San Antonio Rose kept late hours, and Sorel's caution worked overtime, so no message was left on the phone in SanTone Ringcity. Around midnight Sorel finally made direct contact. As always, Felix Sorel made as much use as possible of the adage, 'Never complain; never explain.' Even though he had worked side by side in mutual trust with San Antonio Rose before, Sorel knew he would be unwise to let the man know just how much he was needed. Sorel's exact location would remain a secret as well. It was enough that San Antonio Rose knew Sorel's immediate needs. These were simple enough: a place to obtain new clothes and to alter appearances for three men, and access to fast transport northward. While Sorel and his gunsels conferred with his drug outlets, Billy Ray and Reeve could get the van ready. The two mechanic cowpokes would also make good telltales, in case some posse did track the van somehow. They were more expendable than they knew. If you stake a bad dog in front of your door and find that dog missing or dead on your return, it's a fair bet that you should keep walking and never return…
San Antonio Rose was firing on all cylinders that night, with a brilliant solution to Sorel's needs. Wild Country Safari was larger than the Garner spread and hosted the world's widest variety of guests. At least twice a week, it received passenger flights by the huge thrumming delta dirigibles that made direct connections to Dal Worth and Santa Fe. It was less than two hours away by cycle. With so many people coming and going by varied kinds of private transportation, three men should have no trouble mixing with the vacationers, gamblers, dudes, and hookers in the synthetic Old West town of Faro. The place was hard to miss, served by excellent roads with two modem hotels and adjacent state-of-the-art thrill rides just over a rise from the little sin city. Sorel should find it easily and would find reservations waiting.
Chapter Fifty-One
San Antonio Rose spoke in rapid-fire Spanish, smiling as he heard Sorel's response to his solution. A scrambler module might insinuate a buzzing quality to the voice on the other end, but it couldn't filter out the relief in Sorel's voice. Oh, yes, Felix Sorel had somehow got a tin can tied to his tail all righty. A man might demand a fat bonus for help right now, and get it. And never have Sorel's trust again. Or one might see him later, man to man. and pass over it in cavalier lightness while making it clear that he knew Sorel owed him. But lightly, lightly; for Sorel possessed the subtlety and deadliness of a poison mushroom. Too bad a man had to deal with such as this handsome, lethal
He would not have slept at all had he noticed the tiny spot of red light that impinged at one corner of the window nearest his telephone. His voice was the generator of faint vibrations that shook the windowpane, to be translated from fifty meters away by a laser sensor in a newly rented room with a view of his windows. His voice fidelity was poor, but no matter. The listener understood the language quite as well as he.
During the latter part of the conversation, San Antonio Rose gave advice. 'The Last Chance is small, without many rooms. The Early Bird is nearest to the staging area where the deltas fly the high rollers in, and there's a lot of serious gambling there. That means quite a bit of security muscle roving around, Sorel. Some of 'em have been cops, or bounty hunters. Somehow I don't think that's what you're after.
'The Long Branch Saloon, now; if I have a choice, that's where I'll make your reservations. It covers an acre; gift shops, slots, and roulette, lots of people cruising around looking for new ways to lose their money… Right; Vegas in a nutshell. Plenty of rooms upstairs. It's old style, bathrooms at the end of the hall, pitchers and basins in the rooms…
'No, just for local color. You won't care, and you can't be that picky if you want to get lost among tourists. Right. Sure, why not? See you then,' he said, and killed the connection with a tingle of pleasure. Then he disconnected the scrambler and called the main exchange of Wild Country Safari.
In a room not far away, Marianne Placidas furiously scribbled notes to herself. She too was tingling, with something that was as close as she could get, these days, to pleasure: it was anticipation.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Sandy's journal, Mon. 30 Oct. '06
Rumors confusing. I cannot believe that Mr. Garner and Jerome would take each other's lives. And how did Loli Carrera get involved? I recall the poor old creature shopping for her patron in Rocksprings, savaged by overwork and perhaps also by genes. They say she was lovely once, before the war, an early bloom who shed her petals too soon. She was all of forty. I suppose we will never know exactly what happened on Garner Ranch. Mystery!
Wonder who is to inherit, or to buy that great spread. God grant me good neighbors next time.
Guess who came home, bouncing like a piglet and in a mood to cavort. The strangest thing was that torn red scarf tied to his neck ruff. Childe jealously believes he has a new friend. Certainly Ba'al could not have tied that thing himself!
Chapter Fifty-Three
'I don't know any more about it than you do, Ted,' said Jess Marrow as they walked, trying not to seem hurried, toward the central hunt lodge. 'Seems the Brit came in late last night without the van or the mare. And five minutes ago, my office terminal asks me if Wardrop has any outstanding stable fees. And you know what that means.'
Quantrill nodded, mounting the steps to the lodge verandah, giving Marrow time to navigate them with his gimpy leg. They found Alec Wardrop settling his bill, scheduling a ride to the city by the earliest available means. At first, he was not disposed to talk.
Marrow found a cultural crowbar to pry an explanation from the man. 'Got some stuff at my office for a toast, on the off chance that you made it back,' he said, as if begrudging it. 'Harvey's Bristol Cream Sherry. Awful stuff. Thought you'd like it.'
Wardrop failed to keep his face straight, hung his head as he smiled. 'Wonders never cease. Very well, and with pleasure. I have a few minutes to spare.' Leaving his luggage untended, Wardrop accompanied his hosts back to Marrow's office.
Quantrill's only burning question was the fate of Ba'al, but all the signs pointed to a satisfactory answer; perhaps Wardrop had just taken enough of that hard-rock country, and abruptly said the hell with it. Lots of people behaved that way. Besides, Marrow's intuition made entirely too many accurate connections every time Quantrill mentioned the boar. Quantrill listened in silence as Marrow, ushering the tall Brit into the office, said, 'I'm afraid to ask about Rose.'
Wardrop lowered himself into an oak armchair with the care of a man who was nursing a lot of bruises. 'The commonest kind of tragedy, I'm afraid. She broke a leg and — had to be destroyed. I wasn't mounted at the time,' he added in self-defense.
Quantrill pulled three polypaper cups from the dispenser; flicked them to Marrow, who caught them in what was obviously a ritual game. 'I hear the van's still out there. Wrecked?'
Wardrop watched Marrow pour elegant sherry into lumpen proletarian cups and shook his head. 'I suppose one's palate need not know the difference,' he commented to Marrow, accepting a cupful, sniffing it with eyes closed. 'No, the van is intact. I've marked it on a map for you. In any case, I'm all paid up; not to worry.'
'I wasn't thinking about that. How'd you get back to WCS land?' Quantrill said.
'That,' said Wardrop, pausing to sip the sherry, 'is none of your God — damned — affair.'
Quantrill made a face that was half dismay, half amusement.
