"I've got a couple more days in town still."
"Rooster can set the whole thing up. I'm going to be on my boat this weekend."
"I think he's got a handle on what I need," Valentine said.
There was topless Roller Derby on the wooden ring-a crowd favorite, judging from the cheers. The metronome motion of swinging breasts as the woman power-skated had a certain fascination, Valentine had to admit. Then an exhibition of flame dancing. The first Grogs Valentine had seen on the Midway spun great platters full of flaming kerosene on their outstretched arms and heads. They arranged it so the liquid fire sprinkled off the spinning dishes and they danced beneath the orange rain. Valentine found it enthralling and said so to Rooster.
"God, I hate those things," Rooster said, on his third drink. "Stupid, smelly, ill-tempered. They're useless."
Attendants with fire extinguishers cleaned up after the dance as the Grogs cartwheeled offstage.
Then it was time for the main event. A cage descended on wires from the ceiling, ringing the hexagon with six wire barriers. He watched Pulp Fontaine turn the Draw's shoulder into a bloody ruin. So much for long shots, Valentine thought, as Fontaine accepted a victory crown from this month's Miss Midway.
"Ten thousand will get you her for the weekend, Stewie," Rooster chuckled. "Want me to set it up?"
"I don't roll that high," Valentine said.
The party in the box got louder and the stadium began to empty out. It was just after eleven. Rod Lightning left with the two bar girls. The announcer began to count down for kill-tally bets. Valentine wondered what that meant.
"Time to call it a night?" Valentine asked Rooster. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"Nope. One more special show," Rooster said. "Ever heard of a rat kill?"
"This have something to do with extermination?"
"In a manner."
Valentine watched twenty men of assorted sizes and colors being led into the center hexagon. Each had a black hood over his head. Some of the people on their way out hurried for the exits, but a good third of the audience stayed.
"What's this?" Valentine asked, a little worried.
"It's a rat kill," Moyo said from over his shoulder. "I'm going to watch this one. One of my yard chiefs is in there. Daniel Penn. He was screwing me on deposits, swapping out corpses for the healthy and smuggling them across the river."
Rooster made a note on a pad. "They're all criminals of one sort or another, or vagrants."
Some of the condemned men lost control of themselves as they stepped into the ring. Bladder, bowel, or legs gave way. Escorts in black uniforms shoved them into the cage and lined them up. Valentine saw a shot clock light up in the scoreboard-evidently one part of it still worked-set for sixty.
"And here comes the Midway Marvel," Moyo said.
"Jus-tiss. Jus-tiss! JUS-TISS!" the crowd began to chant.
Tall. Pale. Hair like a threadbare black mop. It was a Reaper, stripped to the waist, loose, billowing black pants ending just above its bare feet. It walked oddly, though, with its arms behind it. As it entered the cage he saw why-thick metal shackles held its wrists together.
"JUS-TISS JUS-TISS JUS-TISS!" the crowd roared, the attenuated numbers sounding just as loud as the thicker crowd had for the night's main event.
"The Marvel's got sixty seconds to off as many as he can. Record's fifteen for the year. All-time high is eighteen. Contest rules say that one always has to survive-even though we've never had a nineteen."
As they unshackled each man from his companions and removed his hood they read the crime, but no name. Number one was a murderer. Number two committed sabotage. Number three had been caught with a transmitter and a rifle. . . .
"Why no women?" Valentine asked.
"Haven't done women in a rat kill for years," Moyo said.
Fourteen, a currency forger, fainted when they took his hood off.
"Crowd didn't like it as well," Rooster said. "They booed when it killed a woman instead of a man. We have other ways of taking care of women. Would you-"
"No thanks."