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Have to do something about that gun.
Valentine smelled gasoline and followed it to a sort of wharf a little way downstream with a pump under a lonely light. From one of the barges he heard a machine tool whirring away and metal-on-metal tamping, with the occasional rustle of chains being shifted.
The spring flow of the Tennessee filled the riverbed bank to bank, covering the usual washup of garbage and driftwood.
Lovely night. Valentine felt oddly relaxed, now that he was finally here. He had a bit of a headache from hunger, but it sharpened his already tuned-up senses.
Presumably, if they were attacked, the River Patrol could fire up their engines and escape. But the craft could throw a tremendous amount of what Jackson had called "shit on target" in the form of machine gun bullets and cannon-anyone wanting to take the docks would pay a heavy price.
Valentine wandered through the corpse of the older, larger base. Everything of value had obviously been moved into the barges. A few heavy old engine blocks remained, well chewed by rust, and the black-rimmed doorways smelled of rats and cats.
Rats and cats. Something to think about.
Typical Kurian disorganization. A partially shut-down base, but still functioning as a service point for river sailors coming off of their weeklong patrols. Too small for a Kurian to take up residence, too big for a couple of locals to slit any throats. Up the estuary in Cadiz, a ruin of a town with some Kentuckians scraping a living one way or another, smuggling, trading, repairing, laundering-in a way it wasn't that different from the townlet growing up outside Fort Seng's gates. Men off duty liked short travel times to their services, rest, and recreation.
He evaluated the anchor watches as he walked his bike in. At least two men in each armed river patrol craft. A few more unarmed craft, probably for ferrying men and supplies. A permanent garrison at the supply barges of technical and support staff. Maybe sixty uniformed River Patrol soldiers, plus a few older men making themselves useful while hiding from both river duty and the Reapers.
About the right size to support a decent bar, eatery, and brothel, as long as the nomadic nature of the River Patrol meant they didn't get too sick of the taste of the old grease in the fryers.
THE INLET the sign read. Sort of. It was illuminated by three orangeish LED spotlights, one of which had been stolen-unfortunately the center, so Valentine played with the idea that it was "To let" or perhaps named "The Toilet."
The bar was half built up on pylons, set into the side of the hill sloping down to the river, about the size of a ranch home. A roomy second floor above. Chain-link fence guarded storage beneath. A cross between a porch and a patio was empty, even in the easy air of the night.
Valentine parked his bicycle. Despite its nonfunctional condition, he chained it to an old water meter.
He walked up the short flight of steps, tried the door. It was locked.
He rapped on the door.
After a moment, a scratchy woman's voice shouted, "Yeah?"
"You open?" Valentine called.
"This is a private club. You know the password?"
"I'm hungry, thirsty, and lonely."
The door opened. A squat woman, who might be a New Universal Church informative poster on the danger of too much fried food, smiled. She had impossibly blue-black hair piled high atop her head, not really making up for her four-feet-eleven. "That ain't the password, but I've got a soft spot for anyone that broke-dick."
"Thanks. I'm Rice."
"My name's Dirty Nel. This is my establishment. My job's to make sure you have a really good time, at least until I have most of your money. You okay with that?"
Valentine glanced inside. Bright red shag carpet, gleaming pine paneling, and brassy nautical gewgaws pounded themselves into his eyeballs.
"Great," he said, entering.
The interior was a long, low-ceilinged, shaggy red bar, dimly lit, and hung with fishnets and twinkle lights. A bar with a kitchen behind communicated through the usual order window of stained stainless. The nets seemed to press down from the ceiling, anyone over six three would have to watch himself. He felt like he was inside a giant whale that had swallowed the Pequod with a strip club chaser.
Meaty, tired-looking blondes arranged their lips into imitation smiles. One blew him a kiss.
Judging from the smells coming from behind the kitchen door, he'd better keep to liquids.
"Bottle of beer?" he told the girl behind the bar. She was dressed like the working girls, only her choice of animal print varied. Perhaps she filled in if they became busy.
"Sure thing, brown eyes," she said, showing a nice set of what were probably false teeth.
"Want to bump that up?" Nel asked. "Kentucky bourbon. Only two dollars extra, Nashville, or three bucks Ordnance."
