Holmes said slowly, "If that's the truth, I'd get down and kiss your feet."

"It's true, all right. And tomorrow night you two are going to play the best ball you ever played in your lives. And you know why?" He smiled at them sweetly. "Because if you don't, I've got people on my payroll who'll be coming around to see you. They won't kill you, they'll just make you wish they had."

"That won't be necessary," said Holmes. "We'll be in there."

They both stood up, and Devereaux said, "We'll do our best, but we can't guarantee anything. You understand that, don't you?"

Lewis gave them that sweet smile again. "Just win, that's the name of the game, because if you don't, you'll be having some visitors. That's my guarantee. Now get out of here, I've got some other business to take care of."

Forty hours later, standing in the bar of the Saloon, Sammy said, "I take it that you were the other business?"

Vince nodded. "I don't know what he had in mind, and I didn't wait to find out. I was out of there. I never did see Ida to say good-bye, I just headed for home."

"Cowardly."

"No question about it. I had enough of those guns that go phut."

Sammy looked at his watch. "Time to call."

Vince went to the telephone at the end of the bar, and dialed the number of The New York Times. He asked for the sports desk, then asked a question. He listened, and then he hung up. He shot a fist into the air.

"We win, Domino loses. Polk beat Van Buren, 78-62. Twenty-four points for Devereaux, and nine boards. Willy was in there, too."

"So that's it," Sammy said thoughtfully. "Polk goes on to the tournament, and Van Buren stays home."

" Mission accomplished."

"I guess so," said Sammy. "I hope so."

Vince caught his tone. "What do you mean?"

"I hate to do this to you now. You came out on top and you're on a high," said Sammy, but it had to be told, and so he sat Vince down and told him about Calvin Weiss, and June Honeywell, and Hassan Rashid, and the girl they called the Poodle, all those years ago at Van Buren College.

17

SEXTANT, whose name then had been Vlado Priol, was six years old when he saw his mother raped, and his parents killed. He witnessed those horrors while huddled under blankets in a dark corner of the cave on Mount Krn, and whatever he became in later life began on that night in the cave. But it would be a mistake to call that night the turning point of his life. That came ten years later when, with the help of David Ogden, he killed the man who had done the rape and murders.

This, he knew, made him a most unlikely candidate for his present assignment, and for the first time ever he was tempted to question the judgment of the man who had shaped his life. David Ogden had known him as no one else could have known him, then or since. It was Ogden who had found him stiff with fear beneath the blankets, Ogden who had buried the bodies of his parents, and Ogden who had taken him down off the mountain and into the home of the farmers who had cared for him for the next ten years. And it was Ogden who had returned as an agent of vengeance, had shown him how to kill his man, and then had taken him to America. Ogden had known both the boy and the man, had known what that night in the cave had done to him, and still he had given him this assignment. A job of rape. To the man who once had been Vlado Priol.

Why me?

He had asked himself the question over and over, and he could think of only two possible answers. First possibility. That those mushrooms in Ogden 's brain had warped him entirely, and the assignment had been issued by a man without reason. Second possibility. That a sane and reasonable David Ogden had issued his orders with a total confidence in the man who once had been Vlado Priol. Confidence in the icy killer he had become, confidence in the faithful executioner of his wishes over the years. Perhaps even more than that, a confidence in the man who had seen first-hand the terror of rape, and would know exactly how to use that terror. Of the two possibilities, Sextant was obliged to believe in the second. He really had no choice. But still, he asked, why me?

He asked the question as he sat with his feet extended in front of a hearth that produced a smoky, fitful fire. The house that he had rented was a cottage set off from the highway, and screened from the road by a stand of fir and pine. It was small, only a living room, a bedroom, and a bath, but it was enough for what had to be done. The girl and her friend were in the bedroom, bound and gagged, while Sextant sat in the living room with his animals. The animals were restless. Beer-gut, Richie, and Phil sat on the far side of the room, their heads together, muttering. The first case of beer had long been exhausted, and they had started on a second. They kept their voices low, shooting glances across the room at him, but they were straining at the bit.

It was Beer-gut who finally made the move. He heaved himself up out of his chair, and came across the room to ask, "Look, what's holding up the parade?"

Sextant did not bother to stretch his neck to look up. Staring straight ahead, he said, "I am."

"What the hell for? Let's get it going."

"When I say so."

Beer-gut shrugged. "You're the boss, but don't wait too long. Me, I'm feeling fine, but you get much more beer into Richie and Phil, and they'll start to lose their enthusiasm. You know what I mean?"

Sextant wondered, Do I know what he means? Academically, yes. If they drink too much beer they won't be able to produce an erection, and they won't be able to perform sexually. So, yes, I know what he means. But in another sense, since I've never had an erection in my life, I don't understand at all.

"I know what you mean," he said. "Just be patient."

"What about the boy?"

"What about him? You're being paid to do a job on the girl. That's all you have to worry about."

"I was just thinking that if you want me to start on the boy, just say so. No extra charge."

It took Sextant a moment to understand the meaning of the words. He smiled tightly. "As I recall, you were the one who once called me a faggot."

Beer-gut seemed surprised. "Shit, that don't mean nothing. Sticking it into a boy don't make a man a faggot. A hole is a hole, you know?"

If it were possible for me to feel disgust, thought Sextant, this would be one of the times to feel it. But it wasn't possible. That's something else I don't feel.

"Leave the boy alone," he said. "I want him to see it happen, but that's all. Keep your hands off him."

"You mean you want him to watch us do it?"

"That's right."

Beer-gut grinned. "Nice touch."

Is it? Yes, I suppose it is, a very nice tough. Sextant looked at his watch. Only just past eleven, not nearly late enough. That night on Mount Krn it had happened after midnight, and that seemed an appropriate time for it to happen now. It also seemed appropriate that the boy should see it happen. That other time a boy had watched, a much younger boy than this one, but still, that also seemed quite fitting.

He went into the bedroom, and closed the door behind him. There were two beds in the room. Lila lay on one of them, and Chicken on the other. Their ankles and wrists were bound, and their mouths were stopped with rags. They had been lying quietly, but when they saw him they began to struggle, straining at the ties.

"Don't do that," he said. "It won't do you any good."

They continued to struggle, and the sight disturbed him. He had seen it before, and it always disturbed him when people struggled to avoid their fate. He liked things neat and tidy, and all this thrashing was… undignified.

He knelt between the beds so that they both could hear him clearly. "Stop it. I can make you stop it, I can hurt you. Now stop."