"Thank God the river flows in the direction of Tunica."
Valentine hopped into the water and pushed the boat away from the wharf. The water was only four feet deep along the bank.
"Try and find something to use as a paddle," he suggested.
"Whaddya think you're doing, buddy?" someone called from another boat as they headed toward the river.
"Fishing!" Valentine yelled back. "Have a great weekend!"
The boat began to drift, and Valentine went around to the front and took up the line. He waded along the river, Mississippi mud, the real kind, treacherous beneath his feet. More than once his feet slipped on the bottom.
All Duvalier could find to use as paddles were dinner plates.
So he waded on, keeping close to the Memphis bank, until he passed Mud Island and got into the current. He fell into the boat as it slowly spun down the semi-intact bridge to the Arkansas side.
A few other pleasure craft were out, everything from ship-rigged sailcraft to linked lines of inner tubes, escaping the summer heat of the city but keeping well clear of the midchannel markers that evidently served as some kind of boundary. He parked the teenagers around the stern-their names were Dahra, Miyichi, and Sula, of Kansas, Illinois, and Tennessee respectively-and had them all hold plastic cups as though they were drinking. Valentine and Duvalier paddled with the dinner plates, weary work that required hanging off the side whenever the current threatened to carry them too close to a passing boat or the bank.
"The fever's down, I take it," he said to Duvalier as they caught their breath.
"Broke this afternoon," she said. "God, I'm tired."
Fewer and fewer craft were to be seen the farther south along the shore they drifted. They came to the second bridge. Only the piers nearest the shore were still connected with the road.
Valentine saw sentries on the empty bridge. It might seem odd to guard a bridge to nothing but a hundred-foot drop, but the vantage gave a superb view of the river south of Memphis.
"Ali, you get in the cabin with your shotgun. You three-pretend to be passed out," Valentine said.
After they passed under the bridge a spotlight hit them.
"You're coming up on the buoys," a megaphone-amplified voice called down. "Commercial and security craft only."
Valentine stood up, wavering. "My engine fell off," he yelled. "I need a tow!"
"Not our problem."
Sula raised her head and shielded her eyes from the spotlight. She jumped up on the front of the boat. "What unit y'all in?" she yelled, doing a thicker local accent than Valentine could manage convincingly.
"Bravo Company, Corsun's Memphis Guard," the voice called back, a little friendlier. "And you're about an eighth of a mile from being arrested."
"Well then, throw us a line," Valentine yelled.
"Bravo Company Memphis Guard," Sula yelled, raising her shirt. She hopped up and down in the spotlight. "Whooooo!"
"What's going on out there?" Duvalier asked softly from behind the cabin door.
"Distractions," Valentine said.
Approving yells broke out from above.
Then Sula sat down and hugged her knees, and they drifted until the spotlight went off.
"Nice improv," Valentine said. "Except it's likely to bring six patrol craft down on us."
Valentine knew vaguely that at the bend ahead a largish island divided the river. If they could reach it they'd be near the wall to the ravie colony.
A patrol craft even smaller than their boat plodded up the river on a single outboard.
"Are we in trouble?" Miyichi asked.