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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?"
