“Bread’s extra.”
“No problem,” Ryan said. “We’ve got the jack. And pack up an extra round to go. Two pieces each.”
Sandy left to accommodate the requests.
There was a jingle of the tarnished silver bell mounted above the entrance to the eatery. Four men stepped in through the door, and oddly enough, they stepped in by order of height.
“Damn, something done smells like it up and died in here!” boomed a loud bass voice from the largest of the quartet. “By, God, it had better taste better than what my nose is telling me!”
Chapter Nine
On the edge of his peripheral vision, Ryan saw Krysty’s red tresses begin to gently coil and uncoil of their own will. Not a good sign. Especially since his own radar had also kicked into triple overtime from the moment the four men swaggered into the restaurant.
The quartet was dressed in a mix of tech and Western. The short, older man in front seemed to have the carriage of leadership. He also had a receding hairline, making his furrowed brow disappear into the brim of his crisp cowboy hat. Silver gray mutton-chops and white wisps of hair at the back of his ears stuck out from under the hat.
In appearance, he was what Doc would term as a “dandy.” Only a few drops of rain had fallen on the small man’s suit since a second man, who was much taller, held a faded black umbrella above his head.
The small man looked like a well-preserved sixty-year-old, and wore a dark blue pair of trousers, a cream brocade vest with matching puff cravat and white spats. The spats were pulled over a pair of ancient brown lace-up shoes. A single stray speck of red mud dotted one of his feet, but otherwise the outfit was immaculate.
The only nod to the modern world in his accoutrements was in his choice of holster.
It was hand-tooled leather, with a wide sliver-plated buckle that matched the color of his hair. What looked to J.B.’s trained eye like a 6-shot old-style Smith & Wesson rimfire revolver was holstered on his left leg. The blaster was a near antique, but still deadly in the right hands.
The little man also carried a slim walking stick with a silver handle. Ryan caught himself wondering if the man’s cane contained a hidden blade like Doc’s.
“That guy sort of looks like a sawed-off version of Doc, doesn’t he?” Dean whispered, echoing Ryan’s thoughts. “Walking stick, funny old clothes, nose high in the air. Like he was better than us.”
“Shh!” Ryan hissed. The boy was right, though.
“Afternoon,” the small man said, removing his hat and showing off a nearly bald pate. “I’m Benjamin Green. This strapping young lad behind me is my son, Jackson. We’re traveling with a second party for protection. This is Mr. Briggs and Mr. Constantinople.”
He was speaking to the waitress, Sandy. The man identified as Green’s son, Jackson, had been carrying the umbrella. He now pulled the collapsible shade closed and shook off the excess rainwater. Ryan could see the family resemblance behind the unfortunate waxed mustache that Jackson had chosen to wear. The facial hair was coal black, like the man’s hair. The black was too much and looked artificial. Ryan suspected the liberal use of a bottle of hair dye. Perhaps the son was prematurely gray, and that was his way of rebelling against the unstoppable onslaught of old age and/or resembling his father.
Vanity was usually the first thing to go when traversing Deathlands, but the father-and-son team looked to have an ample supply. In addition to vanity being a deterrent when attempting to move quickly, a vain man was almost always a man with too much jack in his pockets. Ryan suspected the Greens’ traveling companions weren’t friends. The one they referred to as Constantinople had the look of sec man written all over him. Hired help.
Like his father, Jackson was dressed in the splendor of the old West—with selected nods to modern-day touches—a dark blue high-cut jacket with leather lapels, a white shirt starting to droop from the dampness, a loosely tied lariat necktie held closed by a silver bolo. His trousers were tight and appeared to be made of a mix of shiny black leather, dark gray nylon and canvas. The toes of his once gleaming black cowboy boots were also tipped with silver, sterling tips very similar to the ones Krysty favored and currently wore.