“I guess that was a good move,” I said, since I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I’m Devon Wilder.”
“Huh. Look, here’s the drill.” Kenneth turned on his heel, like someone was making him do a military march. The dog did another idiotic circle. “That over there”—he pointed to a rooftop I could barely see past the trees—“that’s that software kid who invented that thing. You know the thing everyone talks about. Hell if I know how to use one of those doohickeys, and don’t ask me about apps. Over there”—more pointing—“that’s that big TV producer. He produces that show, you know, that’s on HBO. With all the nakedness in it. You watch that one?” He gave me a sideways glare, like this was a test.
“I don’t watch much TV,” I said.
“Huh. Okay. The one you want to look out for is over there.” He jutted his finger in another direction. “Elizabeth Barrett, she calls herself. She used to be a Playboy centerfold.” He glared at me again. “Mind you, that was back in 1970 or so. But she still has the looks, if you know what I mean. And she still has the curves.” He waved his hands in a classic hourglass, like he was in a 1940’s GI movie. “You’re not bad-looking, son. I’m just warning you. She’ll eat you alive.”
“Wow,” I said.
“You bet. Steer clear, son. That’s about all you need to know. Oh, and don’t speed over the speed bumps.” He looked past me at the car. “That’s a fine vehicle.”
“It was Graham’s,” I said. “It isn’t running. I’m seeing if I can fix it. I know a few things about cars.”
“He kept to himself, Graham did, and like I say, he wasn’t often here,” Kenneth said. “He told me once that he had one son, who was a disappointment to him. I guess that’s your father. He’s not in the picture?”
I blinked, realizing that this guy, who had barely been acquainted with him, knew my grandfather better than I did. “He’s dead, too,” I said. “Cancer.”
“That’s too bad, son. I didn’t know Graham well, but he always seemed lonely to me. Maybe he chose to be that way. But he always did have a proper appreciation for nice things. It’s a good tribute to him if you get that car running again.”
I was surprised again. The last thing I’d thought was that I was paying tribute to my grandfather, but suddenly I wasn’t willing to say that. “Yeah, well,” I managed. “Okay.”
“You like nice cars,” Kenneth said. “That much is clear. So did he. Some things run in the blood.” His dog whined, and he nudged it with his toe. “We’ll be off. See you around. And you really do need to clear the scum from your pond.”
As he marched away, my cell phone rang in my pocket. My old phone—the one from my old life. It was a sign of how strange my world was that I was still keeping both phones. “Yeah?” I said when I answered.
“Pure Gold,” Gray said on the other end. “One hour. And let me tell you, Wilder. You really want to come to this meeting. You really fucking do.”
The last thing I wanted to do was go to Pure Gold. I’d had Olivia Maplethorpe, with her dark curls and un-fucking-believable body, in my bed, doing anything I wanted, for an entire night, and I was going to have her again. What the hell did I need a strip club for?
But I went. Gray was small time, but I had practically smelled the fear in his voice. There was something going down, and I was going to have to face it head on. The way I faced everything.
The club was deserted—it was early—and not even a bartender was on. A bouncer let me in, nodding as if he was expecting me, and I made my way to the VIP room.
There were three people in there. One of them was Gray Jensen in his fucking sweatsuit. One of them was Amy, the stripper, wearing nothing but a black string bikini and heels. I hadn’t seen her for two years, and she looked different—worried, scared, her eyes flashing a message at me.
The third person was a man I’d never seen before. He wore jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a gray jacket. His hair was longish and carefully styled, his face thin as a blade, his smile wolfish. I took one look and knew, by instinct, exactly who I was looking at.
“Craig Bastien,” I said.
The wolfish smile widened. “Devon Wilder,” he said over the pulse of the cheesy music. “Welcome to our meeting. Sit down.”
I’d have to shower in bleach after touching one of the sofas, but at the moment I had no choice. I sat down, quietly hoping some guy’s crusty come wasn’t sticking to my jeans.
“Just a precaution,” Craig Bastien said, waving at the room around us. “An idea of our friend Gray’s. Aside from the sexy scenery, meeting in a place like this means no one can be recording the conversation.”
It was true, the pulse of the mindless electronica would probably mess up any attempt to record what we were saying with a wire. “I always thought Gray met in here because he like the girls,” I said.
Gray squeezed his hands together and said nothing. He was living up to his name right now, his face practically gray with fear. Amy looked similar beneath her makeup. Craig Bastien patted his knee, and she obediently sat on it. He ran his hands over her hips.
“Listen,” he said, looking at me and ignoring Amy, even while he pawed her. Even though she was a stripper and a pro, the sight turned my stomach for some reason. Probably because of the sick look on her face. “Gray isn’t in charge anymore. I am. I’ve taken over his operation and added it to my own.” I had a feeling Gray had had no say in this little business move. “And I’ve heard some things about you, Wilder. You’ve had some interesting times since you got out.”
“You mean, since I fini
shed doing the time you set me up for?” I said.
“Water under the bridge,” Craig said, his hands still rubbing up and down Amy. “I don’t make mistakes like that anymore. You did a good job that night, and I retrieved most of my product. That was quick thinking, dumping the TV’s. You saved me from losing face with a lot of people who were waiting for product.”
“Great,” I said. “You’re welcome. We done?”