Any Minute Now by Eric Van Lustbader Page A

until he was in a more or less sitting position. He could see the man now: a narrow, angular face with salt-and-pepper hair, a long, Roman nose, leading to lips that were as full as a woman’s. He had long, bony-fingered hands. He seemed ill at ease. Flix wondered whether he also had an aversion to hospitals.
    â€œSt. Vincent,” the man said. His voice was oddly high, almost as squeaky as the trolley the candy stripers pushed back and forth down the hall during meal times. “Luther St. Vincent.”
    â€œNever heard of you,” Orteño said.
    â€œI’m gratified.” St. Vincent cleared his throat. “I didn’t come in until I was certain you weren’t sleeping. May I have a minute of your time?”
    Orteño laughed shortly. “Where am I going?”
    â€œThank you.” St. Vincent pulled over a chair, turned it around, and sat on it backward, his arms folded casually over the back. “How are you feeling?”
    â€œWho are you and why do you want to know?”
    â€œTo answer the second question first, you interest me.” He had a megawatt smile. His cheeks were pink, clean-shaven, and a bit shiny, as if whoever had given him the shave had applied moisturizer afterward. “As to who I am, I’m NSA.”
    â€œUniversal Security has no business with the NSA. How d’you know about me?”
    â€œWe both know that to be a lie. In any event, I’m in the business of knowing everything there is to know about persons of interest.”
    â€œHuh! Well, I’ll be as good as new in a couple of weeks’ time.”
    â€œYes, but how about now , this very moment?”
    Orteño had trained himself not to shrug. “I want to get out of here.”
    â€œOf course you do. But I wonder if that’s all you’re feeling. Are you sure?” St. Vincent sucked in his cheeks as if drawing on an ice cream bar. “No anger, resentment, anything like that?”
    â€œI don’t follow.”
    â€œSure you do. I imagine you’re pissed Sandy bought it. I imagine you’re pissed the brief failed.”
    Orteño’s heart lurched in his chest. What the hell? he thought. His eyes narrowed. “What are you driving at?”
    â€œWell, Felix—may I call you Felix?”
    Flix nodded. It was not lost on Orteño that an NSA bigwig was treating him with courtesy extreme enough to be almost comical. He had never even met Omar Hemingway; that was Cutler’s department. He was strictly a field op.
    â€œOkay, then. You’re from Texas, right? Is it true they grow ’em bigger and better in Texas?”
    â€œI think you’d know that better than me.”
    â€œWhy would that be, Felix?”
    Orteño regarded him for a moment as if he had grown another head. “That would be,” he said slowly and distinctly, “because you’re Anglo and I’m Latino.”
    â€œI’m sorry you feel that way, Felix.”
    â€œI’m sorry the world works that way. It does in Texas, anyway.”
    A minor quake must have erupted deep inside St. Vincent because his lips curled, producing a thin smile. “But we’re not in Texas anymore, Toto.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œMeaning,” St. Vincent said, “I’d like you to work for me.”
    â€œI already have a job, thanks.”
    â€œOh, no. Nothing like that. Nothing about what I’m proposing would impact your current position in the least.”
    â€œAll due respect, that’s fucking difficult to believe.”
    St. Vincent chuckled. He lifted an arm briefly, waggled a forefinger. “I knew I had chosen the right person.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œOh, nothing much.” St. Vincent’s voice was as nonchalant as a vacationer ordering a frozen daiquiri from a passing waiter.
    He rose now, sauntered about the room, which was illuminated by the oblong of light spilling in from the area around the