Wild Country

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 maricon, but times were bad and money still tight. Sorel paid well, and a man didn't have to ask for all the details of his business. It was easier to sleep when one did not know those details.

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.