And it was closing in on Astley and Stew’s judgment days.
Layne and Colt hit the even smaller town next to the ‘burg, a town right on the outskirts of Indy. It held a Raceway and was a decent place, generally, but could get pretty rough when the races were on. The ‘burg had J&J’s as its hotspot, no other drinking establishments in town because every one that sprung up failed due to people’s loyalty to J&J’s. J&J’s wasn’t the only place to drink, there were restaurants that had bars, but it was the only place people went to meet friends, listen to the jukebox, play a game of pool and tie one on.
This town wasn’t the same. They had tons of bars, most of them rough due to their clientele being race groupies or race hangers on. Layne swung into the one Colt informed him they were going to and parked.
He switched off the ignition and turned to Colt. “There a way we need to play this?”
Colt shook his head. “You don’t play Ryker. He either likes you or he doesn’t. He likes you, he shares. He doesn’t, we’ll know in about two seconds and then we’ll go have lunch.”
Layne nodded and they both turned to their doors.
The day was overcast with intermittent rain. Even if there was sun, the light in the bar would be dim stating openly to its customers that anything goes. You could fuck a race groupie in the corner and not be noticed. You could also make a drug sale or slide a blade into an enemy.
Colt led Layne to a corner table where a man sat alone with his back to the wall and a bottle of beer in front of him on the table. It was cold outside but the guy was wearing a black tank top stretched across his bulky, ripped torso, jeans and motorcycle boots and he wasn’t resting with his coat slung on his chair. But he was lounging back in that chair, one of his long, beefy legs straight in front of him, foot resting on its heel, the other leg cocked with foot flat to the ground. He looked relaxed but Layne knew he was alert to anything. He had two sleeves of tattoos running up his arms, full on wrist to shoulder ink, both sleeves slithering up his thick neck. He was bald, he was ugly and it was easy to read he was not a guy you messed with.
“Ryker,” Colt greeted and didn’t hesitate before he sat down at Ryker’s table.
“This guy a cop?” Ryker asked, his eyes locked on Layne.
Layne took a seat at the same time he held Ryker’s eyes.
“Nope,” Colt answered.
“Smells like a cop,” Ryker commented and, even though Colt was a cop, he did this in a way that stated plainly cops were not his favorite people.
“Used to be one, now he’s a PI,” Colt replied.
Ryker’s eyebrows shot up and he kept his eyes on Layne. “A dick?” That was meant to have two meanings and Layne clenched his teeth.
“What he is, for the purposes of this meet, is Gabrielle Layne’s ex-husband,” Colt told Ryker.
Ryker’s eyes cut to Colt. “Who the fuck is that?”
“Stew Baranski’s woman,” Colt answered.
Ryker grinned, he knew who she was but he still asked, “Fat bitch?”
“Ryker,” Colt said low.
“Dumb bitch.” Ryker refused to read the warning.
Layne was done so he entered the conversation.
“She and I have two boys, one of ‘em saw Baranski hand off an envelope to Carlito at the house. Gabby tells me Stew has troubles. You know anything about that?”
Ryker’s eyes sliced to Layne on the words “two boys” and he waited a beat before he answered, “I know Carlito is a fuckwad.”
“I know that too,” Layne returned.
“And I know Baranski is an assclown,” Ryker went on.
“Yeah, you aren’t tellin’ me anything I don’t know,” Layne informed him. “Not here to find out shit I know, I’m here to find out what’s goin’ on because I’m not a big fan of my boys witnessing Baranski makin’ a payment to a loan shark.”
Ryker grinned. “That wasn’t no payment.”
Layne didn’t like the sound of that.
“So what was it?” Layne asked.
“Wasn’t no payment,” Ryker answered.
Layne studied Ryker then looked at Colt.
“Ryker, you got somethin’, it’d help Layne out,” Colt prompted and Ryker’s eyes went from Colt to Layne.
He examined Layne for a long time before he asked, “Which one?”
“Come again?” Layne asked back.
“Which boy?”
Layne felt the muscles in his neck contract. “Not sure that’s relevant, man.”
Ryker didn’t let it go. “The one that tagged that sweet catch and, after, caught it from that dickhead coach who should have his nuts in a vice or the one who can block like that fat bitch pushed him out while he was wearin’ shoulder pads?”
Christ, this fuckin’ guy was a Bulldogs fan.
“Jasper,” Layne knew at that moment it was safe to say. “My older boy. The one who can block.”
“Got quick feet, hasn’t seen the ball in two games,” Ryker noted. “You doin’ somethin’ about that?”
“All I can do,” Layne replied.
“And what’s that?” Ryker pushed.
“The School Board is investigating my complaint,” Layne answered and when he did, Ryker threw back his head and barked out his laughter, something Layne didn’t appreciate all that much but he held his tongue.
When he was done, Ryker tipped his chin down and leveled his eyes on Layne. “You give me the word, sport, I might find it in me to convince the coach to let both your boys see the ball. No marker to be paid, I’d give you that for free.”
Jesus.
“I like my way of doin’ it,” Layne told him.
“Scouts not gonna get the full picture, your older boy’s a senior, that motherfucker’ll fuck him up.”
“I still like my way of doin’ it,” Layne repeated and it was far more firmly this time.
Ryker watched him awhile then he shrugged.
Layne brought the matter back to hand, saying, “How much is Baranski into Carlito for?”
“Nothin’,” Ryker answered immediately and Layne’s brows drew together.
“Nothin’?” he reiterated.