The bar was nothing remarkable: just the usual dim oak U-shape bar, two flat-screens mounted on the walls, some red leather bar stools, and a couple of red leather booths. The place was empty except for Toby, who was doing paperwork near the register.
Toby was wearing new Diesel jeans and a tight black T-shirt that clung to his solid pecs and tight abs like plastic wrap. His chin and cheeks still sported his trademark black stubble and he still weighed in at about 190, I thought. I few curls of chest hair sprang from the neck of his shirt and he’d tucked a pencil over his ear. He didn’t smile when he saw me come in. Instead, he sneered as he said, “What brings you here, Dixon Pierce?”
It was nice to be known, even by an asshole like him. “I came on business.”
“Business?” he asked, shook
