Quentin Walker was more than half lit and still in the bar at seven o’clock when Mitch Johnson finally showed up at El Gato Loco. Among the low-brow workingmen that constituted El Gato’s clientele, the well-dressed stranger sporting a pair of dark sunglasses stuck out like a sore thumb.
“You’re late,” Quentin said accusingly, swinging around on the barstool as Mitch sidled up beside him.
“Sorry,” Mitch returned. “I was unavoidably detained. I thought you said you’d be waiting out front.”
“I was for a while, but it was too hot and I got too thirsty waiting outside. Want a drink?”
“Sure.”
“Well, order one for me, too. I’ve gotta go take a leak.”
The beer was there waiting on the counter when Quentin returned from the bathroom. Coming back down the bar, Quentin tried to walk straight and control his boozy stagger. He didn’t want Mitch to realize how much he’d already been drinking, to say nothing of why. Quentin still couldn’t quite believe he had killed that damned nosy Indian, but he had, all because he had walked up and caught Quentin red-handed with Tommy’s bones right there in front of God and everybody.
Now, Quentin was looking at two potential murder charges instead of one. Jesus! How had that happened to him? How could he have screwed up that badly? The one thing he didn’t want to lose sight of, though, was how much the money from those damned pots would mean to him now.
Nobody knew Quentin Walker owned a car. It would take days, weeks, maybe, for all the paperwork to make its way through official channels. With a proper vehicle and a grubstake of running money, Quentin might even be able to make it into the interior of Mexico. He could leave via that gate on the reservation, the one he had heard so much about from Davy and Brian. It was supposed to be an unofficial border crossing where Indians whose lands had been cut in half by the Gadsden Purchase could go back and forth without the formality of border guards of any kind.
When Mitch Johnson had first shown up with his offer to buy the pots, Quentin had been intrigued more than interested. Now, though, that very same offer of money was of vital importance. The last thing Quentin wanted to do was to spook Mitch into calling the whole thing off. If Mitch walked away, taking with him those five bills with Grover Cleveland’s mug shot on them, then Quentin Walker could be left high and dry, without the proverbial pot to piss in. He would have no money and nowhere to run, and he’d be stuck with two possible murder raps staring him in the face. Nobody was ever going to believe that Tommy’s death had been an accident.
“How about something to eat?” Quentin suggested, thinking that food might help sober him up. “The hamburgers here aren’t bad.”
“Sure,” Mitch Johnson said easily. “I’ll have one. Why the hell not? We’re not in any hurry, are we?”
Shaking his head, Quentin leaned his arms against the edge of the bar to steady himself. “Not that I know of,” he said. “I do have some good news, though.”
“What’s that?” Mitch asked.
“I used some of the money you gave me to buy myself some wheels. I picked up a honkin’ big orange Bronco XLT. It’s a couple years old, but it runs like a top. If you want, we could drive out to where the pots are in that. I don’t know what kind of vehicle you’re driving, but the terrain where we’re going is pretty rough, and the Bronco is four-wheel-drive.”
Mitch Johnson had to fight to keep from showing his disappointment. He had been planning all along that he’d be getting back almost a full refund of that initial five thousand bucks he had given Quentin. And he had less than no intention of giving the little creep his second installment. After all, once Quentin Walker was dead, he wouldn’t have any need of money—or of a car, either, for that matter.
Instead of bitching Quentin out—instead of mocking him for his stupidity—Mitch was careful to mask his disappointment. “So, you bought yourself a car?” he asked smoothly. “What kind did you say?”
“A Bronco.” To Mitch, Quentin’s answer seemed unduly proud. “It’s the first time I’ve had wheels of my own in years. It feels real good.”
“I’ll bet it does,” Mitch Johnson agreed.
After that exchange, Mitch sat for a long time and considered this changed state of affairs. His plan had called for the next part of the operation to be carried out in the Subaru. That way he would have the canvas-drying crate to use to confine either Lani and/or Quentin, should the drugs somehow prove unreliable. The idea of changing vehicles added a complication, but the whole point of being competitive—of being able to capitalize on situations where other people faltered—was being flexible enough to go with the flow. The idea was to take the unexpected and turn it from a liability into an advantage.
“Hang on here a minute,” Mitch said to Quentin. “And if my food comes before I get back, you leave my hamburger alone.”
“Sure thing,” Quentin said.
Mitch walked out to the far corner of the parking lot where he had left the Subaru. There, he unlocked the tailgate, opened the wooden crate, and checked on Lani, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Putting on his rubber gloves, he removed Lani’s bike from the crate. Hurriedly he wheeled it over to the orange Bronco parked nearby, an orange Bronco with a temporary paper license hanging in the window next to a prominently displayed as is/no warranty notice. Predictably, the Bronco wasn’t locked. Mitch hefted the mountain bike into the spacious cargo compartment and then went over to secure the Subaru.
“Sweet dreams, little one,” he said to a sleeping Lani as he once again closed up the crate. “See you after your brother and I finish up at the house.”
When Mitch went back inside, the food had been served. Mitch ate his lousy hamburger and watched Quentin wolf his. There was something about the man that wasn’t quite right. There was a nervous tension in him that Mitch didn’t remember from the night before, but he put his worries aside. Whatever was bothering Quentin Walker, that little dose of scopolamine Mitch had dropped into Quentin’s first beer would soon take the edge off. In fact, Mitch’s only real concern was that Quentin was far more smashed than he should have been. With Quentin drunk, Mitch worried that even a little bit of Burundianga Cocktail might prove to be too much.
The overheated afternoon had cooled into a warm summer’s evening when Quentin and Mitch Johnson finally left the bar. Quentin blundered first in one direction and then in the other as he attempted to cross the parking lot. He finally came to a stop and leaned up against the Bronco to steady himself.
