As he stomped his engine to life, Vince shot Casey a look, one that said, Bet you’re just as surprised as me. Or something to that effect. Something snarky and annoyingly accurate. Yeah, he was thirty-three now, but that only meant he’d given his brother three-plus decades’ worth of reasons not to expect him to ever step up or stick around. Casey rolled his eyes and watched Vince ride away.
He wasn’t really annoyed . . . or shouldn’t be, at any rate. That little moment had actually been really kind and genuine, two qualities Vince didn’t display without some personal discomfort. By Grossier standards, you could’ve slapped some touching music behind that conversation, cued an “I love you, Dad,” and rolled the credits.
But Casey was rankled nonetheless. Irked. If it felt patronizing, it ought to—before returning to Fortuity, he hadn’t ever given anybody reason to expect him to be reliable or responsible or do anything that didn’t directly benefit him. Vince knew that better than anyone. And if he was a little pissed, it was only because he had witnesses to this transformation, a load of people who’d known Casey the self-interested opportunist before now, and had every right to be surprised.
So maybe it wasn’t annoyance at all. Maybe it was a little bit of shame, a little bit of hard-earned humility.
He watched until Vince disappeared around the bend, and replayed that parting look his brother had shot at him.
Keep this up and maybe you won’t turn into Dad after all.
Maybe that’s what that expression had been saying.
Even if it hadn’t been, the thought sent a shiver through him. He headed for the house, rubbing his arms against the morning chill.
? ? ?
James Ware found what he was looking for right around high noon.
Fucking Fortuity, he thought, slamming his door, eyeing the scrubby, desolate badlands, squinting against that relentless sun. The old camper van was right where he’d expected to find it, parked where the creek banged an angle from south to west. And if the van was here, its owner couldn’t be far.
“Dancer,” he called. No reply. He walked straight up to the van, rapped on the passenger door. “Dancer.”
A shriek came from inside— Goddamn, that terrible fucking bird. Sure enough, a white parrot came clambering over the seat’s headrest to stare at James, its black eye judging, head bobbing, feathered mohawk flaring.
He turned at the sound of the rear doors squeaking open, and circled around to the back.
The man of the house hopped out of the van in jeans and little else—no shoes, no shirt, a bent, hand-rolled cigarette smushed behind his ear, half-lost in his messy black hair. His eyebrows rose and he smiled blearily—just awoken or thoroughly stoned? James didn’t care to guess.
“Well, well, well, look who’s been released. You get good behavior or something?”
“No, I got a good lawyer.”
“This calls for a toast.” Dancer leaned into the van and straightened with a bottle of rum, his long, fatless body moving with a weird, tweaky grace.
James put his hand up. “Here strictly on business.”
“Suit yourself.” Dancer uncapped the fifth and took a swig, then tossed it back inside. “Our last transaction got lost in the shuffle. You want your shit?”
“Or the cash value. Frankly I could use the cash more.”
“Well, that’s real good, as I already sold that inventory to an interested party. Not exactly the sort of thing a man needs lying around under his bed, you understand.”
“Perfectly.”
Dancer cupped an elbow, stroked his little beard. “So lemme think. I found you, what? Twelve units?”
“Fourteen, you fucking prick.”
“Right, of course. Fourteen. And you paid me what, to source them? One twenty-five each?”
“One seventy-five. Try to cheat me one more time, John. Just try. I gave you twenty-four fifty up front, and I want twenty-four fifty in my hand before I leave here.”
“Let’s call it fifteen hundred, taking the burden of handling and storage I assumed into the equation.”
“Let’s call it fuck you, I want my twenty-four fifty.”
“Two grand.”
“I’m not gonna fucking say it again,” James warned. “I know you made yourself a nice profit; now, comp me or we never do business together again.”