The Loner Read Online Free PDF Page A

clenched into fists on the table as he watched Browning.
    “Something wrong, sir?”
    The unexpected question made Sinclair give a little start. He looked up and saw that the waitress had paused beside him, a coffeepot in her hand. She looked slightly startled, too, and he supposed that was because of his reaction.
    He forced a smile onto his face and said, “No, I’m fine, thank you.”
    “Some more coffee, Mr. Sinclair?”
    She knew him because he ate lunch here fairly often. It was convenient to the office. But it had been a mistake for him to come in here this afternoon, he told himself. He didn’t want the waitress or anyone else remembering—afterward—that he had been here today, watching Conrad Browning leave the bank building.
    Still smiling, he shook his head and said, “No, thank you. In fact, I must be going.”
    “You hardly touched your coffee. Is there anything wrong with it?”
    He wanted to yell at the stupid woman and tell her to stop badgering him with questions. Instead, he said, “No, it’s fine as always. I guess I just wasn’t thirsty after all.”
    What he was thirsty for was a shot of whiskey. That was all right. He could get one at the place he was going to next.
    He left a bill on the table to pay for the coffee and placate the nosy waitress, then left the café and strode off in the opposite direction from Browning. His steps led into a rougher part of town. Although Carson City was the state capital and a bustling, modern city, it wasn’t all that many years removed from the mining boomtown and cattle town it had once been. The frontier was still alive here, just not quite as visible as it used to be.
    That was why Sinclair felt almost as if he were stepping into a dime-novel illustration as he entered the Ace High Saloon a short time later. Frock-coated gamblers, cowboys in boots and spurs and tall hats, painted doves in gaudy dresses and rolled stockings…Sinclair was the one who was out of place here in his gray tweed suit and soft felt hat.
    He spotted the man he was looking for at a table in the rear of the long, smoky room. He had met with the man once before, nearly a week earlier. At that time, Lasswell had been alone. Tonight, the gunman had a companion, a large man with a florid, rough-hewn face. A bottle and three glasses, one of them empty, sat on the table.
    Sinclair tried to ignore the raucous talk and laughter around him as he made his way through the crowded saloon. When he was halfway across the room, one of the women who worked there blocked his path. “Buy me a drink, honey?” she asked as she smiled up at him. The heavy perfume she wore wasn’t quite strong enough to cover up the smell of unwashed flesh. The neckline of her spangled dress gaped so low that he could see the upper edge of one nipple.
    “No, I don’t believe so,” he replied with a shake of his head.
    “You could buy something else if you wanted to,” she said, putting a mock pout on her rouged face. “Big handsome fella like you, it’d be a pleasure, not just a chore.”
    Sinclair just wanted to get away from her. “Maybe later,” he said, and reached around her to give her rump a squeeze. That made her laugh and jump and say, “Oh, you!” Mainly, though, it got her out of his way.
    Lasswell grinned at him when he reached the table. “Thought you was gonna stop for a little slap an’ tickle,” he said.
    Sinclair pulled back a chair, sat down, and nodded at the empty glass. “Is that for me?”
    “Yeah.” Lasswell picked up the bottle, splashed some of the amber liquid into the glass, and then pushed it across the table toward Sinclair. “Bottoms up.”
    Sinclair followed that suggestion, tossing back the drink and savoring the fiery path it traced down his throat and into his stomach. He returned the empty to the table with a thump.
    “Is it all set?” Lasswell asked.
    Sinclair didn’t answer. Instead, he asked a question of his own. He nodded toward the other man at the table