He waited, washed his hair, rinsed. Balta didn’t come, though. That wasn’t like Balta at all. There must have been trouble. Once he’d decided that, he turned the tap off, grabbed a towel and dried off, moving faster now.
Coke and Balta had gone, but he could hear voices outside the window. It sounded like Eduardo, shouting. It took ten seconds to pull his jeans on and grab a T-shirt and his key card. He just had to hope he wouldn’t need his boots.
When he finally got outside, Coke was holding back two cowboys, even with one black and busted hand, and Balta was wrestling Eduardo and Vittorio both, shouting in Portuguese.
Joa went running. “Hey! Hey, y’all! Stop it!”
He grabbed one man’s collar from Coke, yanking him back. Eduardo and Vittorio wouldn’t hurt Balta.
“He started it.” The cowboy who snarled at him wasn’t one he knew. The big rodeo was always full of new faces.
“Bullshit.” He knew better.
“I don’t give a fuck who started what, asshole.” Coke puffed up like a short, broad toad. “I’m standing here to say I’ll finish it.”
Balta was talking rapidly, one hand on each of the Brazilian riders’ chests. He was telling them it was no good to fight. It would get them suspended.
“Fucking wetbacks. Taking good men’s money!”
“‘ey, Cu? You watch it.” He could hold his own with these fuckers.
“Keep your shit together, Muscles.” Coke was grinning, though, the devil in his eyes.
“What the fuck did you call me, Beaner?”
He shook the asshole in his head. “Cu. I called you acu. An asshole.”
Balta turned on the American cowboys, Eduardo and Vittorio fading back into the hotel. “You want me to talk to Ace, Vainery? Huh? I know you. You’re on the little tour. You too, Callahan.”
Balta knew everyone.
“No. No, just…keep a handle on your boys.”
Coke let the one he was holding onto go, and Joa was about to do the same when the man muttered. “Fucking monkeys.”
Joa slammed him into the side of the hotel, easy as you please.
The other American put an arm between them. “Hey, now. Come on, Stef. Let’s just go get that hamburger.”
‘Stef’ looked at him, wide-eyed. He didn’t care what the man picked, he’d go in or fight. He was easy.
It was Balta who finally decided them all, pulling him back about six inches. “Go,” Balta said, and the two boys went.
Coke hooted after they left, clapped Joa hard enough he stumbled forward a few steps. “Not bad, Muscles.”
“Thank you, Coke. For coming to get me.” Balta grinned, shaking out his arms and hands. “It could have been bad.”
“Anytime, son. Any time at all.” Coke smiled back. “I’m hungry. Y’all want to go eat?”
Balta glanced at him sideways, checking to be sure, he’d bet. At his smile, Balta nodded. “Sim, sim. We have not, how do you say? Hung out. In a while, huh?”
“Cool.” Those weirdly pale gray eyes stared at him. “Go put some boots on, son, and get a hat. You need a haircut.”
“Yeah, Gramps.”
Ass.
Balta laughed. “I need my hat, too. We’ll meet you out front, huh? Your truck is bigger.”
