“Did I actually find something that makes Casey Grossier bashful?” she teased.
His gaze went to the window, and the back lot beyond. In a second his mood darkened, his attention catching on an ancient orange-trimmed camper van, just pulling across three spaces beside the Dumpster.
“Hang on one sec,” he muttered, rising. “I need to talk to somebody.”
“Sure you do.” Her tone was chiding; she thought he was avoiding discussing his feelings.
“No, I really need to talk to somebody.” The van’s driver’s-side door had popped open, and John Dancer emerged.
Abilene turned in her seat to look. “Not that guy?”
Casey snapped his head around. “You know him?”
“He came into the bar once when I was pregnant. He didn’t even buy a drink—he just wanted to talk to Raina. He took a look at my belly and said, ‘Guess this spot’s taken.’ Something gross like that.”
“One more reason to break his fucking arm,” Casey said, sidling out of the booth.
Her eyes widened. “Don’t do that. Whoever he is, it’s not worth it.”
“Not who he is, honey. What he did. I’ll be right back. Don’t watch.”
Casey strode down the diner’s aisle and pushed the door open, setting its bell jingling. As he rounded the building, he shifted his pistol from the small of his back to his front waistband, at his hip, obscured by his jacket. He didn’t want to use it, and doubted he’d need to, but Dancer was about as predictable as a feral raccoon.
“Hey,” he shouted, marching toward the van. It took a major effort not to glance to the diner’s window, to see if Abilene’s blue eyes were on the scene.
Dancer turned lazily, clearly no stranger to getting yelled at. He had a lit cigarette in his mouth and wore aviator sunglasses against the bright winter sun. Casey could see himself approaching in the mirrored lenses.
“Grossier. What can I do for you this time?”
“You can hold still while I kick the living shit out of you.”
Dancer’s eyebrow rose, a dry smile tweaking his lips. “Neither you or your brother ever thanked me for that little favor I did you last summer. Can’t say I appreciate the hostility.” He turned his back to shut the door, seeming not at all intimidated. The crazy were obnoxiously fearless, Casey thought.
“You tell an ex-con with a shaved head where he could find my bartender?” he demanded.
Dancer took the cigarette from his lips and blew a jet of clove-stinking smoke to the side. “Ah. Well, that’s not exactly private information, now, is it? More like small-town gossip.”
That was as good as a yes in Casey’s book. “You get straight with me right now, or I swear to Christ I’ll beat you senseless.” Dancer had an inch or two on him but probably weighed twenty pounds less. Whether he could scrap or not, Casey couldn’t say, but he was only happy to find out.
“Last time our paths crossed I picked a bullet out of you, Grossier. Patched you up nice. It’d be real ironic if this time you gave me a reason to put one back in you.”
Casey eyed Dancer’s jacket, one pocket filled with his hand and quite possibly more. He cooled some. In all honesty, he didn’t want Abilene seeing a fight, and though he bet Dancer was bluffing, he sure as shit didn’t want her seeing him get shot in the thigh, or anyplace worse.
“You got any clue who you were talking to?” Casey demanded.
“Name he gave me was Ware. We had a little business transaction to settle, now he’s out. He wasn’t a hundred percent pleased with my service, so it seemed prudent to placate the man with a little harmless intel. Customer service and all that.” He took a long draw off the cigarette. “And as all your bones appear to be intact, I don’t quite gather what your beef is with me.”