“You know about the trouble we’re having right now?” he said. “With the sheriff’s department?”
Nesmith nodded. “You work for us now,” he said. “We keep tabs. It sounds like they’ve pretty much shut you down.”
“No one can take a piss without getting slapped with a public indecency,” Clay said.
“Teach them to use the inside toilets,” Nesmith said. “That’s one problem solved. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Business is slow,” Clay said. Then he shrugged and corrected himself. “Make that business has been stopped. We can carry our obligations for a while, but—”
Nesmith held up his hand to cut Clay off.
“You think that’s our problem because you won’t be able to pay us what you owe,” he said. “Am I right?”
Clay scratched the back of his neck. “Before you get long-winded,” he said and reached into his jacket, “my problem is this.”
He handed Nesmith the warrant, pages already folded back so he could see Judge Charity Parker’s signature on the dotted line.
“I think that’s our problem,” Clay said. He reached over to tap the signature. “Parker is bought and paid for, so why is she fucking with us?”
Nesmith stared at the paper for a moment. His fingers tightened enough that the damp paper creased and ripped under his grip. He grimaced and handed the warrant back to Clay as he got up.
“That is not something that we initiated.” He picked up a robe from the back of the chair and pulled it on. In general, he wasn’t Clay’s type—he liked them tighter wound but less buttoned-down—but the way the silk stuck to wet skin was kinda hot. It was not the time to be distracted, though. “Parkerisan officer of the court in her day job. Signing warrants falls under her authority.”
Clay scratched his jaw with his thumb. “Good to know it’s not Fisher using his influence to run us out of business,” he said. “You might want to spread the word on that because it’d be easy for someone to get the wrong end of the stick.”
Nesmith tied the belt of the robe loosely around his waist. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’re going to make sure they find that stick?”
Clay stood up and brushed his hands over the seat of his jeans.
“Not like I need to,” he said. “Parker was the prime mover behind this ‘starve ’em out’ policing they’re using on us. You own her. If she didn’t do it with your backing, she did it to curry favor.”
Nesmith’s expression curdled. He picked up a towel and dried his hands and hair quickly. Then he held out his hand for the warrant.
“I’ll look into it,” he said. “If Parker overstepped, Fisher will deal with it.”
“He better,” Clay said. “First Buchanan, now your pet judge. It doesn’t look good, does it.”
Nesmith’s jaw tightened.
That could have been a little far, Clay conceded to himself. It was too late for second thoughts. He handed the warrant over to Nesmith.
“Tell Fisher I hope he enjoyed his cake,” Clay said. “See you around, Nesmith.”
Clay turned and left. When he looked back, Nesmith had stalked up the garden and was headed into the house. It was hard to tell from a view of his back, but he walked like he was pissed.
Mission accomplished.
***
Clay lost his tail halfway back to Sweeny. The nondescript gray sedan got cut off by a truck, stuck in a slow convoy of traffic, and missed when Clay took the first exit off the road.
Amateurs.
He pulled onto the side of the road and dropped one foot to the ground to brace the motorbike. His gut ached, scar tissue spasmed into knotted, tender bands, and he tried to stretch it out as he waited.
A turkey waddled out of the tree line, gave Clay a disgruntled look, and fluffed itself out importantly. It gobbled at him as it fanned its tail and drooped its wings to trail in the dirt.
Clay watched it for a second and then pushed back his jacket to reveal the gun holstered under his arm.
