Bo patted Clete’s shoulder. “Thanks for the advice.” He started to walk away but then thought of something else. “Clete, how often do you come here?”

He looked up at the ceiling as if he were trying to do advanced math. Then he peered back at Bo with a twinkle in his gray eyes. “Every day. I mean, except for Sunday. They ain’t open on the Sabbath.”

“Gotcha,” Bo said. “I’ll be seeing you, OK?”

Bo continued his trek toward the back. While he walked, he noticed that the song playing on the speakers was “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-a-Lot. He looked over his shoulder and saw the stripper, “Jess,” shaking her backside in front of eighty-year-old Clete Sartain.

When he reached the table, Bo stopped and gazed down at the two men, feeling adrenaline rage through his veins as he remembered what Finn Pusser had done and said last night as well as the threats he’d made on the phone half an hour ago.

Neither Finn nor the other man had risen. Both were seated with their legs crossed, looking at ease. Their relaxed nature put Bo further on edge.

“Glad you could make it,” Finn said. There was a cast on his right hand, and he was picking at it with his left. He glanced at the Glock, which was clearly visible in the front of Bo’s pants, but the sight of the weapon didn’t seem to bother him. “Sit down for a minute, Mr. Haynes. Mr. Zannick would like to have a few words.”

Bo hesitated but then sat in the chair closest to Finn. From this vantage point, he was looking directly across the table at the other man. “So you’re Michael Zannick?” Bo asked. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“And me you, Mr. Haynes.” Zannick made no move to shake hands. Instead, he looked at Bo as if he might be a biologist sizing up an exotic plant.

“So, you got me here,” Bo said, choosing his words carefully. “What do you want?”

Zannick opened his hands palms out as if he had nothing to hide. There was a scar on the man’s upper lip that appeared to be the surgical remains of a cleft lip repair. Bo had sued a physician once for botching a cleft palate surgery, and during that case, he had studied thousands of pictures of the typical and expected scarring left after the procedure. Zannick’s mark fit the mold. The businessman wore a gray Pink Floyd T-shirt under a brown blazer. The clothes made him appear to be in his twenties, but the lines on Zannick’s forehead gave him away as older. “I would like to discuss what happened on my property on Highway 64 last evening.”