Brady held court, a golden prince with a scarred wooden chair for a throne. Beautiful women drew close, vying for attention, as usual.
Behind the bar, Jackson frowned, first at Brady, then at me. “That doesn’t bug you?”
“No need to be hateful for what happened.” I sipped my wine.
“I’d have beaten him to death with the nearest branch. Still could, if you want.”
“That’s sweet, in a murderous way.” I slid him a five. “But I have this covered.”
On my way out, I nodded to the women I’d hired, every last one infected with a virulent pox.