Valentine's Exile

Memphis: The dwindling number of old-time residents of this good-times city divide Memphis history into prequake and postquake. The destruction, the starvation, the Kurian arrival, the appearance of Grogs; all are linguistically bound together and organized by that single cataclysmic event.



When the New Madrid fault went, most of the city went with it. One of the few substantial buildings to survive the quake was the St. Jude Children's Hospital, whose grave granite now houses many of the city's Kurian rulers behind concentric circles of barracks and fencing.



The rubble left behind was pushing into piles. Eventually those piles were redistributed about the city, forming a fourteen-mile Great Wall of Junk in a blister based at the river that eventually had dirt piled on top of it to turn it into a true barrier. Now a precarious jeep trail circumnavigates the city atop the wall, except for three gaps to the north, east, and south.



The south gap is a subcarbuncle of its own, a fenced-in stretch of land between Memphis and Tunica full of livestock pens and grain silos, barge docks and coal piles, a supplemental reserve of food and fuel for the city in case events of war or nature cut it off from the rest of the Kurian Order.



Inside the wall, around the heart of the city, are the great bank camps, a temporary concentration of identical, wire-divided cantonments that stretch in some cases for miles. Once a tent city for those left homeless after the quake, the tents have given way to fifty foot barracks, now wooden-sided, with windows and cooking stoves. Rail lines, sidings, and spurs stretch into the camp like the arteries, veins, and capillaries feeding the liver.



The residents go out of their way not to think about those in the camps.



Memphis still has some of its pre-2022 culture along Beale Street and in the "commons," the stretch of city bordering the waterfront. The commons are dominated by the ravaged and only partially glassed superstructure of the Pyramid. This mighty sports arena and convention center has canvas stretched over the missing panes, to admit air without the heat of the sun, giving it the appearance of an impossibly huge sailing ship squatting at the edge of the Mississippi, the trees of Mud Island separating its inlet from the main river.



The area around the Pyramid rivals Chicago's famous zoo as a center of dubious entertainments, though it is a good deal more exclusive, limiting its clientele to the River Rats, the men who work the barges and patrol craft of the great rivers of middle North America, and those brave enough to go slumming. The Pyramid itself sees a higher order of customer with appetites just as base. As a den where flesh is exchanged for goods or services, temporarily or permanently, the Pyramid has no rival on the continent.



While the city has any number of competing factions, captains of war and industry, mouthpieces both civil and Kurian, the commons and the Pyramid look to only one man for leadership. The great auctioneer Moyo has bought and sold more slaves in his forty years than many of the tyrants of old. Always to an advantage.



If anyone has gotten the better of him and lived to tell of it, even the old-timers of Memphis cannot say.



* * * *



"You want to do what?" Vic Cotswald said.



Cotswald was a heavyset man, and puffed constantly, like an idling steam engine. He took up a substantial portion of the back cabin of his "limo"-a yellow-painted old Hummer.



"Learn about this fellow's setup," Valentine said. "Everyone's heard of Moyo. Why not do what he did, only somewhere else?"



They'd met at a roadside diner built out of a pair of old trailers fixed together and put up on concrete blocks. Duvalier looked a little wan and not at all herself. Valentine hoped it was just the pain of her wound and not the onset of ravies.



He'd know if she started trembling. That was usually the first sign. It might have been better to leave her with Everready in his casino-barge hideout, but she'd insisted on accompanying him into Memphis.



Valentine was dressed all in black. His costume was, in fact, a cut-down version of a priest's habit-it was the only well-made, matching clothing Everready could easily find at the Missions. Valentine had dyed the snake-boots to match on his own, and after cutting off the sleeves added a red neck cloth and a plastic carnation, scavenged from a discarded kitchen on one of the old gambling barges. He wore the gleaming pistol openly in its leather shoulder holster. The U-gun was zipped back up with the rest of their dunnage.



Cotswald wiped grease from his brow and sweat from his upper lip. "Of course everyone's heard of Moyo. Nobody moves deposits in or out of this town without him. The reason Moyo's still Moyo is that he doesn't let anyone get close to him who hasn't come up through his organization. He doesn't just hire Gulfies up to get a chance at the inventory."



Valentine had already learned two pieces of Memphis slang: deposits were the individuals in the bank camps waiting for transshipment to their probable doom; inventory was attractive women-and a few men and kids, he imagined-meant for the fleshpots, private and public.



"Octopus is a good guy. Pays well for the little scraps of information that pass my way. What are you offering?"



Valentine reached under his shirt and pulled up a simple lanyard that hung around his neck. A shiny ring turned at the end of the line.



Everready had taken it off a dead general.



"A brass ring? Is it legit?"



"It's mine. You get me in to see Moyo, talk me up, and I'll give it to you. I'm sure you have contacts who can verify its authenticity. If it doesn't check out, you can blow the whistle on me."



"A coast ring's no good here."



"But it is good on the coast. Ever think of your retirement? There are worse places than a beach in Florida."



Cotswald broke into a fresh sweat. "A ring. You better not be doing a bait and switch."



"A real ring and a friend named Jacksonville. The higher-ups are putting me in charge of Port Recreation. Got to keep the plebes happy."



"When's the end of the rainbow, Jacksonville?"



"I'm rebuilding a hotel down there. Furnishings are on their way. I just want to see about some-inventory."



"I'm your man," Cotswald said. "Just be warned, stay on the up-and-up with Moyo. He's a razor, he is."



* * * *



As they drove through the city Valentine got a feel for the people of Memphis. For the most part they were drab, tired-looking, clad in denim or corduroys. Hats seemed to be the main differentiator between the classes of the city. The workers wore baseball-style hats, turbans, or various styles of tied kerchiefs. Those who gave the orders wore brimmed hats-a broad-brimmed variety called a planter seemed to be the most popular.



Cotswald's Hummer wove through horse carts and mopeds on the way downtown-they took a turn riverward to avoid the jagged outline of the old children's hospital. It had sprouted tulip-shaped towers since the advent of the Kurian Order. A communications tower next to the hospital supported ball-like structures, like spider egg sacks, planted irregularly along the sides, a strange fusion of steel and what looked like concrete-but concrete globes of that size couldn't be supported by the tower.



Cotswald stared studiously out the opposite window, reading billboards for birth-enhancement medications. Something called Wondera promised "twins or triplets with every conception."



OUR GOAL: TRANQUILITY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL read another. WHY SETTLE FOR VITAMINS? GET VITAMAX-GUARANTEED SATISFACTION (HIS AND HERS).



Once in the summit of the city-the ground rose at the edge of the river before falling away sharply into the Mississippi-Valentine saw men and women dressed with a little more flash. Some of the women even wore heels. Many of the men sported suits that would cause heads to turn and mouths to gape in the Ozarks: broad-shouldered, pinstriped suit coats with matching trousers and patent-leather shoes in a variety of colors.



"It's a party town," Cotswald said as the sharp notes of an outdoor jazz trio came in through the open windows of the Hummer.



The car turned north onto a well-paved road and shot down an avenue of impressive new homes looking out over the breeze-etched river. The car slowed and turned onto a broader highway that went down the steep hill to the river. Valentine looked up at the riverfront homes. All had balconies, some had two or more.



In the distance to the north, seemingly sitting out on the river, he saw the blue-and-white checkerboard of the Memphis Pyramid.



"That's my house," Cotswald said as they slowed below a brownstone monstrosity, pregnant with a glass-roofed patio thick with potted plants. "Should say, the top floor is mine. I rent out the bottom floor to a colonel and his family. Helps to have friends in the City Guard."



"I admire the neighborhood," Valentine said. Duvalier tapped her fingers on her walking stick.



"But I'm hardly ever there. I usually sleep at the office. Hard to make good when you don't have your own bank, but I couldn't manage it. The faces get to me."



Valentine marked Cotswald as one of the Kurian Zone survivors who made himself as comfortable as possible without hindering the regime. Born in a different time and place, would I shuffle loads of rice and beans in and out of my warehouses? Trade in a few luxuries on the side?



Look the other way to avoid the faces?



Docks with tethered small craft filled the riverbank. Valentine saw the soldiers of the City Guard everywhere, the russet-colored cotton uniforms and canvas-covered sun-helmets going everywhere in pairs. Pairs searching boats, pairs driving in small vehicles Valentine had heard called "golf carts," pairs walking along the raised wooden promenades.



They got out of the way for the Hummer.



"South end of the riverfront is strictly family fun," Cotswald said as they passed into an amusement park. Valentine marked a merry-go-round in operation and a Ferris wheel giving a good view of the area. Many of the other rides were motionless. "You should see it on Jubilation Day, or Peace Week. People camped out all over the hillside. Great time. Except for the Year Forty-three shelling. The vicious bastards across the river dropped artillery shells all over the place the last night of Peace Week. Killed hundreds. Hasn't felt the same since."



"That was-" Duvalier began.



"Horrible," Valentine cut in. "Macon radio carried the story." He'd heard some Wolves talking about it after the Kurian propaganda broadcasts. Evidently they'd hired mercenaries to do it, then killed the three gun crews. A patrol from Bravo Company found the bodies and shell casings.



The Pyramid grew larger as they approached. Valentine had underestimated its size at first glance. It too had a superstructure capping it, a tall, thin tower with a mushroomlike top, a tiny umbrella perched atop the great canvas-colored structure.



Valentine had never seen anything that more perfectly summed up what Mali Carrasca called Vampire Earth: a ruin from the old world, a pyramid of power, with a Kurian at the very top, looking down on the foreshortened, antlike inhabitants of his domain.



"That's some setup Moyo's got."



"It's an old convention center," Cotswald said, wheezing a little more. "Kind of a city to itself. Every riverman on the big three has his own story about his visits there. The Chicago or Vegas or New York girls got nothing on Moyo's; he takes his pick from the deposits across half a continent."



"I'm going to make Jacksonville compete," Valentine said.



"Moyo was young once too," Cotswald said, eyeing the gap in Valentine's shirt that showed the chain to the brass ring.



"What do you do for him?" Valentine asked.



"Run a little booze and high-grade beef."



"He pay you with parties?"



"No, I don't go in for that-not that I'm disapproving of your line of work, Stu. He's got his own clothing lines. When his girls aren't working they're sewing. Some of the fashions you saw downtown, they come from his Graceland label. I sell 'em to shops as far away as Des Moines and Chattanooga."



Duvalier had fallen asleep in the back of the Hummer. Her eyes opened again when it came to a stop.



Cotswald had brought them to the north edge of the commercial docks. A fresh concrete pier and wharves built out of what looked like rubble sat in the shadow of what must have once been a great bridge across the Mississippi. A low, tree-filled peninsula hugged the Memphis side. A rail line ran up into the city from its main tracks, running perpendicular to the old east-west interstate. Valentine saw platform cars being loaded with bags and barrels from the river craft.



"That's the river shuttle," Cotswald said. "My warehouses are at the other end of it."



A narrow pedestrian bridge jumped a few hundred feet of rail line and jumbled rubble separating the Pyramid from the rest of Memphis. Houseboats like suckling baby pigs lined up along the river side of the Pyramid in the channel between the tree-filled island and the Pyramid's plaza.



"You get a lot of boat traffic in Jacksonville?" Cotswald asked.



"A few big ships and a lot of small, intracoastal traders. Looks like you've got your share too."



"That big white one up against Mud Island is Moyo's yacht. Hey, your girl alright?"



Duvalier had sagged against the side of the Hummer.



"You okay, Red?" Valentine asked.



"Just a little faint," she said.



Spiders of anxiety climbed up Valentine's back. "Let me take the packs."



"Thanks."



"Mind if I check your pulse?" Valentine asked. He lifted Duvalier's wrist and watched her hand. Still steady-no, was that a tremble ?



She was bitten four days ago. She should be in the clear.



Valentine threw the satchel of "traveling supplies"-the pseudo-Spam, chocolate bars, and a few detonators surrounded by fresh underwear and toiletries-over his shoulder, along with the bigger duffel carrying their guns. She used her stick to walk down to the bridge.



"I think I've got a little fever," Duvalier said. Cotswald puffed ahead, almost filling the sidewalk-sized bridge.



Cotswald explained something to the City Guard at the other end ". . . here on business . . . show the big gear a good time . . ." as Valentine gave Duvalier a water bottle.



"Val, I don't want to be walking around naked in that pen," Duvalier said. "If I got it-"



"You've got an infection from the bite, I bet. God knows what kind of bacteria they have in their mouths."



"Everready says it mutates sometimes. Maybe it mutated so it takes four or five days . . ."



Cotswald waved at them impatiently and they stepped off the walkway. The City Guards smiled and nodded.



"Welcome to Memphis. Roll yourself a good time, sir."



Valentine felt around in his pocket for some of the Memphis scrip-Everready sometimes used the lower-denomination bills for hygiene purposes, he'd accumulated so much of it over the years-and tipped the City Guard. He'd learned in Chicago to tip everyone who so much as wished you a good afternoon.



The bill disappeared with a speed that would do credit to a zoo doorman.



The Pyramid island had obviously once been parkland, but a maze of trailer homes had sprung up around it, separated by canvas tents selling food and beverages.



"Remember, Cots, I've got to get a peek at Moyo's operation if you want your ring," Valentine said.



"Stay away from the Common," Cotswald said, indicating the trailers and tents with a wave. "You hear stories about men disappearing. Don't know if it's shanghaied or"-he jerked his thick chin upward toward the Kurian Tower, a gesture almost imperceptible thanks to his thick flesh. "No society types go there, not if they want to avoid the drip."



Duvalier stiffened at the word "society." "Bastards," she said.



Cotswald furrowed his eyebrows. "Seems a funny attitude for a bodyguard to-"



"Her mother died from complications of syphilis," Valentine said evenly.



"Visitors with gold buy themselves housing," Cotswald went on, pointing to the other side of the island, where the houseboats were nosed into the protective dike around the city.



"Not too expensive, please," Valentine said. Everready's gold would only go so far.



"I'll arrange something for a budget. Let's go down to the rental agent."



They walked along the flood wall. Like most Kurian civic improvements, it was a patched-up conglomeration of sandbags and concrete. The river wall made the dikes of New Orleans look like monuments to engineering. Too bad the river was dropping to its summer low. . . .



"Seems quiet," Valentine said, thinking of the towering white propane tank on the river flank of the Pyramid. Most of the activity around the colossal structure involved men pushing crates on two-wheelers into the convention center. Valentine wondered at the lack of Grogs; in both Chicago and New Orleans their horselike strength and highly trainable intelligence were used for loading and unloading jobs everywhere. "Don't you have Grogs on your docks?"



"Moyo hates them. As to the quiet, everyone's sleeping out the heat," Cotswald said.



Duvalier's face ran with sweat, and her hair hugged her head.



"Let's make this quick," Valentine said.



They followed a path up the side of the flood wall and went down to the docks. Cotswald spoke to an enormous man sitting beneath a beach umbrella near the entryway to the boats.



"He needs to see the color of your coin," Cotswald said.



After a little bartering-Valentine had some difficulty with the man's accent-through Cotswald's offices they arranged for an old cabin cruiser at the rock-bottom price of four hundred dollars a week. In gold. One week in advance, and after the first day the second week had to be paid for or the rate would go to five hundred fifty dollars.



Valentine nodded at the terms. We'll be gone before then. Unless Duvalier. . .



Valentine sacrificed one of Everready's coins and got a pile of devalued Memphis scrip in return.



"Let me make sure those are Memphis bills," Cotswald said before Valentine could turn away. He thumbed through the wad. "Hold it, this fifty's in Atlanta dollars."



"Sorreh-suh," the rental agent slurred back.



Cotswald arranged the money and handed it to Valentine. "There's a couple of little markets inside the Pyramid. I wouldn't buy anything from the carts in the commons unless it's fruit or vegetables. They'll sell you dog and tell you it's veal. And don't buy the sausages unless you need stink-bait."



"Thank you."



"I have to attend to a few things in town. I'll be back tonight to show you around."



"Maybe not tonight. My security's not well. How about tomorrow night?"



"Even better. It'll be the weekend."



"Fuck it!" Duvalier barked.



Valentine took her arm. She flinched, but settled down when she saw who he was. "She doesn't like it when I fuss. C'mon, Red. Let's get you in the shade."



She still wasn't trembling. Valentine wished he had listened to old Doctor Jalenga from Second Regiment talk more about ravies. All he could remember is that when they started to spaz out the safest thing to do was shoot-



He'd agreed not to let her suffer-but now he wondered.



Cotswald followed them down the wharf, puffing: "Our arrangement. The-"



Valentine quickened his step, looking at the numbers painted on the cement alongside the moored houseboats. "You'll get it. Once you get me a tour of Moyo's setup."



"I need a chance ... to check out that ring . . . before you blow town."



"As soon as I'm in the Pyramid."



Number 28.5. This was their boat.



It looked like a frog sitting between two giant white tortoises. The two-level houseboats on either side of the spade-shaped cruiser looked as though they were using the craft as a fender. It had once been a dual-outboard, judging from the fixtures.



Cotswald shrugged. "It's a cabin."



A man who was mostly beer gut and sunglasses sat under an awning atop the port-side craft. "Yello, stranger," he offered.



"Hello back."



"You'll want to wash your bedding out good," their neighbor said. "Last time that cabin was used, it was by the president of the Ohio-Nebraska. He kept his bird dogs in there. They scratched a lot."



"I'll be back tomorrow," Cotswald said, perhaps fearing becoming part of a decontamination press-gang. Valentine nodded.



"Stu Jacksonville, Leisure and Entertainment," Valentine said. "Thanks for the tip."



"Forbes Abernathy. I'm a poor benighted refugee from Dallas, adrift in the world and drowning my sorrows in alcohol and Midway pussy. Or that's what the wife said before she took off with a Cincinnati general. Does this boat look adrift to you?"



Valentine threw the satchel down in the stern of his housing and helped Duvalier in. "Not in the least."



"Now, your putt-putt; a strong storm comes and you'll be blown downriver."



"Thanks for the warning." He tried the key in the padlock holding the doors to the front half of the cabin cruiser closed. After a little jiggling, it opened.



He could smell the dogs. Or rather, their urine.



"Sorry, Ali," he said. He went into the cabin-it had two bed-couches set at angles that joined at the front, and moldy-smelling carpeting that looked like the perfect place to hatch fleas-and opened a tiny top hatch to air it out. There was a tiny washroom and sink. He tried the tap and got nothing.



"Thanks, Forbes," Duvalier said to him as she almost fell into the cabin and plunged, facedown, onto the bench.



Valentine knelt beside her and checked her pulse again. It was fast but strong. Still no trembling.



Another piece of Doctor Jalenga's lecture rose from the tar pit of Valentine's memory. A few people had proven immune to the various strains of ravies virus, or fought it off with nothing more than a bad fever. He crouched next to her-crouching was all that was possible in the tiny cabin-and touched her back. It was wet through, wet enough to leave his hand slick and damp.



She stirred. "Got any water?" Duvalier asked, rolling over. Her hazel eyes looked as though they were made of glass.



Valentine poured her another cup from his canteen. Perhaps a half cup remained. He needed to get them some supplies.



"Why are we back, David?" she asked.



"We're not back. We're in Memphis."



"That's what I mean. Back in the KZ."



"We're trying-"



"We're trying to die."



He put his hand on her forehead. It felt hot and pebbly. "We're doing no such thing."



"That's why we keep going back in," she insisted. "Every time we get out of the KZ, all we can think about is the next trip in. Now why is that? We feel guilty. We want to die like them."



"Rest. I'm going to see about food and something to drink." He unbuckled the shoulder holster.



He went up on deck, feeling alone and vulnerable. Such a tiny piece of information measured against the vastness of the structure above him-



After a moment's thought he locked the door to the cabin with the padlock again. The orblike superstructure atop the Pyramid seemed designed to stare straight down into the back of his boat.



Job at hand. Eat the elephant one bite at a time.



His neighbor had a comic book perched on his bulging stomach.



"Excuse me, Mr. Abernathy," Valentine called. "Is there a market around?"



"Inside the Pyramid. Plaza north. Jackson, was it?"



"Jacksonville."



"Where you two from ?"



"The Gulf." Valentine jumped up onto the wharf. "Excuse me, my friend's feeling a little sick."



"You two ever been to Dallas?"



Valentine pretended not to hear the question and waved as he walked down the wharf as quickly as he could. The boat attendant saw him coming and suddenly found something to do inside a rusted catamaran.



Valentine ignored him and crossed a wide plaza to the Pyramid. From close-in the base seemed enormous, flanked by concrete out-croppings with pairs of City Guard doing little but being visible.



A towering stone pharaoh, leaning slightly to the left thanks to the earthquake, Valentine imagined, looked out on the main parking lot with its hodgepodge of trailers from the bottom of an entrance ramp.



He walked up the ramp and noticed dozens of chaise lounges on the southwest outer concourse. Women and men, mostly in bathing suits or camp shorts, lounged and chatted and drank while waiters in white shirts and shorts dispensed food and drink from a great cart. It struck Valentine as similar to the lunches in the yard of the Nut.



No double line of fencing topped with razor wire separated these people from their freedom. Habit? The security of position? One deeply tanned man snored into a white naval hat with braiding on its black brim, a thick ring of brass around his white-haired knuckle.



Valentine paid them no more attention than he would a group of lakeside turtles. He passed through a set of steel-and-glass doors and into the Pyramid.



Moyo kept his realm cleaner than the zoo, Valentine gave him that. The impossibly cool interior smelled of floor polish and washroom disinfectant. He was on some kind of outer concourse, advertisements for alcohol, tobacco, women, games of chance, and sporting events hung on banners tied everywhere. As he walked tout after tout, mostly teenage boys Hank's age, tried to hand him flyers. Valentine finally took one.



Black letters on orange card stock read:



Bloody "Cyborg" Action Pulp Fontaine



(hook on right hand)



VS



The Draw



(solid aluminum left arm)



3 rounds or maiming



Friday July 22 9PM Center Ring



all wagers arranged by



Roger Smalltree Productions



"the pharaoh of fair odds since y37"



• Payouts are Moyo Bonded and Insured •



(Gallery of Stars Booth 6)



The teen squeaked: "Listen, sir, my brother's a locker warden. He says Draw's long-shotted to pay off big. Do a bet and you can pay a whole week on the Midway, say?"



"Say," Valentine said and moved on. A woman thrust out a mimeograph of a nude woman with snakes held in each outstretched arm. "Angelica the Eel-swallower!"



Four-color circus posters, bigger than life-size, screamed out their attractions as he followed an arrow to Plaza North.



Tammy's Tigereye Casino-Fortune Level



Rowdy Skybox



• Bring Your Attitude and Leave Your Teeth •



M-certified Tricks and Treats at Zuzya's-



You've tried the rest, now get sqweeffed by the best!



Loudspeakers played upbeat jazz or orchestral renditions of old tunes Valentine couldn't quite categorize but which fell under the penumbra of rock-and-roll.



He found the food market using his nose. A lively trade from grill and fish vendors added to the aromas of cut melons, fresh berries, and tomatoes. At another stall fryers bubbled, turning everything from bread paste to sliced potatoes into hot, greasy delight, ready for salting.



His stomach growled.



He placed his hand on a pile of ice at the edge of an ice-filled bin holding two gigantic Mississippi catfish, resting on a semicircular counter, and felt the wonder of the wet cold.



"Mind! Mind!" yelled the woman behind the bins of freshwater food. "You buy? No? Shove off!"



Valentine settled on buying a five-gallon plastic jug full of water and some "wheat mix for cereals." Then he found a bottle labeled aspirin-it also smelled like it.



"You just bought that, son," the trucker-cap-wearing druggist said. He paid, glad that Memphis scrip was good in here.



Valentine sought out some food. The rotisserie chickens were reasonably priced and looked fresh-he had to buy a stick for them to put it on, and he topped his purchases off with a sugar-frosted funnel cake. He ate half of the last as he wandered, getting a feel for the layout of the Pyramid-or Midway, as the locals seemed to call it.



An area labeled the Arena seemed to be the center of activity; he heard a woman's voice warbling through a door as a pair of sandal-wearing rivermen exited. There were also two huge convention-center spaces, filled with wooden partitions turning the areas into a maze of tiny bars, tattoo parlors, and what he imagined were brothels or sex shows. Guards stood in front of the elevators, checking credentials and searching those waiting in line for a lift. Valentine guessed that Moyo's offices were somewhere upstairs.



Few visitors seemed to be around at this time of day; Valentine counted at least one employee for every tourist. Red-jacketed security supervisors ordered around men in black overalls with tight-fitting helmets; the footsoldiers bore slung assault rifles and shotguns, but twirled less-lethal-looking batons as they walked in pairs around the concourses, grazing from the food vendor stalls or being passed a lit cigarette by a marketer. Beefy old women pushed buckets and wheeled trash bins everywhere, their gray bandannas wet with sweat and PYRAMID POWER! buttons pinned to their sagging bosoms.



Valentine had done enough sightseeing and returned to the line of houseboats. His Dallas neighbor had disappeared. He hurried back to his small, rented boat, roasted chicken in one hand, water in the other. He set down the water jug and unlocked the cabin.



Duvalier came into the sunshine and reclined on the vinyl cushions-spiderwebbed with breaks exposing white stuffing threads-and drank almost her entire oversized canteen of water. Valentine mixed her up some of the cereal (IDEAL FOR CHILDREN AND SENIORS-ADVANCED NUTRITION ! the label read) from the bag, and she ate a few bites with her field spoon.



"Gaw," she said, and tossed the rest to the Mississippi fishes. She leaned against the side of the boat and closed her eyes. He gave her two tablets of aspirin and she gulped them down, then gave him her cup to refill.



"Chicken?" Valentine asked



"You can have it. You get anywhere with this Moyo guy?"



"Haven't met him yet." He felt helpless against the heat coming up through her skin. "How are you feeling?"



"Weird dreams. Really weird dreams. Thought I was running in Kansas with a cop chasing me. He had giant bare feet with eyes in the toes. I know I'm awake now because you don't have flames coming out of your ears."



"I'm glad you're sensible. You were barking out profanity an hour ago."



"Give me a day or two. I'll be back up to strength-or I'll be ... either way, you'll be on your way."



* * * *



She slept, still sweating like a horse fresh from the track, in tiny doses all that night, waking Valentine now and then with brief cries. Not knowing what else to do, he stripped her and dabbed the sweat off her body. To add infestation to injury, both of them broke out in flea bites.



A firework or two went off outside, seemingly timed for the moments when she was sleeping. Forbes Abernathy made a noisy return to his boat about two A.M. with someone who communicated mostly in giggles.



Cotswald arrived the next day, dressed in a straw yellow linen suit. Valentine thought he had a ponderous elegance to him, but he still puffed and wheezed.



"Asthma," Cotswald explained. "Speaking of miseries, how's your bodyguard?"



"A little better," Valentine lied. Duvalier had visibly thinned as the fever wrung the water from her. Valentine, feeling almost as daring as the night he snuck into the general's Nebraska headquarters, had stolen a plastic bag full of ice from the fish vendor when her back was turned and used it to make a compress for her head. She now slept, perhaps a little more soundly thanks to ice and aspirin, in the flea-infested cabin.



He left her a note. Not knowing what the night might bring, he didn't lock her in the cabin. The only weapon he dared take was his little multiknife.



Cotswald puffed up past the stone pharaoh and into the cool of the Pyramid. The sun still seemed high, but the evening throngs were already milling around on the inside. The music played louder and livelier, and attraction barkers brayed. Rivermen in an assortment of outfits and assorted KZ thrill-seekers traveled in mutually exclusive clusters.



Women dressed so as to present decolletage, stomach, buttocks, and legs to advantage wandered through the crowd, selling shots of licorice-smelling alcohol called Mississippi Mud, or "party bead" necklaces of candy, aphrodisiacs, and Alka-Seltzers on a single convenient string, or hot pink Moyo-roses that could be presented to any working girl in tonight's theme costume-(Valentine overheard that it was a cheerleader outfit)-for a free tumble.



"Not that you really need one," a busty pimpette in a conglomeration of zippers and patent leather insisted to a young buck in a Mississippi Honor Guard uniform.



A faint cheer erupted from the arena as they walked the concourse toward the elevators.



"Fifteen-minute call for motorcycle jousting," a pleasant southern-belle drawl announced over the loudspeakers. "A reminder: The Jackson Rangers have gone all of July undefeated. Last year's finalists, Indianapolis Power, will challenge tonight. Ten minutes remain to get your bets in."



They shouldered past a group of off-duty soldiers extracting money from their socks and hats, and stepped into the line at the elevator.



"Destination?" a red-jacketed security man asked as he walked up to their place in the line. He had a bald head and the smooth-but-unenergetic manner of a headwaiter.



"Moyo's office," Cotswald said.



"You have an appointment, Mr. Cotswald?"



"Yes, we do. I made it through Anais."



The security man flipped through a three-ring binder. "Cotswald and Jacksonville. VIP visitor. Very good, sir." Two guards looked them up and down. "If I could just have you take off your coat, Mr. Cotswald," the security man said.



"Of course." Cotswald removed his coat and turned in a circle.



"Thank you. Excuse me, Mr. Jacksonville," the man said. "Step out of line and extend your arms, please."



Valentine submitted to a pat down from one of the guards. They extracted the folding knife. "I'm sorry, sir, no blades whatsoever," the supervisor said. He placed it in a gridwork of cubbyholes like a mail sorter and gave Valentine a numbered chit, and each of them got red plastic badges on lanyards.



"Please wear these around your necks at all times, especially when upstairs," the supervisor said. "Gordon will take you up."



They rode in silence. Gordon advised them to watch their step when the doors opened. Valentine made a move to tip him but Cotswald shook his head.



They exited the elevator, went down a short hallway lined with paintings of irises and turned, then passed into a wood-paneled foyer. A red-blazered security man holding another binder waited on a chair. A man with the most neatly trimmed hair and nails Valentine had ever seen smiled from his wooden desk at a nexus of hallways.



"Mr. Cotswald, how are you tonight?" Asian eyes that reminded Valentine of a picture of his grandmother crinkled in a friendly fashion.



"Keeping busy," Cotswald said.



"And this is?"



"Stu Jacksonville, Leisure and Entertaiment from the Gulf. This is Rooster. Stu's looking to upgrade his inventory."



"Excellent, just excellent," Rooster said. "You're wondering about the name. It's from my days looking for new talent in the rail yards. My hair used to stick up on top."



"Gotcha," Valentine said.



A voice shouted from behind leather-padded doors. "Christ on a popsicle stick, you're a fuckup. Rooster, I've got another ass that needs kicking in here!"



"Mister Moyo's having trouble with the lines up from Texas," Rooster explained. "Please excuse me. Won't you have a seat?"



"Oh, quit crying, you twatl" the same voice yelled. "Stuff the excuses!"



Rooster picked up a leather folio and passed through the double leather doors.



"I hate when he gets worked up," the security man said. "You want to go next?"



"You've got bad news too, I take it?" Cotswald asked, perhaps hoping for a piece of stray information he could sell to Everready.



"Desertions. Not of our people; the Memphis clowns. City Guard commander says we've got to start using our forces for exterior security as well as internal until they can get back up to strength. That means busting heads down in the commons, and no one much likes that."



"Maybe we should go first," Cotswald said. "Mr. Jacksonville is looking to spend a great deal of money."



"Then please, be my guest," the security man said.



One of the double doors opened again. A sullen-looking woman came out, holding the shoulder strap of her briefcase with both hands as though it were a lifeline in a hurricane.



Rooster had his arm gently touching her elbow. "Of course it's not your fault, Yayella. It's going to take a while for the reversals in Texas to be overcome." He guided her down the hall toward the elevators and Valentine followed the thread of the conversation by hardening his hearing. "We'll redirect traffic through New Orleans and coastal craft can get it to Houston. The deposits will arrive a little seasick, but they'll be safer."



Rooster glided back into the foyer. "We're next," Cotswald said, and the security guard nodded.



Moyo's office filled the entire east side of the Pyramid. Sloping glass looked out over Memphis' few remaining high-rise buildings and the gold-lit blocks of the former children's hospital in the distance.



Except for the striking slope to the glass, the office didn't look like a pimp's digs, full of exotic animal furs and silver barware, or a rail baron's throne room of oak and brass. Valentine was expecting some combination of the two. Instead Moyo's office seemed to be modeled on a small-town sheriffs: there was a battered wooden desk with a compact, easel-like computer on it, and a not-quite-matching credenza against a dividing wall next to the desk. A few tube-steel chairs were placed around the room, one opposite the desk and more against the walls. On the other side of the divider was a kitchenette where brewed coffee sat on a hot plate, a locked gun case, and dozens of aluminum file cabinets. The most esoteric features were fancy drop-lighting fixtures, throwing puddles of gold on the red carpeting and lending a warm tone to the room. The only personal touch was a curio cabinet filled with toy trains.



Two professionally dressed women played cards on a newsprint-covered table at the corner window. One had a diplomat bag with a laptop poking out of it, the other kept an old-fashioned steno pad at her elbow.



Opposite the women a corridor, complete with a steel-barred door better than anything Valentine had seen at the Nut, led to a darkened hallway that looked as though it went to the center of the Pyramid.



Moyo flicked off the computer screen as they entered.



Valentine thought Moyo had the junkyard-dog features of a man who bit down and kissed up, on the downslope of forty. A cigar that looked like it came with the desk protruded from the corner of his mouth.



"Mister Cotswald has a new associate, a buyer up from Florida," Rooster explained. "This is Stu Jacksonville."



"Jacksonville. Gene Moyo. Pleased." Moyo didn't look pleased, but placed the cigar carefully at the edge of the desk and came around the edge to shake hands. His hand felt like a wrench wrapped in desert leather. "Christ, Roo, at this rate I'm never getting down to the games. There's supposed to be a good match tonight."



"We won't be long," Cotswald said. "Just need a few permissions to look over your current inventory."



"Roo, call down to the box and tell them to hold dinner. Well, siddown, you two. Make it fast."



They pulled chairs as Rooster left.



Valentine wanted a look around the office, but didn't see how he could in his present circumstances. He surreptitiously felt around in his pocket.



"What's your line, Jacksonville? Pro or amateur?"



Valentine hazarded a guess. "My official title's Provisional Leisure and Entertainment Director. The port's growing."



Moyo put the cigar back in his mouth. "Learn something useful, son. No one with a title like that rises."



"It's a sinecure. I used to work coast security."



"Get the facial reconstruction doing that?"



"That would make a better story. It was an accident-I was careless with a rifle."



"What kind of numbers are you looking for?"



Valentine shifted in his seat to cover his hand's motion. "Thirty gals to start off. I'd like a seat at your auctions, too. I can see two, maybe three trips a year up here."



The cigar moved from the left side of Moyo's mouth to his right. "Payment?"



"Gold. I have enough for a substantial deposit."



"Let's see your color. Sorry, but you're a stranger to me."



Valentine placed a coin on the desk.



"Fort Knox mint. Very good."



"Mister Moyo, if you'd rather talk business at the game, I'm not averse to continuing negotiations down there."



"Anais!" Moyo barked over his shoulder.



The woman with the diplomat bag set down her cards. "Yes, Mister Moyo?"



"Get my weekly out. See if Rooster's got any last-minute additions, then you two can go home as soon as I'm done with my last appointment."



"Thank you, Mister Moyo," she said.



"Rooster!" Moyo yelled.



Rooster appeared quickly enough. "Take these gentlemen down to the owner's box. We have much inventory on hand?"



"New? Five or six girls at the most," Rooster said. "Sorry, Mister Jacksonville, a year ago we had half of Arkansas in here. At this rate there won't be another auction for some weeks."



"You can buy out of my joints, if you want, Jacksonville," Moyo said. "I've got a couple older gals who aren't half-bad managers, too. If the price is right you could hire one or two away from me."



"I appreciate your generosity," Valentine said, shifting his foot slightly.



Moyo put down his cigar again in the same wet groove. "Liquor in the box is on me, alright? Cots, you staying?"



"I need to see about my weekend shifts, and monthlies," Cotswald said. "Line In is piping the Sourbellies from Beal Street athenaeum tonight; thought I'd tune in."



"More ice for us, then," Moyo said, coming around the desk to shake hands again. "Rooster, take Stu down to the box and get him set up. Unless you want a quick look at the inventory?"



Valentine hated to think of the faces. "No, I'll check out your games. And your bar."



"Be down in an hour or so. I've got to go up and do my own reporting." Moyo inclined his head toward the barred corridor.



"You actually go up?" Valentine asked; no pretense was required for his incredulity.



"Just to an audience blister. You ever been in one?"



"No," Valentine said.



Moyo lost a little of his bristle. "My predecessor used to rub lemon zest inside his nostrils to keep out the smell. But it's the walls that get to me. That paste they use, it sucks water out of the outside air somehow. Everything on the inside's wet and dripping. When a big drop hits your shoulder . . . well, you jump. Feels like someone tapping you."



Valentine broke the silence that followed. "See you for a drink later, then."



"Sure. Whoa there, Stu, you missing something?"



"What's that?" Valentine asked.



"Looks like you dropped your roll." Moyo pointed. "It's right under the desk there."



There goes the excuse to come back up here . . . "Must have fallen out when I reached for my coin," Valentine said, flushing. "That would have been a pisser; that's my walking-around money." Valentine retrieved the bills he'd nudged under the desk moments ago.



"I'll forgo the ten percent finder's fee," Moyo said. "Rooster, give me the latest transport figures with destinations, then send in that ass Peckinsnow on your way out, would you?"



* * * *



Valentine slipped the brass ring to Cotswald on the way out as Rooster collected his carryall from his desk. Valentine wondered how long it would take him to have it "checked out." While a brass ring meant little to a Kurian or one of their Reapers if it wasn't on the actual owner's finger, it was still a powerful totem when waved in front of the groundlings. Valentine just had to hope the circumstances of the ring's loss were not so well known as to have everyone connected to it, including Stu Jacksonville, immediately rounded up for the Reapers.



"If you're into music, maybe you can show me around Beale Street tomorrow," Valentine said.



Valentine watched Cotswald touch the ring in his pocket, fingering it like an exploring teenager. "Sure," he said absently.



"You'll find that little thank-you-what did Mister Moyo say, 'finder's fee?'-useful if you ever get down my way," Valentine said.



"I'll have to do that before long," Cotswald said. Valentine felt sorry for the dreamy look in the man's eyes. Did confidence men ever feel guilty as they took their marks?



Valentine and Rooster exited on the "showcase" level. Cotswald continued down in the elevator.



Fresh paint covered the structural concrete here, and the lighting came from bulbs.



"Rooster, can I ask you a question?"



"Shoot, Stu. You don't mind if it's Stu, do you?"



"Not at all." Valentine liked using false names in the Kurian Zone. One more curtain between David Valentine and the vast darkness of the Kurian night. "Why the kindling up in Mister Moyo's office? My head porter has a nicer rig."



Rooster glanced up at the ceiling. "Affectation. He started out as a diesel mechanic. When they made him yard supervisor he got an office. It had that junk in it. To him, that first desk meant he made it. I don't mind-he gave me the previous director's outfit for my office. Solid mahogany and half a herd of leather."



"Do you intend to be the next director?"



"Almost there already. I run the day-to-day stuff, he gets the headaches. Personally, I like having him between me and them."



Valentine wanted to ask more about the day-to-day stuff, but they reached the box.



About a dozen people, not counting a food server and an impossibly beautiful young man tending bar, already lounged in the box. The wedge-shaped room was divided into a set of plush-looking seats arranged stadium-style and an entertainment area. A hot tub filled with ice prickled with the necks of beer bottles and sparkling wines. Harder liquors filled up a backlit case behind the bar.



A pair of televisions at each corner held scheduling information. "Closed-circuit TV," Rooster said. "Most of the skyboxes are wired. We've got a camera snafu so there won't be close-ups tonight. Getting replacement electronics takes practically forever."



Valentine looked over the attendees. One of the men had the look of an athlete, as big as one of the Razors' Bears, but his velvet skin had a far healthier sheen and only a neatly closed scar or two. Men and women in well-cut summer cottons were listening to the sportsman. Two obvious party girls eyed him hungrily from the bar.



Rooster introduced Valentine as a "hotel owner from Florida."



The box looked out over the three-ring circus at the center of the arena through tinted-glass windows. Valentine looked out on Moyo's entertainments.



The layout was familiar to anyone who had seen a circus. A hard wooden track, black with wheel marks, surrounded three platforms. The two on either end were more or less stages-one had a band on it at the moment, furiously working their guitars and drums-and the one in the center was an oversized boxing ring shaped like a hexagon.



Two decks for the audience, a lower and an upper, held a few thousand spectators. Valentine saw motion in the upper deck to his right, just beneath the ring of skyboxes.



"Admission is free," Rooster explained. "Some of the bookmakers own skyboxes. If you bet heavy with them you can sit up here."



Valentine caught motion in the upper deck, not sure of what he was seeing for a moment. Yes, that definitely was a woman's head of hair bobbing in an audience member's lap.



"I've heard of seat service, but that's taking it to a new level," Valentine said.



Rooster laughed. "Some of the cheaper gals work the BJ deck. They're supposed to be selling beer and peanuts and stuff too, but a lot just carry around a single packet or can. Lazy bitches."



"Outrageous," Valentine said. He looked up at the gridwork above. And froze.



The lighting gantries had Reapers in them.



Valentine counted three. One sat in a defunct scoreboard, occasionally peering from a hole like an owl. Another hung upside down from a lighting walkway, deep in shadow, neck gruesomely twisted so it could watch events below. A third perched in a high, dark corner.



"They always here?" Valentine asked. He didn't want to point, but Rooster was sharp enough to follow his eyes.



"Oh, yeah. That dark box, there and there; you have a couple more in each of those. Memphis' own version of closed-circuit TV. They never bother anyone." He lowered his voice. "Sometimes a contestant gets badly hurt. The injuries end up being fatal."



"Then why do they fight?" Valentine asked.



"Look at Rod Lightning's finger back there. Nice little brass ring and a riverside house. He trains cage fighters now. Sight of beetles bother you?"



"Not unless they're looking at me," Valentine answered, honestly enough.



Moyo arrived with a small entourage of river and rail men. Valentine took an inconspicuous seat and watched events below. Something called a "bumfight" began, involving a half-dozen shambling, shabby-looking men clocking each other with two-by-fours. It ended with two still upright and the blood in the hexagon being scrubbed by washerwomen while a blond singer warbled from the stage near Moyo's box. He only had one brief conversation with Moyo.



"How do you like the Midway?" Moyo seemed positively bubbly; perhaps having another report over and done took a weight off-



"Better organized, and a lot less dangerous, than New Orleans," Valentine said. "There's nothing on the Gulf Coast like this."



"You checked out the inventory yet?"



"I've got a couple more days in town still."



"Rooster can set the whole thing up. I'm going to be on my boat this weekend."



"I think he's got a handle on what I need," Valentine said.



There was topless Roller Derby on the wooden ring-a crowd favorite, judging from the cheers. The metronome motion of swinging breasts as the woman power-skated had a certain fascination, Valentine had to admit. Then an exhibition of flame dancing. The first Grogs Valentine had seen on the Midway spun great platters full of flaming kerosene on their outstretched arms and heads. They arranged it so the liquid fire sprinkled off the spinning dishes and they danced beneath the orange rain. Valentine found it enthralling and said so to Rooster.



"God, I hate those things," Rooster said, on his third drink. "Stupid, smelly, ill-tempered. They're useless."



Attendants with fire extinguishers cleaned up after the dance as the Grogs cartwheeled offstage.



Then it was time for the main event. A cage descended on wires from the ceiling, ringing the hexagon with six wire barriers. He watched Pulp Fontaine turn the Draw's shoulder into a bloody ruin. So much for long shots, Valentine thought, as Fontaine accepted a victory crown from this month's Miss Midway.



"Ten thousand will get you her for the weekend, Stewie," Rooster chuckled. "Want me to set it up?"



"I don't roll that high," Valentine said.



The party in the box got louder and the stadium began to empty out. It was just after eleven. Rod Lightning left with the two bar girls. The announcer began to count down for kill-tally bets. Valentine wondered what that meant.



"Time to call it a night?" Valentine asked Rooster. "Thank you for your hospitality."



"Nope. One more special show," Rooster said. "Ever heard of a rat kill?"



"This have something to do with extermination?"



"In a manner."



Valentine watched twenty men of assorted sizes and colors being led into the center hexagon. Each had a black hood over his head. Some of the people on their way out hurried for the exits, but a good third of the audience stayed.



"What's this?" Valentine asked, a little worried.



"It's a rat kill," Moyo said from over his shoulder. "I'm going to watch this one. One of my yard chiefs is in there. Daniel Penn. He was screwing me on deposits, swapping out corpses for the healthy and smuggling them across the river."



Rooster made a note on a pad. "They're all criminals of one sort or another, or vagrants."



Some of the condemned men lost control of themselves as they stepped into the ring. Bladder, bowel, or legs gave way. Escorts in black uniforms shoved them into the cage and lined them up. Valentine saw a shot clock light up in the scoreboard-evidently one part of it still worked-set for sixty.



"And here comes the Midway Marvel," Moyo said.



"Jus-tiss. Jus-tiss! JUS-TISS!" the crowd began to chant.



Tall. Pale. Hair like a threadbare black mop. It was a Reaper, stripped to the waist, loose, billowing black pants ending just above its bare feet. It walked oddly, though, with its arms behind it. As it entered the cage he saw why-thick metal shackles held its wrists together.



"JUS-TISS JUS-TISS JUS-TISS!" the crowd roared, the attenuated numbers sounding just as loud as the thicker crowd had for the night's main event.



"The Marvel's got sixty seconds to off as many as he can. Record's fifteen for the year. All-time high is eighteen. Contest rules say that one always has to survive-even though we've never had a nineteen."



As they unshackled each man from his companions and removed his hood they read the crime, but no name. Number one was a murderer. Number two committed sabotage. Number three had been caught with a transmitter and a rifle. . . .



"Why no women?" Valentine asked.



"Haven't done women in a rat kill for years," Moyo said.



Fourteen, a currency forger, fainted when they took his hood off.



"Crowd didn't like it as well," Rooster said. "They booed when it killed a woman instead of a man. We have other ways of taking care of women. Would you-"



"No thanks."



A heavyset man in a black-and-white-striped shirt with a silver whistle entered the ring to more cheering. He wore a biking helmet and thick studded-leather gloves. The condemned men bunched up.



Valentine felt sick, suspecting what was coming. "Who operates the Marvel?" he asked.



"The one at the top of the Pyramid," Rooster said, lifting his glass a few inches for emphasis. "We only get to do one of these a month. You're lucky."



"You must have an unusually lawless town," Valentine said.



Moyo leaned in close. "I'll tell you a little secret. Only a couple are really criminals. The others are volunteers who took the place of a spouse or a relative in the fodder wagon. On a bad night only six or seven die, so they've got a better than fifty-fifty chance of making it back out."



That's the Kurian Zone, A lie wrapped in a trap cloaked in an illusion. "Jesus," Valentine said.



"Never showed up," Moyo said.



The referee held a black handkerchief high. Valentine was surprised to see that the Reaper's arms were still bound. Weren't they going to unleash it? Or would it simply break free at the right moment?



Sixty seconds, Valentine. You can get through this.



The referee let fall the handkerchief and backpedaled from between the Reaper and the trembling "rats."



As the fabric struck the floor the crowd cheered.



The Reaper sprang forward, a black-and-cream blur. It landed with both feet on the neck of the man who had fainted. Valentine almost felt the bones snap.



The referee blew his whistle.



"ONE!" the crowd shouted. Those still in the box counted along in a more subdued manner.



A convict grabbed another, slighter man by the arm and pushed him at the Reaper. Snake-hinged jaws extended and the stabbing tongue entered an eye socket.



Tweeeeet. "TWO!"



"Two," said the audience in the box.



The Marvel had a sense of humor. It head-butted the man who had thrown his companion into its jaws. Blood and grayish brain matter splattered across the damp canvas.



The whistle blew again. "THREE!"



"Three," Valentine said along with the others. The shot clock read forty-six seconds.



Another jump, and another man went down. The Reaper had some trouble straddling him before the tongue lanced out and buried itself in his heart. Tweeeet.



"Four," Valentine said with Moyo, Rooster, and the crowd.



"But it'll cost-"



Some of the men climbed the panels of the cage-not to get out, it closed at the top-but to make themselves inaccessible. The Reaper sprang up, jaws closing on a neck.



Whistle, cheers, and the shot clock read thirty-nine seconds. The Reaper threw the body off the way a terrier tosses a rat.



"SIX!" tried to hide behind the referee and got a leather-glove backhand for his troubles. "SEVEN!" was kicked off the fencing by another man higher up. "EIGHT!"



Valentine found himself yelling as loudly as anyone in the room.



Part of him wasn't faking. Another part of him was ready to vomit thanks to the previous part. . . .



Fifteen seconds left.



The Reaper hurled itself at the cage, and three men dropped off the fencing like windfall apples.



"NINE!" "TEN!" As the whistle and shot clock sounded, the Reaper lashed out with a clawed foot and opened a man up across the kidneys.



"Ten is the official count," the loudspeakers said. "Ten paid three to one. Check your stubs, ten paid three to one."



"About average," Rooster said. "Sorry you didn't get a better show, Stu."



The dripping Reaper folded itself onto the mat.



Eleven died anyway, screaming on the blood-soaked canvas.



Moyo said his good-byes. He looked exhausted as he drained the glass of whiskey he'd been nursing.



"How about a nightcap?" Valentine asked Rooster, who emptied his glass at the same time his boss did.



"Night's still young, and so are we, O scarred Stu." He refilled his glass.



"I've got a bottle of JB in my boat."



"Naw. Better liquor at my place," Rooster said. "You haven't really partied Memphis-style yet."



"Or we could hit some bars."



"I got something better than that."



"Better than the Midway?" Valentine asked.



"Better. I need to stop off at the security station first and check out some inventory. Meet at the big stone statue out front? Say in fifteen minutes?"



"How about I come with you?"



"No, you don't have the right ID for the security section. I'll be fast."



"See you there."



* * * *



Valentine rode the elevator down-a more alert-looking guard worked the buttons after hours-and collected his pocketknife. He had to shrug off prostitutes-three women and a man, all with makeup headed south for the evening-on the way to the statue. The night had cooled, but only a little. The concrete seemed to be soaked with heat like the bloody canvas within.



Please, All, be coherent when I get back.



He caught sight of Rooster, leading a little procession of three individuals in oversized blue PYRAMID POWER T-shirts. All female, all teens, shackled in a manner similar to the twenty culls within.



"Got you a little souvenir, Stu." Rooster tossed him a black hood with the number ten on it. Valentine smelled the sweat on it.



"I had them tag it with the date. The one with the number the Marvel took is collectable."



Valentine wadded up the thin, slick polyester in his hand. "Who are these?" he asked, looking at the string of young women. Rooster held a leather lead attached to the first. A foot and a half of plastic line linked each set of ankles.



"I'm-" one began.



Rooster lifted a baton with a pair of metal probes at the end. "You wanna get zapped? No? Then shut it!"



"I just need to get a bag from my boat," Valentine said.



"Okeydokey," Rooster said.



"What's the plan for these three?" Valentine said as they walked.



"Inventory Inspecshun," Rooster slurred. "Fresh stuff, just off the train, that I picked out this week. Privileges of position and all that. They go back in the inventory hopper Monday morning." He glanced over his shoulder. "Provided I don't get a lot of lip," he warned. "Then it's back with the deposits."



"Three?"



"I don't mind sharing. I like to do one while the others watch."



Valentine looked at the trio. The youngest looked fourteen. He read silent pleas in their eyes.



"I think I'm going to bring my camera for this," Valentine said.



"Great idea!"



They walked slowly down the line of houseboats. Lights burned within some. Valentine heard moaning from the open window of another.



"Another Midway party!" Rooster said, as an orgasmic cry rolled out of the boat.



Valentine approached his boat. Their Dallas neighbor was apparently out for the evening.



"Red?" he called from the pier.



Duvalier popped out from the cabin like a jack in the box. One of the girls screamed. "The hell?" she said, gaping.



Duvalier had blood caked in her hair, under one eye, on her hand.



No time. Valentine brought his hand down, hard, on Rooster's wrist. He grabbed the butt of the club with the other hand, found the trigger, and released his grip on the wrist as he stuck the metal-tipped end against Rooster's breastbone.



A buzzing sound and the smell of ozone filled the riverbank air.



Rooster dropped, twitching, and he turned on Duvalier, expecting her to lunge, not knowing what he'd do to her. . ..



"Back off, Ali," he warned.



"Val, are you nuts? What's going on?" She sounded coherent, though her eyes blazed brightly.



"We're getting out of here."



"I was just going to suggest that."



"You want out of Memphis?" he asked the girls. Rooster moaned, and Valentine zapped him again.



"Yes," one said. The others nodded dumbly.



"Get in the boat."



He opened up the pocketknife and cut the bands between their legs, stuffed the hood in Rooster's mouth, and tied it down with the leather lead. He searched him, found a key to the girls' shackles, and transferred the restraints from the chicks to the cock.



"Who's the blood from?" Valentine asked Duvalier as they cut the lines from the little cabin cruiser to the wharf. Valentine made sure to leave a long lead at the front of the boat.



"Our Dallas neighbor," Duvalier said, pushing the girls into the cabin. "He insisted he knew me. I think he just wanted in my pants."



"Where is he?"



"Dead."



Valentine glared at her.



"Don't worry, I did him in his shower. Gave a blow job he never had time to forget. All the blood flowed into the boat drain."



"Except for what got on you."



"What's the plan now ?"



"Thank God the river flows in the direction of Tunica."



Valentine hopped into the water and pushed the boat away from the wharf. The water was only four feet deep along the bank.



"Try and find something to use as a paddle," he suggested.



"Whaddya think you're doing, buddy?" someone called from another boat as they headed toward the river.



"Fishing!" Valentine yelled back. "Have a great weekend!"



The boat began to drift, and Valentine went around to the front and took up the line. He waded along the river, Mississippi mud, the real kind, treacherous beneath his feet. More than once his feet slipped on the bottom.



All Duvalier could find to use as paddles were dinner plates.



So he waded on, keeping close to the Memphis bank, until he passed Mud Island and got into the current. He fell into the boat as it slowly spun down the semi-intact bridge to the Arkansas side.



A few other pleasure craft were out, everything from ship-rigged sailcraft to linked lines of inner tubes, escaping the summer heat of the city but keeping well clear of the midchannel markers that evidently served as some kind of boundary. He parked the teenagers around the stern-their names were Dahra, Miyichi, and Sula, of Kansas, Illinois, and Tennessee respectively-and had them all hold plastic cups as though they were drinking. Valentine and Duvalier paddled with the dinner plates, weary work that required hanging off the side whenever the current threatened to carry them too close to a passing boat or the bank.



"The fever's down, I take it," he said to Duvalier as they caught their breath.



"Broke this afternoon," she said. "God, I'm tired."



Fewer and fewer craft were to be seen the farther south along the shore they drifted. They came to the second bridge. Only the piers nearest the shore were still connected with the road.



Valentine saw sentries on the empty bridge. It might seem odd to guard a bridge to nothing but a hundred-foot drop, but the vantage gave a superb view of the river south of Memphis.



"Ali, you get in the cabin with your shotgun. You three-pretend to be passed out," Valentine said.



After they passed under the bridge a spotlight hit them.



"You're coming up on the buoys," a megaphone-amplified voice called down. "Commercial and security craft only."



Valentine stood up, wavering. "My engine fell off," he yelled. "I need a tow!"



"Not our problem."



Sula raised her head and shielded her eyes from the spotlight. She jumped up on the front of the boat. "What unit y'all in?" she yelled, doing a thicker local accent than Valentine could manage convincingly.



"Bravo Company, Corsun's Memphis Guard," the voice called back, a little friendlier. "And you're about an eighth of a mile from being arrested."



"Well then, throw us a line," Valentine yelled.



"Bravo Company Memphis Guard," Sula yelled, raising her shirt. She hopped up and down in the spotlight. "Whooooo!"



"What's going on out there?" Duvalier asked softly from behind the cabin door.



"Distractions," Valentine said.



Approving yells broke out from above.



Then Sula sat down and hugged her knees, and they drifted until the spotlight went off.



"Nice improv," Valentine said. "Except it's likely to bring six patrol craft down on us."



Valentine knew vaguely that at the bend ahead a largish island divided the river. If they could reach it they'd be near the wall to the ravie colony.



A patrol craft even smaller than their boat plodded up the river on a single outboard.



"Are we in trouble?" Miyichi asked.



"Row toward the bank. Paddle!" Valentine urged. He leaned over and dug into the water with a dinner plate. Someone on the bridge with a good pair of night glasses would still be able to distinguish individual figures.



The boat turned sharply their way. A small spotlight or a heavy-duty flashlight lanced out through the river night.



"Keep down, you three," Valentine whispered. Then, a little louder, "Ali, small boat. If one sticks his head in the cabin, you blow it off!"



Valentine stood up and waved with both arms. "Hey there. Can you give us a tow?"



"Where's Miss Midway?" a voice called from the boat.



Sula stood up. "I was just funnin' with the soldiers. Didn't mean any harm."



Valentine tried his drunk voice again. "I'm sorry about her not keeping the flotation devices properly stowed, sir."



"Hey, Corp, let's turn 'em in as vagrants and take the bounty," a shadowy outline next to the flashlight said, too quietly for Sula to hear. Valentine felt a little better about what he was about to do.



"Let me do the thinking," the corporal said. "Get the man on board and handcuff him. If he's a Somebody we apologize and bring him home to mama. Otherwise we'll take a little snatch break with the girls before we collect the bounty."



Valentine opened his pocketknife to the longest blade and climbed up on the front of the boat, where Sula had done her exhibition, and knelt. He made a move to tuck in his shirt and stuck the open knife in his back pocket. "Toss me a line, there, sir. I really appreciate this."



The police boat came alongside. It had a small trolling motor and a big inboard. A waterproof-wrapped machine gun was lashed to a platform on the retractable top. Unlike Valentine's craft, the front was open, with more seating.



A lean man with corporal's stripes in a blue-and-white shirt tossed Valentine a rope. His partner wore a black baseball cap with a Memphis Guard patch sewn to the front.



Valentine leaned forward to catch it and went face-first into the river.



"Grab onto this, you idiot," he heard as soon as he surfaced.



Sputtering, he grabbed onto the rope-loop boathook the corporal had extended.



"You're really racking up the fines, friend," the corporal said as he pulled Valentine into the boat.



You two or us. You two or us. You two or us, Valentine thought, working himself up for what had to come. He saw the other come forward with the handcuffs-



-and put his foot down-hard-on the corporal's instep. The knife flashed up and into the side of the man's throat. Valentine twisted his wrist as he pulled it out, opening the carotid artery.



The other dropped his cuffs and reached for his holster as his partner instinctively clapped a hand to the spurting blood. Valentine's fist seemed to take forever to cross the distance to the hat-wearer's face, striking him squarely between the eyes.



The gun quit coming up and spun off the stern.



Valentine threw himself after his fist and bodily knocked the man against the boat's side. The knife ripped into the Guard's crotch, digging for the femoral artery just to the side of the groin, then up and across the eyes.



A sirenlike wail and Valentine saw an explosion of light. He backed off, shaking his head, trying to think, to see. When his vision came back the man was on the deck, the blackjack he'd struck Valentine's temple with still in his hand. Duvalier was astride the railing, bloody sword cane in hand.



"Ali . . ."



"Not a bad killing," she said, nuzzling him. "But we have to go. Right now."



They transferred the people-including the bound Rooster-over to the police boat. Duvalier tossed over their dunnage bags as Valentine put on the river patrolman's baseball cap. They tied their now-empty boat to the transom on a ten-foot line. Valentine went to the control console and pushed the throttle forward. He didn't open it up all the way; too fast an exit might alarm the bridge watchers.



But they were still heading away from Memphis.



Valentine turned on the flashing police light. Perhaps the bridge sentries would think that the river patrol had spotted another craft and moved to intercept. They passed out of sight of the bridge behind the island, roaring down the river with a V of white water behind . . .



They rounded the island and rejoined the main channel of the river as it zigged back south again. "Ali, rig one of the cans with a timer," Valentine said. "We're into the ravies colony area now. We'll send this thing to the Arkansas shore and have it blow."



"Hope all this was worth it, Val," she said. "I don't think we're going to get another try at the Pyramid after this."



Valentine looked at the three girls in the bow of the police boat. "It was worth it."



* * * *



Twenty-four hours later they stood in a dark lower deck of one of the old casino barges. A single lantern threw just enough light off the remaining bits of mirror and glass to reveal just how big, dark, and empty the former gambling hall was. Rows of broken-open, dusty slot machines stood like soldiers on parade.



It reeked of bat guano and mold.



Valentine, Ahn-Kha, Duvalier, and Everready surveyed their handiwork. Rooster was tied facedown on an old roulette wheel, his hands solidly bound to the well-anchored spinner. The rather haggard-looking deposit-and-inventory man couldn't see anything; his head was enclosed in a bag with the number ten written on it.



A small bowl of foul liquid-blood and musk glands from a sick old tomcat Valentine had shot with his .22 an hour ago-rested on the wooden bar for the players' drinks.



"Money, then?" Rooster said. "Moyo's loaded. He'll pay to get me back."



Dahra, Miyichi, and Sula sat on the stools next to the wheel so they could see Rooster's face. Valentine took the hood off.



"Okay, Jacksonville, I give up," Rooster said. The man was crying. "You win. What do you want? What did I ever do to you?"



"No, this is purely professional," Valentine said. "I need to know about a certain train."



"I deal with dozens of trains a week, man. How am I supposed . . ."



"No, this is right up your alley," Valentine said. "It's a really special train."



"Look, I have a dog. No one to look in on him. He's dying-"



"Listen to the question. A train. A special train, not deposits. All women on board. Routed through Memphis. Some sort of medical test selected them. Maybe joining with similar trains."



Slight hesitation. "I don't know anything about a train like that. Let me go and I'll find out for you-"



Valentine turned to the young women. "Looks like you're going to get to watch after all. Bring it in, Smokey."



Ahn-Kha stepped forward from the opposite end of the table, snuffling and snorting. Rooster tried to look behind himself, but couldn't get his chin around his shoulder.



"What's that?"



Valentine walked to the end of the table and used the saw edge on the pocketknife to split Rooster's pants at the buttock line.



"A big, bull Grog, Rooster."



Valentine winked at Ahn-Kha. The Golden One snuffled and snorted around.



"I don't like this," Rooster said. "I think we sent a train like that north somewhere."



Valentine dipped his hand in the smelly cat offal. "You'd better dig deep in your memory, before our bullyboy gets deep into you, Rooster." Valentine smeared the bloody slime up Rooster's crack.



"You can't mean-"



Ahn-Kha began to paw at Rooster, his giant, long-fingered hands taking a grip on his shoulder. He whined eagerly, like a starving dog begging for dinner.



"He thinks you're a female in estrus, Rooster."



"Holy shit, that's big," Dahra said, as the other two girls' mouths dropped open. "Pimp, my forearm's got nothing on this Grog-"



"Stop him!" Rooster shouted.



"Where?" Valentine said, leaning down and looking him in the eyes. "You're about a minute away from a lifetime with a colostomy bag, if you don't bleed to death. Where?"



Something brushed up between Rooster's spread cheeks. "Laurelton, Ohio. Laurelton!" Rooster shrieked.



"Pull him back," Valentine said, and Ahn-Kha grunted as he came off Rooster's back. Valentine threw down the hood. "Show me on this map!" Valentine said, opening an old, rolled-up state atlas.



He did.



Duvalier lifted the eggplant she'd been working between Rooster's buttocks, sniffed the smeared end, and made a face. The teens giggled.



"There, you've helped yourself out of a jam, Rooster," Valentine said. "Sorry about your dog, but we'll have to keep you here a few months. Once we've checked your destination out, we'll let you go free."



Rooster sagged in his bonds.



"What do they do with the women there?" Valentine asked.



Rooster, his nose planted on 11 Black, said: "I dunno. It's just very important that they arrive healthy. A doctor accompanies each train."



"How many trains?"



"One or two a year. Maybe a hundred total bodies."



Duvalier and Ahn-Kha exchanged shrugs.



Valentine picked up the bowl of cat guts and sent it spinning into the darkness. "Girls, watch Rooster for a moment. Don't take advantage of a pantsless man."



They went to a stairwell where a candle burned. "Everready, you think you can take care of those girls and keep an eye on that prisoner for the summer?"



Everready nodded. "Be a nice switch from fresh Wolves with the milk still on their chins."



"If we're not back by New Year's, I'll leave it to your discretion," Valentine said.



"Everready's home for wayward girls," the old Cat said. "I kind of like the sound of that. Maybe this old Cat should retire and take up a new line of work."



"In your dreams, Gramps," Duvalier said.



"Looks like I'm Ohio-bound. You two want to go back?"



"Never," Ahn-Kha said. "Will Post is counting on us."



"It does occur to you that you're looking for a needle in a haystack," Duvalier added. "Maybe a haystack that's been blown across half the country."



"You're going back, then?" Ahn-Kha asked.



"Maybe the ravies is finally kicking in," she said. "I'm game. But next time, Val, you're squatting under Ahn-Kha's junk and holding the vegetable, okay?"