Page 36 of Betrayal In Calusa Cove
“We all are,” Fletcher mused. “Are you sure you want me in there for this? He called you, not me, and Decker and I… Well, we don’t usually have nice things to say to one another. Just letting his name roll off my tongue makes me want to haul off and connect my fist with his ugly ass face.”
“I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t think it was a good idea.” Dawson’s gaze met his. “But you need to let me be the one to do most of the talking. No posturing, no chest beating. Let’s find out why he called.”
“I can probably behave,” Fletcher muttered, pushing off the SUV. “As long as he doesn’t say something that pisses me off.”
Dawson chuckled dryly. “Come on.”
The pub door creaked open on well-worn hinges. The familiar scent of fried seafood, spilled beer, and lemon cleaner hit Fletcher like a wave. It was early enough that the place wasn’t too crowded. A few locals nursed beers at the far end of the bar, but there were still a few empty tables. But that would change.
They spotted Decker Brown immediately.
He sat in a booth near the back, hunched over a glass of whiskey. His usually perfectly styled hair was a mess, and his blazer looked like it had been slept in. He was twitchy, fingers drumming against the side of the glass, gaze darting around the bar like he wasn’t supposed to be there, and he was terrified he was about to get caught.
He glanced in their direction, and his eyes went wide. He lifted his glass, brought it to his lips, dropped his head back, and drained the glass.
“Good evening, Decker.” Dawson stood at the edge of the booth, while Fletcher hung back two steps.
“Dawson,” Decker said, voice low. “Didn’t expect you to bring backup.”
Dawson slid into the booth across from him. Fletcher wasn’t quite sure what to do yet, so he simply inched forward, trying not to crowd Decker, and yet, making his presence known…and felt.
“Is there a reason Fletcher can’t be here? Is this official police business?” Dawson asked with a calm, even tone. It wasn’t accusatory. Just a simple question, but it lingered in the air like thick fog.
“I wanted to speak to you. Alone.” Decker’s jaw flexed. “This is a…sensitive matter.”
“Does it have to do with putting in a bid for the old Crab Shack?” Dawson asked.
“That’s part of it, but not the sum total.” Decker turned, waving his hand toward the waitress.
“If it’s about that, then Fletcher stays. He’s one of my business partners in that deal, not to mention his home is one lot over. This affects him.” Dawson scooted further in the booth, motioning to Fletcher to sit. It wasn’t a casual wave of the hand. It was more like an order. One that Fletcher wouldn’t ignore.
Decker looked at Fletcher. His eyes were bloodshot. His shoulders were slumped and seemed to carry the weight of the world. “Fine. Might as well have a seat.”
Fletcher was already halfway in.
The waitress showed up. “What can I get you boys?”
“I’ll take another bourbon,” Decker said. “Make it a double.”
“Tequila on the rocks.” Dawson nodded.
“Same for me,” Fletcher said. “Food, anyone? Because I haven’t had dinner, and I’m starving.”
“Yeah, sure. How about we get the seafood appetizer platter?” Decker leaned back, raking his fingers through his hair. “That’s enough food for all of us.”
“You’re going to share?” Fletcher asked, wishing he’d kept his sarcasm to himself.
“I’m even gonna foot the bill,” Decker said in a hot, mocking tone.
“Let’s settle things down a few levels.” Dawson nodded to the waitress, who scurried away like she’d seen a snake dare a chicken to cross the gator-infested river.
A thick silence filled the booth. Fletcher decided to wait for his drink before saying another word. Not that pouring alcohol on this situation would be a good idea, but this wasn’t his meeting. He was only along for the ride.
The quiet stretched, only filled in by the country music lazily playing in the speakers and the chatter of the other patrons. The waitress brought their beverages.
“I’ll keep a watchful eye on these, and when you boys are close to the bottom of the glass, I’ll bring another round,” she said.
“Thanks.” Fletcher lifted his tequila and sipped. He’d make it last. He needed to remain sharp around this slimy asshole.
