He shrugged. It wasn’t a personal threat—just business—but it was still a threat.
Grade grimaced and looked away.
“I could do with a coffee,” he said, his voice so dry it puckered. “Think I could get an oatmeal latte?”
Clay laughed and headed inside.
§
The Pit didn’t have oat milk. It did have sides of warmed-over ribs.
Clay handed over a dollar for two and stripped the meat off the bone as he waited for the heavyset man behind the till to pour out two black coffees. It wasn’tgood, but the smoky, too-sweet sauce and fatty meat still hit the spot. He might regret it later, but he might be drunk later, so what the hell.
He’d just started on the second rib when the clerk slid the cups across the counter in a cardboard holder.
“Six dollars,” the man said.
“Seriously?” Clay said through a mouthful of rib, his hand tucked into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet. “I could get Starbucks for that.”
The man scratched his eyebrow. “So go to Starbucks,” he said and jerked his thumb toward the door. “It’s twenty minutes down the road.”
And people called Clay a crook.
Clay pulled his wallet out and peeled off a ten. He folded it between his greasy fingers and held it out.
“You want change?” the clerk asked, without altering his slack expression.
Clay squinted at him for a second. When the dour look on the man’s face didn’t crack, he dropped the rib onto a napkin and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“What is this, Roux 21?” he asked. Maybe Grade’s bitterness about Sweeny had gotten to him more than he thought. It had been years since he’d thought about his favorite restaurant back in Baton Rouge, not since he’d been there after he finished his last tour. “Give me my money.”
He stuck his hand out and wriggled his fingers. The clerk grunted, slapped the till open, and pulled the crumpled notes out to count pointedly into Clay’s palm.
“You seen a couple of guys in a laundry van around here?” Clay asked as he slid the notes into the back of his wallet. “They’d have been here just before dawn. And I tip better for good intel than for bad coffee.”
The clerk glanced over Clay’s shoulder. Clay turned.
TJ was still dressed in the clothes he’d had on the night before, but his T-shirt was damp where he’d tried to scrub the bloodstains out. It hadn’t worked. Clay could have told him that, but some things you had to learn on your own.
The color drained from his face as he stared at Clay. Lucky enough, he’d just used the toilet or his jeans would have stained too.
“Now that,” Clay said as he pulled a fifty out of his wallet and handed it back over his shoulder. The clerk coughed, a dry little hitch of discomfort, but didn’t hesitate to snag the note. “is what I call convenient. TJ. Been looking for you.”
Interesting fact that Clay had picked up over the years: when the shit hit the fan, it didn’t matter if someone was brilliant or an idiot. Not for Clay, anyhow. A smartass like Grade could run all the angles before he made a move, while a moron like TJ just reacted while his brain was still running the loading screen. Yet no matter how many steps it took to get there, by the time the decision tree got as far as Clay, there were only three routes left.
Fight, flight, or “we can figure this out.”
That was the only part Clay had to care about.
“Don’t make me chase you,” Clay warned. “I just ate.”
TJ sucked in a ragged, uneven breath, and then he bolted, the wet soles of his trainers squeaky on the tiled floor as he headed toward the back of the store.
“Fuck me,” Clay sighed.
He tossed the half-eaten rib down on the counter and went after TJ. The skinny man grabbed one of the shelves and shoved it over. Cans of “human grade” stew and slippery plastic sleeves of jerky spilled over the floor as the metal stand crashed down. Clay cursed under his breath as he brought his foot down on a can and nearly went on his ass.
“Not doing yourself any favors,” he growled as he caught himself.
