“Ah, Deirdre, holy shit.” His voice broke on the last word and he was plunging hard, hips flat, body straining.
“Deirdre,” he whispered. “My Deirdre.”
Her eyes popped open and she stared up at him, but his face was in shadow, pressed against her shoulder.
My Deirdre?
It probably didn’t mean anything. Probably just the emotion of the moment.
But still.
My Deirdre.
Her lips curved up in a faint grin as she pulled the sheet over their bodies, snuggling close against him.
Chapter Eighteen
Craig Dempsey was not a happy man. He’d spent a great weekend in Austin, free from both the irritations of Konigsburg and the demands of Big John. He’d even found a pick-up game of Texas Hold ’Em, and he hadn’t lost much. Or anyway, not as much as usual.
And then he’d returned to Shitsburg after three days of blessed relief and discovered that nothing had worked out the way it was supposed to. He’d left simple instructions that should have been carried out without any screw-ups. Instead he’d gotten nothing for his money. Or, more specifically, Big John’s money. He was both hungover and seriously pissed.
“So tell me again, Hardesty, why couldn’t you do what you were paid to do? It’s not like it was all that difficult.”
“You’d be surprised, Mr. Dempsey.” Hardesty sliced off a large piece of chorizo and scrambled eggs, shoveling it into his mouth in one simple motion. “Breaking up a place ain’t as easy as it sounds.”
He was a reasonably large man—not as large as Craig himself or Ames, from what Craig remembered of him. But large enough to get a decent bar fight going, particularly since he’d had ample help, judging from the money he’d spent hiring it. In the unforgiving light of morning, Craig upped his estimate of the man’s age—maybe late forties. And the shape of his nose showed he’d been in a more fights than the one on Thursday. He’d also seemed reasonably bright at first, although Craig was beginning to have a few doubts on that score.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to coax the headache away from his eyes. At least the coffee in this coffee shop was better than the poison at the place across from the Faro. “Doesn’t seem that hard to me. You start a fight, you break up some tables, throw something through the windows. What’s the problem?”
“The problem, Mr. Dempsey, is that this ain’t a movie.” Hardesty picked up his coffee, sipping as he explained. “Chairs don’t break all that easy unless they’re the breakaway kind, and you can’t throw something through a window if you’ve got a bunch of people standing in the way. More likely to hit a person than the glass, which might get you into some nasty assault charges. Cops take those serious enough to follow up.”
He shoveled another bite into his mouth. Craig felt vaguely queasy just watching him. “So you had a fight, but the place still opened the next day? That doesn’t strike me as the kind of fight I paid you for.”
Hardesty leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “You also didn’t mention the bouncer they got there. Fucker’s a human mountain. And the owner’s not that small himself. Man could get seriously messed up fighting people like that.”
Craig shrugged, pulling out a pair of sunglasses. The light in the coffee shop seemed a lot brighter than it should be. Next time he’d look for a table away from the windows. “So? Take them out first. I shouldn’t have to tell you your business, Hardesty. If the bouncer’s a problem, make sure he can’t do anything to stop you.”
Hardesty’s fork stilled. “Are you asking me to kill somebody, Mr. Dempsey? That’s not my usual kind of business. I’d have to think about that.”
Craig settled the sunglasses more firmly on his nose. This conversation was becoming irritating. “Hell no, I’m not telling you to kill somebody. What kind of idiot do you think I am? I’m telling you to put the bouncer and Ames out of commission early in the fight. Hit ’em over the head with a bottle or something. Whatever you usually do.”
“Right. Hitting someone over the head with a bottle is likely to give them a concussion. Or worse. So at the very least, you’re asking me to send these men to the hospital. Which gets us back into the whole assault charges problem.”
“Jesus, Hardesty! All I’m asking you to do is break up the goddamn bar. Put it out of business. That’s what I paid you for. You’re saying you can’t do it?” Craig took a savage bite of his own scrambled eggs, then immediately wished he hadn’t. His stomach gave a slight lurch, just to remind him that food was perhaps not the best idea.
Hardesty shook his head. “I’m saying it’s gone beyond just breaking the place up. Ames and his bouncer won’t let that happen without taking out a lot of my guys. And if you want us to put people out of commission, that’s a different deal. More likely to bring some serious law into it. Be more expensive.” He wiped his napkin across his lips, as if he was hiding a smile.
Craig gritted his teeth. “Don’t even try it, Hardesty. You screw around with me, and it’ll get back to the people who recommended you in the first place.” Namely, Craig’s bookie and his assorted friends. Craig couldn’t guarantee they’d go after Hardesty, but he figured they might not be averse to a little kneecapping, just to keep in practice.
Hardesty’s smile disappeared. “Okay, I’ll see if I can line up some more men. But it’s gonna be more money regardless, Mr. Dempsey, because this is another fight. I can’t send the same guys in, at least not at first—Ames or his bouncer are likely to recognize them. But you’ll get what you want this time, or you’ll get your money back.”
Craig nodded, hoping his head wouldn’t fall off as he did. “Fair enough.”
Hardesty stood up, tossing his napkin onto the table. “One more thing to keep in mind, Mr. Dempsey. Just FYI. This town has one of the toughest police chiefs in the Hill Country—name of Toleffson. If he finds out what we’ve done, we’re all toast. And if that ain’t enough, the County Sheriff is Ozzie Friesenhahn. Between the two of them, they’d have your liver for breakfast if they got word about what you’re up to here.”
Craig’s stomach gave another heave. Liver for breakfast didn’t exactly excite him. “The only way they’ll find out is if you don’t keep your mouth shut, Hardesty.”
“Right. Well, I ain’t the only one who needs to keep quiet. I’ll be in touch. You have a nice day, Mr. Dempsey.” Hardesty turned on his heel and headed out the café door.
Craig stared down at his plate and tried to quiet his suddenly roiling insides. One way or another, Dee-Dee was going to pay for all the trouble she was putting him through. A large, media-heavy wedding would be a good start.
Deirdre had nothing in her cupboards except cereal and coffee, with milk in her refrigerator. Tom wasn’t too impressed by her taste in cereal since it looked a lot like the stuff he put in his bird feeder, but her coffee was out of sight.
Nor surprising, of course, but sort of reassuring. After two cups he took her back to bed for a rematch. If all her coffee had the same effect, Tom figured she’d be a rich woman by the end of her first month in business.
Of course, she already was a rich woman. At least technically.
Tom told himself he didn’t care, and for the most part he didn’t. Whatever money Deirdre might come into eventually, she didn’t have much now, judging from the still-sparse appearance of her apartment.
But he knew he’d have to think about it eventually—the very great distance between a bar owner and a billionaire’s daughter. Once her father came to his senses and begged her forgiveness, Tom might well have to step aside. All the more reason to enjoy what they had right now.
“Let me take you out for brunch,” he said when they’d finally, reluctantly, gotten up for good.
“What about the Faro?”
“I gave everybody the day off. We don’t get enough Sunday customers to justify keeping the place open, and it’s been a rough week. I’ll open up tonight for the bar crowd.”
Deirdre frowned slightly, as if she were remembering some of the elements of that rough week, but then she smiled. “Okay. We can go to Allie Maldonado’s restaurant. And then you can take me over to pick up the tables.”
Sweet Thing, Allie Maldonado’s bakery and café, was almost as packed with tourists as the Faro was on a good night. Allie, small and round in her flour-speckled chef’s coat and chili-emblazoned pants, waved at Deirdre as they came in the door.
“You just missed Pete and Janie. They finished breakfast about five minutes ago.”
“Oh, too bad.” Deirdre managed to sound as if she really meant it, although he was pretty sure she preferred what they’d been doing to having lunch with the Assistant County Attorney and his wife, even if he was a Toleffson.
“Do you know Tom Ames?” Deirdre asked.
Allie turned bright brown eyes in his direction. He had a feeling he was getting a thorough, albeit fast, once-over. “I’ve heard your name. You’re the guy at the Faro. You’ve got a new cook, right?”
Tom nodded. “Clem Rodriguez. She does lunch.”
“I hear she’s good. I’ll have to stop by sometime and see.”
Tom bowed slightly. “Please. We’ll be glad to have you—on me.”
Allie’s grin widened. “Thanks. Now I’ll definitely check it out.”
Deirdre managed to polish off three sausage kolaches before Tom had finished his eggs and bacon. He wasn’t really surprised—after all, they’d both had quite a workout. He grinned to himself and bit into a superlative buttermilk biscuit. “Where’s the store with your tables?”
“On C Street. Republic of Texas.”
Tom frowned. “Milam Broadus? He’s…”
“Crazy, yes I know. You and Docia both told me, and I didn’t think he was wrapped too tight either.” Deirdre peeked up at him from beneath those lush lashes. “He had the right tables, though. And I couldn’t find anything like them anywhere else. Plus he’s selling them for way under what they’re worth.”
Tom shook his head. “You realize any money you pay him will go to finance more lunacy.”
“It’s Texas, Tom, lunacy is our birthright.” She plucked a slice of bacon off his plate. “Besides, I’m just buying tables from him. I’m not signing on to lead the charge on the state house.”
“Okay, but I’m glad I’m going with you. I’m not happy about you going into Broadus’s place by yourself.”
Deirdre frowned slightly. “To tell you the truth, I’m glad you’ll be there too. He’s a little, well, weird.”
“Weird is putting it mildly. The son of a bitch is demented.” Tom sighed. “Okay, let’s go get your tables, assuming Broadus is open on Sunday. With him, you never know. Maybe he needed to go picket the capitol.”
“He’ll be there,” Deirdre said flatly. “I owe him money.”
Deirdre studied the front of the Republic of Texas, fingering the money in her pocket. Docia had given her the six hundred out of her cash from the bookstore since they both figured Broadus wouldn’t take a check in any form.
She was relieved that Tom was at her back. Broadus’s store still looked like a maze of dark furniture, with a fortress of solitude at the center. Maybe he’d planned it that way. Maybe people who bought antique guns from him didn’t like being seen from the street.
“Cheery little place,” Tom muttered. “Just what every aspiring tyrant needs.”
“What?”
“A den of iniquity.”
Deirdre snickered, then promptly froze. Milam Broadus was standing in the doorway, watching them with narrowed eyes.
She cleared her throat and gave him a decorous smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Broadus. I came to pick up the tables and chairs.”
Broadus’s eyes stayed narrow. “You got the four hundred eighty you owe me?”
“Yes sir.” Deirdre carefully avoided looking at Tom. She had the feeling he wouldn’t be pleased.
Broadus turned without speaking again and marched into his shop. Beside her, Tom made a noise that sounded a lot like a snarl.
She patted his arm. “Be nice. I need those tables. And it shouldn’t take long.”
“Freakin’ maniac,” he fumed. “I thought those guys all treated women like fragile blossom.”
“Probably not barmaids.”
Tom gave her a narrow-eyed look of his own but followed her through the maze of armoires and breakfronts until they reached Broadus’s desk. Deirdre pulled five hundred-dollar bills out of her pocket. “If I could get change, please? I don’t have exactly four hundred and eighty.”
Broadus pulled a battered wallet out of his back pocket and tossed her a greasy twenty.
“And could I also have a receipt?” She gave him the smile that had worked in the past with head waiters who’d tried to put her in a corner.
Broadus rummaged through his desk until he found the original note he’d written with her name, then scrawled
Paid
across it. “Here.”
Tom peered at the paper, then back at Broadus. “No sales tax?”
Broadus’s face turned dull pink. “Who’re you anyway? You work for them pricks up in Austin?”
Tom folded his arms across his chest. “Tom Ames. I own the Faro.”
“A honky-tonk,” Broadus spat. “I suppose you pay the revenuers when they come by your place.”
“Yep.” The corners of Tom’s mouth tightened. “I like having the fires put out in town and having a cop on the beat. Not to mention getting the roads repaired after the spring floods. Figure I ought to help pay for it since I benefit from it.”
Broadus’s eyes were burning. “You pay for traitors to suck the blood of patriots.”
“So far as I know, that hasn’t come up at the City Council meetings lately.”
Deirdre sighed.
Enough.
“We’ll just take those tables and chairs, Mr. Broadus. Do you have a loading dock?”
Broadus was still engaged in a staring match with Tom, but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere. He turned back to her, his mouth a thin line. “No dock. Take ’em out the back door.”
“Right. Come on, Tom, I need you.” She grabbed hold of his arm, towing him through the store. “Don’t bait him,” she murmured. “Just help me get my stuff out of here.”
“Sorry.” He sighed. “That asshole just pushes my buttons. Show me where the tables are and I’ll become your beast of burden.”
It took them a half hour or so to edge all three tables out of the furniture maze and place them in the back of the truck. The chairs were wedged in the corners, with one behind Tom’s seat.