Chapter Eleven

 

 

 

The ramshackle craft coasted to a stop about twenty feet from the muddy shore of the river, the oars working slowly to keep it in position against the tug of the water. The person at the helm was so shrouded in rags and furs that it was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman. Most of the other crew members had long beards. All wore a similar assortment of filthy clothes.

 

There was no obvious threat, and Ryan began to relax a little.

 

"You want the ferry?" roared the person at the tiller, revealed as a tall, burly man. He threw back his hood, which looked like the pelt of a dog, and called out again. "You want to cross?"

 

Died glanced at Ryan, who nodded his agreement. "Yeah."

 

"All of you?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"I know you. One of the Bronx gangs, near the old baseball ground. Falcons?"

 

"Hawks. I'm the pres. Name's Dred."

 

The raft was beginning to turn slowly, caught in a whirling eddy of the river.

 

"Back water, you brainless cockheads! Hold her steady." His attention returning to Dred. "Who's the others?"

 

"Outies. Most old."

 

"Got some pretty blasters there."

 

Dred grinned and half bowed. "Sure have. You carry us over to Mattan?"

 

"What we're here for."

 

"Usual charge?"

 

"Wait on. Hold her steady, you bastard sons of gaudy bitches!"

 

The man left the tiller and picked his way forward, exchanging words with some of his crew as he went. Several of them glanced toward the shore, looking along the line of would-be passengers.

 

Ryan half turned toward J.B., making a small movement of his right thumb, an old signal from their days with the Trader, which meant things were looking suspicious.

 

"Who are they?" Mildred tapped Dred on the arm, making him jump.

 

"Told you. Family. Name's York. That's Boss at the tiller. Rest are his sons and nephews and all. Boss York's got more kin than anyone in the whole of Newyork."

 

"And you reckon they can be trusted, do you, Dred?"

 

"Yeah, yeah. Sure."

 

Retha was shuffling her feet in the mud, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of the long rubber waders as though she were readying herself to slide them off.

 

Krysty caught Ryan's eye, biting her lip. He repeated the signal with his thumb, warning her that he shared her unease.

 

Boss York returned to the steering of the raft, calling out an unintelligible order to his crew. One bank of oars began to pull forward while the other rowed backward, spinning the ungainly boat neatly on its own axis, bringing it in closer to the rubble-strewn shore.

 

"Same as usual, Hawk!" he shouted, a red-lipped smile splitting the expanse of facial hair.

 

As they moved to climb aboard, Dred gripped Ryan by the elbow, pushing his face close. His rancid breath brushed against Ryan's face. "Whatever happens, don't cause trouble," he whispered.

 

Ryan counted fifteen on the raft, including a couple of young children who sat in the bottom between the men's feet.

 

The important thing was that there weren't many firearms in sight, though everyone was festooned with a variety of blades. Boss York, wearing a battered carbine with a sawed-off barrel at his hip, beckoned them to a double row of seats directly in front of the tiller.

 

"Keep the balance!" he bellowed. "Everyone bug-snug? Then give way both."

 

The Harlem River was less than a half mile across, running slow and clear. Peering over the side, Ryan could see innumerable fish moving below them, some like sinuous eels, about fifteen feet in length.

 

When they were a hundred yards or so out in the middle, Boss York pointed to Retha. "Time we started with the toll for the passage. Strip down, slut."

 

Ryan felt a faint prickling at his nape, and the pulse at his temple began to throb. Even though he knew it was ready, he looked casually down at the G-12, in his lap, checking that it was set on full-auto.

 

It was.

 

Retha kicked off the long boots and unbuttoned a pair of ragged jeans. She was wearing no underclothes.

 

"And your tits," Boss York ordered. "Harve, come up here and take the tiller."

 

Retha peeled off her sweater and the ancient T-shirt underneath. The cold wind made the nipples on her small breasts harden. Ryan looked the other way, out across the water toward the shore of Mattan.

 

One of the great lessons the Trader had taught him was that you didn't interfere in other people's business unless you had to. Right now there were two options. One was to ignore what was going to happen to Retha and make the ferry crossing safely. It was obvious the girl was used to this.

 

The second option was to take on more than a dozen men on a raft in the middle of a wide river. Ryan was fairly confident in his own ability as a swimmer, but he wasn't sure about the others. The second option became even less attractive as he glimpsed a triangular fin cut the surface only a hundred yards away from them.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan was aware of the pale, dirt-streaked body of the girl, kneeling submissively in front of the huge man. Her mouth opened and she lifted her hands as if in prayer. Boss York pushed his hips forward at her face.

 

"Use your teeth and I'll snap your fucking neck," he growled.

 

The oars rose and fell, moving in a ragged rhythm, carrying them south and west away from the Bronx. Nobody spoke.

 

The man was breathing harder and faster, finally gasping out his satisfaction. Retha coughed and choked, but he grabbed her by the neck. "Don't spit it out, bitch."

 

Ryan could feel his own pulse starting to beat faster, anger closing down his mind to what was sensible and what was crassly stupid.

 

"Who's next? Come on boys. Wet the deck and pass it around! Best go double and triple. Slut'll take what we give her."

 

Retha knelt in the bottom of the raft, wiping her mouth. Boss York replaced the man at the tiller, who made his way toward the girl, unzipping his pants as he went. One of the others shipped his oar and started back.

 

"Ryan," Krysty said, her voice shaking with emotion.

 

"No," he whispered in a voice strung so tight that he hardly recognized it.

 

The two members of the York family started in on the girl, both encouraging the other, betting jack on who came first.

 

Ryan suddenly realized that Boss York was deliberately steering a tacking course, running the raft in a series of lateral cuts, making their journey three times the length it needed to be.

 

"How come you aren't going straight?" he called.

 

"How come you old outies don't shut your triple-stupe mouths?" The witty riposte brought bellows of laughter from the crew.

 

"Gotta go with the current, outie!" one of the children shouted.

 

"But you're right, One-eye. It's taking a long time. Hard work with all you bastards on here. Too fucking many. Think we'll have to up the price some."

 

Dred's face was like wind-carved bone. "We done a deal, Boss," he protested.

 

"That was then and this is now."

 

"What's the" Dred began.

 

"Triple price, friends. Redhead slut and black slut. Here and now."

 

"No," Ryan stated flatly.