Suddenly Tambu laid a hand on her arm, stopping her oration.
“Heads up! We’re about to have company.”
Three figures were approaching their table in a beeline course that left no doubt as to their intended destination. The girl was in her late twenties, sporting close-cropped blond hair, a halter top, shorts and sandals. The dusky-complexioned boy was in his early teens, and wore a sleeveless shirt open to the waist. Loose-fitting trousers and soft ankle-high boots completed his outfit. While there was nothing uniform about their garb, there was something in their gaze which set them apart from the other denizens of the bar and bound them together into a unit.
The man in the lead was of an entirely different cut. In his middle fifties, his hair was close-cropped which, coupled with his expression, gave him the appearance of a Caucasian Buddha. Mechanic’s coveralls gave his short, stocky figure the appearance of butterball fat, but there was a feline lightness to his walk.
All three wore guns on their hips.
“Mind if we join you?” the leader asked, smiling as he reached for one of the vacant chairs at the table.
“As a matter of fact, we do.” Tambu smiled back, hooking the chair with his foot and drawing it out of reach. “We’re waiting for someone.”
For a moment, the man’s eyes narrowed, but the smile never left his face.
“No matter,” he shrugged. “What we have to say won’t take long.”
“Good,” Whitey commented dryly.
This time it was the man’s companions who reacted, shooting dark looks at Whitey as their muscles tensed.