Tony Kender, twice divorced, third generation prison guard and amateur gambler.
He'd started gambling to supplement his income after getting shafted with double alimony, and then he'd stuck with it. Even after taking a loan from Emmett Arnett. Even after Wynn fricking Duffy started coming to him for payments.
It hadn't taken him long to hear about Duffy after he'd met him. Duffy, Billy Mack and the face on the soccer ball. The shoot-out with Arnett. Duffy was scary. Even when he'd had to make his payment with that Yankee albino in the background, Duffy had been the one he watched.
Being a guard was all about your stature. You stood tall, strong and didn't take shit. Not from anyone. Or you're dead. A prison wasn't survival of the fittest as much as survival of the meanest.
That didn't mean bullying, his father had taught him. It meant a mutual respect without coddling, like training a wild animal. You keep your distance, you don't pick a fight, and you're always ready to finish one. These were Tony's principles, at least, once upon a time.
Before Arnett and Duffy, when he could look at himself in the mirror.
Tony had stopped for groceries on his way home after a double shift. The 24 hour Wal-Mart had been nearly empty and he'd pondered his...situation through the aisles and came to the decision he couldn't tell Duffy about the bag. What anyone from Harlan County was doing with a Panamanian diplomatic pouch was dangerous anyway... It would only end in blood and Tony wanted out. He hadn't wanted to kill Stark and he hadn't wanted to give Sullivan those names. He especially hadn't wanted to kill those two scumbags after they shot up the house.
Tony eyed the beef stew microwave dinners in his cart remembering. There are always carrots when you threw up. Why is that? He didn't even remember the last time he'd eaten carrots, but sure enough, when he'd puked after shooting those boys over their failure, there had been carrots.
Tony got home around eight that morning. He left the groceries in the backseat as he plodded to unlock his walk-up. Reaching his door, he fiddled for his key and pushed it in the lock. The door opened under the pressure.
Rachel and Raylan made it to Tony Kender's address quickly with Raylan deflecting questions about what he and Tim had 'talked about.'
It was a colonial style, split into apartments with stairs up the back of the house. Aged, with cracking powder blue paint peeling off the siding and white paint on the trim cracking off. They marked his car in the drive, Wal-Mart bags in the seat, and started on the stairs, Raylan leading.
The door was open to a small galley-style kitchen. Dingy pine cabinets and stained counters. The sink was clean but for the slight drip of the faucet as Raylan pulled and motioned to Rachel, hollering, "Federal Marshals. Mr. Kender. Mr. Kender, are you in? U. S. Marshals Service." He cleared the kitchen and living room; she covered the small bath, kicking the door so it hit the wall behind it. They found him in the small bedroom, bed unmade and caddy-cornered to give him the space to hang himself from the light.
"Duffy wouldn't kill his own crooked guard. Right?" Rachel asked, eyeing the corpse.
"Nope. I think Duffy may be displeased with this turn of events."
"Like xenomorph with a toothache, maybe," she quipped.
Raylan called Art to report it, leaving Rachel to tell Tim their lead was a, rather literal, dead-end.
Kender had been dead a few hours when Rachel and Raylan arrived, rigor not having set in. Raylan pointed out the groceries in the backseat to the responding officers, who promised to keep the Marshals in the loop, before he dropped Rachel at the safe house so he and Tim could see Duffy again.
They swung by Hardees for lunch and a game plan. Over burgers, Tim lamented the loss of the only connection between Duffy and Graham Sullivan. Raylan told him to shut the hell up. "Look, we'll find a way. We have the phone calls. And we have Moss."
"Moss is a fucking psycho. He's about as helpful as Boyd Crowder."
Raylan shot him a look under his lashes. "Truer words were never spoken."
"What the hell does that mean?"
Raylan shook his head, "We'll run down Duffy and then we'll see who to go to, Graham or Moss? Alright?"
"Whatever, alright," he affirmed.
"So," Raylan said, not really knowing where the conversation should go now, "Ok."
Tim smirked at Raylan's discomfort, "So, when do you know what the baby is?"
"Huh? Oh, Winona isn't sure she wants to know. She's thinking about saving until the delivery room."
"Because there isn't enough drama in delivery rooms."
"So, Clare wants kids?"
"Yup. Someday."
"And you..."
"Never thought about it."
"So, you don't want to talk about it?"
"Not with you."
"More of an 'Art' conversation," Raylan agreed.
"Not likely to involve the phrase 'marshal stiffies', though."
"Very true. I have no idea where he'd fit that one in."
Duffy had moved the Wynn-ebago to one of his construction sites, they'd found it through a BOLO with the FPD. The second car was closer and Mike was at the door when they pulled in.
Tim was out the car before it had come to a complete stop and Duffy was slinking down his steps at a word from Mike. Beaming graciously he started, "Greetings, Marshals. To what do I owe the pleasure of a second visit? I gather Tony was as helpful as promised."
"Oh, you have no idea."
"Tony's dead." Tim sauntered towards Wynn, "Hanged himself after grocery shopping. Is that 'as helpful as promised', Wynn?"
Wynn's eyes widened, but there was no noticeable reaction beyond that, "That is a tragic loss."
"We thought so," Raylan quipped.
"So, about Edgar Moss?" Tim started.
"Now, you're on about Moss? I just lost an asset here. I may need time to mourn here."
"Wynn," Tim asked, still sauntering, "do we need to take this conversation indoors?"
Raylan suppressed a smile. "Mike and I can entertain each other if you all need a minute, can't we, Mike?"
Mike kept his hand on his piece, still eyeing Tim, who was nose to nose with Wynn now.
"Deputy Gutterson, I assure you I had nothing to do with Mr. Kender's untimely demise."
"That wasn't the question," Tim said softly. Wynn had a couple of inches and a few miles of crazy on Tim, but Tim had training and good helping of protective rage on his side, if needed. Plus Quick draw McGivens behind him.
"Moss is a customer of Duffy Security. Naturally, we talk. Graham Sullivan is still a customer of Duffy Security, we talk. I assist when necessary. I gave him Tony Kender's name, in good faith he wouldn't get my asset dead," Wynn explained reasonably. "I am legitimately distraught at his loss here. Tony and I had plans."
"Plans pertaining to the death of Sam Porter?" Raylan tossed in nonchalantly.
"Among other things," he responded primly.
"So, you provide security and assistance to two business rivals and when the family of one them starts being threatened, you don't think they're connected?"
Wynn pursed his lips, "Is this about the girl doctor, Liddy... Lippy?"
Raylan's eyes slid to Tim.
Tim wasn't just Dead-Eye-Dick with a rifle, either. "How long have you been involved with Moss, Mr. Duffy?"
"A few years...maybe five or six. A good customer is never neglected at Duffy Security.
"Did Mr. Moss give your name to the Sullivan's?"
"I never asked. If Mr. Moss was satisfied enough to recommend me, who am I to question?"
"Could either one of your 'good customers' have killed Mr. Kender?" Tim pushed.
"It would be terribly unfortunate if one of them had."
Tim turned back to Raylan, "Mr. Duffy and I are taking a moment. We'll be back," he gestured to the motor coach. "Walk. Walk."
Wynn did walk, glancing back at Mike once, reminding Raylan of the 'precautions,' he'd mentioned earlier.