When the Bluesman was gone, Mavis made a quick phone call, then went to the back room and dug through boxes and filling cabinets until she came up with what she was looking for: a small black box attached to a long cord with a cigarette lighter plug on the end. “Don’t worry, Theo,” she said to herself. “I put my life in the hands of machinery a long time ago, and I’m doing just fine.” She giggled and it came out sounding like the starter cranking on a fuel dry Ford.

A Bluesman hates to be told what to do. Authority rankles him, inspires his rebellion, and plays to his need to self-destruct. A Bluesman doesn’t take to having a boss unless he’s on a chain gang (for the chain gang boss ranks below only a mean old woman and a sweet young thing in the hier-archy of the Blues Muse, followed closely by bad liquor, a dead dog, and the Man). Catfish had a boss who was a mean old woman: a distinct and disconcerting turn of the Blues screw that might have driven a lesser Bluesman to shoot hisself, get shot, get hold of some bad liquor, or bust up his guitar and take a job down to the mill. But Catfish hadn’t taken nigh unto eighty trips around that cruel, cruel sun without gaining some per-spective, so he would go to the pharmacy as he was told. He would talk to the fish-fucking white boy with the combed-over hair that waved in the air like the sprung lid on a bean can. And when he was done, he would pick up his pay from the mean old woman who was holding it hostage and he would get his wrinkly Black ass out of this town and go nurse his heartbreak on the moving trap that was, is, and always shall be the road.

So Catfish strolled a rolling Delta moonwalk of a stroll (redolent of sas-safras and jive) into Pine Cove Drug and Gift, and the four blue-haired chicken women behind the counter nearly tumbled over each other trying to get to the back room. Imagine it: a person of the Dark persuasion in their midst. What if he should ask for a vial of Afro-Sheen or some other ethnic-ally oriented product with which they were totally unfamiliar? Why, the smoke alarms would melt, screaming like dying witches, when their col-lective minds steamed to a stop. Do we look like thrill-seekers? Wasn’t it enough that we had to put up that sign reading NO HABLA ESPANOL and acknowledge the existence of thirty percent of the population, even in the negative? No, we shall err on the side of safety, thank you, and in lieu of sand in which to bury our heads, we shall head into the back room.

Winston Krauss, who was counting fake Zolofts behind his glass wall, looked up and saw Catfish coming down the aisle toward the counter and immediately regretted that he hadn’t installed bulletproof glass. Still, Winston was a man of the world, and you don’t indulge the fantasy of molesting dolphins without becoming familiar with the ways of people of color, for that is who dolphins prefer to hang out with, when they aren’t hanging out with the Cousteaus, or so it appeared on the Discovery Channel. He stepped out of his booth and met Catfish as he reached the counter.

“Good day, me brother-mon, ye,” Winston said in his best island dialect. “What can I be gettin for ye?” And there was that welcoming smile, only a dreadlock and a white sand beach short of a travel poster.

Catfish squinted, removed his fedora, ran a hand over his shining scalp, stepped back, turned his head to the side and studied the pharmacist for a moment, then said, “I will slap the shit out of you. You know that?”

“Sorry,” Winston said, coughing somewhat, as if trying to dislodge the errant Jamaican from his throat. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Mavis down to the Slug sent me up to ax you somethin.”

“I’m familiar with her medical records,” Winston said, “You can have her call me if she has a question.”

“Yeah, she don’t want to call you. She want you to come down to see her.”

Winston adjusted his bolo tie. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to have her call me. I can’t leave the store.”

Catfish nodded. “That what she thought you’d say. She say to ax you if she can have a big jar of them sugar pills you selling instead medicine.”

Winston glanced at the back room where his staff was huddled like Anne Frank and family, peering out through the crack in the door. “Tell her I’ll be right over,” Winston said.

“She said to wait and come with you.”

Winston was visibly sweating now; oily beads rose on his scalp. “Let me tell the staff where I’ll be.”

“Hurry up, Flipper. I ain’t got all day,” Catfish said.

Winston Krauss shuddered, hitched up his double knits, and waddled around the counter. “Ladies, I’ll be back in few minutes,” he called over his shoulder.

Catfish leaned over the counter to where he could see the row of eyes peering out of the crack and said, “I be back in a few minutes my own self, ladies. I needs some medicine what can help me with this huge black dick I have to carry around. The weight of it like to break my back.”

There was a collective intake of breath so abrupt that the drop in pressure sprung the barometer on the wall and made Catfish’s ears pop.

Winston Krauss turned and scowled at Catfish. “Was that really necessary?”

“Man’s got to look after his reputation,” Catfish said.

Burton had them cover him while he moved down through the rocks and across the marine terrace to the Blazers. He found Sheridan crouched behind the fender, his M-16 trained on the cave entrance.

“Rough morning, Sheriff?” Sheridan said, showing a hint of a smile at Burton’s disheveled suit.

Burton looked around at the other team members, who were all staring through rifle scopes at the cave entrance. “So we only have five?”

“Morales is coaching Pee-Wee Football today. The others are on regular duty. We couldn’t pull them off.”

Burton scowled. “As far as I know, they only have the one weapon, but it’s a fully automatic AK. I want two men on either side of the cave mouth, one down in that crevice where I was pinned down can deliver the gas, followed by concussion grenades. I’ll stay here with a sniper rifle to take out anyone who gets past the entry crew. Shoot anything that moves. Let’s go, five minutes. On my mark.”

“No gas,” Sheridan said.

“What?”

“No gas and no concussion. You wanted us here without checking in. That stuff is kept in the locker at County Justice. We just have the body armor and our own personal weapons.”

Burton looked around at the other men again. “You guys all have your own personal M-16s, but no grenades?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I have a standoff? I had a standoff before, Sheridan. A standoff doesn’t do me any good. Come with me.” He pushed a fresh clip into his 9 mm. and turned to the others. “Cover us.”

Burton led the SWAT commander to a spot in the rocks just below the cave mouth. “Crowe?” Burton called. “You’ve had enough time to consider my offer!”

“Offer?” Sheridan asked.

Burton shushed him.

“I haven’t decided yet!” Theo shouted. “We’ve got thirty people in here to discuss it with and they’re not being cooperative.”

Sheridan looked at Burton. “Thirty people? We can’t shoot thirty people. I’m not shooting any thirty people.”

“Five minutes, Crowe,” Burton said. “Then you have no more options.”

“What’s the offer?” Sheridan whispered to the sheriff.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just trying to get the subject separated from the hostages so we can take him out.”

“Then we’d better have a description of the suspect, don’t you think?”

“He’s the one in handcuffs,” Burton said.

“Well, aren’t you the fucking hero?” Sheridan shot back.

Skinner watched from the front seat of the Mercedes as the Food Guy was loaded into the back of the Suburban with the cage in it. The Bad Guys hadn’t even left the windows cracked. How would the Food Guy breathe? He wouldn’t be able to sit in the front seat and put his head out the window either. Skinner was sad for the Food Guy.