Chapter 9 Judge Chili Cook-Offs
judge chili cook-offs
Liam
Sitting in Durango in another short-term rental not far from his compound, I wonder if there’s more than meets the eye when it comes to Briggs Barnett.
He knows the vulnerabilities on his property.
He knows he can see, as can I, what’s happening on the acreage around him.
And he knows—or he should—that I won’t take care of that problem for him. I’m no mercenary.
Illegal “camping” isn’t uncommon in Colorado. Unless it’s federal land and the fines are accompanied by jail time, people tend to try the “I didn’t know this was private,” or “No one should be able to own this much property,” or “My bad, dude. We’ll move.”
The thing is the cameras are clear. The “campers,” if we want to call them that, are military-aged men, very comfortable roughing it, with weapons strapped to their thighs and chests.
And not the kind they’d have in case of bears.
Not the kind that the state generally allows to be sold to the public.
They’re specialized, and the men who carry them don’t show any indication they wouldn’t be just fine using them—on bear or man alike.
“How do we address this?”
We? There is no we. There’s a lot of shit I’ll do for money. Money makes the world go ‘round, after all, but I draw the line on killing someone.
For money, that is.
I’m precise in my response. “You have several options. Call the cops to report trespassing. Go out there yourself, so they understand the nature of the problem. Hire someone to do it for you. Or you could do something more fun… like play a noise that makes them wish their ears could bleed to get some relief and basically scare them off. But I don’t figure into any of that.
I set up the system.” I nod to my open laptop.
“I’m not on the team otherwise. I’m not any kind of enforcer. I’m a computer jockey.”
That’s a downplay, an intentional one. I know how to handle my body and those of people coming at me. But I don’t go to them. Except for my family. And Barnett isn’t family.
“What’s your price?”
I hold his gaze so he knows he’s asked the wrong person. “There is no price. I’m nobody’s muscle.”
“Two million?”
I would do a lot of shit for two million dollars. On second thought, who the fuck is out there, and why is he so worried that he’d offer me such a sum to go remove them from private property?
“Again, there is no price. Keep it up and this will end our business relationship.” Not that we have much beyond that. A casual friendship, maybe. Respect, perhaps. He’s a client, and I’m a vendor. Just one of a more sensitive nature.
Holding my gaze as if he could make me wither under its puny stare, he puts his phone to his ear. “Have Hans deal with the intruders. And make sure Mr. Murphy’s motorcycle isn’t blocked in. He was just leaving.”
I smile. It’s malevolent and cold. “Thanks.”
Make no mistake, the idea of being dismissed grates on my nerves. The idea that I’ve extricated myself from this situation intact is worth the hit to my ego.
And I learned a long time ago that ego is the enemy.
Ego brutalizes.
Ego kills.
My dad taught me that.
Lorien
It’s been a week, and I’m finally acting a little less skittish, less nervous, less jittery about being in the office.
I’m working under the assumption that I should be mining the data we have, isolating the genomic sequences on the autoimmunity anomaly as well as working with topicals on whatever the heck they’re doing.
Boils, rashes, and flaking skin can be just as painful, itchy, and annoying as other medical conditions. I don’t belittle those who suffer. I don’t believe the work is less valuable.
But I do believe those come from a root cause, not a reaction, so there would be a biological foundation to address, not just treat.
But, alas, we make money—at least our shareholders do—based on doctoring not healing, so symptoms are isolated just enough that we can address one by one.
Why the hell did I choose this career?
Oh, yeah. Strider.
Speaking of, we’re a few weeks away from a major family milestone.
Grabbing my phone, I book a flight and note the details in my calendar.
Illinois in the summer is humid and hot.
Peoria, Illinois, known for Caterpillar, country, and comedy is home, and always will be, even if I never plan to live there again.
My parents are there. My brother is there.
The family business, handed down from Dad to Strider, is there, and full of people who are extended family when you don’t have a ton of cousins.
They’re a crew of people who loved all of us, watched us grow up, and lived their lives alongside ours making the people of Peoria safe.
Electric Peoria is not a utility company, though it sounds like it. Instead, we’re the best damn electricians in central Illinois.
Dad still goes into the field with the team, though his retirement means it’s less and less often. And he deserves it. He started in the industry fresh out of high school, met and married my mom, and launched a business after Strider was born.
Health issues meant our family needed the best insurance, though things were different then.
Thank goodness for that. Dad launched Electric Peoria.
Mom took care of our family and was a floor nurse at the local hospital until those same issues meant she couldn’t be around the sick and bring their germs home to her family.
And since Dad was in the office, he could offer flexibility and freedom to his team, assuming they valued him and worked hard.
The team learned quickly not to come in when they were sick, not to take advantage of his good heart, and to think about the community of workers and how we could support each other.
Eventually that looked like bonuses for bringing in jobs on time and under budget. Mistakes were handled kindly but firmly. Successes were rewarded. And the people who wanted a quick buck worked themselves out of the company right away. Culture ate them up and spit them out.
Workers who were paid well, given flexibility, could handle family business as necessary, and direct their own work became the norm, not the exception. So employees flocked to Dad’s company and vision. There was always the assumption that Strider was in line for succession.
His health issues meant there were times he was in the field and showed his skills, but other times he needed to be away from places where germs ran free.
Schools, churches, hospitals—all were on the no-go list. He was great in the field, but his humble nature along with the culture Dad built means he’s a quiet leader who people love to follow.
And now he’s turning forty. The warm sting of tears hits the back of my nose, and I wave my hand at my lashes as if that helps stop them from toppling over.
My brother. My protector. My person.
Strider will make it.
I’ll damn sure guarantee it.
Another late night. Another moment of closing up alone, nodding a quiet goodnight to security, and making it back to my townhouse after the sun has set.
I pull into my garage and, for the first time since I’ve lived here, smell something so delicious, it triggers my stomach growling. Literally, it growls.
“Shoot.”
“What was that, Trix?” a voice calls over the fence.
“Why do you call me that?” I want to stomp back to my house, but the automatic light in the backyard hasn’t registered my presence yet, and I’m not fool enough to court glass twice.
“Why does it bother you?”
“Grrr.”
The roar of laughter that hits my ears stops me dead in my tracks.
I spin on my heel and round my garage, and his, to see Liam Murphy in his back yard with a bottle of beer dangling between his fingers, a TV set to the Rockies baseball game, and a smoker emitting the heavenly smell I noticed earlier.
My stomach wastes no time growling as if a Balrog was inside and wants out.
“You hungry?” Liam asks, as if we are those kinds of neighbors or friends.
The look on my face must show my confusion. I’m not dense, but what’s he playing at? “It’s almost eight-thirty.”
“And that means...” He takes a pull of his beer, tilting it to me in question. “Beer?”
You know what? Yeah. I could use a beer and a meal not made of powdered protein whipped in a blender. “Yes please.”
I drop into one of the chairs he has as he disappears silently into his house returning with a bottle of beer, which he hands to me, and a bowl and spoon that he takes to the cooker in the corner. He ladles some thick red stew into it and returns with it and a fabric napkin, offering both to me.
What surprises me most is the napkin. One hundred dollars would’ve said he was a paper towels or a wipe-his-fingers-on-his-jeans guy. But fabric? Sustainability wouldn’t be a word I’d use to describe this man’s anything.
“Why are you shaking your head?”
I take a swig of the beer and tilt my head. “You. You constantly catch me off guard.”
The smirk that twitches his beard would be playful if it didn’t look so carnal. “You underestimate me then, Dr. Anderson?”
“Not intentionally.” I scoop a bite but wait, because the steam rolling off of it would nuke my mouth. “Wait. How do you know I’m doctor anything?”
He shrugs, lifting one eyebrow, and tilts his chin to the bowl. “That’s my first attempt. I can’t complain about how it came out.”
“You just whipped up a pot of— Fine, I’ll bite. What is it?”
“Brisket chili. My buddy Fitz’s recipe.”
Fabric napkins and follows recipes. Yeah, he’s not at all what I think.
I take a bite and am struck by the depth of it. It doesn’t look or taste like anything I’ve ever eaten. “Chili in the Midwest is ground beef and beans. And cinnamon rolls if you’re in Iowa or Nebraska.”
The look on his face should’ve been captured for posterity. I snort, covering my mouth with the napkin, hoping I don’t spill anything as I shake with laughter. “Your face—”
“My face is what?” He holds my gaze with a look that tells me he knows how to use his face—that mouth, those thick fingers, and that cock…
I shut up because if I were stripped naked in front of this man, I wouldn’t feel more vulnerable.
“One.” He ticks up a finger. “Beans are on Fitz’s banned list.” He lifts another finger. “And two, my stomach turned with the idea of cinnamon rolls.”
“I hear it works.” I’m baiting him, and we both know it.
“Cornbread works. Crackers work. Breakfast pastries? No. Just no.” He drains his beer and looks to my bowl. “Eat.” He walks inside, leaving me in his backyard with a bowl of delicious chili and a half-drunk beer.
The stars are peeking out and winking past the streetlights, and the breeze is cool while warmth still emanates from the ground below me. It’s hard to explain the level of relaxation I feel for the first time since… Well, I can’t remember when.
The chili is spicy, smoky, and rich. The beer is cold, crisp, and hoppy. I’m full and happy and, by the time he returns with another couple of beers, my tongue is loose.
“That was so good. Fitz would be proud.” I nod to my empty bowl as he hands me the bottle. “On second thought, it was par. Keep trying. I’ll let you know when it’s edible.”
A rumbled chuckle comes from his chest. “Well played.” He lifts his beer and taps the neck against my own. “And he’s coming by later. We’ll see if it meets his standards.”
I drop my head back to stare at the sky. “Your wife doesn’t mind the late-night guests?”
He chokes and coughs, wiping beer out of—or into—his beard, sputtering, “My what?”
“Your wife. I’m from middle America, but I assume most wives are into routine and normal bedtimes, not friends showing up after dark to”—I wave my beer around—“do whatever it is you do. Watch TV and judge chili cook-offs. Speaking of, how have I never seen her?”
“That’s easy. I don’t have one.”