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on time for my meeting with Jameson Walker and the money he was offering for a job more to my liking.

3
    Jameson Walker’s tipple of choice was whiskey. It made me chuckle, considering his name was that of two popular brands from back home. He probably wouldn’t have known that, though, and I noticed that his drink was poured from a bottle bearing an American label.
    He was a big man with sloping shoulders and a square head topped with salt and pepper curls. He looked like he’d been a jock in his earlier days, but had allowed his physique to slip in his late forties. His chest swooped out into a large gut pinched in at the waist by a thick belt with a silver buckle. His voluminous shirt was decorated with small horseshoes, blue jeans and cowboy boots. He’d shrugged out of a jacket and string tie and looked like he was struggling with the heat. He used a napkin to mop his jowls. I found the interior of the bar cool, but I’d been acclimatised to the subtropics by then.
    He sipped at his drink and placed it down on the napkin. He peered at me from under bushy brows, watching as I downed a mouthful of Corona directly from the bottle. There was a slice of lemon wedged in the neck, allegedly – I’d read somewhere – to keep the insects away, but I just enjoyed the bitter tang on my tongue. Walker waited until I placed my beer down.
    ‘Are you a family man, Hunter?’
    His attention was on my hands. They were tanned by the Florida sun, but there was the occasional patch that wouldn’t colour; white scar tissue on my knuckles and on the back of my right hand where I’d taken the slice of a knife. I noticed that his gaze lingered over my left hand, in particular my ring finger.
    ‘You’re not thinking of asking me on a date, are you?’
    Jameson smiled at the quip, but there was little humour in his expression.
    ‘I’ve been married twenty-eight years,’ he said. ‘In all of those years my wife and I were only blessed with one child. After Joan was born, well, my wife had some problems . . .’
    I got the gist. ‘My wife couldn’t bear children either,’ I said.
    ‘So you are married?’
    ‘Was.’ It was uncomfortable talking about my divorce because, frankly, I felt the breakdown of my marriage was my greatest failure. However I knew where Walker was leading the conversation, and didn’t see the harm in reassuring him: family meant everything to me too. ‘Diane and I were together over fourteen years. If it was up to me, we’d still be married.’
    ‘Another man?’ As soon as he asked the question I could tell he was uncomfortable about it. ‘I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.’
    ‘She’s remarried since, but at the time there was no one else. It was me . . . let’s just say I committed myself to my job too much for Diane’s liking.’
    Walker scratched his curls, then reached for the whiskey. He downed it, looked for the waitress and called her over. ‘Want another drink?’
    Tilting the three-quarters-full bottle, I said, ‘I’m good.’
    ‘You wouldn’t like something a little stronger?’
    ‘Not while on a job,’ I told him. ‘But you go ahead. Looks like you might need it.’
    ‘I’m just thirsty,’ he said with a wink. ‘This damned heat! How do you stand it?’
    I’d been in much hotter places and situations, but I only offered a shrug. ‘You get used to it.’
    Walker ordered another drink and the waitress wandered away to the bar.
    Walker watched her go. She was a good-looking woman, slim with long legs accentuated by a short black skirt, but Walker wasn’t thinking like that. I guessed she reminded him of someone.
    ‘Your daughter still hasn’t been in touch?’
    He toyed with the rim of his empty glass, tilted it as though checking there was nothing left. ‘I’m getting real worried now.’
    ‘How long has it been?’ I’d already read the email that Rink received, so I knew that Joan Walker and her friend Nicole Challinor had last called home from a motel