"They're not operational."

"Okay, you had to say that, but who else can I use? I know they're not operational, but they're all seventeen, less than a year away from assignment. They're not aces yet, but they're damn close. They can do the job, and I need them. Now, are we going to sit here and argue all morning, or can we cut to the bottom line?"

"Who's arguing? You can have them."

"I can?" Martha's surprise showed on her face. "I thought I was going to have to wrestle you."

"No, they're the obvious choices, and, as you said, sometimes you have to bend the mandate. But you can only have three, you can't have Krazewski."

"Why not?"

"He's in the infirmary with the flu. Not a chance."

"Sammy, I have to have four."

"So take four. Take Little."

"Chicken?" Martha stared at him. "You're kidding."

Sammy shrugged. "It's up to you, but he's the only other senior."

"But he's a disaster."

"I know."

"He's a menace."

"I know."

"He's a monster."

"I know."

Very slowly, and carefully, Martha said, "Sammy, we both know that he may be a deuce. It's taking a hell of a chance."

"I know that, too. Do you have a choice?"

She shook her head. "I guess not."

On the night of that same day, Sextant prepared to go out on the town. He had been working hard, and it was time to play. He had been in Rockhill for a week, doing the painstaking research that was the hallmark of his work, establishing a clear pattern of his target's routine. After a week in Rockhill he knew what time Lila Simms went to school, where she ate lunch, who she met at the Dairy Queen, what time she came home, and where she went in the evenings. He knew the food she ate, the clothes she wore, and the pace of her walk. He could pick her out in any crowd. After a week in Rockhill he knew as much as he needed to know, and now, with the time frame of his assignment only four days away, he was ready to make his move. But first it was time to play.

Sextant was fifty-three years old, but he looked to be less than forty. His body was slim and hipless, his face unlined, and his hair a rich chestnut that needed only an occasional touching. Preparing for the evening, he inspected his wardrobe in the closet of his motel room. The leather and chains wouldn't draw flies here in Rockhill, much less what he was after. The bell-bottoms and bolero jacket? Not very subtle; might as well wear a skirt. Cowboy boots and stone-washed jump suit? Too campy by far. What was needed was a touch of swish, just a touch. He decided on pencil-thin Italian slacks, a ruffled shirt, and a blazer that nipped at the waist. He laid the clothing out on the bed, showered and shaved, and, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he went to work on his face. He used a Revlon misty rose for a base, a soft beige Max Factor cream puff, and a Maybelline liner for his eyes; a touch of shadow, and then ever so lightly with the velvet black mascara. He worked slowly, and when he was finished, he inspected himself in the mirror.

"Just enough," he murmured, and dabbed a drop of Persian Mist behind each ear. "Wouldn't do to cause riots."

Jimmy's Grill was ten minutes out of town on Route 9. Outside it was fake bluestone and neon strips. Inside it was Naugahyde and pickled pine booths, a moose head on the wall, and a flashing BUD sign behind the bar. The food was burgers, fries, and chili dogs; and the music on the box was country. The place was as dim as a cave full of bats, and it smelled of stale beer and Lysol.

Sextant made a calculated entrance, moving with just enough of a sway to draw eyes as he walked to the bar. He put his back against it, leaned there languidly, and surveyed the scene. The customers were mostly men, and they looked like men who worked with their hands, men who wore Levis and steel-capped boots, flannel shirts and gimme caps. They sat around in groups of three, and four, and five, and most of them were drinking beer. Some of them were hard-working men relaxing at the end of the day. Those were the older ones, and Sextant ignored them. He was looking for animals.

"What'll it be?" said a voice in his ear.

Sextant turned. The bartender was a young man with a full beard. He wore a red T-shirt with a Maltese cross and the legend: R.V.F.D.

ENGINE CO. NO. 2.

"A glass of white wine, please."

The bartender poured, and Sextant sipped. The wine was disgusting. He gave a counterfeit sigh of pleasure, and said, "Lovely." He tipped his head toward the juke box, and asked, "Rockin' Chair Money?"

"That's it."

"Junior or senior?"

"Senior. I don't believe Hank Williams Junior ever cut that song."

"I'm sure you're right. My name is Ralph, what's yours?"

"Uh… Patsy."

"Are you really a fireman, Patsy?"

"What? Oh, the shirt. No, I just picked it up somewhere."

"Quel dommage! I absolutely adore firemen, don't you?"

"How's that?"

"Just think of what they do. Dashing into burning buildings, throwing their arms around people and rescuing them. It's all so sweaty and manly."

The bartender looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, they do good work, I guess."

"Good? Only good?" Sextant leaned closer. "Let me tell you, my dear, from personal experience, that firemen can be absolutely fantastic."

The bartender took a good look at the ruffled shirt, the languid manner, and the made-up eyes. He swallowed hard, and moved down to the other end of the bar. Sextant smiled, and forced himself to take another sip of wine as he looked around the room. He was as out of place as a rose in an onion patch, and he knew that there were eyes on him. His own eyes settled on three men sitting at a table near the far end of the bar. They were young, early twenties at the most, and they sprawled lazily in their seats. Two were tall, lanky, and lantern-jawed, and they looked enough alike to be brothers. The third had a beer-gut that hung over his belt, and small eyes set in a fleshy face. He got up, and came over to the bar. He whispered something to the bartender. The bartender nodded. Beer-gut laughed, and went back to his table.

Perhaps, thought Sextant. Perhaps.

He finished his wine in one convulsive gulp, held up his glass, and called out archly, "Bartender, another wee drop of ambrosia, please?"

That brought more eyes to him. The bartender came back, looking unhappy. Sextant pushed his empty glass across the bar, but the bartender did not take it. He said, "Look, mister, you don't really want another drink."

"Oh, but I do. It's delicious."

"No, you don't." His voice was firm. "What you want is to pay me for the one, and find yourself another place."

Sextant registered surprise. "Are you refusing to serve me?"

"I didn't say that. I was making a suggestion."

"Not a very friendly one, I must say. You make it sound as if I'm not welcome here."

The bartender held up his hands. "I didn't say that, either. The law says I gotta serve you so long as you're not drunk, and you're not. I'm just trying to give you some good advice."

"But why? I thought we were getting along so nicely."

"Now look…"

"I thought we had established the beginnings of a true rapport."

Patsy said indignantly, "We didn't establish anything. You gonna take my advice?"

"Certainly not, I have no intention of leaving. I like this place, and I'm enjoying myself." Sextant manufactured a shiver. "It's so… gritty."

"Suit yourself," the bartender muttered. He poured wine, slopping some on the bar, and went back to the far end. Beer-gut came over to confer with him, and, again, there was laughter.

Sextant turned his back on the scene. Wait for it, he told himself. He counted silently to ten. When nothing happened, he counted to twenty. He was up to eighteen when he heard the sound of someone sliding onto the barstool next to him. He turned around. "Hi there," said Beer-gut. "I hear you like firemen."