The Ranger - Ace Atkins [95]
He knocked on the door and still heard nothing, but saw it was unlocked and let himself in. A propane space heater burned on a wall under a hunt painting and a barrister bookcase filled with rare volumes. Johnny Stagg always respected the judge for being such a learned man. The fireplace smelled of burning cedar.
The silence was so strong, the popping logs nearly made him jump.
He called out to him.
The judge answered from a far back corner of the house.
The judge was in his study, mounds and mounds of books and files and unopened bills and letters around him. All four walls of the room held sagging bookshelves of law and history, mementoes of the past. Blanton sat looking at a computer screen but stood when Johnny Stagg entered and shook his hand, offering a cocktail.
“A little early, Judge.”
“Is it?”
“It ain’t even nine o’clock.”
Judge Blanton rubbed his unshaven face and clicked on a banker’s lamp. The greenish light came up on his bloodshot eyes and white buzz cut, which was grown out to the point of lying straight. A tall crystal glass with melted ice gone brown sat at the edge of his desk. Stagg spotted a black-and-white photo of a much younger Blanton surrounded by some Marine buddies. He read the inscription. “You were in Korea? Sure looks cold.”
“Let me make some coffee,” Blanton said, standing.
“I need help, Judge.”
The judge sat back down and nodded.
“I want these Memphis people gone.”
The judge nodded some more.
“They might try and kill me,” Stagg said, feeling his cheek twitch. “They blame me for Gowrie, and I feel like I got a target drawn on my back.”
“What’d they say?”
“When I called back, Campo wouldn’t answer,” Stagg said. “I’ve called him about a hunnard times. Some man answered about an hour ago and said to never call this number again.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Means they’re gonna wipe the floor with my ass,” Stagg said. “I can’t come up with that kind of money. Even if I could, I never made a nickel off Gowrie. Never a nickel. Shit fire.”
Blanton shook his head and reached into a desk drawer for some more whiskey. He poured some into the watery glass, again offering some to Stagg, who declined. Stagg felt himself licking his lips as Blanton drained the glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Stagg could smell the aged whiskey.
“I’ll take that coffee,” Stagg said.
“Johnny, you mind me asking how you came into contact with such people?” Blanton asked. “You’ve sunk us.”
“You knew.”
“Hell I did. Can I ask what you were promised?”
“Money. Favors. Good-ole-boy promises.”
“Ever try another bank?” Blanton asked. “Nobody would’ve held you responsible for this whole deal not working. You never promised us a sure thing.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Stagg said, rubbing his hands over his face and neck despite the cold sweating through his undershirt. “You know better than anyone how this state works. Campo promised things you can’t pay for. Certificates and contracts and men in Jackson who make things happen. You ever hear that the world is round?”
“Johnny, I could’ve told you that brass key to the men’s club comes with a price.” Blanton stood, heading toward the door. “Who are these men?”
“You know these men better than me, Judge. You got yourself a gold key a long time back.”
“I’ll put on that coffee. Tell me what you know.”
“This wasn’t my plan. It ain’t my fault.”
Blanton asked: “What about Hamp Beckett? What was he promised?”
“He didn’t give a shit as long as the money come in regular,” Stagg said, shaking his head. “These people invited him down to Biloxi, gave him the VIP till they won their money back. They’s the ones who broke him. They broke his mind, Judge.”
“You tell this to anyone?”
“Hell no,”