Burn It Up(2)

Unlisted—no shock there. He hit TALK. “Hello?”

“Grossier?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Emily. Why are you whispering?”

“It’s three a.m., man.”

“And this has been a problematic hour for talking business since when, exactly? Oh, wait.” He could hear a smile in her voice now. “You got a girl next to you?”

Casey glanced down. “Sort of.”

“I’ll keep it quick, but you’ll want to hear this—I’ve got the perfect job for you.”

“I’m not taking any more contracts, Em. I told you that in October.”

“There’s some policy bullshit on this one,” she went on, ignoring him. “Has to go down by March fifteenth.”

“Em—”

“Which is soon, I know, but it’s so f*cking easy. Commercial, super remote, no neighbors for half a mile. You’re in and out and it’s all over before the good guys even get the call. You could do this in your sleep.”

“No, I can’t—”

“Your slice would be twenty, minimum.”

Twenty thousand bucks? Casey wasn’t broke, but a payday like that would certainly make his life a hell of a lot easier . . . He felt sweat break out under his arms and at the small of his back. He eyed the mounted antelope head on the wall above the fireplace, feeling as frozen as that poor bastard.

“Mi-ni-mum,” Emily repeated.

Casey took a deep breath, glanced at Mercy, and screwed his head on straight. “I can’t. I’m in Nevada, for one.”

“Vegas? That’s not far.”

“No, fu—frigging way up near Idaho.”

“Okay, so what? Get in your car and drive. You’re the best, but four weeks is tight, even for a cake job like this.”

“Shit’s changed.” He eyed the baby again. Not shit—crap. Crap’s changed. “I have responsibilities now.”

A pause. “You? Have responsibilities? What kind of responsibilities?”

“I own a bar, for one.”

“A bar? Do tell.”

“Don’t even think about it. I’m not laundering a penny for you.”

“Spoilsport.”

The baby began to fuss. “No, no, no . . .”

“Are you talking to someone else?”

“No, I— Listen, I can’t. We had a great run, but I’m out. I can’t be doing that shit anymore. I’ve got a business partner to think about. I go down and it’s not just my ass on the line now.”

“This doesn’t sound like the Casey Grossier I know. Plus you won’t go down—you’re too good.”

“You’ve got other guys.”

“None like you. Bunch of dumb-ass punks. But you—you’re a f*cking artist, Case. Just this one job. Come on, please? For old times’ sake?”

“I’m telling you,” he said, gently bouncing the now-pissed-off-looking baby, “I can’t.” Even as he said it, he pictured that money. Pictured the scene—smelled it, felt it . . .

No. No f*cking way.

A sigh came through the line. “You’re breaking my heart, mister.”

“I have to get out of that line of work sometime, Em. So do you, for that matter.”

“Twenty grand says I can put off retirement for a few more weeks. And you—the Casey I know would have taken a job ten times trickier than this and for half the payout, just for the fun of it.”

“Well, I guess I’m just not the—”

Mercy woke, squawking and angry.

“Is that a baby?”

“It’s not mine. It’s complicated. Anyhow, I have to go. Nice working with you, Em.”

“I’m keeping you in my Rolodex. I know you—you can’t quit that easy.”

“Watch me.” Casey hit END and tossed his phone on the couch.

“Shush,” he told the baby. “Shush your beautiful face, please. Your mom hasn’t slept in, like, three days . . .”

At four months, the infant book had said, both Abilene and her daughter might soon be getting eight hours a night, but this baby clearly had no designs on higher achievement. Casey had spent a lot of time in Vegas, and he’d known alcoholic insomniac gamblers who were more lovable at three a.m. than this baby was.

Above him, footsteps.

“Shit. Please be Christine, please be Christine.”

There was a chance it was—he was in Christine Church’s home, after all, and she often rose at ungodly hours. Christine and her husband, Don, and their son, Casey’s good friend Miah, lived in this big old farmhouse at the western edge of their cattle ranch. Casey was here about every other night, checking in on Abilene, helping with the baby as best he could, when he really ought to be home, in bed, asleep.

Hell, I shouldn’t be in Fortuity at all.

Or anyplace in Nevada, for that matter—not when he could be back in Texas, saying yes to that contract, looking forward to meeting Emily for a drink to go over the logistics, salivating to get the project going. He shouldn’t be co-owner of a bar. In the light of day, he was glad he was, but just now, when he was sleep deprived and missing his old paydays, his old freedom . . .