Burn It Up(61)

Dancer took the cigarette from his lips and blew a jet of clove-stinking smoke to the side. “Ah. Well, that’s not exactly private information, now, is it? More like small-town gossip.”

That was as good as a yes in Casey’s book. “You get straight with me right now, or I swear to Christ I’ll beat you senseless.” Dancer had an inch or two on him but probably weighed twenty pounds less. Whether he could scrap or not, Casey couldn’t say, but he was only happy to find out.

“Last time our paths crossed I picked a bullet out of you, Grossier. Patched you up nice. It’d be real ironic if this time you gave me a reason to put one back in you.”

Casey eyed Dancer’s jacket, one pocket filled with his hand and quite possibly more. He cooled some. In all honesty, he didn’t want Abilene seeing a fight, and though he bet Dancer was bluffing, he sure as shit didn’t want her seeing him get shot in the thigh, or anyplace worse.

“You got any clue who you were talking to?” Casey demanded.

“Name he gave me was Ware. We had a little business transaction to settle, now he’s out. He wasn’t a hundred percent pleased with my service, so it seemed prudent to placate the man with a little harmless intel. Customer service and all that.” He took a long draw off the cigarette. “And as all your bones appear to be intact, I don’t quite gather what your beef is with me.”

“A gunrunner, fresh out of prison, comes to you and asks where to find a girl? And it doesn’t occur to you to lie and say you got no f*cking clue? You got any sense of human decency at all?”

Dancer shrugged and pushed the sunglasses up to his forehead. He exhaled more smoke in Casey’s direction. “I don’t know the girl. I got no loyalty to the girl. I got no loyalty to anyone who doesn’t owe me something I’m hoping they’ll live long enough to deliver, so what the f*ck do I care about her?”

Casey’s blood was pounding in his temples and throat and fists, but he held himself steady. Kept his hands at his sides, well away from the gun. What had he expected, anyhow? An apology? A show of fear? This motherf*cker had about two emotions, and neither of them looked a thing like regret.

“I’m feeling real hurt, here, Grossier,” Dancer said, brows drawn up in a false show. “I mean, I give you medical attention, out of the kindness of my heart—”

“So my brother would owe you,” Casey corrected.

“And I help your little business partner find those pesky old bones and clear his good name.” He meant Duncan. And true, Duncan had said he wouldn’t have gotten to the bottom of last year’s drama without John Dancer’s advice. “Now this is my thanks? I share a bit of innocent information—about a girl I got no obligations to, to a man who’d pistol-whip me as soon as ask twice—and I get your ass up in my face, demanding what, exactly? An apology?”

“You got some f*cking nerve on you.”

“Your girl—your employee, or your f*ck, or whatever she is to you—she okay? Did he hurt her?”

Casey didn’t reply, fuming inside. Guy had a point. Had something bad happened to Abilene as a result of all this, he’d have more than adequate cause to break Dancer’s teeth. But as things seemed to be turning out okay, he’d only look like a psycho if he got violent. He stepped back a pace.

“I’m f*cking watching you,” he said, jabbing a finger in Dancer’s direction.

A smile. “I’ll be sure to wear my good panties, then.”

“Fuck yourself, Dancer.”

“Somebody has to.” He turned his attention to his cigarette, killing it with a long suck, then grinding the butt under his heel. That done, he turned his back on Casey and headed to the rear of his van.

Casey returned to the diner fuming. The bells jangled violently, pulling him up short. He cooled himself, hand seeking his lighter in his pocket, fingering the smooth corners, seeking calm. No doubt everyone in here had heard his shout and watched that interaction, and he felt their eyes on him now.

Casey rarely showed his anger. He didn’t feel angry all that often, in fact, and didn’t like the sensation. If an emotion was going to leave him feeling out of control, let it be euphoria or excitement or lust. Shame enveloped him in a breath. His dad had hit Casey and Vince when they’d been little. Not a lot, and never too hard, though there’d been a couple times when their old man’s hand had risen, open palm, knuckles out, only to get lowered again with a slow, purposeful effort. Casey shoved his own anger down, resenting this sensation. Resenting anything he found inside himself that painted him as his father’s son.

As he walked between the booths and counter, he heard somebody tell their friend, “I really thought he was gonna deck that pervert.”

By the time Casey reached Abilene, he was calmer, though he knew his cheeks and nose were red and condemning. He slid in behind the table, shifting his gun around as discreetly as he could.

Abilene’s lips were a flat, white line, and she watched him as he sat.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Just had some things to say.” He doubted she’d heard anything they’d said apart from the first shout.

“What’d he do to you?”

“He’s the one who told your ex where to find you. Sort of. Who told him to come after me, anyhow.”

“Oh.” Her gaze went to the back lot, but Dancer was gone. “That’s crummy, but I suppose plenty of people could have done the same. It’s not exactly a secret that I work for you. Or that we’re close,” she added softly, turning to free the baby’s head from her tiny hood. “Anybody from Benji’s could’ve told him as much.”