Mississippi Roll

  After two endless hours Jack shooed the last of the lunch customers out and shut the bar for the afternoon. For a long moment he leaned heavily on the closed door. What he really wanted to do right now was sleep for a week.

  What he did instead was haul himself vertical, load and start the dishwasher, and wipe down the bar and tables. Then he picked up the basket of wrapped sandwiches he’d prepared at the start of his shift and set off down the hall to deliver them to the Kazakhs.

  The scene behind the door labeled STEAM LEAK—UNSAFE was pretty much the same as it had been for the last few weeks—a little wearier maybe, a little stinkier, a little more stir-crazy. Bibigul, at least, was off with Ravenstone, rehearsing for the evening show, but the tiny space was still crowded with jokers. “Lunch,” Jack said, handing the sandwiches to Timur.

  “Thank you very much,” the old joker replied with a courteous nod, then began distributing Jack’s largesse to his flock. His English was improving every day, Jack noted; he would probably be able to get work wherever he ended up—if he could find an employer who would accept a Kazakh with a horn that curled like a turban around the top of his head. Timur was strong, warmhearted, reliable, patient, and generous. Anyone would be happy to have him.

  Aiman and Tazhibai, Jack noted, had chosen to share a single sandwich—roast beef on rye with horseradish. But as Jack had not bothered cutting the Kazakhs’ sandwiches in half, Aiman cut it herself with a large chef’s knife, which Jack recognized as one that had gone missing from the kitchen. The kids made a big show of dividing the sandwich with ridiculously exact precision, Aiman edging the knife this way and that by tiny fractions of an inch until both were satisfied, the two of them giggling madly over the process. Then, once the sandwich was divided, they fed the halves to each other, Aiman’s freakishly long arms curling around Tazhibai’s four hairy ones until Jack was afraid he would need an insulin shot to overcome the sweetness of it.

  Jack rolled his eyes at Timur, who smiled and shrugged. But one of the other jokers watched the kids’ antics with a sour expression.

  Erzhan, a tough and burly joker who resembled a cross between a giant beaver and the Creature from the Black Lagoon, was Aiman’s father. He was a bad-tempered traditionalist, and Jack knew that he barely tolerated the fifteen-year-old Tazhibai’s attentions to his fourteen-year-old daughter. But with quarters so close, there was no way the kids could get up to anything really inappropriate. Jack hoped that the three of them would find a way to work out their differences before their journey came to an end. There might be trouble after that, but at least then they would be out of Jack’s thinning hair.

  After finishing up with the Kazakhs, Jack finally did get a brief disco nap before he had to go help the kitchen prep for dinner and set up the bar before it opened. The bar was lightly populated all evening—he supposed that many of his usual customers were enjoying the nightlife in nearby Laclede’s Landing rather than the admittedly limited pleasures of the boat’s Paddle Wheel Lounge—and after he closed up at midnight he found he still had some energy left. And the boat was docked right in the heart of a pretty big city.

  He hesitated at the lounge door after locking it, heart pounding, then swallowed, nodded, and returned to his cabin, where a quick flip through a well-thumbed Damron Men’s Travel Guide revealed that there were several gay bars within a short cab ride. Some didn’t close until three in the morning.

  He looked at himself in the mirror for a long while. He didn’t really like what he saw, but he knew that some guys liked ’em weathered and wiry, and who was he to judge? Finally he blew out a breath, combed what was left of his hair, and put on his best pants and silk shirt. He topped this with a light jacket and an LSU trucker cap; it was a warm night, but there was rain in the forecast.

  He slipped the Travel Guide and some condoms into his jacket pocket and shut his cabin door quietly behind himself.

  Jack paused at the top of the gangplank, looking up at the Arch. It was even more dramatic by night, illuminated by spotlights against a background of racing, lowering clouds. But those clouds promised rain—indeed, it was already starting to drizzle—and it looked like a pretty good hike across the wharf’s parking lot to the nearest street where he might catch a cab. And besides, did he really want to subject himself to the unknown St. Louis bar scene? If he didn’t manage to hook up he’d come back even more miserable.

  As he dithered, trying to nerve himself up, a curse behind him caught his attention. Though he didn’t speak Kazakh, the emotion behind the word was unmistakable—someone was royally pissed about something. And none of the Kazahks should be out of their cabin at this hour.

  Half annoyed and half relieved at the interruption, Jack went back inside. He soon found Timur, the horn-turbaned Kazakh elder, snooping about the corridors with a little flashlight and muttering curses under his breath. This raised Jack’s level of anxiety still further—the man was usually unflappable. Anything that could worry him this seriously must be pretty serious. “Psst,” Jack whispered to draw Timur’s attention without alarming him.

  Timur started, then relaxed when he saw it was Jack. “I thank Allah you are here, my friend,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Timur sighed. “It is Aiman and Tazhibai. They are not in the cabin. They left…” He gestured up and down his body. “… clothing, in their beds, so we would not know.”

  “Oh boy.” Jack blew out a breath. “If they’ve left the boat…”

  Timur shook his head definitively. “They are not that stupid.” He paused, then gave a sad little smile. “I think they have found a place to … be alone together.”

  “Oh boy oh boy,” Jack repeated, the implications sinking in. “We have to find them.”

  “Before Erzhan.”

  “Yeah.” Erzhan’s reaction to discovering his little girl in Tazhibai’s four arms would not be charitable.

  Thinking quickly, Jack opened a cabinet on the wall and pulled out a flashlight from between the life preservers. “I’ll check the engine room, you look in the kitchen.”

  Again Timur shook his head. “We work together. You know the boat, I know Kazakh.”

  Jack smiled, impressed that the man could think clearly in such a difficult situation. “All right.” They set off down the stairs to the main deck.

  Moving as quietly as they could, they checked first the laundry, which was closest to the stairway, and then the kitchen. Both were locked, but Jack suspected the teenagers’ nimble fingers—driven by lust—might have been able to overcome that obstacle. He used his keys to enter, then he and Timur shone their flashlights around, whispering the kids’ names and listening hard for any reaction.

  Finding nothing in the kitchen, Jack closed and locked the door behind them. “Paddle Wheel Lounge next,” he whispered to Timur, “then engine room.” They crept down the corridor to the lounge, shielding their flashlights with their hands. “Have they done this before, do you think?”

  Timur sighed. “I do not know. I fear yes.”

  Then they came to the Paddle Wheel Lounge door, which Jack had locked less than an hour ago. It stood open. “Sonofabitch!” Jack whispered, then raced through with Timur right behind him.

  Jack hurried between the tables to the EMPLOYEES ONLY door at the aft end, which also stood open, revealing the grimy antechamber beyond. The left door led down a ladder to the engine room, the right one to the paddle wheel itself; both were closed. He hesitated, then heard a muffled cry through the door on the right. He hurried through.

  The space between the paddle wheel and the outer bulkhead was a crazy quilt of light and shadow, the harsh mercury light from the parking lot cut into strips and triangles by the complex shapes of the paddle wheel itself and its driving hardware. Greasy connecting rods, dripping with river water or condensed steam or both, cut across the space in every direction. Despite the urgency of the situation, Jack paused, not wanting to brain himself on a protruding rod or pipe. The greasy waters of the Missis
sippi slapped rhythmically against the hull below; the space smelled of filthy river water, oil, and diesel fuel.

  But then another cry—this one clearly the voice of a terrified teenage girl—drove Jack forward. “Hang on!” he called. He kept his head down and held out one hand in front of himself as he moved. “Don’t do anything stupid!” He wasn’t sure who he was talking to, but it was good advice in general.

  Behind him Timur shouted something in Kazakh, maybe translating Jack’s words, maybe not.

  A moment later Jack emerged into night air, freshened by the increasing rain. He found himself in a protected corner between the paddle wheel and the cabin on the boat’s starboard side, with the lights of Illinois on the Mississippi’s far bank providing a semiromantic backdrop. A pile of blankets and life vests cushioned the entwined and far too numerous arms of the lovestruck teenagers. And above them loomed a black, scaly, and clearly enraged figure: Erzhan.

  Erzhan dismissed Jack with a glance, turning his attention to Timur. He spoke in Kazakh, something angry and disapproving and heartfelt, pointing to the frightened teenagers even as they tried to disentangle themselves from each other and get into their clothes. Timur replied in equally heartfelt tones, but placatingly, patting the air with his hands and stepping slowly forward to position himself between Erzhan and the kids. For his part, Jack held back.… This was someone else’s family business, and he didn’t feel qualified to interfere as long as no one was in immediate danger. But his heart went out to Timur, who was clearly doing the best he could in a very sticky situation.

  Erzhan seemed to be listening to Timur’s argument, though his face registered severe disappointment and anger. But as soon as he realized that Timur was trying to get between him and his daughter, he lashed out, slapping Timur backhand with surprising ferocity. As Timur staggered back, catching himself on the paddle wheel, Erzhan moved toward the kids with murder in his eyes.

  Almost before he knew he was doing it, Jack ducked beneath a pipe and slammed into Erzhan’s side with his shoulder. Jack had played football in high school, though he’d been too skinny to be a serious player, so he thought he knew what he was doing. But this felt more like running into a concrete pillar than hitting a tackling dummy, and Jack found his own breath knocked out by the impact.

  Though Erzhan barely reacted to the blow, Jack’s unthinking action managed to distract him just long enough for the kids to scramble to their feet. Still only half dressed, a gangling tangle of arms, they scurried across the deck toward the door. Erzhan growled like an animal and lunged toward them in pursuit—and then there came a resounding clang and he dropped to the deck, stunned by his head’s impact with one of the paddle wheel’s drive rods.

  Jack took a moment to assess the situation. The kids were nearly out the door, Timur was regaining his footing, and Erzhan, shaking his head, was quickly recovering his wits. In just a moment he would be after the kids again, and this time he would know to watch his head.

  Jack leapt onto Erzhan in a flying tackle.

  Erzhan was nearly twice his weight, but Jack’s speed and the element of surprise sent the two of them slamming into the paddle wheel blades behind Erzhan. That must have hurt—the big joker roared like a bear and clutched Jack in a painful embrace that drove the breath from Jack’s lungs.

  Jack struggled ineffectually in Erzhan’s grip. The scaly arms seemed strong as steel, crushing his ribs like a constricting python. Breathless, Jack started to panic, fighting for his life against the pressure.

  Somewhere within Jack, rage began to rise. It was an alien presence in his breast, yet one he knew well, one he had fought many times in his seventy-nine years.

  He feared it, and yet under the circumstances a part of him welcomed it.

  But before Jack could give in to the anger, another factor intruded. Timur, rushing head down and horn-first from the other side of the space, slammed into Erzhan from behind, catching him right between the shoulder blades with the hard, twisting horn atop his head. Erzhan gasped from the pain and relaxed his grip, letting Jack squirm free.

  For a moment Jack lay panting on the deck, recovering his breath. Then he turned painfully over and levered himself to hands and knees, shaking his head to clear it. He was too old for this shit, too old by half, but he had to do something.

  The kids were nowhere to be seen. They had left the vicinity and would almost certainly flee the boat—a pair of frightened, underage illegal aliens, in the middle of a strange city, who barely spoke English. Jack should follow and help them. But Timur and Erzhan were struggling together like a pair of monstrous wrestlers from some Grecian urn. Jack should help Timur. Again he felt that sick rage boiling up beneath his breastbone, and again he tamped it down. That really wouldn’t help.

  Suddenly Erzhan got the upper hand in the fight, smashing Timur in the chin with a fierce uppercut. As Timur fell stunned on the deck, Erzhan straightened and rose above him with both hands clenched together, poised for a killing blow.

  Jack bellowed—a savage, reptilian sound like something from the Jurassic—and leapt, slamming into the scaly joker with the full force of the anger within him. Unprepared for the impact, Erzhan fell over backwards … and splashed into the oily Mississippi waters below.

  Jack nearly followed him overboard. But something snagged the tail of his jacket, barely preventing him from tumbling after. Instead, he landed heavily on the deck with his head and shoulders over the edge.

  Lying there with the breath knocked out of him, Jack watched Erzhan flail for a moment in the dark waters, fitfully lit by the blue-white light from the parking lot. But Erzhan quickly recovered himself, and in a moment he was speeding through the water toward the shore, propelled by strong strokes of his beaver-like tail.

  Jack’s rage tried to drive him into the water—to follow Erzhan, to swim and fight and tear and kill—but whatever had hold of his jacket tail hauled hard on it, pulling Jack back on board. A hand grasped his shoulder, turning him over onto his back. It was Timur, of course, bruised and with blood seeping from a cut above one eye. “Are you … all right?” he panted.

  “Unh,” Jack managed, then, “Uh, yeah. You?”

  Timur shrugged, then looked out over the water, seeking Erzhan.

  Jack closed his eyes hard and again shook his head to clear it. It didn’t help much. “He’s going after the kids!” he said. “We have to stop him!”

  Timur sighed heavily. “Eyah,” he said—that meant yes, one of the few Kazakh words Jack knew—but it was delivered with weary resignation. Nonetheless, he helped Jack to his feet.

  They were a sorry pair of heroes, Jack reflected as he considered Timur’s battered face and his own painful, exhausted, elderly body … feeling very frail now, as the adrenaline of the fight drained away. But there was no one else, on the boat or off, he could think of to help in such a sticky situation.

  Then, to Jack’s surprise, Timur enveloped him in a warm, fierce hug. He smelled of engine grease and spices and honest, manly sweat. “Thank you,” he murmured into Jack’s shoulder.

  Jack patted Timur’s back—wanting to do more, much more. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They hurried up the stairs as quickly as they could. “What will he do if he catches them?” Jack panted as they went.

  “Honor killing,” Timur replied—a grim statement of fact, as though the question were “What happens if you step off a cliff?” and the answer “You fall.”

  “Well, shit.”

  They reached the top of the gangplank. The rain was really coming down now, but despite the distance, the dark, and the rain, Jack immediately recognized the two small figures fleeing across the parking lot. No question, it was Tazh and Aiman. “Hey!” he called. “You kids get back here right now!” Timur, beside him, shouted something in Kazakh. But they didn’t hear, didn’t understand, or didn’t want to obey—they neither looked back nor slowed their pace.

  Then a splash from Jack’s right drew his attention. It was Erzh
an, crawling onto the riverbank from the water. The harsh white mercury light gleaming on his dripping black scales made him look even more like the Creature from the Black Lagoon from the old black-and-white movie. Without hesitation he took off running, following the kids with pounding strokes of his powerful legs. The beaver tail flapping behind him didn’t seem to hold him back at all.

  “Sonofabitch,” Jack growled, and took off down the gangplank with Timur right behind him. But though Aiman’s stumpy little legs slowed the teenagers, they had a lead on him—thirty feet in space and sixty years in age. By the time he reached the bottom of the gangplank they were maybe fifty feet away. Even as he ran after them, rain splatting in his face and his pounding feet splashing in the parking lot’s growing puddles, he felt his wind failing and they pulled farther and farther ahead. Shit shit shit, he thought, but didn’t have the breath to curse out loud.

  Finally he had to stop, panting hard, hands on knees. The rain hammered his back, ran down his neck, and trickled past his collarbones to his chest. He looked up to see the kids reach the edge of the parking lot, look both ways, cross the street … and vanish into a storm drain.

  Storm drain.

  “Aw, Jesus,” Jack said, and looked up. Low, thick clouds rushed past, their dark bellies dimly illuminated by the city’s sodium lights, and a torrent of rain came pouring down into his face. “Jesus fucking fuck.”

  He was just trying to decide whether to follow them down the drain or go back to the boat for help when Timur passed him, running full tilt, charging after the kids without question or pause. Then Jack heard heavy, splashing footfalls off to his right: Erzhan, also running for the storm drain. He was younger and fitter than Timur, but Timur had a head start and would reach the drain first. But what would happen after that?

  Looking at Timur’s retreating back, Jack couldn’t help but notice how well-defined his shoulders were, not to mention the firm ass that strained the wet fabric of his trousers. “Jack, you are an idiot,” he said, and ran after him.