Devil's Oven by Laura Benedict Page B

bookstore places. Models and everything. Who buys that shit?”
    Bud grinned. How did someone like Dwight stay so naïve? Dwight always cracked him up, even when Bud felt like six kinds of hell.
    “I hear they sell them at parties,” Bud said. “Like Tupperware.”
    “Screw me,” Dwight said. “Ignoramuses. You won’t see my grandma passing one of those things around a martini party.” He set up the ladder and arranged the bulb boxes on its protruding shelf.
    Bud sat down behind his desk, watching the smaller man work. Dwight had just shown up one day, like an answer to an unspoken prayer. Where would Dwight go if Bud had to close the club? He knew he probably should have turned over the club’s financials to Dwight two years ago—he had certainly proved himself trustworthy enough early on. Since Dwight came on board, the cash drawer had never been short more than might be expected for an operation like The Twilight Club, and the cops had to break up fights less often. Despite his brusqueness, he took good care of the girls. They needed someone like Dwight.
    But it was that kind of thinking, Bud had been told, that made him a poor businessman. A piss-poor businessman was the exact phrase. Still, he didn’t know how to do it any other way.
    “What do you say I get us some coffee?” Bud said. “You got any made?”
    Dwight looked down at him from the ladder, the light of the first bulb he’d changed bouncing off his glasses.
     “You don’t drink coffee,” he said.
    Bud fiddled with an envelope on his desk.
    “I need you to take care of a thing for me,” he said. “I’ve got some cash—not all of it yet—and I need you to get it to your friends.”
    Bud couldn’t see Dwight’s eyes from where he sat, but the look that swept across his face hinted there might be some kind of problem.
    “What is it?” Bud said. He knew he could handle whatever Dwight told him. He’d had enough bad news lately that more wouldn’t be any kind of surprise.
    “Have they been on you already? You need to keep me in the loop, Dwight. This is my problem, not yours.”
    “It’s fine,” Dwight told him. “Is that it?” He pointed to the briefcase.
    “They’ve been calling my house,” Bud said. “I want to get this to them before something happens. You know, to Lila, God forbid. Or around here.” He massaged his temples, trying to fight the headache coming on. “I can’t believe I ever let it get this far, man. And I hate that you’ve put yourself in the middle of it.”
    Dwight guffawed. “Just call me the tasty crème filling.” But when he saw the misery on Bud’s face, he stopped.
    “Seriously, boss,” he said. “It’s handled. I already told you it’s not a problem.” He climbed down the ladder, careful not to catch the pointed toes of his boots in the steps. He leaned over the desk and stuck his hand out for Bud to shake.
    Bud didn’t trust himself to speak. He took Dwight’s thin, soft hand and shook it firmly, like men do.
    •  •  •
    It took Dwight the better part of an hour, but by the time Bud left, he’d seemed more relaxed and less like he was going to freak out right there in the office. On top of his financial problems, the troopers were still harassing Bud with questions about the murder of that poor bastard Claude Dixon. Nearly all local murders were of the domestic abuse or pay-up-for-the-shitload-of-meth-I-fronted-you-asshole varieties. The troopers were probably enjoying the novelty. Dwight was a fan of monster-of-the-week television himself, and this death had all the titillating marks of one.
    In another life, he had specialized in setting up similar puzzles for the cops. He had been too good at it, and it had gotten boring. Alta was a place he thought he could get away from all that, but it had followed him here like dog shit stuck to his shoe.
    As juicy as it sounded, he wondered just how reliable the Dixon woman’s story was. Exaggeration was her specialty. Half the