Well, no borrowing trouble until we talked to him.

By the time I made it to the parking lot, Marco had already parked and was heading, slowly, toward the back door.

“I presume you’ve got keys?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I handed the take-out bags to him, then dug the keys out of my purse. After I unlocked the door, I took the bags and held the door open.

“I bet he’s asleep,” I said as I followed him in and let the door close behind me. “I don’t think I should be the one waking him up.”

“I’ve got that part covered.”

I gave him a nervous glance. “How are you going to get up those stairs?”

“Don’t you worry about that. Go start a pot of coffee.”

Coffee was a good idea. Max was going to need plenty of it. Shoot, I needed it. I set the food bags on the counter in the kitchen and then found Tiny’s stash of industrial-strength coffee and started some brewing.

I heard clomping on the stairs going up to the apartment. Marco hadn’t explicitly asked me to stay downstairs, and I figured I should probably hear what they said to each other. I couldn’t forget that Max was the son in good graces with his father, and Marco was Max’s best friend. There were motivations at work I didn’t understand. Besides, I’d never been up to Max’s apartment before, and I had to admit I was curious. Grabbing the take-out food bags, I started up the narrow stairwell, wondering how Marco had made it up with his crutches.

When I reached the landing at the top, I found the door to the left partially ajar. I pushed my way through the opening into a large, loft-style living room facing the street. It ran the full width of the building and had an industrial look. I could see that a wall had been ripped out—the wood base was still attached to the unfinished wood floor. Opposite the wall of windows was a kitchen that looked like it had come from a salvage yard—old cabinets that obviously were not original yet were so worn I couldn’t figure out why they had been dragged in, a newer stainless steel refrigerator, and an old avocado-colored stove.

The walls on either side of the space were brick, and I could see the ceiling had been ripped out, exposing wood beams, but they weren’t evenly spaced and looked like they needed to be ripped out rather than salvaged.

As far as seating went, the large living room only had a brown sofa and a fake brown leather recliner. Against the far wall was a long wood cabinet that held a TV that was likely too small for such an oversized room.

Bart Drummond had money, yet none of the businesses he owned seemed to be thriving, and both of his sons lived frugally. At least, if I ignored the fact that Wyatt had paid for Seth’s funeral and somehow found the money to buy his garage after getting out of prison.

Max was lying on his side on the sofa, shirtless and wearing a pair of jeans. His arm hung over the edge, his hand resting on the hardwood floor next to a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam.

Marco was standing next to him, poking his shoulder with the tip of a crutch. “Wake up.”

The room was so bright from the uncovered windows it was hard to believe Max was still asleep. I suspected the Jim Beam had something to do with it.

Max grunted and batted the crutch away. He tried to roll over to face the back of the sofa, but Marco put the tip of his crutch against the sofa cushion, blocking him. “Wake up, Max.”

“Leave me the fuck alone,” Max slurred, batting at the crutch again.

I inched deeper into the living room, reluctant to leave even though I felt like I was intruding.

“We need to talk to you,” Marco said in what I presumed was his deputy voice.

“I don’t have anything to say,” Max mumbled with his face buried in the cushions.

“I’m not playin’ around, Max,” Marco said, sounding pissed. “Get up.”

Max finally shifted to look at him, blinking as if the light had suddenly flooded the apartment. “What the fuck is so important that you had to wake me up at this ungodly hour?”

“Ungodly hour?” Marco asked. “It’s nine thirty in the morning. Don’t you need to be up to open the tavern in about two and a half hours?”

“Exactly. Which means I should be able to get another two good hours of sleep.” Max buried his face deeper into the sofa cushion.

“I need to talk to you about Greta Hightower.”

Max released a long groan. “That damned Carly needs to stay out of everyone’s business.”

“I’m giving you five minutes to get your shit together, then you can have some biscuits and gravy and hash browns from Watson’s Café.”

“That’s your favorite breakfast from Watson’s, not mine,” Max said, his face still buried. “And if I eat anything right now, I’ll puke it up in thirty seconds.”

“You now have four minutes and fifty seconds,” Marco said. “And then we’ll give you a hot cup of coffee to help clear your head.” He gave me a pointed look.

I set the bags on the kitchen counter, then turned around and headed back downstairs. Max was groaning as he tried to sit up, and I was pretty sure he hadn’t realized I was there.

The pot was finishing up, so I fixed a tray with three coffee cups, creamer, and the carafe, and brought it up to the loft.

When I walked into the living room, Marco was sitting on the square coffee table with a Styrofoam container, digging into his breakfast. His crutches were propped against the table behind him. He glanced up at me. “He’s in the bathroom. Pukin’.”

Sure enough, I heard the sound of retching.

I made a face. “How can you sit there eating while he’s throwing up less than twenty feet away?”

He grinned as he shoved another bite into his mouth.

I set the coffee tray on the kitchen counter, poured him a cup of coffee, then handed it to him. “You took it black at the café…”

He snatched the cup and took a sip, then yelped like a scalded cat. “It’s hot.”

“I just made it. Of course it’s hot.”

The toilet flushed and I heard running water. A few seconds later, Max appeared in the door. His eyes widened when he saw me. “What’s she doin’ here?”

“Bringin’ you coffee,” Marco said good-naturedly. “Now come sit down so we can have a chat.”

“Only if you get that shit out of my face,” Max said in disgust, waving to the Styrofoam container as he sat back down on the sofa.

I poured coffee and creamer into one of the cups, then took it over to him.

He accepted the mug, but he refused to look at me. “You gettin’ Marco to fight your battles for ya, Carly?”

“No,” I said, trying to stifle my anger. “We’re here for an entirely different matter.”

“Seems like you’re a few people short for an intervention,” Max said dryly, then took a tentative sip of his coffee.

“We’re here because I need to know what happened when you walked Greta to her car,” Marco said in a breezy tone. He followed it up by taking a big bite of biscuit.

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Max spat. “You woke me up to grill me about my love life?”

I’d noticed that Marco had withheld the part about Greta not showing up to work today.