The Ranger - Ace Atkins [46]
The pecan tree looked like it had been sculpted, not grown, sitting there in the side lot of the liquor store, rooted in the air with most of the dirt eroded away, leaving only a tangled mass in the hard-packed ground. Quinn and Lillie parked on the street and approached the game, the five players not glancing over once as they got close. Quinn watched their hands and movements more out of instinct than any real worry. He could only imagine these guys thought they were going to get tossed from their daily game. Lillie greeted them like old friends, and apparently knew a couple of them from some minor arrests. They lifted their eyes from their cards and said hello, none of them moving or asking what they were doing wrong. The men were all in their twenties and wore heavy coats and scarves, and crisp and bright new baseball caps.
“Which one of y’all is Peanut?” Lillie asked.
No one looked up.
“I’m not here to hassle any of you,” she said. “I’m looking for Latecia Young. And Latecia isn’t in trouble, either. We’re trying to find a fella named Shackelford.”
One of the men lifted his eyes from his cards, front chair legs settling down to the dirt. He was skinny and wore a St. Louis Cardinals cap. He had green eyes and an earring in each ear. He looked to Quinn and then Lillie, and nodded. “That guy is a piece of shit.”
“So we heard,” Quinn said.
“She don’t have nothing to do with him no more.”
“Where is she?”
“She at work.”
“Where does she work?”
“She’s a maid at the Indian casino.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “She gotta go back to Jericho with y’all?”
Lillie shook her head. “We just want to know where to find Shackelford.”
“She stay in the Gray Stone with her momma,” he said. “First one on the right when you drive in. Upstairs.”
Lillie nodded and he nodded back.
“You won’t find her till tonight.” Peanut’s eyes went back to the cards, carefully choosing a couple, as Quinn and Lillie turned to walk away from the old tree.
As they reached Lillie’s Jeep, the phone rang in Quinn’s pocket, and he answered.
“Quinn, can you meet for lunch?” Judge Blanton asked, taking a long breath. “Stagg made an offer.”
“I can be there in ten minutes.”
Quinn parked outside the El Dorado Mexican Restaurant a little before noon, saying hello to the owner, a portly little guy named Javier who’d owned the place since at least Quinn’s twelfth birthday party. It had been a good birthday party, with a piñata and too much candy, and Quinn vaguely recalled vomiting in a sombrero. But Javier didn’t seem to hold a grudge, as he led him through the main restaurant past a buffet getting stocked with ground beef and cheeses and tons of chips and tortillas. Quinn hadn’t eaten since his mother’s church spread yesterday, and he felt like grabbing a plate right there, eating while listening to what Blanton had learned.
But he removed his hat and walked into the large, empty room, seeing food already laid out on a large table, steaming piles of chips and plates of enchiladas and tacos. Plenty of salsa, guacamole, and beans, and right near the end sat Johnny Stagg, in a buttoned-up hunting shirt, along with an older man in a suit and red tie.
Stagg stood up and offered his bony hand to Quinn.
Quinn just looked at it, and Johnny sat back down.
“Didn’t know we had company,” Quinn said.
“Figured we could make this a friendly meeting,” Blanton said, keeping his seat and motioning to an open chair. “Does that work?”
“What’s the offer?”
“Let’s eat first,” Blanton said, pulling out a chair. “Would you like a beer? We’re no longer a dry county.”
“I’d like to see the offer.”
Blanton reached into an old leather satchel and pulled out a legal file, handing Quinn the top sheet. Quinn read it.
“The timber’s worth more than this.”
Blanton nodded that old buzz-cut head and met Quinn’s look with hangdog eyes. “And he’ll excuse all the debt.”
“It’s fair, Quinn,” Stagg said, scratching his cheek. “But let’s break some bread or some of them ole tortillas.” Stagg