“Cole,” Dice said.
“What? I'm just saying.”
“Don't just say.”
The tall one — his name turned out to be Reed, and was with one foot into the moderately hammered land — leaned on the bar and looked at the bottles on the shelf — a personal grudge of the sorts, by the looks. “Nah, it's fine,” he said. “It's a fine place to work. It's a fine town. Everything'sfine.”
He saidfinethe way people did when they meant the opposite but had limited vocabulary to explain it further. And I’m not talking about actual vocabulary.
“You from here?” I asked.
“Born and raised,” Reed said. “Cole too. Grew up two streets over from Judah, actually. Back when he was just—” He stopped. Tipped his beer back. “Back when things were different.”
“Different how?”
Cole shot Reed a look.
Reed shrugged it off. “Just different. He was a regular person. Ran with us. Billy Arceneaux, Danny, the whole group.” Hepeeled at the label on his bottle. “Then his old man died and he found Jesus or Jesus found him or whatever the story is, and now he's—” He gestured vaguely at the ceiling, at the town, at everything. “You know.”
“I don't, actually,” I said. “I just got here.”
“Lucky you,” Cole muttered into his beer.
Dice was wiping down the bar, determined this was not her fight.
“You mentioned Danny,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Danny Arceneaux?”
Reed's label-peeling slowed.
Cole put his bottle down.
The shift was small. If I hadn't been watching for it, I might've missed it. But I'd spent my whole life in rooms where certain names changed the air, and I knew what that felt like.
“Where'd you hear about Danny?” Cole asked. I noticed the way Dice’s face changed at the mention of his name. The two had a past, I realized. “I mean, before just now?”
“Around.” I shrugged. “Someone mentioned him in Thibodaux's today. Then someone else shut it down.”
Reed and Cole looked at each other. A whole conversation conducted in under a second.
“Danny moved,” Reed said finally.
“Shreveport,” Cole added.
“Right,” I said.
Neither of them said anything else. Dice had stopped wiping the bar. She was looking at the shelf of bottles with her jaw set, and I thought about what everyone was telling me —Danny moved. Danny's in Shreveport. Danny's fine.But that wasn’tactuallywhat these people were saying.
“He and Judah were close?” I asked.
Cole laughed. Short, no humor in it. “Everyone was close with Judah before.” He picked his beer back up. “That's kind of thething about him. He's real good at making you feel like you're the most important person in the room.” He drank. “Right up until you're not.”
“Cole.” Dice's voice was quiet. Final.
He held up a hand. “I'm done. I'm done.” He looked at me, not unkindly. “I'm sure it's a great job. Darlene's good people. The food bank does real good work.” He nodded like he was convincing himself. “It's fine.”
Fineagain. That word.
Reed finished his beer and set it down and stared at it for a moment. “Just—” He stopped. Started again. “He's not a bad man,” he said slowly, like he'd thought about it enough times. “I don't think he's a bad man. I just think he decided a long time ago what he was and what he needed and everything else—” He shrugged. “Everything else is secondary.”
