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“Once Texas gets into your blood,” King said, “it
’s near impossible to get it out. Believe me, I’ve had four wives do their damnedest, with no luck.”
Hand outstretched, King strode toward them. He wore blue jeans, a faded powder blue denim shirt, and, to Sam and Remi’s surprise, Nike running shoes rather than cowboy boots.
King didn’t miss their expressions: “Never liked those boots. Uncomfortable as hell, and impractical. Besides, all the horses I got are for racin’, and I ain’t exactly jockey-sized.” He shook Remi’s hand first, then Sam’s. “Thanks so much for comin’. Hope Zee didn’t put you off. She ain’t much for small talk.”
“She’d make a good poker player,” Sam agreed.
“Hell, she is a good poker player. Took me for six thousand bucks in ten minutes the first—and last—time we played. Come on in, take a seat. Let’s get you somethin’ to drink. What’ll you have?”
“Bottled water, please,” Remi said, and Sam nodded for the same.
“Zee, if you don’t mind. I’ll have the usual.”
From close behind Sam and Remi, Zhilan said, “Yes, Mr. King.”
They followed him aft to the settee area and sat down. Zhilan was only seconds behind them with a tray. She placed Sam’s and Remi’s waters before them and held out a whiskey-rocks to King. He did not accept the tumbler but simply stared at it. He scowled, glanced at Zhilan, and shook his head. “How many ice cubes in there, honey?”
“Three, Mr. King,” Zhilan said hastily. I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t give it a second thought, Zee, just plop another one in there, and I’ll be fine.” Zhilan hurried off, and King said, “No matter how many times I tell her, she still forgets sometimes. Jack Daniel’s is a fickle spirit; gotta get the ice just right or it ain’t worth a damn.”
Sam said, “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You’re a wise man, Mr. Fargo.”
“Sam.”
“Suit yourself. Call me Charlie.”
King stared at them, a pleasant smile fixed on his face, until Zhilan returned with his now correctly cubed drink. She stood at his side, waiting as he tasted it. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Run along, now.” To the Fargos: “How goes your dig on that little island? What’s it called?”
“Pulau Legundi,” Sam replied.
“Yeah, that’s right. Some kind of—”
“Mr. King—”
“Charlie.”
“Zhilan Hsu mentioned a friend of ours, Frank Alton. Let’s save the small talk for now; tell us about Frank.”
“You’re also a direct man. You share that quality too, I’m guessin’, Remi?”
Neither of them replied, but Remi gave him a sweet smile.
King shrugged. “Okay, fair enough. I hired Alton a few weeks ago to look into a matter for me. Seems he’s up and disappeared. Poof! Since you two seem to be good at findin’ what ain’t easily found, and you’re friends of his, I thought I’d touch base with you.”
“When did you last hear from him?” Remi asked.
“Ten days ago.”
“Frank tends to be a bit independent when he’s working,” Sam said. “Why do you—”
“Because he was to check in with me every day. That was part of our deal, and he stuck to it until ten days ago.”
“Do you have any reason to think something’s amiss?”
