I had two computers on the boat. One was a big top-of-the-line 486 with enough hard-disk space to store the complete denials of Richard M. Nixon. That machine ran off a portable generator. I also carried a laptop with built-in hard-disk and telephone modem. Every day, at some point, we’d pass a town where we could walk over the levee and call Bobby for another data dump. In the evenings we’d sift through the new stuff scrolling up the screen.

On the sixth day, late in the afternoon, we motored into Memphis and tied up at the docks below the city front. As I paid the slip rental, John Smith walked down the levee wall.

He politely checked out LuEllen - most of her was visible under a ridiculously small two-piece bathing suit - and said, “Ooo.”

“How’s Marvel?” I asked. He grinned sheepishly, and I introduced LuEllen.

“I got us rooms in a hotel just over the levee,” he said. “Marvel called an hour ago and said she and Harold would be here” - he looked at his watch - “just about now.”

“Fine,” I said. I glanced at LuEllen. “Why don’t you get some clothes on? We’ll go up and introduce you to the others.”

While we waited for her to change, John said, “Byron Lund came down to see me.”

I nodded. Lund was my Chicago dealer. “He said he would, but I haven’t heard from him. Is he interested?”

“He’s talking about a fall show. He took a bunch of stuff with him

” A shyness crept over his face.

“Hey. Congratulations.”

“Yeah. You know, I wanted to tell you

” He looked as though he were going to dig his toe into the deck. “You know, thanks, motherfucker.”

LuEllen and I were sitting on the hotel bed, and John was in a side chair, when Marvel and Harold arrived. John let them in.

“Whoa,” LuEllen muttered. Marvel was wearing a V neck T-shirt and pleated black slacks. The whole outfit probably cost twenty dollars. On her it looked like a thousand-dollar Rodeo Drive production. She was carrying a white paper bag.

“Isn’t she-” I started.

“She sure is,” LuEllen said under her breath.

Harold was right behind Marvel, uncomfortable in a brown suit, white shirt, and brown-striped polyester tie. He looked like a magazine salesman assigned to the proletariat.

“Marvel, Harold,” John said. “You know Kidd. That’s LuEllen on the bed.”

“LuEllen what?” Marvel asked, looking her over.

“Uh, just LuEllen,” John said.

Marvel nodded. “All right,” she said, and turned to me. “Did you figure something out?”

I’d told them bits and pieces on the telephone but saved the overall proposal for the Memphis meeting. If they turned me down, I’d take the Fanny to New Orleans with no regrets. Because whether or not they wanted the whole thing, they were going to get at least part of it