Griffin parked next to a utility truck and shut off the motorcycle. He ripped off his helmet and shook his dark locks. I caught the odor of something fresh and manly and almost leaned closer to him for a good whiff. But luckily, I caught myself. The last thing I wanted to do was get caught huffing Griffin like some lunatic.
So when we entered the bar and he turned to me and indicated that my wig was askew, I hurried to the his/her bathroom, which, upon entry, I discovered should have firmly been a “his” bathroom. Cedar walls held a condom dispensary and a paper towel holder that was empty, and the concrete floor was caked with stuff I really didn’t want to think about. On the sink stood a roll of brown paper towels with a bar of soap beside it. The mirror, speckled with age, proved that my wig was indeed crooked. I did my best to tidy it and then pulled out the gloss I had shoved in my front pocket, reapplying it. I wished I had cause to wear sunglasses, because I had elected to go without the fake eyelashes this go-around. Still, I didn’t think Scott would recognize me as his wife.
When I emerged from the toilet, I found Griffin in the back, two bottles of Bud Light on the table in front of him. A couple of men sat near an aged jukebox scanning the Thrifty Nickel for boats. I could hear the rumble of their debate over which one would be the best for frogging. A single older gentleman in denim overalls with a bandana sticking out of his back pocket sat alone, a bottle of Coke in front of him. They all turned and watched me as I made my way toward Griffin. Tinny country music played over the large corner-mounted speakers.
I slid onto a stool, one that put my back to the door. A Heineken mirror on the wall opposite the door was angled enough for me to observe who entered and exited. “Thanks for the beer.”
The corner of his lip quirked. “Hope you enjoy it.”
I set my cell phone on the table, prepared to use it if needed. Scott could bring Stephanie here. Maybe. But probably not. I was pretty shocked that I was sitting in a bar where someone could also buy bait and a pocketknife.
“You look nervous. Take a few sips to take the edge off. I’ll go find some music. What do you like?”
“Norah Jones.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not going to be there. So how about Tanya Tucker or Tammy Wynette?”
I shrugged and did as he suggested, taking a few swigs, telling myself to relax as I stole glances at my Apple Watch. It was almost appointment time, and Scott was never late. Part of his standard MO. Always be on time.
Griffin moseyed back and had just sat down when the door opened. I tensed, and he picked up his bottle, clicking it against mine, and mouthed, “Relax.”
Easy for him to do.
My gaze strayed to that mirror, and I could see Scott, dressed in trousers and a button-down, no tie, entering the bar with another man wearing a suit. They surveyed the room, so I jerked my gaze to the tabletop, keeping my head down so I didn’t draw their attention. The door closed behind them, and the bartender called, “Howdy.”
They made their way to the table with the older guy in overalls.
Surprising.
A round of greetings took place and an introduction. Standard business protocol. Finally, I caught a good look at the older gentleman in the suit. It was Donner Walker, Ty’s father.
Something zinged inside me.
Was this who Scott had been talking to at the gala?
Griffin leaned toward me. “The guy they’re meeting is Skeet Brookings. He’s an oil guy, but not just oil and gas. He owns half of Caddo Parish. His pockets are as deep as time.”
Now that wasn’t surprising. I knew that name mostly because Mr. Brookings banked with Caddo Bank, and Scott had mentioned him a time or two. This was a big fish.
The sound of Brooks & Dunn covered the men’s conversation, and I felt a flash of annoyance that Griffin had possibly drowned out the sounds of whatever they were talking about with country music. My mind raced with what I knew about Donner Walker. I remembered something about a potential retirement community or some type of development, but maybe it was more like an investment company that bought and sold real estate? I couldn’t remember because I rarely paid attention to that stuff. Chances were good that it had been the arrogant Donner Walker that night. But what were they up to? Just because they were meeting with this Skeet fellow didn’t mean what they were doing was illegal. But the clandestine conversation at the gala had seemed odd. My gut said something was fishy . . . and that it had nothing to do with the bait this bar sold.
Obviously Scott believed in this venture because I was assuming he’d put all our money into the investment opportunity. No way would Scott venture our future on something with risky returns. So I needed to figure out exactly what was going on. But in order to do that, I needed to not alert Scott that I was concerned about our money and manage to do some deeper digging into our financials.