He redoubled his paddling, headed for the riverbank.

“Watch it!” screamed Conner. “That’s a vintage automobile.”

The tow truck had backed up too fast, bumped the Plymouth. The driver was a sticklike man with an overbite and springy red hair on his chin. He wore a dirty undershirt and a cap with a Rebel flag patch.

He stuck his head out the window of the tow truck. “I know what I’m doing. Take it easy.” He pulled the truck up and backed in again several times before he was satisfied. He got out of the truck, carrying two fistfuls of heavy chains.

Fat Otis stood behind Conner, looked on with amusement. “I don’t think the engine will start now.”

“Can’t they flush it out or something?”

Otis shrugged. “Do I look like a mechanic?”

“I can tow it to the garage,” the driver said. “Have one of the boys take a look at it.”

Conner agreed and said he’d call about it later.

“Come on,” Otis said. “I’ll give you a ride. What you got in the garbage bag? Dry clothes?”

“Something I want to show Rocky.”

Conner hadn’t wanted to fold the poster, so he’d slipped it under the bunk in the main sleeping cabin. The DiMaggio card was already in hard plastic. He’d folded the letter along the creases-careful not to add new ones-and put it in a Ziploc bag. Rocky would know whom to call to fence the thing. Conner wanted to cut Joellen Becker out of the deal if possible. She made him nervous and was one hundred percent totally unlikable.

After sealing the card and the letter into a garbage bag and calling Otis on the cell phone, Conner had discovered the inflatable dinghy was nowhere to be found. It was only after swimming halfway to shore that Conner realized he should have put some dry clothes into the bag also. At least he wasn’t wearing the Kirk costume anymore.

“Uh-huh. Well, I got to put a towel down or something,” Otis said. “I don’t want you dripping on my seats.”

They got into the yellow Lincoln, started driving.

A long silence stretched.

“Otis, can I ask you a question about Rocky?”

“You can ask.”

“Why do they call him Rocky Big? I mean, he seems more like a Lionel or a Dennis.”

Otis half smiled. “Well, you seen him, right? I mean, he ain’t exactly anybody that anybody else would be scared of, is he? So he made up that name, helps keep the reputation alive.”

“Ah.” Conner nodded. But that wasn’t really what he’d wanted to know. Conner had been wondering about something ever since the ugly scene with Jeff at Rocky’s Forbidden City.

Finally, Conner asked, “Would you have broken my fingers if Rocky said to?”

Otis sighed, considered before answering. “Rocky and I go way back. He helped me when nobody else would, when I had no family, no friends, nothing. He gave me a chance when all my other chances was used up. What else a black man my size gonna do? Be a bouncer in some half-assed nightclub. Rocky thought I was worth more than that. He trusted me. I owe Rocky everything. I’m not sure you know what that means, to owe somebody everything, but take my word for it, it’s important. It means something.” Otis shrugged; the half smile had drained from his face. “So yeah, I’d have busted you up. I wouldn’t have enjoyed it. But I’d do it if Rocky said.”

Conner let it hang there. They didn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride.

From his shrubby hiding place, Itchi watched Samson and the big black guy leave in the old automobile. He waited a moment, watched the tow truck driver attach the chains to the Plymouth. Itchi looked around, determined he and the driver were alone and isolated.

He stood and walked fast straight for him. The driver looked up at the last minute, mild surprise across his face.

“Hey, what are you doing-”

Itchi chopped open-handed across the man’s throat. The driver’s eyes bugged. He choked, gasped for air, clutched at his throat. Itchi grabbed the driver’s head and chin, jerked sharply. The driver’s neck snapped, eyes rolling back in his head.

Itchi caught the limp body, went through the pockets, and found the truck keys before letting it drop. He unchained the Plymouth and planted a solid kick on the bumper.

The axles creaked. The car rolled forward. It slowly slipped back into the river, rolled and rolled until it went under. A single air bubble floated to the top and popped.

Itchi jumped into the tow truck and cranked the engine. He found his way to the road, engine roaring as he poured on the speed. In a few minutes the yellow Lincoln was in sight.

Itchi took out his cell phone and dialed Toshi. “Boss? Yeah, it’s me. I’m on Samson’s tail right now. No problems at all. It’s all going like clockwork.”

Otis dropped Conner off at Playerz.

“You’re not coming in?” Conner asked.

“Shit,” Otis said. “My ride smells like swamp water. I’m heading to the car wash.” He drove away.

They knew Conner at Playerz by now and waved him through. Conner passed Pete on the forklift. He was reading a Mad magazine, the wicked little submachine gun still in his lap. Pete barely glanced at Conner, nodded him on back to Rocky’s office. The word seemed to have gone out: Conner Samson was okay.

Conner knocked once, went inside. “Rocky, I got a proposition for you.”

“You’re all wet,” Rocky said.

“Yeah. Long story.”

Rocky picked up his phone, pushed a button. “Julie, can we get a couple of towels in here? Thanks, dear.”

Conner opened the garbage bag, took out the DiMaggio card and the letter from Marilyn Monroe, set them on Rocky’s desk like he was presenting him with the Holy Grail and an Academy Award.

Rocky donned a pair of half glasses, squinted at the letter, then the card. The glasses added twenty years to his face. “Now, this is interesting?” Rocky turned the card over in his hands. “What is it?”

“A baseball card and a letter from Marilyn Monroe.”

“Is that something good?”

Conner explained. He told Rocky about the autographs, the insured value, the possibility of a collector out there willing to pay big money. It felt like a sales pitch, and that was okay to Conner. Conner Samson possessed this thing that so many other people were looking for. It felt good to be lead dog for a change.

Rocky picked up the phone, asked the person on the other end to get him his “associate in Chicago.”

Rocky put his hand over the phone, handed Conner a folded piece of paper. “We just ripped off a shipment from the Gap. Go find some dry clothes.” Rocky turned his attention back to the phone. “Sal? Yes, good to speak with you too. Listen, I have a specialty item, some baseball memorabilia and a Hollywood thing. Is that one phone call or two?”

Conner left the office, closed the door behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief, didn’t realize until now how tense he’d been. Rocky would know what to do, whom to call. Conner felt strangely comfortable leaving it all in the hands of the odd crime boss.

He ran into Julie on the way down the hall. She was thin and pale, pencils stuck in her wad of dishwater hair. She handed Conner two clean towels. He thanked her, and she went back to work.

The map led Conner through the warehouse maze, like a Super Wal-Mart, a mall, and a flea market all rolled into one. Except everything was hot. Otis had told him people had the wrong idea about criminal supergeniuses. People thought they were like James Bond villains, lasers from outer space and nuclear bomb extortion. Nope. The real criminal masterminds were born administrators, superbureaucrats. Rocky Big had to handle state and local officials, cook the books, duck the tax man, hide cash flow, organize travel schedules, trucks coming and going at all hours of the day and night. It was a logistical, pencil-pushing nightmare and Rocky Big was the best. The ebb and flow of stolen goods in and out of Rocky’s warehouse was a magnificent, criminal ballet.