He found his Ford Ranger in the parking lot and fired it up, drove away from the casino, and then hesitated on 56, unsure of which way to turn. He sure as shit wasn’t going to be able to sit in there and watch Danny carry on all night, not in this mood. Maybe if he’d been a little drunker. But he was still sober, and still angry. Could go home, but home was out in the hills between Orangeville and Orleans, and driving away from town now felt like cowardice, running off to sulk. No, go on to another bar.

By Monday-hell, maybe by Sunday-he’d feel some sense of regret for leaving like this. Mostly because Danny was going to be dumb enough to buy drinks all night; partially because the idiot had actually wanted Josiah around to share his windfall. Right now, though, there wasn’t any way he could take it. It was only twenty-five hundred dollars, but it had fallen into Danny’s fat, sweaty palm, not Josiah’s.

He was at the parking lot exit, foot on the brake, waiting for a chance to pull out, not paying any of the passing cars a bit of attention except to look for a gap, until he saw a black Porsche Cayenne fly by.

That son-of-a-bitch student, still in town. The car incensed him, made him want to stamp on the Ranger’s accelerator and ram right into the back of it, watch those taillights bust. He pulled out behind it and did hit the gas a touch, as much of a burnout as his worn tires would allow, then felt stupid for it. Peeling out in front of the casino on a Friday night was almost like yelling for the police on a bullhorn, asking to be arrested.

He drove more slowly but stayed behind the Porsche, followed it up the hill and out of town and then thought, Oh, man, it’s going to be hard to pass this one up, when he saw its turn signal come on just in front of Rooster’s, then watched it slow and pull into the bar’s gravel parking lot. Just what he needed to tempt him tonight-some rich kid going into a local bar like it was a damn tourist attraction. Stare at the country folk, maybe take some pictures. Ask more questions about Josiah’s own flesh and blood.

He pulled into the parking lot and watched the driver’s door of the Porsche open and the kid step out, big as a damn barn. Josiah had him in the headlights, could see the muscled-up shoulders and chest. There was someone with him this time. The second guy was white, with short hair and one of those three-day beards that was supposed to make him look casual, indifferent. Older than the black kid, but not so old you’d have to feel bad about beating the shit out of him.

They disappeared inside and Josiah cut his ignition and shut off the lights. He’d been spoiling for a fight all day, and now he was going to get it. Size of that black kid, it was clear this one would be a sight. Wasn’t nobody going to be talking about Danny Hastings and his twenty-five hundred bucks once Josiah finished this.

THE RAMSHACKLE JOINT Kellen drove them to had a neon rooster on its sign, but no name. Maybe the bar wasn’t even called Rooster’s. Could be they’d just taken a shine to that sign. Inside, it was a warm-looking place, old but clean. A handful of people were sitting in the booths that lined one wall, maybe six more scattered around the bar. Two guys tossing darts in a corner.

“You again!” the blond woman behind the bar said, squinting at Kellen. “Give me a minute, I’ll remember it. Hmm… got a K in it. Kelvin?”

“Kellen.”

“Darn! Should’ve had it. But you haven’t been down here in a long time either, so it’s really your fault.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he said, and ordered a beer, asking for whatever was light and on draft. Eric held up two fingers, figuring it would be a good idea to shade on the light side for the rest of the evening anyhow, the way his mind was playing tricks.

“You need anything else, yell for Becky,” the woman said, sliding the beers over.

Kellen nodded. “I’ll remember it. Now, think you could find TNT on that TV?”

Becky tried the remote and didn’t have any luck getting a response, tossed it down and stretched up on her toes to reach the TV. Good long legs, nice tan. Maybe forty-five. Older than Claire by a decade. Claire had great legs…

“Here we go,” Kellen said. “Thank you.”

He’d requested a basketball game, Timberwolves playing the Lakers. Eric despised the Lakers. He used to get dragged down to the games now and then by a producer friend who always considered it a business venture and spent the game with his back to the court, peering around the stands in search of A-listers. Eric, who’d been a pretty big basketball fan at one time, particularly of college ball, had hated the Hollywood aspect of the Lakers games, Jack Nicholson down there courtside in his damn sunglasses barking at the refs, other stars miraculously finding their way to the games only when they were on national TV.

“You wanted to know what my brother did,” Kellen said, and nodded at the TV. “Number forty for Minnesota.”

“No shit?” Eric said.

“None. I was recording this, hate to miss any, but what the hell.”

Eric found number forty and saw the resemblance immediately. A few inches taller than Kellen and lankier, without the bulked-up muscle, but the head shape and the facial features were clear matches.

“What’s his name?” Eric said.

“Darnell.”

“Younger or older?”

Kellen hesitated for just a beat, and his eyes flicked sideways before he said, “Younger. Three years younger,” in a voice that was softer than it had been.

They watched as the ball found its way to Darnell Cage. He took a kick-out behind the three-point line on a fast break, shot-faked and then drove to the foul line and put up a floater that caught the back of the rim and bounced long.

“Come on, D, come on,” Kellen said. “Give that ball up. Had the cutter.”

The teams went back and forth without Cage touching the ball. Then the Lakers scored and Minnesota ran a post set that didn’t generate anything, threw it back out, and worked it around the perimeter. There were eight seconds left on the shot clock when the ball came to Darnell Cage on the left baseline, and Kellen laughed. It was a low, almost devious sound.

“Oh, they in trouble now,” he said.

Darnell Cage faced up to his defender, ball held back on his hip, leaning forward.

“Crossover coming,” Kellen said.

Darnell Cage gave a slight shoulder fake, then put the ball on the floor, moving left before shifting to the right, the defender sliding with him, not fooled by the fake. Then came the crossover, a wickedly fast between-the-legs dribble back to his left hand, and Darnell Cage blew down the rest of the baseline in about two strides before going into the air and finishing with a tremendous one-handed dunk that brought the home crowd to its feet.

“Wow,” Eric said.

Kellen was grinning. “He owns that left baseline, man. Owns it. He’s a lefty, and you can give him some trouble if you force him to the right, but if he gets you off balance on that left baseline, you’re done. Just too damn fast. He gets you rocked at all, then there’s nothing to do but watch.”

Kellen had turned to look at Eric but now his eyes drifted higher and his brow furrowed and he said, “You got to be kidding me.”

“What?”

“You want to meet a relative of Campbell Bradford? My Campbell? He’s standing back there by the pool table. This is the cat who threw the bottle at me. Josiah.”

Eric turned and found himself staring into the dark eyes of a guy with shaggy brown hair and a black polo shirt who was standing beside the pool table, watching them.

“Appears he remembers you as well,” Eric said.

“Uh-huh. I don’t think I’ll ask him any more questions about the family tree.”

“I can’t believe he’s here.”

“Small town,” Kellen said. “Not many bars.”