"That's just calling names," said Beer-gut. "You let me loose, and we'll see who calls names."

"You were loose when I took you out. Do you want to try it again?"

After a moment, Beer-gut shook his head. "You can hit, that's for sure. What's this job you're talking about?"

Sextant told them. He told them in detail. By the time he was finished, all three were grinning broadly.

"Are you sure you won't have some coffee?" asked Violet Simms. "I have it hot in the kitchen."

"Thanks, but I really have to be going," said Martha. "We have a long drive ahead of us."

"What time will you get to Hightower?"

"Late this afternoon."

"With the roads all icy, yes. You'll have to drive slowly."

They sat in the Simms living room, an orderly place that had been dusted and polished to perfection. Lila was out in the van with the other kids. The four from the Center had been drilled for two days, learning their cover stories pat. Martha had been pleased and impressed by the way they had taken the news of their assignment. There had been no explosions of juvenile excitement, nor, as far as she could tell, had there been any signs of anxiety. They had been told in detail the nature of the mission (there had been some debate with Sammy over that), and they knew that their job was to provide a ring of warning and security around Lila. They had reacted with an air of cool professionalism that was partly assumed, but also the result of their training. Even Chicken had kept himself under control, although he had been visibly disappointed when he learned that they would not be carrying weapons. Now they were out in the van with Lila, with instructions to make her feel welcome, while Martha chatted with her grandmother.

"We'll be driving slowly," Martha assured her, "and the radio says that the weather looks good further north. There's nothing to worry about, really."

"I know that, Martha." They had known each other only fifteen minutes, but they were using first names. Martha had that way with people. Violet reached out to touch the younger woman's arm gently. "I can see that you're a responsible person. It's just that this all came up so quickly. I'm still not used to the idea."

"We can thank the post office for that," Martha said briskly. She had no wish to dwell on the subject. "Lila should have received her notice weeks ago, along with the others."

"Well, it all worked out," Violet conceded, "and she's thrilled to be going. I'm sorry to be such a worrier, but it hasn't been easy for me, raising my daughter's child."

"From what I can see, you've done a wonderful job." Martha stood up. "I really must go now, and please don't worry. She's in good hands."

Violet watched from the doorway, as Martha went out to the van. The roof-rack was loaded with skis, and the rear area was filled with luggage, boots, and poles. Lila sat up front, Pam and Linda behind her, and George and Chicken in back.

"Okay, let's roll it," said Martha, as she got into the van and started up. "Call out for pit stops, but let's try and keep it to a minimum, okay?"

There was a murmur of assent. Head-to-head, Martha said, Let's have your reports. Pam?

Nothing unusual. She seems like a nice kid. I don't think we'll have any trouble with her.

If we have any trouble, it won't come from Lila. Linda, anything?

Same as Pam.

George?

She's sort of… innocent. We'd better watch our language with her.

Good point. Chicken? There was no answer. Chicken? Martha sighed to herself. As usual, Chicken wasn't tuned in. Will one of you please poke him?

George, who was sitting next to Chicken, did it. He did not do it gently. Chicken jumped, and was about to poke back when George nodded at Martha.

Chicken, do you read me?

Uh… yeah, I got you.

I know it hurts, but you have to stay tuned to me. Will you do that, Chicken?

I'm sorry, I'll try. What do you want?

I was asking the others about Lila. What do you think of her?

I think she's cute.

Great.

Well, she is.

Go back to sleep. The rest of you, keep alert.

All this in the time that it took to start the car, and pull away from the curb. Martha drove down Linden Avenue, and made a left at the corner. She had already made her turn when another van, which once had been white and now was matted with rust, pulled out to follow.

8

SNAKE parked the rental Trans-Am at the curb in front of the Southern Manor, and sat there with the motor and the air-conditioning running, reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the car. The Florida sun was heavy, unkind, and her destination did not beckon. The Southern Manor was a two-story house of faded stucco with a sagging wooden porch, a sign that said ROOMS embedded in a graveled yard, and a rusted flagpole without a flag. The other houses on the street were much the same. This was hardscrabble Florida, tracts of land that were virtually treeless, flat and sandy, dull and discouraging.

She looked again at the Southern Manor. David Ogden wanted it burned, and at the moment that didn't seem like such a bad idea.

I am, she told herself, about to become a house-sitter. I am supposed to sit around on my butt and make sure that somebody doesn't torch this monstrosity, which is just plain stupid. I love Sammy, he's my brother and I know that he's got the brains in the outfit, but he sure screwed up on this assignment. He gives the college gig to Vince, and I can't argue with that because I don't know the first thing about basketball, and I don't want to. He gives Ben the cruise ship, and that makes sense. But he gives Martha the Simms girl, and he makes me the house-sitter, which is all wrong. Martha is soft, and I'm steel. Martha is sweet, and I'm sharp. Martha says please, and I say gimme. The Simms kid needs a hard-nosed, hard-assed bitch. That's me. This job needs an earth mother who can make friends and talk to people. That's Martha. So why, Sammy?

She stared at the house with distaste, and the house stared back. The only way to guard the place effectively was from the inside, which meant renting a room. She dredged up memories of cheap rooming houses: lumpy mattresses, stiff grey sheets, ancient air-conditioning, one bathroom to a floor, and a sign in every room that said NO COOKING. Someday, Sammy. Someday.

She went into the house to rent a room, and ten minutes later she was still trying. Bertha Costigan, the owner of the Southern Manor, was a cheerful woman of middle years who was perfectly happy to sit her down, give her a cold Coke, chat with her, and complain about the weather. What Bertha Costigan could not do was rent her a room. "I wish I could, but I simply can't," she explained. "I have six rooms, and they're all occupied. I wish I had six more, a dozen more. I'd rent them all this time of year."

"What about doubling up?" Snake asked. "Maybe I could share a room."

"Afraid not. I don't have any other young women staying with me right now, and even if I did, most people don't like to share."

"Anybody leaving soon?"

"Not likely. You see, I don't have what you call transients here. Most of my people have been with me for quite a while. Now, Mrs. Moskowitz, she's been here close to five years, Mr. Pasco the same, and the Roveres maybe four. Poor Mr. Teague has been here the longest." She lowered her voice. "He's an invalid, can't move around." Her voice shifted up. "Then there's Mr. Krill, about a year, and Mr. Ramirez, six months or so." She lowered her voice again. "Mr. Ramirez, he's Cuban, but he's one of the good ones." She showed the palms of her hands. "So you see, there's nothing I can do for you."