Burn It Up(84)

He smiled at the vinyl banner strung along the awning that ran above the bar’s front door, the one telling passing carnivores that this place was going to be ready to meet their lunch and dinner needs soon. It read GRAND OPENING, EARLY SPRING, and provided the staff fell into place, they were on track to keep that promise.

He flipped the bolt closed behind himself and eyed the jukebox, considering it. Music might make taking stock a little less boring, but the silence was nice, in its own way. He liked the way his footsteps sounded on the floorboards, the random little creaks and groans of the old building as he strode to the office to fetch the inventory list. The front of the bar faced east and the morning light was nice this time of year, silvery and calming. Plus, Sunday or not, the contractors would be in soon enough, filling the place with their sanding or sawing or who knew what else, so he might as well enjoy the peace while he had it.

The workers did indeed arrive shortly, a few minutes after seven. Casey let them in the back door, then returned to his clipboard duties, tallying up every bottle and every bag of chips, every keg in the dusty basement, every lemon, every box of straws. When he next glanced at the clock, it read ten forty—ten twenty in bar time. He grabbed the laptop Duncan had bought for them to handle their accounts on from the office and set himself up at a high top before the windows, enjoying the last few rays before the sun rose to hide beyond the—

He frowned as a truck pulled into the front lot. A black truck. He slid off the stool, waiting with his hands on his hips, watching Ware park in the middle of the near empty lot, climb out, regard Casey’s bike for a moment, then aim himself at the door. Casey met him there, already wearing his sternest face. He flipped the bolt and opened the inside door as Ware tugged the screened one open. The both of them stood there for a breath, taking up roughly the same real estate on either side of the threshold.

“Grossier,” Ware said, with a little nod.

“You need something?” He wouldn’t be rude—this was still his lover’s ex, after all, and the father of a child whose history he felt bound to respect. But he wasn’t feeling all that friendly yet.

“Saw your bike out front. Can I have a word?” Ware asked. “Ten minutes, maybe?”

Casey stepped aside, holding the door. Letting this guy know whose territory he was entering. He nodded to the table with the computer on it, shutting the thing as they sat down.

“This about Abilene?” Casey asked.

“Not exactly. This is about me. And about business.”

Wary, Casey kept his expression stony.

“Sign out front says this place is going to be a barbecue joint in a few weeks’ time.”

“That’s the plan.” And the wailing tools and the radio drone coming from beyond the plywood partition ought to confirm it.

“You hire all your cooks yet?”

Casey blinked, surprised. “Why? You looking to be one of them?”

The man shrugged. “I’ve been all over this f*cking county, looking for honest work—Abilene’s told me, I don’t earn clean money, I don’t get to pass any along to her and the kid. There’s not a ton of options for guys who’re straight out of the pen.”

“There’s Petroch.”

Ware laughed silently, not looking especially amused. “I’m pushing forty. I’ve got a working back for now, and I’d prefer to keep it working for a couple more decades. And if somebody wants to start me off at fifteen bucks an hour, they sure as shit better not cripple me for it.”

Fair enough, Casey thought.

“Don’t get me wrong—I’ll take it if that’s all there is to take. But I want to know all my options.”

“You cooked before?”

Ware nodded. “Downstate I did. Both stints.”

“I did six months there myself, but I don’t remember being treated to any blue-ribbon barbecue.”

He shook his head. “No, but I’m a red-blooded American man. I know how to f*cking grill. Prison taught me how to cook everything else.”

Casey considered it. Prison wasn’t known for its cuisine, but what Benji’s would be serving—steamed corn, baked beans, potatoes, coleslaw, and the rest of it—wasn’t exactly gourmet. It just had to taste good and turn a profit.

“So you need cooks or what?”

They did. They’d been planning on hiring two full-timers and a couple of preps, in addition to two or three waitstaff, but hadn’t had a chance to start the search, what with all the drama that had been afoot, partly courtesy of the man currently holding Casey’s eye contact from across the table.

“We will. And maybe you’re the man for the job. But I got other things to consider here. Like, why Benji’s? Why not the diner?”

“They’re staffed. So’s the truck stop by the off-ramp.”

“And it really has nothing to do with the fact that your ex also happens to work here?”

Ware crossed his arms on the tabletop, leaned in, spoke plainly. “I’m not looking to make anybody uncomfortable. I’m not looking to keep an eye on her, or get into her life any deeper than I have to for her to let me see my kid. I just need work, so I can help her take care of that baby, and you’re just about the only place in town that’s hiring. Trust me—you’re not my favorite man in this county. I got no beef with you—you’ve been good to her, and to the baby, far as I can tell. But I still don’t like you.”