All the Devil's Creatures by J.D. Barnett

father’s age whom Bobby had known his whole life, whom he’d seen nearly every Friday evening after school as a boy when he and daddy would make their father-son ritual drive to this unincorporated area outside their dry town and daddy would buy that week’s case of beer at McGee’s liquor store across the black top from the roadhouse. McGee always had a piece of jerky for him.
    “Bobby Henderson,” McGee said. “Can’t believe you’re three times seven.”
    “Yessir. And then some.”
    “Hellfire. That just makes me feel old. Might be gettin’ ‘round time for me to hang it up. How’s your daddy?”
    “Fine. Fishing every day.”
    The barman’s expression turned to well-practiced sympathy as he polished a glass. “And your momma?”
    “Still hanging on.” Bobby’s gaze did not falter.
    McGee walked down the bar to wait on other patrons. The place was just filling up with the Friday night crowd: roughnecks and good ol’ boys, old coots and bored, wild women. Hank Williams, Jr. blared from the juke box. A band started setting up on stage, college boys in dark t-shirts.
    Bobby nursed his beer and McGee returned. “So what brings you in here, deputy?”
    “Just wanted a beer, I guess. Things been a bit tense since the Bordelon murder.”
    “Shoot, I guess that’s right. The blacks liked to take over the square the other day, didn’t they?”
    Bobby looked him in the eye. “I guess.”
    “Is it true a group of ‘em’s camping out on the courthouse lawn?”
    “Yep. Some of the Rev’s people from around the state stayed behind. They say they’ll be there till justice is done. I guess they mean till we catch the bastards and they’re convicted.”
    “Can’t be too soon for my taste. Though I can’t say I mind the extra business from the news people.”
    Bobby followed McGee’s nod to a corner table filled with men and women in professional dress. They drank draft beers and fiddled with their phones, or sat back and watched the crowd, or talked and laughed together.
    Bobby said, “So. Anybody been in here talking about killing black folks?”
    McGee smiled. “Nope.”
    Bobby took a sip of his beer. Then he said, “You know the Tatum twins are back in town.”
    McGee laughed. “Son, your investigative method lacks subtlety. But I’ll tell you one thing: I banned those boys from this place two weeks ago.”
    “How come?”
    “Picking fights. Duane in particular’s a loud mouth. And Wayne just sits there, quiet, covered in those prison tattoos. Like he’d as soon break your neck as look at you. They’re trash. Their daddy was trash. And so on, time immemorial.”
    A cocktail waitress approached and said she needed three bottles of Bud and three tequila shots. McGee fixed her up and returned to Bobby. “I’ll tell you, son. I wouldn’t put anything past those Tatum boys. They’ve always been ugly. And prison turns a person mean. I recognize some of Wayne’s tattoos, if you know what I mean.”
    “Prison gang?”
    “Shoot, I reckon. He’s got them Nazi lightning bolts right here.” He pointed behind his left ear.
    Bobby said, “Aryan Brotherhood.”
    McGee did not respond but reached for a glass to polish. The band had begun to tune up, and the barman nodded toward them. “These fellas aren’t half bad. Out of Shreveport.”
    Bobby took a few more sips of his beer in silence while McGee polished glasses and watched the band. The barman no longer seemed at ease, as if he had just realized that he had not been conversing with a shy little boy whose father had frequented his store but rather with an officer of the law.
    “Anything else you want to tell me?”
    McGee put down his glass and looked Bobby in the eye but continued to massage the dish towel in his hands. “Like I said: I banned those boys. I don’t abide any violence in my establishment. Now, I’ve given you all I have.” He eyed the table of news reporters. “A lot of my other patrons might not be saints, they