The whispered words were barely out of her mouth when the front door was opened with such impetus, the entire building rocked on its concrete-block platform.
"What the hell do you want, Tyler?"
With admirable aplomb, Lucky stood his ground and growled back. "First off, I want to be invited inside."
"What for?"
"I'll tell you when I get inside."
"When bore hogs grow teats. Get the hell off my porch."
Little Alvin tried to slam the door in their faces, but Lucky caught it before it closed.
"We either come in now alone, or come back later with Sheriff Bush. Then the decision won't be left to you."
Alvin regarded Lucky suspiciously, then gave Devon a lecherous leer. "Would the little lady like to come in by herself?"
"The little lady would not," said Lucky, grinding his teeth.
Alvin cursed, then turned inside and indicated with his head that they should follow. Lucky was about to step aside and let Devon go first, when she gave him a slight shove as a reminder that he was supposed to be portraying the role of a heel.
The place was a pigsty. It was furnished cheaply and littered with the debris of numerous meals and a collection of empty liquor bottles and beer cans. The only decorations were centerfolds that had been cut out of the crudest men's magazines and taped to the walls.
One look at those and Lucky felt Devon stiffen beside him. Just to be ornery, he walked over to one and studied it at length, murmuring an "hmm" of approval. He didn't wait for an invitation to sit down, but sprawled on a sofa. Taking Devon's hand, he dragged her down beside him and threw an arrogantly possessive arm around her.
"Whaddaya want?" their host asked.
"A cold beer would be nice. One for me and one for her," Lucky replied, jerking his head down toward Devon.
Scowling, Little Alvin lumbered into the adjacent kitchen and returned several moments later with three beers. After handing them theirs, he sat down across from them in what was apparently "his chair." There was a greasy spot on the headrest and worn spots in the upholstery where his behind fit into the seat and on the cushion where his feet rested when it reclined.
"Well?" he asked belligerently, after taking a sucking swig from his can of beer.
"Pat Bush gave me twenty minutes to make a deal with you."
Little Alvin barked a laugh. "You gotta be crazy, Tyler. I ain't making no deal with you about anything."
"I told you he wouldn't do it," Devon muttered.
"And I told you to keep your mouth shut and let me handle this," Lucky snapped, shooting her a threatening glance. "He may be dumb, but he's not stupid."
"Now just a damn—"
Lucky interrupted. "You want to hear this or not? Because every minute that you sit here shooting off your fat mouth is one minute you come closer to spending time in federal prison."
"For what?"
Devon laughed. Lucky frowned with impatience. "For what?" he repeated scornfully.
"Look, Alvin, cut the crap, all right? They've got enough evidence on you guys to send you to jail … even without a trial."
They saw a chasm open up then in his armor of insolence. His smug grin faltered. "What do you mean? What evidence?"
"Evidence, okay? There's not enough time to detail it all."
"When are you going to tell him about the paper?" Devon whined.
Lucky cursed, acting as if she had distracted him. "Will you put a lid on it and give me time to get this other business over with first?"