Code Name: Camelot (Noah Wolf #1)(68)

Eduardo grinned, rang up the sale and pocketed his tip. He came back to where Noah was sitting, since there was only one other person in the place, an old man who had been coming around for years, and always sat on the same stool, nursing the cheapest bottle of tequila he could get.

“So what is it you are wanting to buy?” Eduardo asked.

Noah grinned, trying to look sly. “Oh, different things. Stuff I can send home, and make money on. Lots of money.”

Eduardo grunted again, but his grin stayed put. “Well, I do not know for sure what you might find here, but I will tell you this. Most of my customers, they are very careful who they might talk to. If you are in a hurry, then you will probably not get to buy much here in this place. People want to get to know you before they will talk business.”

Noah shrugged, still grinning. “Oh, hey, that just makes sense. I mean, I’m the same way; I won’t talk serious business with somebody I don’t know. I mean, you see how careful I’m being, even when I’m just talking to you, right?”

Eduardo nodded, and took a rag from underneath the bar and began wiping it down. “If you are not in a hurry, you might come here for a few days, and perhaps some will talk to you. Perhaps you will get to buy the things you’re looking for.” He broke into a big smile. “Perhaps you will buy so much that you will be happy, and give old Eduardo another big tip.”

Noah made a silly face, one that he hoped said that further big tips might be coming up, and then sat back to nurse his beer.

Noah and Eduardo talked off and on as Noah sat on the stool. He finished his first beer, and ordered a second, throwing another twenty at the bartender and earning a big smile in return. Eduardo leaned close to him. “Do you want only American beer? I have Modelo; it is the same price, but a bigger bottle.”

Noah gave him a huge smile of his own. “That would be great,” he said. “I’ve had Modelo before, it’s very good.”

Eduardo grinned and slapped the bar, then went to the cooler and came back with an open bottle of Modelo. He was right; this bottle was almost twice the size of the baby Budweiser he had given Noah before. Noah held it up in salute, and took a long pull before setting it down.

“That is very good,” he said. “Thank you, I really appreciate you letting me know about that.” He took another pull, then stretched, leaning back on the stool, and twisting himself as if trying to pop his back. He leaned forward, then, and as he did so he pressed the bubblegum-wad spy camera up under the bar, right beside the wall where it could get a wide-angle view of everything in front of the bar.

He smiled at Eduardo. “Gotta stretch my legs,” he said. “Which way is the bathroom?”

Eduardo pointed to a door in the back wall. “First door on the left,” he said.

Noah went through the doorway, and found the toilet. He used it, then took the sheet of sticker microphones from his pocket and, following the instructions Neil had given him, gently stuck one onto the tip of each of his fingers, except for the thumb and index finger of each hand. He went back out into the tavern, and pressed the tip of his pinky against the outside of the door. The little microphone that had been stuck there was suddenly and permanently affixed to the door.

Noah walked around the tavern, looking at different signs on the wall, decorations that had been hung up over the years, and occasionally reached out to touch something. One sign was particularly amusing, and Noah called out to Eduardo as he stuck a microphone to it. It showed a cowboy hat sitting on top of a pair of cowboy boots, and the caption underneath read: “Portrait of a Cowboy with the Shit Kicked Out of Him.”

“This is hilarious,” he yelled to Eduardo, who laughed with him. “I wish I had a copy of this to hang on my wall back home. I’ve got this neighbor, he’s originally from Texas, and he thinks he’s just the greatest thing in the world. He calls himself a cowboy, and I would love for him to see that!”

Eduardo laughed again. “That would be very funny.”

Noah went back to his seat as the front door opened and three men walked in. He glanced at them, but when one of them gave him a challenging glare, he turned his attention back to his bottle.

One of the men, and Noah thought it was the one who had glared at him, rattled off something in rapid Spanish. Eduardo grinned, and replied in English. “He is just visiting,” he said. “He is looking for some things to buy, to take home and sell to make money.”

All three of the men suddenly turned to look at Noah, and one of them walked over to stand beside him. “I am Raul,” he said. “Raul Delgado. I should tell you, we do not like new gringos who come to our town and think they can make us do business with them the way they want.”

Noah turned on his stool to look Raul in the eye. “My name is John Baker,” he said, “and the only reason I came here is because somebody I work for told me to. I’m not trying to make anybody do anything, that much I can promise you. I’m just here to buy some things, and arrange to get them shipped back home. That’s all, I promise.”

Raul put his arms over his head and stretched, leaning backward so that the loose shirt he was wearing rode up in the front. The big revolver that was shoved down the front of his jeans became visible, and Noah looked down to make it clear to Raul that he had seen it. He raised his eyes back up to Raul’s own, and smiled, once more trying to appear nervous.