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"Masterson's father and I have to talk. We can't do that at his place-which he calls the plantation-because the widow's father has a bad ticker, and we don't want to upset him. He sent me here."
"What do you have to talk about? Wait. I'll rephrase that interrogatory: What the fuck is going on?"
"So I don't have to repeat everything twice, can you wait until he gets here? He should be here any minute, and I need a drink."
"Okay. I could use a little belt myself," Fernando said.
"What did that guy say about a floor-waiter button?"
"There has to be a bar in here," Fernando said.
He walked to a panel mounted on the wall and started pushing buttons. One of them caused a section of the paneled wall to move, revealing a small but well-stocked bar.
"Eureka, the gold!"
They had just enough time to fix the drinks and touch glasses when Winslow Masterson walked into the suite.
"I couldn't get away as quickly as I had hoped," he said. "But they were ready for you?"
"Yes, sir," Castillo said. "I took the liberty of…"
"You're my guests," Masterson shut him off with a gentle wave of his hand. "And a drink seems entirely appropriate at this time."
He went to the bar and poured himself a drink from the bottle of Famous Grouse that Fernando had used.
"The economics of this place has always fascinated me," Masterson said. "God only knows how much it costs them to maintain something like this, and since they are obviously not in the business of being a friend to man, there has to be a profit motive. It would therefore seem to follow that their hospitality is offered only to those who have-or are likely to lose-an enormous amount of money at the tables. Where do such people- and so many of them-come from?"
"I was thinking just about the same thing, sir," Fernando said.
"Excuse me, sir, for my breach of courtesy. I am Winslow Masterson."
"My name is Lopez, sir. Fernando Lopez."
"And you're a Westerner, Mr. Lopez. May I say I admire your boots?"
"Thank you, sir. Texan. San Antonio," Fernando said.
Masterson drained his drink and made another.
"Mr. Castillo tells me you're cousins," Masterson said.
"Yes, sir."
"Years ago," Masterson offered, "I had some business dealings with a delightful chap in San Antonio, who had your Christian name, Mr. Lopez, and your surname, Mr. Castillo. I don't suppose…"
"You may be talking about my-our-grandfather, sir," Charley said.
"Did your grandfather have a magnificent Santa Gertruda bull named 'Lyndon J.'?"
"Grandpa was not an admirer of President Johnson," Fernando said, "and Lyndon J., even as a calf, produced amazing amounts of droppings, so when it came to naming the calf for registering…"
"So your grandfather told me," Masterson chuckled. "What is it they say about a small world?"
He's making small talk, Charley thought. He's delaying hearing what he knows he won't like to hear.
What do I do? Bring him back to earth, so I can go out to his farm?
No. Fuck it. Vic's out there. The Mastersons are safe.
