"I'd be honored, sir. But I need to get back across the river-oh, speaking of the river, where can I find Captain Mantilla? I'd like to put in an order."
"His tug's tied up at the wharf right now. It's battleship gray, with big blue letters on it. OGL. You need something, son?"
"Bourbon and tobacco. Not for me, for my officers."
"I like your style, Le Sain. I'm glad you're in my division."
* * * *
The barge was even uglier than the old Thunderbolt. It looked like a couple of aluminum mobile homes piled on a raft, and needed a lot of rust-stripping before another coat of gray. Sure enough, gigantic letters stood out on the side just below the carbon-coated stack, OGL.
The anchor watch was asleep. A fleshy man, bald as Valentine and bronze-skinned by birth and sun, slept in the sun at the end of the gangway. An iodine-colored bottle rested between his legs.
"Excuse me, boatman?" Valentine said, venturing up the gangplank. He still felt as though there was an inch of air between his feet and the ground-and he couldn't stop looking at the bridge over the Arkansas River, and Solon's Residence hill beyond.
If anything, the snoring grew louder.
"Sir?"
Valentine came closer. The man was a dedicated napper, so much so that he sacrificed shaving and bathing in its pursuit.
Valentine flicked his fingernail against the bottle, eliciting a ting. "Closing time. Last call," Valentine tried, a little more loudly.
"Hrumph ... umpfh ... umpfh ... double me up again, good buddy," the anchor watch said, coming awake in eye-blinking confusion.
"Did I guess the password?"
"Sorry there, sir. I was resting my eyes, didn't see you come up."
"They're still pretty red, friend. Eight more hours oughta do it. Can I find Captain Mantilla on board?"
"Engine room, I expect. He's usually there when we're not hauling." The anchor watch stood up and gave his belt a lift. "Follow the blue streak."
Sure enough, Valentine picked up a steady stream of grumbles and curses in English, Spanish, French and what he guessed to be Russian or Polish.
"C'mon, panoche. Loosen up, you bitch. Kurva, what's the matter with you this morning, you old putain."
"Cap, this ol' boy's come aboard askin' for you," the boatman called down the hatch. "Wearin' a TMCC pisscutter and a turkey on his collar."
"Merde. Just a moment, Chief." Valentine heard tools being put down, and then someone coming up the ladder.
Mantilla's face appeared in the sun, smeared with grease like Comanche war paint. He furrowed his brows. "Morning, Colonel. Saw you last night but damned if I can remember your name."
"Le Sain, monfrere. I want to talk about getting a little extra cargo up here, the next time you come up the Arkansas."
"Thanks, Jim Bob, I'll take it from here." As the sailor moved back to his shady rest, Mantilla pulled out a cigarette and sat on the edge of the hatch. "What can I get you, Colonel?"
"I'm an old friend of Miss Bright's. You've done a few favors for her, and I need something similar. She sent me."
Mantilla took a sidelong look at him and blew out a lungful of carcinogens. "You stick your head in the noose first, Le Sain."
"When you talk to her faraway friends, you probably re-ferr to her as Smoke. If you speak to the same people, call me Ghost."
"Pleased to meet you. How can I help?"
"I need something brought to Southern Command."
"Fair enough. I have to tell you plain, sir, that's getting trickier by the month. I can't guarantee anything. What is it, people, papers, photos?"