Page 12 of Wild Temple
“He’s on his way.”
Rex took a breath. “I’ll ask around, see if anybody knows anything. But I don’t want to make waves. I gotta live in this town. It’s best if I don’t ruffle feathers.”
“You were always good about ruffling feathers.”
“So were you.”
I smiled. “Still am.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“I hate to ask, but all this talk has made me feel unsafe,” I said in jest. “You know where I might be able to find some personal protection?”
6
Rex’s face tightened, and he looked at me with those regretful brown eyes. I know he was wishing I had never stepped into his bar. With a reluctant sigh, he asked, “What do you need?”
“9mm. Ammunition. Extra magazines. For starters. I always like a backup.”
“You know where you are, right? You get caught with a gun, you’ll do 20 years. Hell, you’ll be lucky to ever breathe free air again.”
“I thought you said all the cops were on the take.”
Rex scoffed. “Shit, you’d have to have a helluva lot of money to bribe your way out of something like that. What do you need a gun for, anyway?”
“It’s kind of obvious.”
“Do you know what kind of risk you’re asking me to take?” Rex’s cheeks reddened, and his veins pulsed.
“I’m sorry,” I said in a genuine tone. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
He glared at me for a moment, then softened. Rex grumbled to himself. “Fuck, Wild. I told you I don’t want to get involved in this shit.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “I understand. Say no more. I appreciate the intel. It was good to see you.”
I extended my hand, and we shook.
He felt guilty. “Want a beer?”
“No. Thank you. I need to cover as much ground as I can. Somebody has to have seen her.”
There was an awkward moment.
“I’ll see you around,” I said before heading for the door.
I was halfway there when Rex shouted, “Wild...”
I stopped in my tracks and looked back at the bar.
With a resigned sigh, Rex said, “Come back tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do.”
I grinned. “Thanks.”
I stepped outside and strolled the sidewalk back toward the hotel. Throngs of tourists drifted up and down the boulevard, and I dodged more street vendors and hustlers pedaling fake Mata Vaya.
I stopped in the popular bars and restaurants, talking to bartenders and waitstaff, flashing Isabella’s picture. A few people had a vague recollection of seeing her, but tourists come and go. Isabella constantly changed her appearance and hair color. She kept a low profile and tried to blend in.
On the way back, I stopped at a coffee shop near the hotel. The smell of hot java swirled, and chill music pumped through speakers. A few people lounged in booths, comfy couches, and tables. The place sold pastries, cakes, and cookies—plenty of things to fatten you up while you worked on a marathon coding session or the next novel.
