Quantrill's hangover was a surly brute of medium ferocity. Padding barefooted on a cold oak floor, he found the pitcher and enameled basin; cursed the cruel authenticity of Faro's rooms; spilled some of that cold water on his feet (!!) while pouring it into the basin. The icy shock as he washed his face nearly knocked him over, but it soaked through more of those cobwebs—enough to make him wonder whether he had licked out a bird cage or a fireplace during the night's festivities. He drank some of that hard water, then let himself sink carefully down into the bed again. One good sign, the ceiling was not spinning. His voice seemed borrowed from a bullfrog: "Stupid jackass." he said aloud. "How many times do you have to poison yourself just for fun?"
By nine AM he had dressed, couching the Chiller under the light jacket, fumbling a bit as he practiced a few draws. Sitting on the bed. he essayed a ring-finger exercise he'd learned in T Section of army intelligence. Your synapses that are under least conscious control, they'd taught him, were earliest affected by booze, drugs, or concussion. Control of one's ring fingers was normally fair to poor. If you could bend those fingers and only those to a quick rhythm when sober, loss of that mastery meant your reflexes were impaired. A poor sort of evidence to stake your life on, but better than nothing.
The charge suggested by that evidence was "wasted in the first degree." But he'd been hung over a half dozen times in his life and expected a quick recovery if only he could co-opt some coffee and stare down a pair of eggs, sunny-side. In the meantime, his companions could help him over the rough spots. By noon, he could put in a call to Jim Street with a clear head.
Quantrill eased down the stairs and, after only one wrong turn, wandered into the dining hall wearing a sorry smile. His companions were presiding over the remains of western omelets. He glanced at one plate in which "Cherry" had added catsup to his omelet. The plate looked as if someone had dropped a small animal into it from some great height. Quantrill swallowed hard as he looked away from it, sitting between "Collier" and the Mexican, where he could watch the door. No one, not even the waitress, entertained any doubts about his delicate condition.
When the waitress left with Quantrill's order, he managed to get a coffee cup to his lips with only one hand. It was a triumph of sorts, but Clyde Longo was not impressed. In a gravelly baritone, the man began to sing in a near whisper. The song had found fame in a holovision satire, ridiculing the essence of certain country songs that critics dubbed the "lyrics of loserism." But like Archie Bunker of the old days, the ditty had become a runaway success among those it mocked, as if its ironies were subtle rather than gross. The only proper way to sing it was badly, with tears in the voice, and Longo did it right. Its title was "Two Beers."
"Ohh, pore me,
Cause I got drunk.
And killed a feller.
And buggered a skunk,
And wrecked the truck.
And burnt the house.
And kicked ole Granny,
And swallered a mouse.
But I can do it agin tomorry, you see—
As long as I got yore
Sympathy-y-y-y-y…"
"I need your silence more than your sympathy," Quantrill said morosely to the singer beside him. The other Anglos were in only slightly better shape than he, while Ernst Matthias seemed disgustingly hale. Nevertheless, said the Mexican, he intended to spend a good part of the day recovering in his room. He did not say, of course, that he regretted raising such a high profile the day before.
Quantrill was chasing a fragment of egg with his fork when he saw the newcomer framed in the doorway. He grabbed his checked napkin and brought it to his face, coughing. The rugged, angular latino was gazing in his direction. Not so angular and rugged as he'd been a few years back, maybe, but Quantrill had no doubts. It was too late now to intercept his old friend, Lufo Albeniz. But they had shared T Section's hand signals once, and those signals composed a language you never forgot. He saw recognition in Lufo's face. The others turned casually to see the man passing between empty chairs to their table, and Quantrill lowered the napkin. He wiped his right hand across his face, saw something like consternation in Lufo's gaze, and wiped again. The gesture said. "I am wearing cover." There was absolutely no question that Lufo recognized him, dyed hair or no, because the big TexMex seemed ready to turn back toward the entrance. But now it was too late for Lufo, too; for now the barrel-chested Anglo at the table saw him and began to hum "Rose of San Antone."
Every man at the table recognized the newcomer. Quantrill instantly put aside the notion that Lufo Albeniz had arrived by accident; evidently Lufo was still on the job for Jim Street. Most likely, thought Quantrill, Lufo had been sent as backup. They could confer later in private, but for the moment Quantrill felt that burning his cover meant burning a new friendship. In a sense, then, at that moment Quantrill's life was hanging on his embarrassment. He had no way of knowing Lufo's cover name among
cimarrones
, so the only inference he drew from Longo's humming was that the man couldn't carry a tune in a Kelley Ramscoop.
Clyde Longo did not give a damn what young Coulter thought. Like Sorel and Slaughter, he knew San Antonio Rose on sight and announced the fact in the usual way. The rest was up to someone else.
Harley Slaughter realized a part of the problem: San Antonio Rose might be wary of Sam Coulter who was, as of this moment, very much underfoot. Slaughter put on an uncharacteristic show of goodwill, with an expansive wave toward the man who stood poised in uncertainty before them. "I know you from somewhere. What was your name in the States?" It was an old greeting from the days when Wild Country was turning wild again.
Felix Sorel only smiled and gestured for the newcomer to take a seat. "A friend of Mr. Cherry?
Bienvenidos
." In a detached way Sorel was amused. If he found it convenient to snub young Coulter from Monahans, drive him from the pack as it were, he could do it at any time. New friends or old, it made little difference; he used them, discarded them, found others with that graceful, lethal charm.
Lufo Albeniz took his time sitting down in the only avail able space, between Longo and Slaughter with his back to the entrance, composing his next moves. What in seven hells was Ted Quantrill doing here, rubbing elbows with Sorel? Hold on; with those few words, Sorel had disowned their old acquaintance. And Quantrill had given him the "cover" sign, plain as day. Lufo's conclusion was that Quantrill knew his quarry. Did he also know Lufo's connection? Lufo had expected no trouble, and his only weapon was the lockblade in his hip pocket. Oh, shit…
Lufo said the only thing he could: "Lufo Albeniz," and thrust his hand across the table to Sorel. Hell, they all knew his real name anyhow.
In moments he heard all the aliases he could handle. To Slaughter's casual question he replied that he had just happened by. With the tension palpable as a sheet of ice over the table, not one of them noticed the slender figure in the bulky shortcoat who had appeared in the doorway as Lufo was sitting down.
Marianne Placidas, knowing the destination of San Antonio Rose, had actually preceded him to Faro and picked him up as he got off the tour bus. And now the man had led her, with breathtaking suddenness, to within point-blank range of Felix Sorel. She did not recognize Quantrill or Longo, but Slaughter was easy to make. Almost as easy as Sorel, next to him. It all came together so quickly after her preparations that she did not give herself time to waver, nor even to tremble. Slaughter's hideously effective weapon was always drawn, so he would bear watching as closely as Sorel. It made no difference what weapons the others might use on her; Marianne had told herself many times that she had died with her beauty in Oregon Territory.
Her mistake was common among amateurs. Professionals rarely take time to savor revenge; and
never
before the fact.
"Felix Sorel, look at me." Her voice was steady. The little automatic was steady, too. Somewhere a waitress bleated, dropped a tray, scuttled for the kitchen entrance. Somewhere else, two patrons bolted for the exit. No one at the table moved quickly, except for their heads.
"
Dios mio
," Sorel said. He realized that his expression betrayed a horrified fascination as he looked into that ruined face. The voice he knew well enough, and her eyes removed any lingering doubt. Keeping his hands in view, he fashioned a bright smile for her. It had always worked before. "Marianne Placidas, is it you?" If Slaughter would only make his move, he might have time to draw on this dreadful apparition. Standing only meters away, positioned behind Lufo so that Slaughter would have to swing his arm, the woman faced Sorel, her chin proud, displaying the terrible scars this man had ordained for her. Without glancing toward Slaughter she said, "Not anymore. I wanted you to see what you have done."
Lufo made his decision then, twisting slowly to look at the woman, perhaps because he was the only man at the table who was not well armed. "Chica, you don't want to shoot a federal agent," he said.
"
Embustero
, liar; you are San Antonio Rose," she said without taking her eyes from Sorel's.
Mierda! So she knew
. With his peripheral vision, Lufo saw Quantrill
:
s face harden in shock. "But this man is Ted Quantrill of the Justice Department," he went on, pointing carefully and slowly. "Let him do his job."
"You sonofabitch," grated Longo, his face growing choleric as he stared at the man beside him, the man who had iced Mike Rawson. Marianne might have ignored the curse, but the reddening of Clyde Longo's face was a real endorsement.
Quantrill did not move. A half dozen tumblers within his mind clicked into place. So all these men were old confederates, and he'd been sucked in like a fucking amateur! It wasn't bad enough that he'd placed himself in the hands of Sorel, but his old compadre Lufo was playing both sides of the game. And any second now, that game would be over.
"Slaughter told me you were dead,
novita
," Sorel pleaded, hands open in supplication, nodding toward the cold-eyed Slaughter.
"That's a goddamn lie, Sorel," Slaughter hissed, and shifted his arm a bit.
"If Slaughter said that, he was right. And now my spirit is content," said Marianne, her face blazing in a ravaged, deadly smile.
They all heard distant footfalls racing in the hall, coming nearer. Marianne Placidas licked her lips, tossed what could have been a look of pleading toward Quantrill. and saw Harley Slaughter's arm slowly straighten toward the man who might, or might not, be a federal agent. If Slaughter thought so, that agent was now one second from an agonizing death. The muzzle of her little weapon flicked to a new target, and she fired without hesitation. The single slug entered Slaughter's head just above the right cheekbone, blossoming into the base of his brain. The pistol's report triggered instant pandemonium.
Even as Slaughter folded forward, his face shattering the plate before him, three of the men were reacting in almost identical ways, using other bodies for shields. Clyde Longo, without years of military training in close-quarters combat, had the horrendously bad luck to be sitting between two men who had learned from the same instructors. He found himself gripped from both sides as Quantrill and Lufo Albeniz propelled him over backward toward the woman. Sorel hurled himself sideways to the floor, taking refuge behind the inert Slaughter, reaching inside his jacket as he dropped.
Marianne stumbled back to avoid the stocky Longo as he tumbled backward from his chair, holding her little weapon with both hands. She fired again and Slaughter's body jerked.
As he released his two-handed grip on Longo's right arm and shoulder, Quantrill continued moving in a side roll. He ended it on one knee. Chiller in hand, and saw Longo on his back near the woman's feet. Longo's teeth were bared as he looked up at her, flexing his legs, reaching into his boot top. She seemed completely unaware of the man as she fired that second round across the table.
The Chiller coughed twice, the muffled thumps of its tiny detonating slugs lost in Longo's bulk. Quantrill saw the man quiver, then relax. Kneeling between adjacent tables, his eyes above the level of the tabletops, Quantrill fired several rounds between table legs where he hoped Sorel would be; in the killing trade, the expression was "for effect." One of the slugs had its effect all right. It shattered the right rear leg of the chair supporting the corpse of Harley Slaughter, and the slug's detonation sent oak splinters flying. Quantrill selected then from between two options. He could drop prone, the aggressive option, and face Felix Sorel in a forest of spindly table legs. Or he could opt for the prudent move and vault atop a table for a commanding view and a better field of fire.
Prudence won; Quantrill's leap carried him atop the nearest unoccupied table. But the hangover won, too; he missed his footing and rolled onto his side, cups and plates scattering, the table teetering but remaining upright. At that point, a burst of firing from Sorel's vicinity said that he was still doing business. The woman gave a choking cry and staggered to the side, flinging her gun hand out as she fell toward Quantrill. At the moment, Quantrill was her only hope, and the savagery of her luck was that, in falling, she caught him across the bridge of the nose with the barrel of her pistol.
Lying on his back, Felix Sorel could see the trousered legs of Marianne Placidas from under the table. Something was happening to his left with the little brick agent, but "Coulter" had shown no deadly potential on the previous day, and the Placidas bitch was already firing in his direction. First things first: he tucked his legs, spreading them enough to fire twice from between them, and had the satisfaction of seeing the woman's right leg buckle as he thrust upward with both feet beneath the near side of the tabletop.