’s place the day after he’s buried with some two-bit preacher to steal land that’s been in my family for generations, and you expect me to sit here with my thumb up my ass and pray? Get the hell out of here.”
“This was a business affair between us,” Stagg said. “And this man here is a reverend.”
“I know who he is,” Quinn said. “He used to drain our septic tank when I was a kid.”
Brother Davis scowled and sucked at a tooth.
Boom walked up beside Quinn, standing a good head taller than everyone, and didn’t say a word, just loomed there over all the garbage and refuse in the headlamps and faded light. “C’mon, Quinn.”
“You can handle this deal any way you like,” Stagg said. “Paper or no paper, your uncle owes me a lot of money for use of them machines and personal loans. You don’t believe me, you just call up my competition.