By Monday—hell, maybe by Sunday—he’d feel some sense of regret for leaving like this. Mostly because Danny was going to be dumb enough to buy drinks all night; partially because the idiot had actually wanted Josiah around to share his windfall. Right now, though, there wasn’t any way he could take it. It was only twenty-five hundred dollars, but it had fallen into Danny’s fat, sweaty palm, not Josiah’s.
He was at the parking lot exit, foot on the brake, waiting for a chance to pull out, not paying any of the passing cars a bit of attention except to look for a gap, until he saw a black Porsche Cayenne fly by.
That son-of-a-bitch student, still in town. The car incensed him, made him want to stamp on the Ranger’s accelerator and ram right into the back of it, watch those taillights bust. He pulled out behind it and did hit the gas a touch, as much of a burnout as his worn tires would allow, then felt stupid for it. Peeling out in front of the casino on a Friday night was almost like yelling for the police on a bullhorn, asking to be arrested.
He drove more slowly but stayed behind the Porsche, followed it up the hill and out of town and then thought, Oh, man, it’s going to be hard to pass this one up, when he saw its turn signal come on just in front of Rooster’s, then watched it slow and pull into the bar’s gravel parking lot. Just what he needed to tempt him tonight—some rich kid going into a local bar like it was a damn tourist attraction. Stare at the country folk, maybe take some pictures. Ask more questions about Josiah’s own flesh and blood.
He pulled into the parking lot and watched the driver’s door of the Porsche open and the kid step out, big as a damn barn. Josiah had him in the headlights, could see the muscled-up shoulders and chest. There was someone with him this time. The second guy was white, with short hair and one of those three-day beards that was supposed to make him look casual, indifferent. Older than the black kid, but not so old you’d have to feel bad about beating the shit out of him.
They disappeared inside and Josiah cut his ignition and shut off the lights. He’d been spoiling for a fight all day, and now he was going to get it. Size of that black kid, it was clear this one would be a sight. Wasn’t nobody going to be talking about Danny Hastings and his twenty-five hundred bucks once Josiah finished this.
11
THE RAMSHACKLE JOINT Kellen drove them to had a neon rooster on its sign, but no name. Maybe the bar wasn’t even called Rooster’s. Could be they’d just taken a shine to that sign. Inside, it was a warm-looking place, old but clean. A handful of people were sitting in the booths that lined one wall, maybe six more scattered around the bar. Two guys tossing darts in a corner.
“You again!” the blond woman behind the bar said, squinting at Kellen. “Give me a minute, I’ll remember it. Hmm… got a K in it. Kelvin?”
“Kellen.”
“Darn! Should’ve had it. But you haven’t been down here in a long time either, so it’s really your fault.”
“Can’t argue with that,” he said, and ordered a beer, asking for whatever was light and on draft. Eric held up two fingers, figuring it would be a good idea to shade on the light side for the rest of the evening anyhow, the way his mind was playing tricks.
“You need anything else, yell for Becky,” the woman said, sliding the beers over.
Kellen nodded. “I’ll remember it. Now, think you could find TNT on that TV?”
Becky tried the remote and didn’t have any luck getting a response, tossed it down and stretched up on her toes to reach the TV. Good long legs, nice tan. Maybe forty-five. Older than Claire by a decade. Claire had great legs…
“Here we go,” Kellen said. “Thank you.”
He’d requested a basketball game, Timberwolves playing the Lakers. Eric despised the Lakers. He used to get dragged down to the games now and then by a producer friend who always considered it a business venture and spent the game with his back to the court, peering around the stands in search of A-listers. Eric, who’d been a pretty big basketball fan at one time, particularly of college ball, had hated the Hollywood aspect of the Lakers games, Jack Nicholson down there courtside in his damn sunglasses barking at the refs, other stars miraculously finding their way to the games only when they were on national TV.
“You wanted to know what my brother did,” Kellen said, and nodded at the TV. “Number forty for Minnesota.”
“No shit?” Eric said.
“None. I was recording this, hate to miss any, but what the hell.”
Eric found number forty and saw the resemblance immediately. A few inches taller than Kellen and lankier, without the bulked-up muscle, but the head shape and the facial features were clear matches.