“The judge?” Rhett retorted. “What’s that creep done now?”
“Maryann Munro said that he was bragging about how it was up to him whether or not you’d see a dime for the construction grant on your mama’s shelter. And he laughed afterward, laughed and laughed.”
That weaselly fuck.“I’ll handle it,” he said curtly.
“No blood baths now. He sits on the philanthropic board of the most respected grant-making institution in our region. You know how he is. He’ll want to make a trade.”
“Remember how he always had the best food in his lunch box at school, and those deals he’d cut with the St. Clair boys?”
“Not likely to forget.” Beau made a face. “He’d trade Hostess cupcakes for them to give me swirlies in the locker room toilet.”
“It was sick, the way he’d manipulate people.”
“He’s been like that his whole life.”
“Well, Gunnar St. Clair grew up all right. Smuggler’s Cove provides him a good living. He can afford his own treats these days.”
“Ever wonder how a St. Clair got money for the loan?” Beau crossed his arms. “Personally, I’d rather sleep under an overpass than climb into bed with the Hoggs. So go, hear what Al has to say, but agree to nothing.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice.” Once in the car, the dogs safely loaded, he backed out, rolling down the window. Needed some fresh air to survive the stink for this call.
He hit his Bluetooth and called.
“Hello?”
“Judge Hogg, Rhett Valentine.” Best to humor the power-hungry worm with formalities.
A beat. Followed by a noticeable exhalation. “You were on my list of calls to make this afternoon. Aren’t you an early worm.”
“I want a sit down. Should I come by the office?”
“Oh no, no, no,” the judge said laconically. “This conversation is off the books.”
“My office then?”
Hogg snorted. “And lure me to your quarters? No, I don’t think so.”
“Jesus, Al.” Rhett dropped all pretense of formality. Al had won state debate and made a habit out of mocking kids who spoke slower, became tongue-tied. “It’s not like I’m going to—”
“I propose we make a trade.”
