Page 17 of Bourbon and Proof

ACE

Sounds nice. Hadn’t realized you’d taken to bird watching in your old age.

THE JEWELER

You’re older than me.

ACE

You sure about that?

While we aren’t friends, there’s been a camaraderie built over the years. A sense of trust between two people in similarroles: handling what’s needed and keeping the judgement and feelings far enough at bay to sleep at night. His text has my attention, because there’s plenty of underlying context in that one sentence.A bird.It bothers me instantly, knowing Hadley’s name is being mentioned in any circles he’s involved in.

THE JEWELER

A lot of people looking to collect and she’s not paying.

“You look like someone pissed in your bourbon,” Lincoln says as he approaches, taking a seat at our table.

Clapping and laughter grow louder as Faye, in her typical form, starts peeling off pieces of her wedding reception attire.

Ignoring him, I nod to the dance floor. “Your wife is about to give us a performance.”

He smiles, letting out a sigh. “She’s fucking beautiful.” Leaning forward, he shouts through a laugh, “Rosie Gold Foxx, you better save some of those moves for later!”

Grant, somewhere in all of this, slipped into the chair to my left. I don’t have to look at him to know where his attention is. Seconds later, Laney perches herself on his lap, out of breath. “Dance with me, cowboy. Then we can get out of here.”

I don’t hear the rest of their exchange, but I can’t help smiling. My brother had a rough go of it before she showed up here, and while he has worked himself out of it, she makes him smile just about every time I see him.

“Faye, those stay— Ah, fuck,” Lincoln says, standing up and moving quickly to the dance floor, just as Faye holds up a pair of fishnets and a fairly drunk Hadley cackles at her side.

Hadley hugs my brother as he reaches her. He glances at me when she says something to him, but he shakes his head. Now,thathas my attention. They sway together and laugh, herhead kicking back and a big smile tilting toward the low-hanging chandeliers.

“Careful, Atticus . . .” Griz mutters to my right.

“Where did you come from?” I ask with a chuckle. He’s got a glass of bourbon in one hand and a cigar unlit in the other.

“I never understood it,” he says, watching the dance floor and likely eyeing the same woman I just was.

If I don’t ask, he’s going to keep delivering cryptic phrases until I do. “What have you never understood?”

He takes a slow sip, draining the bourbon that remained. His leg crosses over the other as his arms drape along each side of the worn brown leather.

I eye the empty glass. “You might want to consider slowing down tonight. How many is that?”

He gives me a side-eye. “Most of my body is made up of bourbon and grit, Atticus. I’m just fueling up.”

As much as I give him shit for always being in my business and having a way of interjecting when I least want him to, I still want him around as long as possible. I don’t seek out his approval any longer, but that doesn’t mean his opinion doesn’t matter. Not many know about the dual life he maintains. He’s respected and sometimes mistaken for being a charming old man, but that’s only the surface. The man’s eighty, but he treats life like he still has plenty to live. Most people make the assumption he’s in his mid-sixties, not too far after retirement. But like a lot of the details of Griz’s life, that would be a lie. There have been small things about his age that I have started to take note of over the last couple of years: he’s a bit slower to get up and move around, more reliant on his golf cart to navigate our expansive property, late nights still happen, but they’re peppered throughout the weeks with more naps and caffeine. His mind is sharp and memory even clearer, but he’s ready to move away from the stress that lingers from what takesplace behind closed doors and in back rooms. And that reminds me...

“Do me a favor and keep visitors to a minimum over the next few days.” I don’t want to give him information or the details of what I need to get done. I have a plan, and if he knows too much, too soon, then he’ll fuck it up somehow.

“Yeah, yeah.” A gravelly laugh sounds from his throat.

After another minute, I can still feel him staring at my profile, so I turn to meet his stare. The serious look on his face isn’t one many see, or ever see, too often, but right now, in the dim light, I catch a glimpse of the Griswald Foxx who’s dangerous. The man who has far too many friends, the man who has been a conduit and connector between politicians and drug cartels for decades. I’ve learned everything from him—that shaking hands and greasing palms are just as valuable and risky as some of the favors we’ve been promised or have asked for. A man who blurs lines about the rights and wrongs of killing someone who needs to be removed, a situation that requires cleaning without questions, a man who has loved and lost plenty. An older mirror image, if I’m not careful.

“How did your meeting with Jim Dugan Sr. go?” He changes the subject effortlessly, probably sensing where my mind is. I try not to get worked up about him asking. He knows when the meeting’s scheduled.

“It’s next week. And I imagine it’ll go just fine.”

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