Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)
Penny Reid
CHAPTER 1
HANK
“Why do people respect the package rather than the man?”
MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE, THE COMPLETE ESSAYS
My day hadn’t been great even before she walked in.
I’d just returned from the funeral of my longtime bookkeeper. He’d died from old age in his sleep surrounded by his five kids, loving wife, and eighteen grandchildren while leaving me with a reconciliation mess and this month’s payroll to finish.
My newly trained bartender had sent a manifesto via text message, blaming his decision to quit on my unwillingness to build a dedicated meditation room and give him four paid half-hour breaks per shift to use it.
Three Diamond Whiskey bottles out of the six that had shipped from the distributor were broken in the crate. If you’re keeping score, that’s seven hundred dollars in Tennessee Whiskey and a crime against humanity.
On the plus side, the suit I’d worn to my parents’ funerals fit and I still looked damn good in it.
Of course, I didn’t know the newcomer was her at first. The door opened and closed, same sound as normal no matter who was coming or going. It was a Sunday mid-morning, still early yet for any of the dancers or bouncers and way too early for any customers.
But the moment she turned the corner and came into view, I gritted my teeth. Here we go. What could she want? She better not be selling Bibles.
“Charlotte.” Standing behind the bar, I crossed my arms and sounded unfriendly. She’d caught me restocking paper products and the three surviving bottles of Diamond Whiskey. I was only half finished with my current task, but nowhere near half finished with my task list for the day. I did not have time for pious Charlotte Mitchell.
As a rule, I had time for two types of folks: people I paid, and people who paid me. A small number of exceptions to this rule existed: a few friends from college and in town, like Beau Winston or Patty Lee, and any woman I’d set my mind on seducing, but even then, I made sure the scales remained balanced—give and take, tit for tat, even-steven. Point is, Charlotte was obviously not the former exception, and there was no way she’d ever be interested in becoming the latter.
“Hank.” She didn’t look at me, but she did paste on an obligatory-looking smile that pulled her full lips tight and came nowhere close to her green eyes. Tracking Charlotte Mitchell’s slow approach, I didn’t miss how she took her time and peered around.
I wanted to snark, “Lost? I believe the wallpaper and sanctimony store is closer to downtown.”
Instead, I ground out, “What do you want?”
I had no availability for charity cases, especially not this one. That’s what Charlotte was: Green Valley’s most infamously pitied citizen. A gorgeous—yet sadly, virtuous—teacher at the local elementary school and a bake sale-making, soccer mom SUV-driving, PTA-volunteering, hoity-toity, do-gooder single mother of four disease vectors (children) whose ass of a husband (now ex-husband, fella by the name of Kevin Buckley) had predictably run out on her a few years back with a nineteen-year-old exotic dancer.
One of mine, actually. I fought a grimace.
Carli Duvall—aka Bendy Bambi—had been a customer favorite, a talented dancer, a shrewd businessperson, and an asset to the club. Her regulars had complained for months after she disappeared, many taking their patronage to The G-Spot for a time and ultimately cutting into my bottom line. Less customers meant losing even more dancers. I’d almost lost the club and sheer stubbornness was the only reason I still operated it now. It had taken me over a year to recover from the mass exodus in the aftermath of her departure.
Don’t get me wrong. Like everyone else, I’d initially felt sorry for Charlotte; I think anyone would. All things considered, she and her kids were probably better off without him. Given who he was and what his family was like, no one should’ve been surprised by her ex-husband’s betrayal, but I did feel for the woman he’d duped and misused.
But then, while I’d been struggling to keep The Pink Pony afloat, people had blamed the club, and me by extension, for the dummy’s infidelity. When the news broke, Patty Lee—who’d finally agreed to give me a chance—had called things off right before our third date. Sure, things hadn’t been perfect, and our lack of chemistry left much to be desired. Still, after years of hoping, being dumped because Kevin Buckley left his wife had been incredibly frustrating.
It all sorta worked out. Patty and I were now relatively good friends; I sought her counsel whenever I needed a female perspective. And because she didn’t pull her punches or ever worry about sparing feelings, unlike my best friend Beau, I found her advice incredibly helpful.
That said, I’d never cared much for or craved local goodwill, but folks had never been that blatantly hostile before. Going out to eat without the expectation of someone spitting in my food or keying my car were privileges I’d ceased taking for granted. The backlash had shocked me; I’d seen Buckley’s infidelity coming a mile away. Why anyone who’d met the bastard felt surprised by his choices or thought I’d influenced them made no damn sense.
Point is, Kevin leaving Charlotte had been bad for my business and worse for my personal life, and I did not much care for his wife showing up here for reasons unknown.