Page 114 of Thug

He pushed his hat up with his thumb. He scanned me from head to toe. “Name’s Gray?”

“Yes, Sir. Gray Forester.”

He removed his hat with his left hand, bowed, and then shook my hand. “Jim Gardner. You can call me Jack. Cactus Jack.”

I grinned. “Pleasure to meet you, Cactus.”

He laughed. “Call me Jack.”

“Okay.”

He draped his arm over my shoulder. “Follow me,” he whispered. “We’ll be in the kitchen,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Whenever you’re done goofing around.”

“Be right in,” Price said.

The home’s ceilings were high, the space was vast, and the décor was southwestern. Windows at the rear of the home provided an unobstructed view of the mountains in the distance. The sun was thirty minutes away from folding in behind them.

“The original home was built here when this was New Mexico Territory,” Jack said. “Long before Arizona was a state. I tore it down a few decades ago and built this in its place. Twisted it a little when I poured the foundation, so I could get a look at those mountains of an evening.”

“The view is beautiful.”

“You eat meat?” he asked.

“I do.”

“Figured I’d ask,” he said. “So many these days don’t.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Do you drink wine?”

I smiled. “I do.”

Price came through the front door and followed us into the kitchen. “Have any of that scotch left?”

“Nope,” Jack snapped back. “All I’ve got is wine.”

“Wine?” Price scrunched his nose. “No whisky of any—”

“You’re drinking wine,” Jack said dryly. “We’re all drinking wine.”

A bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and a platter of meat were situated on the bar.

Jack handed Price the bottle of wine. “Here.” He gestured to a lighted section of cabinet. “Glasses are up there.”

Price looked at the wine as if Jack had handed him a rattlesnake.

“Give it to me,” I said, taking it from his grasp. “I’ll pour it.”

Jack leaned over a gas grille that was fitted into an island in the center of his massive kitchen. “You can have your choice of medium or medium on the steaks.” He looked at me. “How would you like yours cooked?”

Twisting the corkscrew in the cork, I grinned. “I prefer medium.”

He glanced at Price.

“Medium,” Price said.

Jack turned up the flame. “In about ten minutes, we’ll be ready. Should be just in time to see the sunset.”

While I poured three glasses of wine, Jack tossed the steaks on the gas grille. “Nothing more frustrating than three or four people all wanting something cooked differently. Tryin’ to get them all done at the same time is a pain in the ass.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.