Ringold nodded and followed Stagg out of the official Rebel office and down a long hallway, through the kitchen, and into the diner. The waitresses and cooks were nervous as cats, craning their necks to see what was to follow after the run-in with the bikers from the other day and finding that poor son of a bitch Hank Stillwell lying facedown in the trash.

There were six of them in his red vinyl booth, the ugliest, stinkiest bastards the Good Lord had ever put on this earth. They were laughing and carrying on and having a big time as Johnny approached his own fucking table, carrying menus and handing them out personal to each and every one of them. “Mr. LeDoux,” Stagg said, “can I get you a complimentary meal? All your boys, too? I’d be honored.”

LeDoux, his arms stretched out wide on each side of the booth, smoked a cigarette in a No Smoking area. He just stared at Stagg, gray-eyed and wild, with the stringy salt-and-pepper beard and long hair. The bald-headed turd who’d come the other day, the one with the tats on his face, looked up at Stagg as if he had some kind of say, grinning like an idiot who’d just shit the bed. Stagg not taking much notice of the other four, couple old, a couple young, tatted and long-haired, wearing their vests and colors like it was supposed to mean something.

“What we do best is still that chicken-fried steak,” Stagg said. “I can guarantee it will make you forget all about anything you got fed in the federal pen.”

He could feel rather than see Ringold behind him, and you didn’t have to be no military genius to recognize the violence of the man. Ringold kept that gun at the ready and not a man in the booth doubted him for a minute.

“Sure,” LeDoux said, lifting his chin. “Bring some for the whole table. And some beer, while you’re at it.”

“We don’t serve alcohol at the Rebel,” Stagg said. “This is a Christian restaurant.”

“But you can get shots of grain moonshine and pussy pie out back?”

Everyone laughed except Stagg and Ringold. What was so funny?

“We are separate establishments, sir,” Stagg said, still grinning. But he was sweating. God damn, Stagg hated when things made him sweat.

And the smell of them fellas—Good Lord, it was offensive in so many ways, testosterone turned to vinegar. Stagg wanted to step back but didn’t want to lose the smile or his welcoming stance. He wanted them to come on in, have a meal, and hear how things worked in today’s world outside the rock walls of Brushy Mountain.

Stagg turned to Ringold, nodded, and Ringold walked over to a waitress.

“Didn’t know if this place was fit to eat at,” LeDoux said. “Finding dead bodies near the kitchen? Next thing you know, a man’s dick will show up in a hot dog bun.”

“Unfortunate, seeing Mr. Stillwell like that,” Stagg said, still standing. He would speak to them, be civil, but wouldn’t take a sit with any of them. You sit with trash and you stink like trash.

“Motherfucker had a big mouth,” LeDoux said. “He liked to talk.”

Stagg smiled and smiled.

“He rode with us a long while,” LeDoux said. “He was a brother. I was at his third wedding. I comforted him when his daughter died. A shame. We’re going to escort the body from the funeral home out to the cemetery.”

“Beautiful thing,” Stagg said. “Y’all zipping around on them scooters. I know he’d be real honored. Just like some kind of show.”

Two waitresses and Willie James appeared with plates of chicken-fried steak, big bowls of mashed potatoes, green beans, and soft white bread. They laid out plates and silverware for the six riders. One of the girls ran off, coming back with a couple pitchers of sweet tea. Another waitress brought some tall plastic cups, her hands shaking. A fine old homecoming for Mr. Chains.

The men, as Stagg expected, all reached across the table like filthy pigs, scooping out and then scraping mashed potatoes and green beans onto their plates, swilling that sweet tea. The bald-headed one lifted a fork to his mouth and Stagg said, “Hold on, sir. You want to join me in a short prayer?”

LeDoux snorted. “Preach, Brother Stagg,” he said, clapping. “Preach.”

Stagg closed his eyes. “Dear Heavenly Father,” he said. “Please bless the soul of Hank Stillwell. He was a good man, if not a smart man, and knew the Devil’s ways. May he find comfort in your bosom and be reunited in death with his daughter.”

“That’s beautiful,” that bald shitbird said and then belched loudly. He and the rest of the crew started to eat.

“Fucking nobody eat yet,” LeDoux said, smiling. His teeth were yellowed and piss-stained. “I got a prayer, too.”

Stagg nodded at him.

“God,” LeDoux said, “vengeance is mine and I will repay.”

“I knew you got some learning in the pen,” Stagg said. “Amen. Amen to us all.”

“Sit down,” LeDoux said. “Break some bread. I’m too old to fight. Fuck it, man. Just fuck it all to hell and back.”

“You sit down with your brother, Mr. Stillwell?” Stagg said. “Before y’all said your good-byes?”

“C’mon, sit down, Stagg,” LeDoux said. “I know you tried to keep me inside. But, shit, no harm.” LeDoux offered his hand across Stagg’s own table. Stagg saw all his own people, all those good and famous folks who’d sat there before Chains: Tim McGraw, Brett Favre (right before he showed his pecker to the world), Mary Ann Mobley, and Jamie Lynn Spears. People who’d made something of themselves.

“No, sir,” Stagg said. “Y’all enjoy your meal.”

LeDoux shrugged and shoveled some food into his mouth. Outside, Stagg saw a sheriff’s office cruiser pull up and roly-poly Kenny Whatshisname get out, talking to the two waitresses who’d brought the dinner. Stagg nodded to the group inside and walked away with Ringold, wanting to make sure that the law knew everything was just fine. Yes, sir. Everything is fine.

“You can’t civilize a barbarian,” Ringold said. “I tried to do that for six years of my life. A barbarian will look you in the eye, shake your hand, and then shoot you in the back. Or blow himself up.”

“Hell,” Stagg said. “I don’t know.”

“That man won’t be happy until he’s finished you off,” Ringold said. “I’ll follow you again tonight in my vehicle. You need to talk to Colson about getting some folks to watch your home.”

•   •   •

“That woman is unstable, crazy as hell, threatening to shoot my pecker off?” E. J. Royce told Quinn. “Holy shit, you gonna stand for that?”

“And why would she threaten you?”

“Because she’s on her damn moon cycle or just hates men,” Royce said. “I ain’t no psychological doctor. All I know is, I offered her some sensible advice and she done pulled a gun on me. You can’t have women pulling guns. What kind of fucked-up world is this?”

They were standing outside Royce’s house, his coonhounds milling about, sniffing tires and stretching their long legs. Royce had called Quinn on his personal cell number, Quinn not sure how he got it. He said he had a goddamn emergency that needed to be addressed right now.

“She must’ve felt threatened,” Quinn said.

“Whose side are you on?” Royce said. “God damn. I worked for your Uncle Hamp before you were even born and later while you were shitting your britches.”

“True enough,” Quinn said. “Do you want to file charges?”

“Yes,” Royce said. “Hell, maybe. I don’t know. I just want you to talk some sense into the woman. You can’t just start whipping out a twelve-gauge on a man.”

“What kind of advice were you offering?” Quinn said.

Quinn had his hands deep in his uncle’s old ranch coat. The coat, the farm, the job, were the property his uncle willed to Quinn before he took his own life, neck-deep in debt to Johnny Stagg. Sometimes the coat itself felt heavy as hell.

“Shit,” Royce said, nearly spewing the words. “She’s trying to kick up all this business about that nigger being killed a hundred years ago. That doesn’t have nothing to do with her and I was telling her to go ahead and leave it well enough alone.”