“Thanks for meeting here, guys,” she said, sliding the beers onto the center of the table with a practiced sweep.
Spence gave a curt nod. “No problem,” he mumbled, though he’d argued against meeting in public given the nature of our discussion. Reef didn’t care, and I liked the idea of keeping an eye on Jasmine while we talked, so Spence had lost that battle.
He smelled faintly of diesel, his cap pulled low, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. But the restless energy coming off him told me Spence had something loaded and ready to say.
“I met up with a friend of a friend from Key West yesterday,” he said, lowering his voice. “Guy stopped in on his way up to Miami.”
“Was he holding?” Reef asked, leaning forward eagerly. “Because if he was, we could’ve skipped the small talk.”
Jasmine grumbled as a client waved from the bar. “Be right back,” she said, flashing me an apologetic smile before disappearing into the crowd.
Spence bent closer, voice dropping until it was barely more than a growl. “No, he wasn’t holding. But he said he could get quantity. The thing is, he stopped here because he wanted to look me in the eye before making the deal.”
“Makes sense,” I said, sipping my beer.
“Of course it makes sense,” Spence shot back, his volume rising though he tried to keep it down. “What doesn’t make sense is this plan. That’s what I realized.”
Reef snorted, tilting back in his chair. “What plan of ours ever makes sense?”
I slumped into my seat, bracing myself for another lecture that would only make us feel worse. Usually, Spence harping abouthow doomed we were didn’t accomplish much. But this time, his tone carried weight.
“Think about it,” he said, eyes cutting between me and Reef. “This is suicide no matter how we spin it. We can’t bait someone in the Keys and throw them under the bus. That tarnishes our family name and endangers our business reputation. Not to mention the little matter of federal prison if we get busted trying to buy cocaine. There’s got to be a better way.”
“Well, if we’re not going to try to find their coke, then what?” I asked. “Just hope and pray they don’t come after us?”
“With them actively tailing you?” Reef said too loudly. “Yeah, that’s real likely.” He smirked. “Maybe you should drive slower so they don’t spill their cafecito on the dashboard while stalking you.”
I shot him a glare, raising a finger to my lips. A couple of tourists glanced over from their pizza, but Jasmine was still tending to customers. A burst of laughter came from the pool tables with the crack of another pool shot ringing across the room. The ordinary noise of the Whistle grated against the dread knotting my stomach. I still hadn’t told Jasmine about the Chrysler shadowing me, and now wasn’t the time. “I’m open to suggestions, fellas. Do either of you have a better idea?” My anxiety crept into my tone. “Believe me, I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder forever either.”
“Time to rethink not telling Waylan?” Reef asked. “Bet he’d love to roll up like Wyatt Earp.”
“The more people we involve, the more are at risk. And if it’s the cops? I’m as good as dead.” My pulse spiked at the thought. I glanced toward the bar just in time to catch Jasmine balancing atray of drinks, her expression exasperated as she caught my eye. She hoisted the tray to her shoulder and disappeared toward the pool tables. Behind her, the jukebox clattered as someone punched in a new song, and the low hum of conversation swelled around us like a tide.
Spence’s gravelly voice pulled me back. “What if Dad and Waylan know something?”
“What kind of something?” Reef asked. “About kilos of coke? What would those old codgers know about it?”
I’d been too focused on Jasmine to follow, but when I tuned back in, Spence’s claim made no sense. “What the fuck are you talking about? Dad and Waylan don’t know anything about this, and we’re gonna keep it that way.”
Spence’s scowl deepened, shadows carving lines across his face. “Dad and Waylan may not be as innocent as we think.”
“What kind of cryptic bullshit…?” I started, but he raised his hand, silencing me.
“There’s something going on with them,” he said firmly. “I don’t know what. But Coulter caught wind of it just before Trouble’s wedding.” He sketched out fragments of a story—relatives dying mysteriously, someone in prison named George who might be after them for money, another man called Mateo in Mexico. Spence used phrases like chickens coming home to roost and I felt a tightening in my stomach like storm clouds gathering.
Reef whistled low, shaking his head. “Great. Ghost stories and chicken metaphors. That’ll keep us up at night.”
Another cheer went up from the pool table. The sound clashed with the heaviness of Spence’s words, making the wholeconversation feel darker against the backdrop of neon lights and beer-stained wood. The Whistle carried on around us, oblivious, and that normalcy only made the weight of what he said feel heavier.
“Maybe we ought to loop Coulter in and see what he thinks,” Spence said, steady now. “He won’t tell Faith if we ask him not to. But he knows more than we do.”
My gaze locked on my oldest brother. “Anyone who knows more than we do should keep their mouths shut too.”
Jasmine reappeared, cheeks flushed, her smile bright as she slid three fresh Heinekens onto the table and scooped up our empties. “It’s been dead all evening, and as soon as you guys show, everyone needs a drink.”
“Lucky you,” Reef quipped, smirk firmly in place. “You didn’t miss Spence trying out his doomsday podcast voice.”
“Thanks. Really helpful,” she fired back, tossing him a lethal side-eye.
