Passing through downtown the opposite way, Durwood did see signs for the industrial park. ChixIndiePrk written in artsy, lopsided letters. Underneath, a stick-figure man held a stick-figure briefcase. Unless that was supposed to be the fella's lunch.

Durwood parked out front of The Sawyer House. His boot's sole had barely touched asphalt when Sue whimpered.

Her mottled nose edged over the center console.

"We've been put on notice," Durwood said. "Can you be civil?"

The dog's milky eyes brightened like civil was some new flavor of rawhide chew.

He supported her forequarters, down out of the van. They headed for the industrial park. The park started at the hotel's south face and ended, oh, a few healthy baitcasts farther on.

Durwood couldn't figure the "park" part. Two warehouses and a squat building with the Hogan logo—a craggy rock with an H chipped into it.

No swingset around. No reflecting pool. Heck—if there was grass between the three structures, he didn't see it.

Sue-Ann, who never wore a leash, fell back a step, distracted. Durwood's sucked in angry breath. Old age was no excuse for disobedience.

Then he smelled the meat himself.

Boone's Chophouse occupied the hotel's first floor. Durwood could see inside, around cream-colored curtains somebody'd tied back with gold doodads.

Chandelier of a hundred-odd glittering rectangles. Servers rushing silver domes to tables with perfect straight backs. And for the folks eating, easy smiles all around.

"Well," Durwood said. "I guess every animal has a limit."

The smell was heavenly. It wasn't one smell. The buttery cowmeat, sure, but pepper and potato too. And the greasy bits off the grill grate—caramel colored, soft and hard at the same time.

Durwood was just pushing his thumb into his forefinger to snap—a command Sue wouldn't ignore in a hurricane—when he saw Chester Lyles.

Chester Lyles's smile was the easiest in the room.

Durwood recognized the man from the executive portraits outside Jay Hogan's office. Tanned. Wavy blond hair. Not much different from Quaid Rafferty in those ways. Younger, though. And the eyes showed none of his partner's generosity and belief.

A server put a cloth over his wrist, showed Lyles the label of a wine bottle.

Lyles sniffed his approval. The server filled all nine glasses around the table.

Durwood recognized the woman at Chester Lyles's left, too. The only woman of the nine. She'd been at Jay Hogan's office earlier, with minions. The minions were here too. They didn't take a sip of their wine, waiting on their boss to sip first.

She was elegant, Bosslady. Her suit fit like fur on a bison. Durwood doubted you could find a garment of its quality within a hundred miles of Elk Grove—if in the state of West Virginia at all.

Durwood looked up the road. The rest of downtown was hurting. Windows covered in plywood. A streetlight dangling from its post like carrion off a crow's beak.

While Chester Lyles and his party ate fillets and sized up a coffin for the town of Chickasaw.

He backtracked to the restaurant entrance. Sue followed. When the revolving door stuck, his boot wanted to drive through the glass.

Durwood stopped it, barely.

A hostess moved her slim fingers up the sides of a podium.

"What may I assist you with, sir?"

Durwood said, "There's a man inside I need to speak with."

"Certainly. If you'd be kind enough to provide a description, I can—"

"I see him."

Durwood left the podium behind. When the hostess flinched at the sight of Sue-Ann, looking like her toilet was running over, he said, "We'll be brief."

Durwood's strides were straight and brisk. The dog trotted to keep up. The place was huge, ceiling ten stories up, overlooked by hotel rooms.

Other diners looked. The clatter of silverware faded.

When Chester Lyles saw Durwood, he paused a bite of something gray and squishy. Oyster? Coulda been.

He narrowed his eyes, then ate the bite.

Bosslady faced away from Durwood. As he and Sue approached, she talked more. Gesturing with sharp hands. Brown head of hair in a perfect coif, just showing the first streaks of gray.

The minions watched Durwood. They held their wineglasses at their lips, like soldiers behind riot shields.

Durwood had faced riots himself. He'd never used a shield.

He caught what he could of Bosslady's words. She talked fast and interrupted herself often. She was explaining about clauses and guarantees, and touched Chester Lyle's sleeve when she said "contingency claim."

Of this, Durwood understood little. But he did know what sort of people used this language, a hundred dollars of words for every nickel of truth.

Lawyers.

—

Follow Durwood's realtime adventures on Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram [@]durwoodOakJones