He traded nods with the man and headed out of the church to get back on his bike.
***
Ezra popped the cap off the beer bottle against the edge of the table. Foam spilled out over his knuckles. He flicked it into the bushes on the side of the patio and then licked the rest of the damp off his fingers.
“What the fuck is she trying to pull?” he asked quietly.
Clay shrugged. He pulled a chair out with one boot and turned it around so he could sit in it backwards, his arms folded across the low back. There was a pool, chalky blue and serene, to the side of him. He could smell the chlorine from where he sat. The shell of a party—balloons, empty trestle tables stacked with tableware and folded tablecloths, a box of fireworks—was already set up around it.
“Like Grade said, never work with amateurs.”
Ezra paced instead of sitting down. He took a swig of the beer and then used the bottle to gesture.
“Charity Parker has been in Fisher’s pocket since she started out as a public defender,” he said. “This isn’t her first rodeo.”
“First time she’s gotten her hands dirty, though,” Clay pointed out. He took a drink from his own beer and rested it against his thigh, the base of it leaving a smudged damp ring on his jeans. “She’s used to being the one calling the shots, and now—when her life is on the line—she’s stuck hoping that we know what we’re doing. Could be she’s just a backseat driver.”
“Maybe,” Ezra said. “We can hope.”
He scratched at his arm absently, the scar from TJ still raised and red from Clay’s hatchet patch-up drop. “You might as well say it.”
Clay took a leisurely drink. “Say what?”
“That you told me so.”
“I’m saving that for when we know I was right,” Clay said. He leaned over to set the bottle down on the table and tilted his chin in the direction of the house behind Ezra. Three men headed their way. “Heads up. Incoming.”
Ezra grimaced sourly, then schooled his face into a neutral expression as he turned around to watch Fisher come down the short flight of stairs to the patio. The apex predator of Kentucky crime had flour on his hands and a Kiss the Cook apron on. The gun in a shoulder holster under his arm was on brand, though.
“Mr. Adams,” Fisher said crisply. He turned to look at Clay, and his voice turned silky. “And Clay.”
That wasn’t how this sort of thing usually went. Clay raised his eyebrows at Ezra, who looked suspicious but gave Clay the nod to take point.
“S’up?” Clay said dryly as he picked up the beer to toss off a toast.
Fisher smiled thinly and wiped his hands on his apron as he walked over to the table and took a seat. His two associates took up position behind him. One of them Clay didn’t know, but he’d crossed paths with the other before.
“Nesmith,” he said. “Come down in the world?”
The last time he’d seen Nesmith the well-dressed crook had been Fisher’s second-in-command, not the hired muscle. The question made Nesmith smile thinly as he adjusted the fall of his jacket.
“You better hope not,” he said. “Since I’m the one who vouched for you two after the Buchanan incident.”
Fisher half turned in his seat and snapped his fingers at the other man to get his attention. “Get me a beer,” he said. “Hal?”
Nesmith glanced at his watch and shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve got to meet our lawyer at the court later, but one beer won’t put me over the limit.”
Clay didn’t even bother to try and attach the “Hal” to his mental profile of Nesmith. It had taken him long enough to promote him from “Mouthpiece.” He didn’t care enough to try and do it again.
They waited in awkward silence as the other man got the beers and brought them over, already open. Fisher took a long draft on his, throat working as he swallowed, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“I’m baking a cake,” he said. “It’s thirsty work.”
Clay picked up his beer and dangled it between his fingers. “I’ve got no idea what’s going on here,” he said. “Ezra?”
“I think we were both expecting a slightly more volatile conversation,” Ezra said. “Based on your reputation, Mr. Fisher.”
Fisher grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Because you think I’m a bad bastard?” Fisher asked. “I am, but everyone needs a little downtime. This is mine.”
