The Ranger - Ace Atkins [9]
“Is there anything of his you wanted?”
She shook her head and gave a weak smile, stubbing out the cigarette. “That house is gonna be more trouble than it’s worth. You do know about the note he owed?”
“Come again?”
“Your uncle borrowed some money against the land.”
“He was broke?”
She shrugged.
An elderly coupled shuffled in through the glass door, the bell jingling above them, and found a place by a propane space heater where they could warm their old bones. The old man helped his wife take off her wool jacket and waited until she’d sat down. Mary punched out the cigarette in a tin tray and glanced back to the kitchen. Order up.
“Which bank?”
“Wasn’t no bank,” she said. “He borrowed from Johnny Stagg. You know ole Johnny?”
“You know, that’s the second time I’ve heard that son of a bitch’s name since I got to town.”
“Quinn Colson.”
“Wesley Ruth.”
“Don’t I still have a warrant ’round here for you?”
“Statute of limitations.”
“You did steal that fire truck, didn’t you?” Wesley said, grinning. “Just between us?”
“I think I had some help,” Quinn said and gripped his friend’s hand.
Wesley kept on pressure-washing mud off the tires of the sheriff’s truck, the truck that still bore Quinn’s uncle’s name on the front doors. He then lifted each boot, hitting the mud off the soles, telling Quinn he’d spent the last four hours looking for some teenagers who’d broke into Mr. Varner’s store overnight and stole ten pounds of hamburger meat, some buns, ketchup, and four gallons of sweet tea. “I just drove around till I smelled the burgers and walked back into the woods, where they were having a cookout. Even invited me to join ’em.”
“You charge them?”
“I got ’em in a cell to scare the shit out them,” Wesley said. “It’s up to Mr. Varner what to do. They didn’t do much damage to the door. I think one of them boys is half retarded or high on dope. Maybe both.”
“I hear you’re acting sheriff.”
“Can you believe that shit?”
“You’ll do fine.”
“You like being in charge?” Wesley asked. “’Cause I sure as shit don’t.”
“I’m a platoon sergeant. I got forty teenagers who think I’m an old man. I’m the one they call when they get hauled in for drunk driving or beating someone up.”
“Never thought either one of us would make thirty,” Wesley said, giving a slight smile.
“Hamp said I’d never make twenty if I didn’t change my ways.”
“Mama Tried,” Wesley said. “Your uncle was a good man, Quinn. I sure am sorry.”
“You know anything about him having a dog?”
Wesley finished up on the last wheel and roped up the hose and turned off the motor, pushed the washer back to the department garage, and locked the gate. He nodded and said, “I hadn’t seen Hondo all week. Went out last night trying to call him.”
“You making much headway with this?”
“With what?”
“Finding out what happened.”
Wesley, tall and as thick-necked as when he’d played football with Quinn in high school and then for two years at Ole Miss, wrapped his arm around his buddy and steered him on into the sheriff’s office. “There ain’t much to find out.”
“No chance something went wrong?”
“He wasn’t exactly a hated man, Quinn.”
“He was sheriff. People can hold a grudge.”
“You’re welcome to look for them. But I was there, Quinn. He’d planned the damn thing out. I know you saw Lillie and I know she got her mind chewing on things.”
“Was there a note?”
“He got his point across.”
Quinn nodded before they stepped inside, where he could see people walking around, deputies and a secretary tending to the business of drinking coffee and taking phone calls. He saw Leonard and George, two of his uncle’s deputies who were there when Quinn had left a decade ago. Leonard, square-headed with a buzz cut, looked up from across a desk and gave Quinn a two-fingered salute.
“How’s Meg?” Quinn asked.
“Left me for an insurance man in Jackson.”
“And your son?”
“See him on the weekends.”
“You look fit.”
“Hell, I look fat,” Wesley Ruth said, rubbing his shaved head. “You look like you don’t weigh a hundred pounds.”
“Y’all running tests on all this?”
“We are.”
“What a mess.”
“It’s good