Free The Redeemers by Ace Atkins

trying to shit you in this world, kid.”
    “I say we do it.”
    “Oh, you do,” Peewee said, his crazy owl hair sticking up wild, the lenses of his big gold glasses dirty. “I sure do appreciate the advice since you don’t know nothing about it.”
    “I ain’t telling you what to do,” Chase said, spotting a real sweet little gun, a silver .32 with a pearl grip inlaid with a joker playing card. “I’m just saying let’s move on. It ain’t like we can drive back to Mountain Brook and tell those people we’d been lied to.”
    “We’ll see,” Peewee said. “I’ve been dreaming about raw oysters and titties for weeks.”
    “Can you ask that fella what he’ll take for that pistol?”
    “What pistol?”
    “One right there,” Chase said. “In the glass case. It’s got a really fancy grip on it with the joker card. It looks like something out of a comic book.”
    “Thought you’d like one with the Bear on it.”
    “They make one like that?”
    “Shit, I’m just funnin’ you.” The older man reached into his sagging blue jeans and brought out a blue bandanna. He sneezed into it, wiped his nose, and then used the same rag to clean his glasses. He hitched up his blue jeans, sagging down under his stomach. “I don’t mess with guns. You want to buy the gun, you talk to the man. But I’m not gonna be the one to buy you the pistol that gets you killed.”
    “How you figure?”
    “I ain’t telling your momma that,” Peewee said. “Everyone always talking about how the Sparks boys are bat-shit, they ain’t never met your momma. She makes all her brothers seem like goddamn Ruritans.”
    “Sure,” Chase said. “That’s fine with me. Just give me what I got coming.”
    Peewee waddled back past the glass counters and through a shower curtain hanging over a back doorway. Chase heard the men talking low and kind of mumbled. For a second, he thought he might just be able to slip a hand under the glass counter and get the gun. But he spotted a lock, and when he glanced around the showroom at its four corners—all the stereos, TVs, DVDS, computers, leather jackets, and tools—he spotted no less than five fucking security cameras. Uncle Peewee was right. Fuck a damn duck.
    Peewee wandered out, counting out hundred-dollar bills in his hand and sucking on a lollipop. He handed Chase a green sucker and then counted out a thousand into the boy’s waiting hands. Peewee tucked the rest of the roll down deep into his underwear and then scratched the stubble on his chin. He was wearing a red-and-green plaid shirt over the T-shirt Chase had given him for Christmas. It was of the Grinch and that little old brown dog of his, the one that got screwed, always having to do the heavy lifting. The shirt read GRINCH BETTER HAVE MY PRESENTS .
    “We headin’ over to Mississippi?” Chase said.
    “I said, I don’t know.”
    “We might just see what they got to offer.”
    “I might fart the theme to Green Acres out my ass,” Peewee said. “Or I might not. I just said it’s something.”
    “Something is good when you ain’t got nothing.”
    “Boy,” Peewee said. “You ain’t never held a woman’s coot. And you ain’t never felt that much cash in your hand. Be grateful.”
    “I am,” Chase said. “I appreciate it. I just figured it wouldn’t hurt having a gun. Especially if we’re gonna cross the border.”
    “You ever been out of Alabama?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Haw, haw,” Peewee said. “Shit, do what you want. I’m gonna walk right over to that Cracker Barrel, take me a dump in a clean stall, and then get a Uncle Herschel’s Favorite with country ham and an extra order of hash brown casserole.”
    “OK.”
    “You really want that little peashooter?” Peewee said. “How about you just wait on something bigger?”
    “I just like how it looks, is all,” Chase said. “It’ll do right.”
    “Don’t give a shit what name your daddy gave you,” Peewee said, fluorescent lights flickering on