Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(18)

“Do me a favor, hon,” Margo said.

“What’s that?”

“Next time you feel like reading, try a Starbucks.”

As if Niobe had a Starbucks.

“Really? You let people talk to you like that?”

“No,” Margo allowed. “But I’m not built like one of the Gilmore Girls.”

“How about you let me fight my own battles?”

Margo stopped mopping and looked Lea up and down. Lea could feel Margo weighing her up like a butcher weighed ground beef. Margo had fifty or sixty pounds on her. All muscle.

“Well, look at you, the last of the hundred-ten-pound shit kickers,” Margo said with a grudging smile. “Hon, you’re a real pretty girl, but you aren’t gonna be pretty for long fighting your own battles.”

“No one stays pretty forever.”

“Maybe, but there’s no call to go rushing into ugly.”

Lea shrugged.

“Well, you do as you like. I’ll be over there pouring drinks and minding my own business if you decide to raise any more hell.”

“I’ll try not to disturb anyone else with my reading.”

Margo shook her head and left her to her magazine. Down the bar, Old Charlie caught her eye and raised his glass to her.





CHAPTER SEVEN


It felt wrong to abandon Judge Birk. Not that sitting here with him helped anything, but it was a pretty day and he doubted the judge got many social calls. During Gibson’s trial, the judge had kept a stocked minifridge in his chambers and had given him an RC Cola before offering him the Marine Corps option. It had been about the first human thing a stranger had done for him in over a year, and RC Cola would forever remind him of the moment his life stepped back from the brink.

Gibson reached for the grocery bag. It had taken calls to six different stores to find the glass bottles that the judge had favored back then. It seemed like a nice gesture at the time but rang hollow now. Gibson opened a bottle, tossed the cap on the table, tipped his head back, and drank. Warm from the drive, it tasted good all the same. He glanced over at the judge, who was staring intently at the bottle.

“Gibson Vaughn, are you going to offer me one of those, or are you here to torture me like my nephew?”

It startled him, and he jumped a little, then laughed at himself. “Offer you one, sir.”

“Well, all right then. Make it a good one.”

And like that, the Judge Hammond Birk that Gibson remembered was back in the saddle—tone and body language shifting more than a decade in the blink of an eye. Except that they were both a long way from his old judge’s chambers.

“I remembered how you liked it. Not sure how cold they are. It was a drive.”

“At this point, I’d drink one if it had been boiled on a stove.” The judge studied him. “I take it since you’re here that my nephew made good on his threat to involve you in his cockamamy scheme?”

Gibson held up the blue envelope, and the judge shook his head.

“Now that’s not right. I’d give him a piece of my mind if I had any to spare.” The judge smiled wanly. “Forgive the gallows humor.”

Gibson handed a bottle to the judge, who held it up to the light like a fine wine before putting it to his lips.

“Now that is something else,” the judge said, his eyes shining and happy. “You know, if it weren’t for your father, I wouldn’t be addicted to these things. Did I tell you about the fridge he kept in his dorm room? RC Cola—only thing he allowed in it. Lord, but those were good days.”

“You did, sir.”

“He was quite something, your father. Duke Vaughn.” The judge said his father’s name nostalgically. “Surprised me when he befriended someone like me. I didn’t run with his crowd. Caused a bit of a to-do.”

“I don’t think he ever did it the way he was told.”

“You’re right about that. So, did I do anything embarrassing?”

“No, sir.”

“Bullshit. Probably didn’t have any pants on. Wish someone would explain what the hell it is with getting this way that pants become heretical.”

“My daughter isn’t a big fan of them either.”

“You have a daughter?”

“Yes, sir. Name’s Ellie. Seven years old.”

The judge gave Gibson an appraising look. “And what about you, son? How did you turn out? Did I do the right thing there?”

“You mean saving my life.”

“Well, that’s a mite dramatic.”

“I’d probably just be getting out of prison now if it weren’t for you. I still have every one of your letters.”

“Ah, well, apologies for being long-winded. Runs in the family, as you’ve probably gathered. But that makes me happy to hear. I’m glad things worked out for you,” the judge said. “Married?”

“Ex-wife.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. A good marriage seems like such a wonderful thing.”

“Should’ve been. Were you ever married, sir?”

“Me? No. They didn’t let folks like me marry back then. And now? Well, I’m not exactly a catch these days.”

“I don’t know, sir. You’re still a pretty sharp dresser. Pants or no pants.”