But Susan had seen him sitting at the bar before lunch. And as she took her place on one of the wooden stools, she thought she noticed a slight slur to his speech. Was the dealer inebriated? If so, that could make a difference. She resolved to keep a careful eye on him.
One man was already seated to her right, and it wasn’t long before three more bellied up to the table. The first few hands went smoothly enough. Susan won three times out of five and felt good about it. Meanwhile, one of the men won four times.
His name was Cecil, and he looked ordinary enough, except for one thing. In a time and place when it was very difficult to stay clean, much less pursue the finer points of good grooming, Cecil’s long, slim fingers were manicured. In addition to that his fingernails were longer than Susan’s, filed to points, and appeared to be quite sharp.
Was that a coincidence? Or was Cecil using his fingernails to mark cards? If so, that would enable him to know the value of at least some of the cards that were facedown in front of the dealer. But card marking was a well-known method of cheating at blackjack, so it seemed logical to suppose that the dealer would be watching for it.
But as Susan watched the dealer, and saw the slightly glassy look in his eyes, she was reminded of her earlier observation. If he wasn’t drunk, he was impaired, and it appeared that Cecil was taking full advantage of that fact.
So what to do? Make a public accusation, which could lead to an ugly confrontation? Or watch the cards and try to figure out which ones had been scratched? That would be dishonest, of course. But Susan figured that anyone stupid enough to deal blackjack while drunk was going to get cleaned out anyway.
So she followed the cards, came to the conclusion that all of the aces were marked, and made her bets accordingly. Not with absolute consistency, which would have been enough to tip off the drunk, but often enough to rake in more money than she would have otherwise.
Cecil had heavy brows, a beak-shaped nose, and thin lips. They were turned down disapprovingly, and Susan could tell that he was on to her. But he couldn’t complain without revealing his own perfidy, so the card shark was forced to settle for less, and share his ill-gotten gains.
But not for long. Once Susan had what she judged to be enough, she excused herself rather than wait around to see Cecil clean the dealer out. Or get shot. Whichever came first. The 112 tokens won while playing blackjack brought her total winnings up to 338 tokens, minus the cost of lunch.
It was time to go shopping.
Capelli was going to fight El Diablo because Master Jack wanted to punish him for trying to escape. But there was a second reason as well—and that was to keep the rest of the donkeys living in fear. So they were allowed to watch from one of the animal pens that fronted the stands as Bam-Bam and Inkskin used their stick-mounted cattle prods to drive El Diablo out into the circular arena. The Hybrid screeched loudly, which was sufficient to claim the audience’s attention as Capelli was forced into the ring by blows from Alfonso’s whip. The runner was naked except for a loincloth, because as Bam-Bam put it, “The audience wants to see some blood.”
Capelli heard the roar of applause and wondered who the onlookers were rooting for. Him? Or El Diablo? They were seated all around the circular arena, but their faces were a blur, as Ringmaster Jack came out to address the crowd.
“Laaadies and gentlemen! Children of all ages! Tonight you are about to witness a battle between a human, armed only with a knife, and the Chimeran Steelhead we call El Diablo. If the human wins, he will be freed. And if El Diablo wins, he will eat well tonight! Now, settle back, and enjoy the show.”
As Jack left the ring, Inkskin was there to give Capelli the single-edged knife. The blade was about six inches long. “Maybe you should slit your throat with it,” the tattooed man suggested, as he backed away. “The whole thing would be less painful that way.”
Capelli tested the blade with his thumb, was pleased to discover that it was quite sharp, and turned his back to the eight-foot-high wall that surrounded the bowl. He estimated that the arena was about seventy-five feet across. The dirt under his bare feet had clearly been brought in from outside and there were some sizable rocks mixed in with it. A cluster of lights dangled from above and Capelli had to keep his chin down to avoid the glare. He was frightened, but alert, with blood pounding in his ears.
El Diablo was shuffling sideways. The Chimera had a good six inches on Capelli. In addition to six gold-colored eyes, and a reptilian jaw that could open extremely wide, the Steelhead had an animal-like muscularity. Its reactions were quick, it had the benefit of experience, and it was hungry. All of which were advantages.
Could the stink draw on knowledge possessed by the Chimeran hive-mind? Or call on it for help? Maybe, but Capelli didn’t think so, because if the hive-mind knew about El Diablo’s situation, why hadn’t a force of Hybrids been sent to destroy the circus weeks or months before?
No, Capelli figured El Diablo was on its own for some reason, just as he was. So what to do? He could throw the knife, of course. But the ex-soldier knew that the best throwing knives were double-edged, which his wasn’t. And accurate knife throwing requires lots of practice and a good eye. If the thrower isn’t the correct distance from the target, the weapon can easily hit hilt-first.
No, Capelli reasoned, as some in the crowd booed the lack of action, throwing was out of the question. That suggested stabbing or cutting. Except that according to Bar and the rest of the donkeys, none of the previous attempts to slice and dice El Diablo had been successful. Which was why the big Hybrid was not only alive but seemingly fearless.
The beast extended both arms and charged.
Fortunately, Capelli had a plan. And that was to forgo the sort of offensive strategies used by previous combatants in favor of what he’d been taught by a burly hand-to-hand combat instructor named Sergeant Major Brierson. Forget anything you think you know about knife fighting, the noncom had advised. Because most, if not all of it, is bullshit. I’m going to turn you into street surgeons, which is to say people who make cuts with a very specific purpose in mind, and that’s to disable your opponent.
So as El Diablo surged forward, Capelli chose his primary targets—which were the muscles on the top surface of the Steelhead’s sinewy forearms. Specifically the extensors that enabled the stink to uncurl and extend its bony fingers. The challenge being to stay out of the sort of death hug that ended Nix’s life.
Time seemed to slow, and Capelli was only vaguely aware of the crowd’s roar, as he ran straight at the Hybrid. Then, at the very last second, he made a grab for the stink’s right arm, got hold of the creature’s wrist, and brought the blade down. It sliced through skin, muscle, and tendons before grating on bone.
As El Diablo screamed in pain, and brought its left arm inwards, Capelli dropped to the dirt and rolled away. Having missed the opportunity to grab its opponent, the Steelhead paused to examine the bloody injury. After three attempts to straighten its fingers it uttered a grunt, turned towards Capelli, and hissed.
The crowd was in a complete uproar by that time and Susan, who had a front-row seat, was staring at the man in the ring. Especially the large tattoo on his back. It included the capital letters “SRPA” and the likeness of a Hybrid skull wearing an Army helmet. The last time she had seen such a tattoo was on her brother’s half-naked body as members of Freedom First attempted to beat information out of him. Was this man from Nathan’s top-secret unit? Yes, she thought he was.