by Meg Benjamin
Actually, he needed a Plan C, since Plan B was to tear Threadgood in half.
He’d given himself a week to get things under control at Quaff, or as much under control as he could, given that they were still losing customers, although at a much slower rate. He also planned his approach to Threadgood. While he planned out Quaff’s special events calendar for the rest of the month, he’d managed to get his fury under partial control. Which meant he was still furious, but he had turned that fury into something more productive, namely planning revenge.
He’d also learned how to deal with the constant ache of longing for Bec, even though he’d only left her a week ago. He’d be up there in Antero again soon enough. Hopefully with good news.
Assuming that everything went his way. Assuming that he didn’t lose his temper and put Threadgood in urgent care.
In reality, he’d probably never get close enough to Threadgood to level a good punch. The asshole probably had a squadron of bodyguards on retainer to prevent that kind of thing, given the number of people who’d probably like the chance to rearrange Threadgood’s teeth.
And satisfying as a punch might be, it wouldn’t accomplish what Wyatt needed to accomplish. For that, he and Threadgood had to have a nice long conversation, preferably without the intervention of any hired muscle.
You’re here for Bec. Remember that. You’re going to get justice, and you’re going to get revenge. And with any luck, you’re also going to get a payoff. Just keep that in mind.
He pushed open the door to the club and winced. The sound system in the main room of the Red Wolf was set at a higher volume than any sane host would tolerate, and the techno blaring from the speakers didn’t seem to be making any of the customers all that happy, judging from the grimaces he saw. He gritted his teeth and moved through the room, heading for the rooftop bar—according to gossip, it was the most popular area at the Red Wolf. He figured it was also where Threadgood was most likely to be hanging out, since it was the spot where he’d get maximum attention from customers and staff alike.
Wyatt’s concerns about possibly being thrown out proved to be groundless. No one seemed to pay much attention to him, which was both reassuring and faintly annoying. His own employees would probably recognize Threadgood the minute he walked through the door at Quaff, since most of them had already checked out the competition. The staff of the Red Wolf didn’t seem to be similarly on point. Of course, Threadgood probably didn’t feel any concern about his competitors.
He probably didn’t even consider the two of them to be competitors, although in that he was definitely wrong. Quaff’s crowds were beginning to turn around, and now that Wyatt had experienced the interior of the Red Wolf, he could see why. It looked more like an upscale cocktail lounge than a pub, and the music in the main room could give you a headache. In his experience, craft beer drinkers preferred comfort to trendy.
But Threadgood’s lack of smarts when it came to marketing wasn’t his main concern at the moment. At the moment, he needed to find the man himself and have a little chat.
He stepped out onto the rooftop bar, where the sound system was considerably quieter, possibly to keep the neighbors from complaining. The décor was still hip cocktail lounge, but at least Threadgood’s decorators had made some adjustments based on the vagaries of Colorado weather. While the sides were open to the breeze, a central canopy protected the customers from the occasional rain and hail. The large fire pit was probably a good thing during the fall, assuming some hearty souls still chose to come up here. High-top tables were set along the railings at the sides, with canvas-covered couches placed around the pit at the center.
At the moment, the bar was full, but Wyatt was willing to bet it was wasted space from December to April, possibly from November on in a good snow year.
All in all, he wasn’t overly impressed with Threadgood’s design, but then, he wasn’t overly impressed with much where Threadgood was concerned.
The man himself was seated at one of the hightops on the far side. The other occupant of the table had bodyguard written all over him, confirming Wyatt’s assumptions about the number of people who might like to do violence to the Red Wolf’s owner.
Currently, Threadgood looked like a cross between a thirties gangster and a badly out of touch hipster. His hair was combed straight back from his forehead, shining with oil even in the dim lights. The dim light also picked up the faint sheen of his vintage suit coat with its appropriately narrow lapels and skinny tie. Wyatt was surprised that Threadgood wasn’t wearing sunglasses, but maybe he’d decided he needed to see.
Wyatt worked his way through the crowd of people gathered at the center of the bar, heading for the table. He was betting Threadgood wouldn’t throw him out immediately, although he couldn’t be sure about that.
Threadgood caught sight of him when he was almost next to the table. He frowned slightly, muttering something to the bodyguard.
Wyatt stepped in front of the table, pasting on a hugely insincere smile. “Evening, Threadgood. Place looks busy.”
Threadgood gave him a faintly smug smile that made Wyatt want to rip into him all over again. “You think this is busy? It’s slow for us. People can still move around. Usually it’s so packed they have to stay in one place.”
Wyatt kept his tone light. “Must make it hard for them to order refills.”
Threadgood raised an eyebrow. “Did you come to see how we’re doing, or did you have something you wanted to ask? And before you bring it up, I’m not interested in buying your place. Ever.”
“Good,” Wyatt said through his clenched teeth. “I’m not interested in selling it. That makes this whole conversation easier, doesn’t it?”
“What do you want, Montgomery?” Threadgood tapped his fingers on the table. “Free beer?”
“We need to talk. Preferably in private.” And preferably somewhere they could actually hear each other since the Red Wolf didn’t seem to allow for conversation at any level other than a shout. “You have an office?”
Threadgood looked vaguely offended. “Yeah, I have an office. But I don’t particularly want to go there with you.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He raised his voice just enough to make the people at the next table turn slightly. “It’s about Antero Brewing and the crap you pulled.”
Threadgood showed his teeth in a snarl, waving a quick hand at the bodyguard, who’d leaned forward protectively. “What crap? I didn’t pull anything. I wasn’t even there.”
Wyatt frowned, raising his voice further. “That’s interesting. I hadn’t mentioned a date, but you already know you weren’t there. Is that precognition or what?”
Threadgood’s snarl stayed in place. “I heard about what happened to the barrel of Zoria. Hell, everybody heard. It’s big news down here. And I had nothing to do with it.”
“That would be lucky if it were true,” Wyatt said, raising his voice another few decibels. “But I happen to know it isn’t.”
Threadgood pushed back from the table impatiently. “Okay, let’s go. We can talk in my office.”
The bodyguard fell into step behind them, but Wyatt decided that was okay for now. He didn’t intend to threaten Threadgood with anything physical right off the bat.
They paused on a landing halfway down the stairs from the roof. Threadgood pulled a key card from his pocket and unlocked a well-nigh invisible door at the side. He walked in without looking back, leaving Wyatt and the bodyguard to follow him.
The office had the same kind of décor as the bar—a large glass table that seemed to be Threadgood’s desk, along with a selection of leather and chrome chairs that looked aggressively uncomfortable. Wyatt dropped into the one nearest the desk and confirmed that comfort was not its most obvious feature.
The bodyguard took up a position behind Threadgood, his arms folded across his chest. Threadgood didn’t seem to notice him, but maybe that was the point.
“Now what’s this about, Montgomery?” Threadgood leaned
back in his chair, apparently doing his best Godfather impression.
All of a sudden Wyatt was tired of the game. “Do we have to go through this routine? You owe Rebecca Dempsey for her barrel of imperial stout. Can’t we just start talking from there?”
Threadgood leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. His hair had a metallic sheen in the indirect light of the office, giving him even more of a gangster vibe. “What the hell are you trying to pull? I don’t owe her anything. I don’t have anything to do with what happened to her ale. If you go around claiming I did have anything to do with it, I’ll sue you for libel.”
“It would probably be defamation,” Wyatt mused. “Libel refers to writing, and I’m not planning on publishing anything about this.” Although he was really tempted to.
“Fuck you,” Threadgood snapped.
Wyatt sighed. This was about the way he’d expected this discussion to play out, but he’d still hoped Threadgood might give in quietly. “You owe her money, Threadgood. You damaged her livelihood, and you made it hard for her to go forward with her business. It probably felt good at the time, but you still owe her for it.”
“Are you fucking deaf?” Threadgood’s voice raised. “I wasn’t anywhere near Antero. I didn’t damage anyone’s business, least of all Antero Brewing. Which doesn’t even exist anymore from what I’ve heard.”
Wyatt shrugged. “You’re not even trying hard to lie your way out of this. Several people saw you in town, and you even spoke to Bec in front of witnesses. You were there.”
Threadgood leaned back again, folding his hands in front of him. “I was there, but I left. I made Ms. Dempsey a more-than-generous offer, and she turned me down. After that, I came back here.”
Wyatt shook his head. “No, you didn’t. You harassed Liam Dempsey into finding where the Zoria was kept. You made yourself pretty visible around town. People remember.”
And they liked Bec Dempsey a hell of a lot better than they liked Christopher Threadgood. Go figure. He’d been exchanging emails with Liam and Ruth for the past week.
“So what?” Threadgood leaned farther back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “None of this proves that I ruined her business. As I understand it, she had an accident with her forklift. Sad. But again, so what? It’s got nothing to do with me.” He shrugged, his lips moving back into that smug smile.
Once again, Wyatt had a nearly overwhelming urge to plant his fist in the middle of Threadgood’s arrogant prep-school face. He suppressed it. “It wasn’t an accident. Bec set the brake. You took it off and rolled the forklift over the edge of the loading dock. You’re the one who smashed the barrel.”
Threadgood stared at him, open-mouthed. “You’re crazy. I didn’t touch her beer. Why would I? I wanted to buy it from her and her brother.”
“Yeah, you did.” Wyatt reached into his pocket, raising his hand quickly when the bodyguard stepped forward. “Just getting my phone. I’ve got something to show Mr. Threadgood, something to answer his questions.”
Threadgood turned to the bodyguard, his jaw hardening. “Take a break.”
The bodyguard frowned, shaking his head slightly. “That’s not a good idea, sir.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you don’t need to worry about Montgomery. He’s not the assassin type.” Threadgood sneered in Wyatt’s direction. Apparently, not being the assassin type wasn’t a plus in his mind.
The bodyguard looked back and forth between the two of them, then nodded stiffly. He headed for the door, casting a hard glance in Wyatt’s direction as he did. Wyatt ignored him.
Threadgood waved a dismissive hand once the bodyguard was gone. “You were saying?”
“I was saying you deliberately smashed Bec Dempsey’s last barrel of Zoria because you didn’t want anybody else to get it.” Wyatt gave Threadgood a totally mirthless smile. “And I was going to show you how I knew that was true.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, flipping on the connection to the cloud and scrolling through the pictures. He glanced up at Threadgood. “I assume I don’t have to explain that there are lots of other copies of these, so destroying the phone or me won’t make them go away.”
Threadgood gave him a sour smile. “Don’t flatter yourself. I wouldn’t waste time killing you.”
Wyatt found the pictures and clicked on the first. It showed Threadgood next to the forklift with the barrel of Zoria. “It’s actually a sequence,” he explained. “First there’s this one—what you might call an establishing shot. And then we’ve got the next four.” Thank God, Carol’s camera had a rapid-fire shutter. The kid had been too stunned to do anything but scream and shoot pictures, but those pictures were pure gold.
Threadgood’s expression became blank as Wyatt clicked through the sequence. The second one showed him reaching into the forklift; in the third, he seemed to be pushing against the side of the machine so that it rolled forward; and in the fourth, he stepped back into the shadows of the loading dock as the forklift pitched forward over the edge.
“Then there’s one more.” Wyatt clicked forward to a picture of the barrel smashed beneath the forklift next to his truck.
He leaned back again. “They’re all dated and time-stamped, not that that’s really necessary since we know exactly when that barrel was smashed and since you’re clearly the guy who did it. And the photographer is a witness.”
Threadgood stared at the pictures for what seemed like a long time. “Where did you get these?” he said finally.
“From someone who was there. With a camera.” Wyatt allowed himself a smug smile of his own. Chew on that, asshole.
Threadgood nodded slowly. “The little girl.”
Well, fuck. He’d hoped he could keep Carol out of this. Having Threadgood know who she was struck him as a bad idea. He kept his expression bland.
Threadgood steepled his fingers, staring down at the pictures again. “What do you expect to do with these once your blackmail fails—as it’s going to do? Do you plan on taking them to the police? You’ll have a hard time proving a felony has been committed. At most I might get my hand slapped.” His smile was back to smug again, but Wyatt thought he could see a flicker of unease in his eyes.
Wyatt shook his head. “I’m not going to the cops with this. It probably qualifies as a misdemeanor, but fining you won’t get Bec any money.”
Threadgood narrowed his eyes. “You’re thinking of a lawsuit? Not a good idea. My lawyers will keep you bottled up in court for years. That’s why I pay them. Very well, I might add. Ms. Dempsey will be bankrupt long before there’s any court action, and you will be, too, if you interfere.”
Wyatt shook his head again. “No, I’d already figured that out. You’ve got deep pockets, Threadgood. We all know that. You’d buy the court just like you tried to buy Bec.” He wished he could believe that Threadgood would be just as unsuccessful with the courts, but he figured that wasn’t something he could count on.
“No cops and no courts.” Threadgood gave him a mocking smile. “My, my, what does that leave? How can you possibly bring me down? Oh, wait.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. Publicity. You’re going to take the pictures and the story to the newspapers. Let them run the story of my villainy for everybody to see. Then I’m supposed to fold and send Ms. Dempsey a check.” He shook his head, his smile becoming a sneer. “Of course, first of all, I’ll threaten the papers with a hell of a lawsuit for libel, and yes, I do know that’s the correct term in this case. But it won’t make any difference anyway. You think my customers give a good goddamn about breweries or what happens to somebody’s prize imperial stout? As long as I’ve got the premium stuff on tap and the Red Wolf is the place to be in Denver, nobody’s going to give a shit.” He leaned back in his chair again. “Game, set, and match, Montgomery.”
Actually, Wyatt figured Carl Dudley could write a hell of a story about the destruction of the Zoria, given that his memory of the beer was what had sent Wyatt on his search in the first place. But he thoug
ht Threadgood was probably right about his customers. They weren’t the kind of people who’d give a flying fuck about the ethics of a bar’s owner as long as the booze was flowing. Bad publicity might put a temporary dent in Threadgood’s bottom line, but it probably wouldn’t be permanent.
“I wasn’t considering the papers,” he said slowly. “Although there’s still an interesting story here that somebody might like to write up sometime. After you’ve paid Bec for your little stunt with the forklift.”
Threadgood raised his eyebrows. “That isn’t going to happen, Montgomery. You’ve eliminated all the ways you could use the pictures against me. No cops, no courts, no news. Are you relying on my sense of honor or something?”
“Nope.” Wyatt managed a grim smile of his own. “Believe me, I know better than that.”
“So?” Threadgood shrugged. “Forgive me, Montgomery, but I don’t see why I should even talk to you anymore. You’ve got no way to force me to do what you want, and believe me, forcing me is the only thing that will work. I’m not giving Ms. Dempsey money out of the goodness of my heart.”
He gave Wyatt another smirk. Yeah, I get it. No goodness in that heart to speak of.
Wyatt sighed. “You forgot one other group, Threadgood, although I can understand why. You probably don’t spend much time with them.”
Threadgood rolled his eyes. “And this group would be?”
“The brewers,” Wyatt said quietly.
Threadgood frowned. “What about them?”
“You depend on the craft brewers here—you’re supposed to be running a gastropub, right?” Wyatt paused for an answer, although he didn’t expect to get one.
“This is the best gastropub in the city,” Threadgood said tightly. “You know that.”
