by E. E. Knight
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 a
nd 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 décolletage, 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 sine
cure. 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?"
