Life was good, especially for Butch Renfroe, Zannick’s handpicked corporate attorney. Butch had made nice commissions on each of his client’s purchases. He had become the president of Zannick’s start-up bank. And, as if all that weren’t enough, his side hustle was back in business.

The Sundowners had reopened its doors, and “the ring 2.0,” as one of his partners called it, was producing cash flow again.

Life was very good . . . until it wasn’t. And it doesn’t get any worse than this, Butch thought.

At this time of the morning, the Sundowners had none of the creature comforts that existed at night. No music. No booze. No scantily clad waitresses. And, finally, no exotic dancers. Indeed, illuminated by the stark glare of the sunlight peeking through the half-closed curtain that guarded the one window in the club, the pole on the main stage looked ridiculously out of place.

Butch was seated at a round table in the back of the building looking into the harsh hazel eyes of the club’s manager, Finnegan Pusser. Finn, as he liked to be called, was no relation to Buford Pusser, the late sheriff of McNairy County, Tennessee, but he had something in common with the famous lawman. He liked to carry a two-by-four piece of lumber with him around the club to keep the patrons who were a bit too handsy at bay. Finn gripped the beating stick now with his right hand and glared across the table at Butch.

“Big day for you, Counselor.” With his other hand, Finn fingered the handle on a cup of coffee but made no move to drink it. Butch gazed at the smoke coming off the hot mug and then, feeling sweat rings forming under his armpits, glanced around the renovated structure.

The layout was almost identical to how it had been when Larry ran things. The bar remained up front toward the entrance. Beyond that were three stages, each of which had a metal pole in the middle. Along one wall was a series of benches where men could get lap dances, and beyond the exit sign in back was a stairwell that would take patrons up to the VIP room. Adjacent to the opposite wall and sprinkled around all three stages were a number of tables with four chairs each.

Butch sucked in a quick breath and focused on the clock that hung above the bar next to a row of whiskey bottles. It was 7:30 a.m., and the club was vacant except for Butch and Finn.

“Did you hear what I said?” Finn asked.

Butch returned his gaze to the manager, who was now holding the stick up with the end pointed at the ceiling. “Yes . . . ,” Butch began, “. . . but I don’t think I’m going to be needed.” The words sounded hollow even to him.

“You’re wrong,” Finn said. “And you know it.”

“There’s still a chance that Lou can change her mind. Lou—”