Lone Calder Star (Calder Saga 9)

He signaled to the woman behind the bar. “Two more beers, Tillie.”

Dallas spoke up quickly. “Don’t order any for me. I still have half of mine.”

“But that’s warm by now,” he countered smoothly.

“It’s not that warm,” she insisted, sliding him a glance that was slightly confused and uncertain. She forced a smile. “Besides, I told you my limit was one drink. Then I have to go hit the books.”

Quint shrugged. “You can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said and flashed her a smile.

“I suppose not,” she agreed and studied him with a new carefulness as Tillie walked up and shoved two more beers onto the counter in front of them. “You should have listened, though. Now you have two beers to drink.”

Quint made no reply to that and fished more money out of his pocket, then slid it over to the bartender. “Bring me some change for the jukebox, will you?” He eyed Dallas with a knowing look. “There’s bound to be a few more slow songs on it. You can help me pick them out.”

“Maybe another time,” Dallas replied, oddly saddened that he would resort to such a ruse to get her to stay longer. She reminded herself that men were like that, and wondered why she had thought Quint was different from any other male on the prowl. She took a long drink of her nearly warm beer, determined to bring this meeting to a quick end.

“I thought you liked dancing,” he remarked with subtle persistence.

“I like it well enough,” she said, refusing to lie about it. “But I have some heavy-duty studying to do, and that has to come first.”

“The night’s young. You have plenty of time to study later,” Quint reasoned.

“Hey, Dallas,” Tillie shouted from halfway down the bar. “You got a phone call. You can take it in the back room.” She jerked a thumb toward the rear of the building and immediately resumed filling the next drink order.

“Excuse me.” Dallas darted a short glance in Quint’s direction and slipped off the stool, striking out toward the dimly lit hall just beyond the twin pool tables.

Quint was quick to no

tice the shine was gone from her eyes when she looked at him. It was proof, if he needed any, that he had succeeded in his role of a cowboy on the make. But he felt no satisfaction in it, just a resenting anger that it had to be this way.

He wrapped a hand around the icy cool sides of the fresh beer mug and carried it to his mouth, drinking down several long swallows. But the cold beer failed to rid him of the sour taste.

Engrossed in his own dark thoughts, Quint paid little attention to the stocky cowboy sauntering toward him until he stopped by his stool. He skimmed the man’s face in a glance, identifying him as the cowboy who had warned him about working at the Cee Bar his first night in Loury, the one Dallas had called John Earl.

“You’re from the Cee Bar, aren’t you?” After making his opening gambit, the cowboy waited for Quint’s reply.

“I am.” Quint tensed ever so slightly, not sure what was coming, but ready for it.

“Some guy outside wants to talk to you. Said it was important.”

Aware that it was one of the oldest ambush tricks ever used, Quint shrugged. “If he wants to talk, tell him to come in here.”

John Earl scoffed at the suggestion. “Tell him yourself. It’s Saturday night and I’m too far behind on my drinking to be carrying messages,” he declared and walked down to the middle of the bar where he slapped a hand on the counter. “Give me a beer, Tillie. Tall and cold as they come.”

Quint sat on the stool a minute longer. The message reeked of a trap. Yet there was a slim possibility that Empty Garner was out there. At the same time, Quint knew that if Max Rutledge was dealing this hand, he had to play it. He threw a glance at the dimly lit hall, but there was no sign of Dallas.

Leaving his change on the counter, Quint stepped down from the bar stool. When he reached the door, he pulled it open and paused within its frame, scanning the area immediately outside. Seeing nothing suspicious, he exited the bar with a sideways step that put his back against the building, letting the door swing shut on its own.

He stood there for a long moment, tuning in to the night sounds and sifting out the man-made ones, every sense alert. Logic said the parking lot was the obvious location for a trap. He concentrated most of his attention on it.

His caution paid off when he caught the faint scuff of a boot on gravel, the kind of sound that might be made when a person shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“If someone wants to talk to me,” Quint said in a low voice, “he’d better show himself or I’m going back inside.”

A sudden stillness gripped the night. It was soon broken by the faint rustle of clothing and the soft tread of footsteps, both coming from the parking lot area, just as Quint expected. A second later, he spotted a movement in the shadows at the building’s corner. A hatted figure in a bulky, insulated jacket exposed a shoulder, briefly lifting a hand.

“Over here,” he said in a voice as low as Quint’s had been.

Although he could see nothing of the man’s face, Quint knew at once the man wasn’t Empty Garner. His caution tripled.