I decided to find the bar and nurse a beer for a while, then try again.
I hoped he didn’t have a heavy date.
A Mr. Brazda, whom I approached in the lobby and asked for directions, turned out to be the manager. He asked about my room, we exchanged a few pleasantries and he showed me the corridor leading off to the lounge. I started in that direction, but didn’t quite make it.
“Merle! What the hell are you doing here?” came a familiar voice.
I turned and regarded Luke, who had, just entered the lobby. Sweaty and smiling, he was wearing dusty fatigues and boots, a fatigue cap, and a few streaks of grime. We shook hands and I said, “I wanted to talk to you.” Then: “What’d you do, enlist in something?”
“No, I’ve been off hiking in the Pecos all day,” he answered. “I always do that when I’m out this way. It’s great.
“I’ll have to try it sometime,” I said. “Now it seems it’s my turn to buy dinner.”
“You’re right,” he answered. “Let me catch a shower and change clothes.
I’ll meet you in the bar in fifteen, twenty minutes. Okay?”
“Right. See you.”
I headed up the corridor and located the place. It was medium-sized, dim, cool and relatively crowded, divided into two widely connected rooms, with low, comfortable-looking chairs and small tables.
A young couple was just abandoning a corner table off to my left, drinks in hand, to follow a waitress into the adjacent dining room. I took the table. A little later a cocktail waitress came by, and I ordered a beer.
Sitting there, several minutes later, sipping, and letting my mind drift over the perversely plotted events of the past several days, I realized that one of the place’s passing figures had failed to pass. It had come to a halt at my side-just far enough to the rear to register only as a dark peripheral presence.
It spoke softly: “Excuse me. May I ask you a question?”
I turned my head, to behold a short, thin man of Spanish appearance, his hair and mustache flecked with gray. He was sufficiently well dressed and groomed to seem a local business type. I noted a chipped front tooth when he smiled so briefly-just a twitch-as to indicate nervousness.
“My name’s Dan Martinez,” he said, not offering to shake hands. He glanced at the chair across from me. “Could I sit down a minute?”
“What’s this about? If you’re selling something, I’m not interested. I’m waiting for somebody and-‘
He shook his head.
“No, nothing like that. I’know you’re waiting for someone – a Mr. Lucas Raynard. It involves him, actually “
I gestured at the chair.
“Okay. Sit down and ask your question.”
He did so, clasping his hands and placing them on the table between us.
He leaned forward.
“I overheard you talking in the lobby,” he began, “and I got the impression you knew him fairly well. Would you mind telling me for about how long you’ve known him?”
“If that’s all you want to know,” I answered, “for about eight years. We went to college together, and we worked for the same company for several years after that.”
“Grand Design,” he stated, “the San Francisco computer firm. Didn’t know him before college, huh?”
“It seems you already know quite a bit,” I said. “What did you want, anyway? Are you some kind of cop?”
“No,” he said, “nothing like that. I assure you I’m not trying to get your friend into trouble. I am simply trying to save myself some. Let me just ask you-‘
I shook my head.
“No more freebies,” I told him. “I don’t care to talk to strangers about my friends without some pretty good reasons.”
He unclasped his hands and spread them wide.
“I’m not being underhanded,” he said, “when I know you’ll tell him about it. In fact, I want you to. He knows me. I want him to know I’m asking around about him, okay? It’ll actually be to his benefit. Hell, I’m even asking – a friend, aren’t I? Someone who might be willing to lie to help him out. And I just need a couple simple facts-“