Valentine's Exile (22 page)

“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 river-ward 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 VITA
MINS
? 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, pin-striped 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?

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 Grace-land 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 train-able 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.”