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"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?"
