Wild Country

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Both Longo and Slaughter had visited Faro before, but it was Sorel who thought to leave their Garner cycles in a drywash down the valley from Faro that morning. It was possible that those license plates were already on someone's shitlist. By midmorning they arrived in Faro to find that reservations had been made at the Long Branch for one Ernst Matthias, a Leo Cherry, and Clyde Longo's alias, Johnny Collier. A fourth reservation had been made as well, for the man sometimes known as San Antonio Rose. So far. the fourth man was a no-show.

Sorel had wandered around the first floor, its gaming rooms spacious as dance floors, while Slaughter signed himself in and Longo bought necessary items from Faro's shops. Then, in Slaughter's room upstairs, Sorel plied one of the many trades he had learned in Cuba.

One can create great art with razor blades, flesh-colored adhesive strips, and cotton. Sorel built lifts high as shot glasses into his own boots, and gave Longo an apparently broken left elbow by taping the naked arm with some of the tape in high tension. Longo had to rip it loose twice by flexing that arm before he was satisfied that it wouldn't impede him if he found it necessary, in his words, "to unlimber in a hurry."

A pound of cotton went into the pads at Harley Slaughter's beltline and rump, but when taped in place they gave the gaunt Slaughter the look of a well-fed rancher. By careful application of bone-tinted shoe polish to Slaughter's temples and eyebrow pencil near his eyes, Sorel added fifteen false years to the man. Sorel noted that one might profitably grow wheat under Longo's fingernails and insisted that the men attend to their manicures like gentlemen. Longo's villainous beard came off next. Little more was done about his hair except send him away to have it cut at the Early Bird's tonsorial parlor.

Later, Sorel signed for his own room and made a show of striking up a conversation with Slaughter, as though they were well-met strangers, in the presence of the room clerk. The two of them then strolled around the place, checking exits. When Longo returned at midday, he walked past Sorel near the main doorway before a familiar voice made him whirl.

By the time he signed the register, Sorel's golden hair had become the blue-black of a raven's wing, and the tiny pads in his cheeks had subtly altered the hard lines of his face. He was as tall as Longo, and boasted a clear, slightly pale complexion thanks to long experience with women's cosmetics. "Matthias" and "Cherry" were standing with "Collier," enjoying the success of their deceptions, as Ted Quantrill ambled onto the porch outside.

"This calls for a drink, and a meal if we can find one worth eating," said Sorel, still smiling at Longo's surprise. After two days of heavy tension, his amusement had burst forth with unusual force.

"Best damn food in Wild Country," said Slaughter, patting his artificial belly, glancing at the dark-haired fellow with brown eyes who was pushing through the swinging doors nearby.

Longo agreed with, "They serve great grub here, and my belly thinks my throat is cut."

"Lead the way, Mr. Cherry," said Sorel.

The newcomer paused, smiling. To the man nearest — it happened to be Sorel — he said, "Best idea I've heard all day. Is the food here as good as at the Early Bird?"

"These gentlemen claim it is," said Sorel, returning the smile. "Shall we see for ourselves?"

Quantrill hesitated, with a casual scan into the nearest of the gaming rooms. Then, "Thanks," he said, "maybe in a few minutes. Don't eat it all," he joked feebly, with a nod at the other men, and moved toward the room clerk's counter.

Sorel followed Slaughter through lamplit halls. They passed a couple in western dress and a little brown man in an excellent suit of foreign cut on their way to the dining hall.

Seated at the round oak tables was only a scatter of diners, a dozen or so in all. Sorel wished the place were more crowded, wanting safety in numbers. The next delta was due on the following day and, unless business picked up later in the day, he favored staying out of sight in their rooms for the most part. In eliminating room service, Sorel felt, Faro was carrying this frontier ambience a little far. Perhaps they could add a few harmless people to their number for cover. Sorel, as usual, carried enough cash on his person to buy a condo in Austin.

Ten minutes later, Quantrill had secured a room and a quick, expensive look at the Long Branch register. He had no way of knowing that Clyde Longo or others might be with the two he sought. No men fitting his descriptions of Sorel and Slaughter had registered — certainly not together. The manager of security would be out of his office until business picked up around dark, and Quantrill's stomach was making noises like a suspicious bull terrier. He walked through the gaming rooms, with a second look at two men playing "twenty-one" near an exit, then relaxed and asked a lone croupier the way to the dining hall.

Sorel saw the sturdy fellow in the expensive sharkskin boots come through the doorway; waved a cheery greeting. "Join us," he said, and the man did so. The introductions were quickly made — all lies, by experts. Sorel found the young stranger only a bit short on easy conversation, and by the time their meals arrived he was genuinely warming to Sam Coulter from Monahans.