v Ashley - Golden Trail

Layne had fucked up twice and both of them were royally. The first time was out of his control when the condom broke when he was with Gabby and it was now not debatable that he’d fucked up nailing Gabby in the first place, drunk or not. The second time was when he left his sons and the last year he’d given a lot of headspace to trying to remember why the fuck he did that at all.

Gabby was a bitch and divorcing her made her worse and Rocky was in that town. Layne had felt tied down, not by his sons, but by the history with Rocky and Gabby that fenced him in. This brought up the urge to get out of that ‘burg and roam. There were things he wanted to do, wanted to see and wanted to learn, things he couldn’t learn, see and do in a small town. He’d told Rocky all about this shit when they were together and she was with him all the way because she shared his need to roam, to learn, to see, to do. They had plans and, once she graduated from Butler, they were going to go. They didn’t know where but it would be somewhere.

He found what he was searching for in St. Louis, San Antonio, Reno, Phoenix and LA but he lost more by leaving what really mattered at home and he’d paid a mighty price for that fuck up. Nevertheless, he made more friends than enemies along the way, case in point, Devin Glover dropping everything and hitting town after getting a phone call.

Jarrod Astley and Stew Baranski hadn’t learned not to shit where they lived, where they worked, wherever they wanted. They didn’t care who they screwed over. You couldn’t live your life like that and not face retribution eventually.

And it was closing in on Astley and Stew’s judgment days.

Layne and Colt hit the even smaller town next to the ‘burg, a town right on the outskirts of Indy. It held a Raceway and was a decent place, generally, but could get pretty rough when the races were on. The ‘burg had J&J’s as its hotspot, no other drinking establishments in town because every one that sprung up failed due to people’s loyalty to J&J’s. J&J’s wasn’t the only place to drink, there were restaurants that had bars, but it was the only place people went to meet friends, listen to the jukebox, play a game of pool and tie one on.

This town wasn’t the same. They had tons of bars, most of them rough due to their clientele being race groupies or race hangers on. Layne swung into the one Colt informed him they were going to and parked.

He switched off the ignition and turned to Colt. “There a way we need to play this?”

Colt shook his head. “You don’t play Ryker. He either likes you or he doesn’t. He likes you, he shares. He doesn’t, we’ll know in about two seconds and then we’ll go have lunch.”

Layne nodded and they both turned to their doors.

The day was overcast with intermittent rain. Even if there was sun, the light in the bar would be dim stating openly to its customers that anything goes. You could fuck a race groupie in the corner and not be noticed. You could also make a drug sale or slide a blade into an enemy.

Colt led Layne to a corner table where a man sat alone with his back to the wall and a bottle of beer in front of him on the table. It was cold outside but the guy was wearing a black tank top stretched across his bulky, ripped torso, jeans and motorcycle boots and he wasn’t resting with his coat slung on his chair. But he was lounging back in that chair, one of his long, beefy legs straight in front of him, foot resting on its heel, the other leg cocked with foot flat to the ground. He looked relaxed but Layne knew he was alert to anything. He had two sleeves of tattoos running up his arms, full on wrist to shoulder ink, both sleeves slithering up his thick neck. He was bald, he was ugly and it was easy to read he was not a guy you messed with.

“Ryker,” Colt greeted and didn’t hesitate before he sat down at Ryker’s table.

“This guy a cop?” Ryker asked, his eyes locked on Layne.

Layne took a seat at the same time he held Ryker’s eyes.

“Nope,” Colt answered.

“Smells like a cop,” Ryker commented and, even though Colt was a cop, he did this in a way that stated plainly cops were not his favorite people.

“Used to be one, now he’s a PI,” Colt replied.

Ryker’s eyebrows shot up and he kept his eyes on Layne. “A dick?” That was meant to have two meanings and Layne clenched his teeth.

“What he is, for the purposes of this meet, is Gabrielle Layne’s ex-husband,” Colt told Ryker.

Ryker’s eyes cut to Colt. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Stew Baranski’s woman,” Colt answered.

Ryker grinned, he knew who she was but he still asked, “Fat bitch?”

“Ryker,” Colt said low.

“Dumb bitch.” Ryker refused to read the warning.

Layne was done so he entered the conversation.

“She and I have two boys, one of ‘em saw Baranski hand off an envelope to Carlito at the house. Gabby tells me Stew has troubles. You know anything about that?”

Ryker’s eyes sliced to Layne on the words “two boys” and he waited a beat before he answered, “I know Carlito is a fuckwad.”

“I know that too,” Layne returned.

“And I know Baranski is an assclown,” Ryker went on.

“Yeah, you aren’t tellin’ me anything I don’t know,” Layne informed him. “Not here to find out shit I know, I’m here to find out what’s goin’ on because I’m not a big fan of my boys witnessing Baranski makin’ a payment to a loan shark.”

Ryker grinned. “That wasn’t no payment.”

Layne didn’t like the sound of that.

“So what was it?” Layne asked.

“Wasn’t no payment,” Ryker answered.

Layne studied Ryker then looked at Colt.

“Ryker, you got somethin’, it’d help Layne out,” Colt prompted and Ryker’s eyes went from Colt to Layne.

He examined Layne for a long time before he asked, “Which one?”

“Come again?” Layne asked back.

“Which boy?”

Layne felt the muscles in his neck contract. “Not sure that’s relevant, man.”

Ryker didn’t let it go. “The one that tagged that sweet catch and, after, caught it from that dickhead coach who should have his nuts in a vice or the one who can block like that fat bitch pushed him out while he was wearin’ shoulder pads?”

Christ, this fuckin’ guy was a Bulldogs fan.

“Jasper,” Layne knew at that moment it was safe to say. “My older boy. The one who can block.”

“Got quick feet, hasn’t seen the ball in two games,” Ryker noted. “You doin’ somethin’ about that?”

“All I can do,” Layne replied.

“And what’s that?” Ryker pushed.

“The School Board is investigating my complaint,” Layne answered and when he did, Ryker threw back his head and barked out his laughter, something Layne didn’t appreciate all that much but he held his tongue.

When he was done, Ryker tipped his chin down and leveled his eyes on Layne. “You give me the word, sport, I might find it in me to convince the coach to let both your boys see the ball. No marker to be paid, I’d give you that for free.”

Jesus.

“I like my way of doin’ it,” Layne told him.

“Scouts not gonna get the full picture, your older boy’s a senior, that motherfucker’ll fuck him up.”

“I still like my way of doin’ it,” Layne repeated and it was far more firmly this time.

Ryker watched him awhile then he shrugged.

Layne brought the matter back to hand, saying, “How much is Baranski into Carlito for?”

“Nothin’,” Ryker answered immediately and Layne’s brows drew together.

“Nothin’?” he reiterated.

“Nope, he was, dickhead’s shit at the dogs, but he ain’t anymore.”

Layne felt Colt’s eyes on him and he turned to meet his gaze.

Then Colt looked at Ryker. “You wanna fill in that picture?”

Layne looked back at Ryker too and Ryker leaned forward, putting a tattooed arm on the table.

“He got deep with Carlito, so deep he couldn’t get out,” Ryker shared. “So, instead of Carlito takin’ it out on Baranski the normal way, he put Baranski to work. Baranski liked this work so now he’s doin’ it part-time.”

Then he leaned back and stopped talking but Layne knew what he was saying and Layne knew why Gabby asked him to take the boys for extra weeks, even though she probably didn’t know why. Carlito was undoubtedly a frequent visitor and, even if Gabby wasn’t full in the know, she’d read Carlito and wouldn’t want the boys around that. And, lastly, Layne was struggling against the urge to hunt down Stew Baranski and beat him bloody.

He won his struggle and sought confirmation. “Stew is Carlito’s enforcer?”

Ryker nodded once. “One of ‘em, yeah.”

There it was. Confirmation.

Fucking shit.

“You are shittin’ me,” Layne whispered but he knew Ryker wasn’t.

Ryker confirmed this too and grinned while doing it. “Nope.”

Layne turned his head to Colt. “That asshole’s livin’ with my boys.”

Layne was addressing Colt but Ryker answered, “Yep,” and Layne’s eyes went back to him.

Then he told Ryker, “Done my homework, Ryker, and Baranski hasn’t been payin’ bills and neither has my ex.”

Ryker shrugged again. “Why would he? He’s got a sweet ride. She’s fat and she’s nothin’ to look at but she keeps him fed. Pays his bills,” he grinned again, “or maybe she doesn’t but she tries. She’s good cover, all respectable, single mom, two boys.” He tipped his head to Colt. “Means even the cops don’t know about his leisure activities. Leaves him free to do his job and gives him the opportunity he didn’t have before to use his money and his take from Carlito to live his life as he wants to and to keep his other piece sassy. Figure, he got hooked up with your ex because no one else would suck his dick but lotta women will suck your dick you got the money to pay ‘em to do it.”

“His other piece?” Colt asked.

“Yep,” Ryker answered.

“You know who that is?” Colt pressed.

“Don’t know her name but know she ain’t no fat bitch, she don’t got no kids, she drives an ace ride that Baranski bought her and also know she takes it up the ass because everyone knows that’s the only way Baranski likes it.”

Layne swallowed the saliva this statement brewed in his mouth, not needing that much information about Gabby’s relationship with her fuckwad boyfriend.

Ryker was grinning at him and then he leaned forward again and his grin disappeared.

“I’ll give you an extra bonus because your boys can play ball,” he said. “Baranski won’t be cryin’ in his cornflakes, your ex turns him out. But he’ll wring her dry before he gets shot of her. She’s diggin’ a hole to keep him in her bed, he won’t give one, single, shit he leaves her in that hole. You want him outta her bed, wouldn’t take but a touch of pressure to get him to go but that don’t mean he won’t leave her fucked up the ass and I mean that in a different way. You want him gone, it’ll take you about two fuckin’ seconds to make that happen. You want him to pay, now that would be more fun and, since I’m feelin’ generous, I could help you with that too.”

“How?” Layne bit out.

“I make it my business to know Carlito’s business and I can give you the head’s up, he sends Baranski after someone. You’re a dick, I bet you got cameras and, if you’re a good one, I bet you can make yourself invisible. You take shots of him leanin’ on someone, and he has a special flair with that, sport, he’s Carlito’s top man, what you’ll catch him doin’ won’t be pretty and that’s comin’ from a man who ain’t squeamish at the sight of blood. You can use those shots to lean on him. You got evidence, you shove it in his face, make the payoff somethin’ that’ll get your ex outta her hole and he’ll be gone.” He sat back and clapped his hands. “Problems solved.” He smiled big and his smile made him uglier. “You got a mind to do it, you could even do some ass fuckin’ yourself, after he makes that payoff, your ex is good, you hand over those shots to the pigs anyway. Baranski goes down, only people would miss him are Carlito and his piece of ass and, I’m just guessin’ here, but I bet neither of ‘em will take too long to find replacements.”

Layne smiled at him.

Then he said, “I’ll give you my number.”

It was ten to six when Layne turned onto his street and saw Rocky’s Mercedes parked, not in the drive, but at the curb behind a white Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais circa 1987, Dev’s ride.

She was early.