Cold evening air swept across the concrete floor.

Derek stood at the long steel workbench.

He rubbed his thumb against his knuckle as he listened to Michael describe the mess at the restaurant.

“He had a clean local check,” Michael said.

“He shoved it right in my face about it.”

Derek picked up a red shop rag and wiped the heavy grease off his socket wrenches.

“That’s how guys like Travis work,” Derek said in his low, gravelly voice.

“They know exactly which lines to cross and which ones to stay away from.”