Thick as Thieves(8)
A large draftsman’s table occupied a far corner. A light fixture with a perforated metal shade was suspended above it. Next to it was a desk with a computer setup. Except for the sawdust on the floor beneath the table where he’d been working, everything was neatly arranged and appeared well maintained.
Finally her gaze returned to him.
He shifted his stance slightly, the soles of his boots scraping against the floor and disturbing the sawdust. “Sorry about…” He made a small hand gesture in the general direction of her midsection.
“Thank you.” She didn’t dwell on that. “So when you listened to the voice mail yesterday, you recognized my name.”
“Yeah. Rumor had been circulating for months that the youngest of the Maxwell girls was back. Living out there alone. Expecting a baby.”
In all the time she’d been back, this was the first time she had come face-to-face with the gossip about her. “Do you know the rest of it?”
“Don’t know who or where the baby’s father is.”
She ignored the implied question. “Are you acquainted with my family’s history?”
“I grew up here.” He said it as though that were explanation enough, and it was. Everybody knew her family history.
“You ever learn where your dad went, what happened to him?” he asked. “Did the money ever turn up?”
She didn’t address those questions, either. “Are you open to discussing my project, Mr. Burnet?”
“I told you. Discussion would be a waste of time.”
“You won’t even consider it?”
“Don’t know how plainer I can make it.”
“Are you afraid that being associated with the youngest Maxwell girl will dent your reputation?”
The corner of his stern mouth twitched, but it couldn’t be counted as a real smile. “My reputation is already dented. The thing is, your project would involve more work than I take on at any one time. I specialize in small jobs. Ones with a short shelf life. That way, I’m not overcommitted or overextended. I don’t like being tied down. I’d rather keep my work schedule flexible.”
She crossed her arms and looked him up and down. “That sounded like bullshit.”
“It was.”
Chapter 3
When the ball game ended in the tie-breaking tenth inning, the crowd at Burnet’s Bar and Billiards had begun to thin out. Now, only a few customers remained in the popular lakeside watering hole, which seemed on the verge of toppling into the opaque water of Caddo Lake at any given moment. But since it hadn’t slipped from its pilings in the forty years that it had been there, no one worried too much about that happening.
Of the eight pool tables, only one was currently in use. A hotly contested tournament among a group of very vocal and rowdy young men was winding down.
A man and woman, seated across from each other in one of the dark, semi-private booths, had been engaged in a hushed but heated argument for the past hour. Seeming to have called a tenuous truce, they left the booth and headed for the exit. The woman flounced out ahead of the man, who punched the exit door hard with the heel of his hand as he followed her.
“I think she’s got the advantage, and he’s in for a rough night,” the bartender remarked to the only drinker left seated at the bar.
Without much interest, Ledge said, “Looks like.” He remained hunched over his near-empty glass of bourbon. The color of the liquor reminded him of something he didn’t want to be reminded of. Arden Maxwell’s eyes were that color. Hair the color of corn silk. An abundance of loopy curls.
“You’re entitled to a free refill, you know.”
Ledge looked from his glass to the bartender. “How’s that?”
“Last holdout of the night gets a top-off on the house.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“New policy.”
“Since when?”
“You want it or not?”
Ledge pointed into his glass. “Make it a short one.”
The bartender refilled his glass without benefit of either ice or water. He set the bottle aside, draped his towel over his shoulder, and leaned down, setting his elbows on the bar to bring himself eye to eye with Ledge. “You rarely stay this late. Bad day?”
“It was okay.”
“Tell me another.”
Ledge took a sip of his freshened drink. The whiskey had just the right amount of sting and felt damn good going down. Real good. Too good. Which was why he always paid for his drinks, even though the Burnet who owned the place was his uncle Henry, who had reared him.
Running a tab kept track of his consumption. He had self-imposed this accounting and was afraid to suspend it. He never took a bottle of hooch home with him, either.
“You go see Henry today?”
Ledge shook his head.
“I know it was bad the last time you went.”
“And the time before that.”
The billiard balls clacked. Half the young men around the pool table reacted with groans of defeat and expletives, the other half with whoops of victory and expletives.
When they quieted down, the bartender said, “May not seem like it, Ledge, but Henry’s still in there somewhere. One of these days he may surprise you with a spark of recognition.”