Page 45 of Thug

He removed his gloves and shoved them in his back pocket. “It might look like hell, but it’s going to save time. Someone ‘donated’ the kitchen equipment,” he said, using air quotes when he said the word donate. He gestured toward the bare wall. “A few of those sheets of sheetrock were moldy—”

I arched an eyebrow. “Someone donated the kitchen equipment?”

“Sure did.”

“Do I need to be prepared for the cops to question me someday about where I got it?”

“Someone donated it,” he insisted. “It’s legit.”

“It’s been paid for?”

“It’s being paid for as we speak.”

I was impressed. “Oh. Wow. Sorry. Please continue. You were telling me about mold.”

“The sheetrock had to be removed, because it was moldy. They weren’t moisture resistant board, anyway. Whoever did this work didn’t know what they were doing.”

“I’m sorry it’s turned into such a mess.”

“I’m telling you, it’s easier this way.” He glanced around. “We’ll probably be done before next weekend.”

My heart lurched into my throat. “Are you…you’re serious? Next weekend? Seven days from now?”

Nodding his head in the affirmative, he gave the kitchen a once-over. “I’m thinking so.” He looked at me. “You planning on doing the cooking?”

“Absolutely.”

“What are you going to do about the bar?” He gave me a serious look. “You can’t wait tables and cook at the same time.”

“I can until I get someone to wait tables,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll trust anyone to do the cooking. I can’t decide.”

“I’d go the other route.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being a good waitress isn’t as simple as keeping cold beers on the tables,” he explained. “It’s more about personality than anything. You can teach a cook to follow a recipe, but you can’t teach someone to have a good personality.”

I hadn’t given it a tremendous amount of thought, but Panzer was right. A personality couldn’t be taught. I needed to find someone with good looks and a great personality. It was either that or hire a cook. The thought of having someone else cook made me itch.

“I suppose so,” I muttered. I took another look at the disaster before turning toward the swinging door that led to the bar. As excited as I was about the kitchen, I was more interested to learn who was hiding behind Price McNealy’s mask. “I’ll stay out of your way. Let me know if you need anything.”

Price had promised to come in but gave no idea when it might be. Eager to provide him unfettered access to me and to the bar, I unlocked the front door and programmed the jukebox to play a few of my favorite songs.

Thirty minutes later, while the Allman Brothers Band’s Melissa played, the sound of an approaching motorcycle caused my heart to race. A few seconds after the sound of the engine’s exhaust ceased to shake the walls, the front door swung open.

Price stepped inside. “Seen Brisco?”

I tried to hide my excitement. “Not yet.”

He glanced around. “Fucking place looks deserted.”

“I opened a little early.”

“Must be out dicking around with Carp,” he muttered on his way to the bar.

“Why don’t you call him?”

“Don’t know where my phone is. Thought maybe I left it here.”