Wild Country

Chapter Fifty-Nine

From time to time, as the group laid waste to a heavy meal, other diners wandered into the room. Quantrill had been warned about a possible contact for Sorel, a latino in his thirties with a slight limp, broad shoulders, a little paunch above slim hips, and the look of a sullen eagle in his eye. So far, there was no sign of such a man. The faint latino accent of Sorel triggered no alarm in Quantrill's mind; one out of every four men in Wild Country claimed Spanish as their first language. At Sorel's table, no one seemed to give newcomers more than a casual glance. The four of them made their assessments without so much as a pause and polished off big helpings of apple cobbler. Sorel found himself enjoying "Coulter" and knew that part of his enjoyment was physical attraction.

He would not hear of Quantrill's paying for his meal. "In my own city of Merida, I could find no better companions," said Sorel, who knew Merida like the back of his hand. "Please be my guests at the gaming tables this afternoon, gentlemen. Or perhaps we could bring cards to my room. No risks to anyone," he added, relishing his secret play on words.

Quantrill burped gently. "Much obliged, Matthias. But I always take a solo walk after a meal like this. Later, maybe." He did not add that his stroll would take him to the desk clerk at the Early Bird.

"After siesta, then?"

Quantrill pushed his chair back and returned Sorel's smile. "Probably around dark," he hazarded, getting up. "I kinda thought I'd catch a stage to Soho and the Thrillkiller this afternoon." And keep an eye peeled for Sorel, he added to himself.

"An excellent idea," Sorel replied. He had his own reasons for learning the layout adjacent to the delta landing strip. Quickly he turned his smiling glance to the others. "Would you gentlemen be my guests for such a trip?"

"Whatever," said Longo lazily.

"Okay by me," Slaughter replied. "How 'bout it, Coulter?"

Quantrill made a quick decision. This was probably a wild goose chase anyhow; why not combine business with pleasure? Good sense should have told him why not; yet, "Fine," he said. "See you at the tables."

Watching Quantrill's exit, Longo muttered, "You sure we want that guy underfoot?"

"As cover, yes. We may even find that we need him. A man who uses my money can be surprisingly grateful," Sorel murmured. As he signed the tab, Sorel reflected that this was true only for simple, friendly fellows like Coulter. San Antonio Rose was a different sort: short on gratitude, long on greed. He would follow orders — making three singleton reservations for that delta at separate hotels, for instance — only because he would be paid in cash for his services.

Quantrill had found the same to be true of desk clerks. Even if he'd had a shield to flash, he would have used a crisp bill instead. It got you the information, sometimes more of it than you expected, without giving your own status away. This time he learned that the Early Bird housed a pair of tough-looking gents who might be the "friends" he sought to surprise. For a second bill, the clerk arranged to be relieved for ten minutes and, finding the pair's room empty, made his brief reconnaissance of the gaming rooms. He returned beaming, having found both men at the roulette table.

Quantrill made a wary approach, reminded himself that the Gov had insisted he obtain backups before drawing on Felix Sorel. He found one man consulting a programmable calculator, nervously scanning the display as he muttered orders to a companion. They were only men with a system to beat the wheel, and it was clearly failing. They did fit the general descriptions he gave the desk clerk, but he'd wasted forty dollars to locate a couple of incurable optimists. Quantrill sighed and moved on. Whatthehell, he might as well find Matthias and escort him to the Thrillkiller complex. There was something about the Mexican that he liked, beyond his willingness to spend money. Maybe, he thought, it was that aura of easy self-confidence…