Winter Duty (12 page)

That settled any issue about this being a put-up job. Radio security was about as tight as Southern Command could make it, involving scramblers and rotating frequencies. Lehman must have passed that tidbit on. Standard Southern Command procedure for brigades in the field was three radio checks a day. As theirs had to be relayed through Rally Base, they found it easier to do just two.

Valentine shrugged and gave Lambert a hint of a nod.

“Welcome aboard, Pencil. I hope you find the situation in Kentucky interesting,” she said.

“But not too interesting,” Valentine said. “We all had enough interesting this summer to last us till pension draw.”

Boelnitz shook hands all around. It was hard to say which version of Pencil Boelnitz was more handsome: serious, expletive Boelnitz or grinning, eager-to-befriend Boelnitz. Valentine couldn’t tell whether Lambert had a preference, either.

The bottle their patrol boat had given them contained some seven-year-old bourbon. Mantilla shared a glass with Valentine that night.

They sat in the captain’s day cabin. Valentine supposed it was meant to be an office too, but the ship’s records seemed to take up one thick sheaf of paper in various sizes, stains, and colors attached to a rusty clipboard.

A single bulb cast yellow light on the cabin deal table. Mantilla and Valentine sat with their legs projecting out into the center of the cabin as the captain poured.

“This is even better for your cold than honey,” Mantilla said.

“It makes being sick a little more relaxing. The inspection today—what was that about?”

Mantilla leaned back and put his chin down so the shadow of the cabin light hid his eyes. “A formality, as it turned out.”

“Thought you said you didn’t know the boat.”

“I didn’t. But I turned out to be an old friend of the officer in command of the patrol boat.”

“Were you?”

Mantilla chuckled. “For a little while. Today anyway.”

“I thought you hadn’t met him before.”

“I never saw his face in the whole of my life. And you would remember a face like that. Like an asshole with pimples.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know how a shitty bunghole seems like it’s winking at you—”

“No, you never met him, but he knew you?”

“Major Valentine, let’s just say that I’m an expert in letting people see what they want to see.”

Valentine finished his glass of bourbon and tapped it. To be friendly, Mantilla tossed back his own, gave a little cough, and refilled them both.

“Let me tell you a secret about people, Valentine. They’re really good at fooling themselves. They go through life jerking themselves off, complimenting themselves that they’re seeing things as they are. Really it’s wishing, like a little boy on a skate-board pretending it’s a jet airplane. Some
chocha
says
no, no, no
but the prick she’s with hears
yes, yes, yes
.”

“Or she’s hearing wedding bells and he’s thinking bedsprings. But I don’t see how that gets a sealed bottle of bourbon out of a local river cop.”

“He didn’t want to come on board and find trouble. He was hoping for a friendly face. I gave him one.”

“Just how did you do that?”

“Allow me to keep a few secrets, Major. I will say this. All it takes is the tiniest bit of a nudge. A shape in the shadows turns into an old friend. A crumpled old diner check turns into a valuable bill.” He pointed to the sheaf of paper on the wall. “An old spreadsheet becomes a transport warrant.”

“Sounds like magic.”

“With magic, people are looking for the trick that is fooling them. What I do is give them a little help fooling themselves.”

“Go on,” Valentine said, interested.

“You’re walking down a dark street and you hear someone following.
Merde!
When you turn around, would you rather see a policeman or, better yet, your neighbor following behind? But of course. As you turn, you hope, you pray, it is not a thug or worse. These men on the river, even the patrols, they do not want trouble. They like to meet bargemen they know, friends who bring the good sweet liqueurs of Mexico and Curaçao, gold even, or silks from the Pacific Rim and Brazil that they have obtained in New Orleans.”

Valentine took another mouthful of neat bourbon. Was the captain presenting him with what he wanted to see? Did he want to see an unkempt, out-of-shape boatman with a sweat-yellowed cap and grease stains on his knees and chest?

Valentine supposed he did. Older, weathered, an experienced man who’d lived long on the river and attended to his engines even at the cost of some mess, Mantilla had Valentine’s respect. Even a little flab added to the secure image; Mantilla enjoyed his food. Then there was the keen, roving eye from the face Mantilla never quite turned directly toward you. Canny, with part of his mind on you, part of it on ship or river or weather. “Handy trick,” Valentine said. “I don’t suppose you could teach me the knack.”

“When you work up the guts to look into your own mind and come to terms with what’s living there, then you can come to me and speak of venturing into others’ minds.”

Valentine saw two more examples of Mantilla’s trickery at a Kurian river station near Memphis when the captain stopped to pick up a few spare parts for his barge and some diesel for the motors, and then again outside Paducah, where their ship was inspected again. Two men went down into the barge hold ahead, and Valentine held his breath until they emerged, yawning.

Half a day later they approached Evansville and Henderson across the river. No bridge spanned the river anymore, but there were plenty of small craft on both sides. They scattered as the tug approached.

“Your boys close the river? Do I have to worry about artillery gunning for me?” Mantilla asked Valentine, who was standing with him on the bridge.

“No. Not a lot of traffic up and down the Ohio except food. We don’t want to starve anyone. But I’d better go first in your launch and send some people down to the landing, just in case. We’ll need all our motor resources to unload the cargo.”

Valentine was met by a pair of Wolf scouts who took him up to an artillery spotter with a field phone. They’d made some progress with the communications grid in his absence. Perhaps his old “shit detail” had done the work. They didn’t fight like Bears, but they had an interesting skill set. He called operations and reported the arrival of supplies from Southern Command. The hatchet men weren’t worth calling reinforcements, so he called them specialists.

With that done, he returned to Mantilla’s tug.

“We have some odds and ends needing transport back,” Valentine said. “Sick and lamed men.” Also a few who wanted out of it and were willing to take a dishonorable discharge to get away as soon as they could.

“Some might have to ride in the shell if there are too many. I’ll need food for them, if there are many.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Then I’ll be happy to offer transport back. In Paducah they will be surprised to see me again so soon.”

“Captain Mantilla, once more I’m in your debt,” Valentine said.

Mantilla pushed his hat back on his head. “It’s my pleasure to aid a Saint-Valentine.”

“It’s just Valentine. As you can probably tell, I am about as Italian as I am Afghan.”

Or does he know my mother was named Saint Croix?
Valentine wondered.

“I’ve one more favor to ask. Do you know anyone on the river who can get a message up to St. Louis? There’s a big church there that tends to the human population and the Grog captives. Slaves, I guess you’d call them. I have a friend near there that they help now and then.”

“I’d be honored to bring a message to Sissy.”

“Sissy?”

“Isn’t that what you call Narcisse?”

“Do you know her?”

Mantilla dropped his chin so his eyes fell into shadow again. “Almost as well as you do, Major Valentine.”

CHAPTER FOUR