the customers to think about sinking.”
“Where’s the owner?”
“Skiing. In Chile. He won’t be back before the first of September.”
We went aboard. The forward six feet of the lower deck were open, with a rail to keep drunken passengers from going overboard. Inside, the cabin was divided into halves. The front half was the general living area, with built-in bench seats along the walls, a television cabinet with a stereo, and a general-purpose dining- and work-table. At the very front was a set of boat controls with a pilot’s chair, looking out through windows over the bow.
The back half of the cabin was a warren of small rooms and storage cubbyholes. The galley had everything most kitchens have, and it all fitted into a space the size of a closet. There was a minimal bath, with a shower, a fold-down sink, and a head. But the main attraction was the bedroom.
“It looks like a whorehouse,” I said when I saw it. I was awestruck; the owner’s taste was… unique. “That’s the only purple-flocked wallpaper I’ve ever seen—I mean, done in plastic like that.”
“How about the smoked mirrors?” LuEllen asked. Mirrors covered two walls and the ceiling. “And notice the electric swivel mount for the video camera. We can make our own movies.”
The aft six feet of the deck, like the forward six feet, were open. The engine housing was back there, and the access ladder to the cabin’s roof, which served as an upper deck. There was another set of controls on the upper deck, along with mounts for a couple of chairs, a bench seat, and a sunbathing well with removable privacy panels.
“All right, I admit it,” I said finally. “It’s perfect. Where do we sign?”
The agent was a stocky woman who wore what appeared to be a wrought-iron girdle. She asked a lot of questions, took some bank references, andtwo days later showed us a contract. She also showed us her husband, a grizzled cigar-smoking river rat named Fred. We spent the next three days pushing the
Fanny
up and down the St. Croix under Fred’s watchful eye.
On the third day we nosed out into the Mississippi, took it through Lock and Dam No. 2 at Hastings, and fooled around in the current below St. Paul.
“I guess you can handle her,” Fred grudgingly allowed at the end of the day. We were standing on the dock, and he handed me the keys. “When are you leaving?”
“Couple of days.”
“Good luck. You take care in that Chain-of-Rocks Canal.” He glanced at LuEllen on the upper deck. “And try not to wear out them mirrors.”
T HE PHONE LINES were burning up. John to Bobby to me to Marvel, out into her network, and back to John. I was piling up detail. Names. Leverage. John called that night. He was in Longstreet.
“We’ve got the Reverend Mr. Dodge by the balls. And we got him separate from the rest of the council.”
“How’d you do it?” We’d decided to keep Dodge on the council while we dumped the restof it. Since he was tied to the machine, that might not be easy.
“Remember how Marvel said he’s been trying to get into her pants since she was a kid? She got to thinking, maybe he’s been doing that with other kids.… And he has. We got two, so far, young girls. Marvel’s gonna have a talk with him.”
“Don’t push him too hard,” I warned. “Don’t ask too much. He’s a Baptist, and if he thinks he’s a sinner, he might decide a public confession is the only way to go. That’d fuck us, along with him.”
“She’ll handle it,” John said confidently.
“All right. I hope you’re staying out of sight,” I said.
“I’m down here only a couple of hours at a time and only at night,” he said. “We never go anyplace in town.”
“It’s gotta be that way,” I said. “Have you got your costume?”
“Yeah. And the motherfuckin’ hairpiece looks great, man. I look like Fred Hampton. How about you guys?”
We were getting it together. A crystal for LuEllen, dangling from a gold chain. Her tools,
“Where’s the owner?”
“Skiing. In Chile. He won’t be back before the first of September.”
We went aboard. The forward six feet of the lower deck were open, with a rail to keep drunken passengers from going overboard. Inside, the cabin was divided into halves. The front half was the general living area, with built-in bench seats along the walls, a television cabinet with a stereo, and a general-purpose dining- and work-table. At the very front was a set of boat controls with a pilot’s chair, looking out through windows over the bow.
The back half of the cabin was a warren of small rooms and storage cubbyholes. The galley had everything most kitchens have, and it all fitted into a space the size of a closet. There was a minimal bath, with a shower, a fold-down sink, and a head. But the main attraction was the bedroom.
“It looks like a whorehouse,” I said when I saw it. I was awestruck; the owner’s taste was… unique. “That’s the only purple-flocked wallpaper I’ve ever seen—I mean, done in plastic like that.”
“How about the smoked mirrors?” LuEllen asked. Mirrors covered two walls and the ceiling. “And notice the electric swivel mount for the video camera. We can make our own movies.”
The aft six feet of the deck, like the forward six feet, were open. The engine housing was back there, and the access ladder to the cabin’s roof, which served as an upper deck. There was another set of controls on the upper deck, along with mounts for a couple of chairs, a bench seat, and a sunbathing well with removable privacy panels.
“All right, I admit it,” I said finally. “It’s perfect. Where do we sign?”
The agent was a stocky woman who wore what appeared to be a wrought-iron girdle. She asked a lot of questions, took some bank references, andtwo days later showed us a contract. She also showed us her husband, a grizzled cigar-smoking river rat named Fred. We spent the next three days pushing the
Fanny
up and down the St. Croix under Fred’s watchful eye.
On the third day we nosed out into the Mississippi, took it through Lock and Dam No. 2 at Hastings, and fooled around in the current below St. Paul.
“I guess you can handle her,” Fred grudgingly allowed at the end of the day. We were standing on the dock, and he handed me the keys. “When are you leaving?”
“Couple of days.”
“Good luck. You take care in that Chain-of-Rocks Canal.” He glanced at LuEllen on the upper deck. “And try not to wear out them mirrors.”
T HE PHONE LINES were burning up. John to Bobby to me to Marvel, out into her network, and back to John. I was piling up detail. Names. Leverage. John called that night. He was in Longstreet.
“We’ve got the Reverend Mr. Dodge by the balls. And we got him separate from the rest of the council.”
“How’d you do it?” We’d decided to keep Dodge on the council while we dumped the restof it. Since he was tied to the machine, that might not be easy.
“Remember how Marvel said he’s been trying to get into her pants since she was a kid? She got to thinking, maybe he’s been doing that with other kids.… And he has. We got two, so far, young girls. Marvel’s gonna have a talk with him.”
“Don’t push him too hard,” I warned. “Don’t ask too much. He’s a Baptist, and if he thinks he’s a sinner, he might decide a public confession is the only way to go. That’d fuck us, along with him.”
“She’ll handle it,” John said confidently.
“All right. I hope you’re staying out of sight,” I said.
“I’m down here only a couple of hours at a time and only at night,” he said. “We never go anyplace in town.”
“It’s gotta be that way,” I said. “Have you got your costume?”
“Yeah. And the motherfuckin’ hairpiece looks great, man. I look like Fred Hampton. How about you guys?”
We were getting it together. A crystal for LuEllen, dangling from a gold chain. Her tools,
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