He wasn’t really annoyed . . . or shouldn’t be, at any rate. That little moment had actually been really kind and genuine, two qualities Vince didn’t display without some personal discomfort. By Grossier standards, you could’ve slapped some touching music behind that conversation, cued an “I love you, Dad,” and rolled the credits.
But Casey was rankled nonetheless. Irked. If it felt patronizing, it ought to—before returning to Fortuity, he hadn’t ever given anybody reason to expect him to be reliable or responsible or do anything that didn’t directly benefit him. Vince knew that better than anyone. And if he was a little pissed, it was only because he had witnesses to this transformation, a load of people who’d known Casey the self-interested opportunist before now, and had every right to be surprised.
So maybe it wasn’t annoyance at all. Maybe it was a little bit of shame, a little bit of hard-earned humility.
He watched until Vince disappeared around the bend, and replayed that parting look his brother had shot at him.
Keep this up and maybe you won’t turn into Dad after all.
Maybe that’s what that expression had been saying.
Even if it hadn’t been, the thought sent a shiver through him. He headed for the house, rubbing his arms against the morning chill.
• • •
James Ware found what he was looking for right around high noon.
Fucking Fortuity, he thought, slamming his door, eyeing the scrubby, desolate badlands, squinting against that relentless sun. The old camper van was right where he’d expected to find it, parked where the creek banged an angle from south to west. And if the van was here, its owner couldn’t be far.
“Dancer,” he called. No reply. He walked straight up to the van, rapped on the passenger door. “Dancer.”
A shriek came from inside— Goddamn, that terrible fucking bird. Sure enough, a white parrot came clambering over the seat’s headrest to stare at James, its black eye judging, head bobbing, feathered mohawk flaring.
He turned at the sound of the rear doors squeaking open, and circled around to the back.
The man of the house hopped out of the van in jeans and little else—no shoes, no shirt, a bent, hand-rolled cigarette smushed behind his ear, half-lost in his messy black hair. His eyebrows rose and he smiled blearily—just awoken or thoroughly stoned? James didn’t care to guess.
“Well, well, well, look who’s been released. You get good behavior or something?”
“No, I got a good lawyer.”
“This calls for a toast.” Dancer leaned into the van and straightened with a bottle of rum, his long, fatless body moving with a weird, tweaky grace.
James put his hand up. “Here strictly on business.”
“Suit yourself.” Dancer uncapped the fifth and took a swig, then tossed it back inside. “Our last transaction got lost in the shuffle. You want your shit?”
“Or the cash value. Frankly I could use the cash more.”
“Well, that’s real good, as I already sold that inventory to an interested party. Not exactly the sort of thing a man needs lying around under his bed, you understand.”
“Perfectly.”
Dancer cupped an elbow, stroked his little beard. “So lemme think. I found you, what? Twelve units?”
“Fourteen, you fucking prick.”
“Right, of course. Fourteen. And you paid me what, to source them? One twenty-five each?”
“One seventy-five. Try to cheat me one more time, John. Just try. I gave you twenty-four fifty up front, and I want twenty-four fifty in my hand before I leave here.”
“Let’s call it fifteen hundred, taking the burden of handling and storage I assumed into the equation.”
“Let’s call it fuck you, I want my twenty-four fifty.”
“Two grand.”
“I’m not gonna fucking say it again,” James warned. “I know you made yourself a nice profit; now, comp me or we never do business together again.”
Dancer sighed. “You drive a hard goddamn bargain—you know that?”
“Most of your associates too high to keep track of their own math?”
Dancer grinned at that and climbed back inside his van. He returned a minute later with a thick stack of fifties and twenties. James counted them out, then tucked the wad into his front pocket. “Better. You’re off my shit list, if barely. And you can get on my good side if you can tell me anything about Abilene Price.”
“That a girl?”
James nodded. “Twentysomething brunette, looks about sixteen.”
“Sounds just like my type. Go on.”
“Big blue eyes, Texas accent.”
“This gets better and better. I’ll give you five hundred bucks.”
“She was working at that shithole bar downtown, but I haven’t seen her come or go yet, and I need to know where she’s living.”
“Ah. I do know who you mean, actually.”
“You’ve seen her?”
“Benji’s only has about three bartenders,” Dancer said with a shrug. “Kinda tough to miss. Also tough to miss that you didn’t list ‘vastly pregnant’ among her many physical charms. You got yourself a dependent, Jimmy?”
“You know where she lives or not?”
“I don’t. But I know who would—Casey Grossier.”
“Grossier? Some relation to Vince?”
“His little brother, though they don’t look much alike. He’s the girl’s boss. Him and this British prick named Welch bought the bar off Benji’s daughter last fall. I doubt Welch would tell you shit about his employee’s whereabouts—he’s a cagey motherfucker. But Grossier might. He never fucking shuts up, and he can be bought, if nothing else. He just moved in above the drugstore on the main drag.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Hard to miss. About your height, red hair, red beard. Drives a silver Corolla, or sometimes an older Harley-Davidson, also silver.”
“He pack like his big brother?”
“Not sure. But he’s not dangerous like his brother—not in any obvious way. Smart, though you’d never guess it. Smartest dumb-ass you’ll ever meet. Rumor mill says he ran a bunch of cons downstate and in California and Texas, but exactly what, I’m not sure. But he’s friendly with the girl, and chances are, her employers know where she lives. I can ask for you, if you want. Asshole owes me one—I took a bullet out of his leg last summer.”
“No doubt that offer comes with a fucking price tag, so no, thanks, John. But I’ll bear you in mind for future transactions.”
Dancer smiled, smug. “Much obliged. Anything else you need? Just got a case of what I think are quaaludes. Haven’t tried one yet. Yours for a song.”
“Not my product.” James offered a final nod, then turned to head back to his truck.
He locked the cash in his glove box and started the engine.
Next stop, Casey fucking Grossier.
Chapter 9
Casey parked his bike on Station Street in front of the drugstore just as the streetlights were blinking on. He unstrapped his duffel from the back of the seat and found his house keys, circled around, and let himself into the stairwell that led up to his apartment. Miah was on bodyguard duty for a couple hours, so Casey could run some errands.
On the floor beneath the mail flap sat a small mountain of envelopes, mostly junk with the previous tenants’ names on it—catalogs for medical supplies, that kind of sketchy, DIY shit. But sitting on its side, up against the wall, was a small brown box. He stooped, heart pounding. Sure enough, it had his name on it, and the cheerful purple logo for LifeMap, the DNA testing company, above the return address.
“Goddamn.”
He’d paid for expedited shipping but hadn’t expected it to come overnight. He could’ve used a couple extra days to wrap his head around the possibility that this little box might just be better at predicting the future than him or his mom. It could tell him he was fine. Or it could tell him he’d be crazy by the time he hit forty.