They strolled around the port side, ending up by the pounding stern-wheel, a popular spot for idlers. They could watch Tennessee vanishing behind them, the foaming wake remaining like a chalk line on the muddy surface of the Sippi, attracting the predatory birds.
But it was the interior of the paddle steamer that was most impressive.
“It is an odd thought,” Doc said, “but it reminds me curiously of a high-born and enormously wealthy and stylish member of the decadent Russian court, fallen on hard times. Just a little frayed and tawdry around the edges, despite all the glitter and brilliance that catches the eye.”
Ryan understood what the old man was saying.
The Golden Eagle obviously deserved her reputation as the grandest and most expensive of all the stern-wheelers that plied the big river.
Everywhere was luxury.
The luncheon was mainly an extensive buffet with iced melon and wafer-thin sliced salmon, roast beef, tenderloin of lamb, rainbow trout smoked to perfection, breast of duck with wild cherries, quail and pigeon, crystal bowls of mixed vegetables, with a variety of delicate sauces, and a variety of sorbets and ice creams in all flavors imaginable.
They all went back twice with loaded plates, to their reserved table with printed name cards Ryan Cawdor And Party. Silver-plated cutlery and good quality china bore the name of the vessel and a small reproduction of it on every plate and cup and saucer and bowl. The same picture of the Golden Eagle was engraved on all of the glassware.
Though the food was included in the overall cost of the tickets, the waiters and servers reminded all the passengers that wines and spirits had to be paid for.
And they weren’t cheap.
But that didn’t stop the assorted high rollers who dined in the Gold and Silver restaurants from imbibing staggering quantities of liquor.
After lunch the companions retired to one of the gambling saloons to sit in brocaded armchairs and drank real coffee from tiny porcelain cups, included in the price of the tickets.
Though the long trip upriver had been going on only for about six hours, the gamblers, of both sexes, were already locked into their pleasures.
Roulette wheels spun silently, the white balls rattling and bouncing, the faint slap of cards and the muttered instructions of the croupiers sounding like acolytes of some obscure religious ceremony.
“None of them look like having fun,” Jak commented. “Like convention morticians.”
Ryan sat back, watching the surface of the dark coffee vibrate gently, like everything on board the boat, vibrating, taking its time from the ceaseless turning of the giant paddle wheel at the stern.
Krysty laid her hand on his arm. “Feel good, lover? Relaxing awhile?”
“Yeah. Can’t deny it’s a classy operation. And I can’t deny that I’m already enjoying taking it easy. Last few weeks have been ice on granite for me.”
“Me, too. The worry when we thought that we weren’t going to be able to find” Krysty’s voice cracked, and she fell silent. Ryan glanced sideways, seeing a single tear glistening in the corner of one of her brilliant emerald eyes.
He laid the empty cup on the table in front of them and squeezed her hand. “That’s over now,” he said quietly. “And we’re together again.”
Doc was sitting in a sunlit chair, his lids drooping, gnarled hands unfolding around the lion’s-head hilt of the ebony swordstick.
“Someone’s ready for an afternoon sleep,” Mildred commented. “Can’t say I blame him. Something about the rhythm of the boat that lulls you along.”
She patted J.B on the arm, making him start. “How do you feel about the idea of retiring to our cabin for an hour or so, John?”
The Armorer blinked, pushing back the brim of his fedora. “I’m not going to be able to stand the pace of another three days upriver, then all the way back again. Too much high living. Just not used to it.”
Ryan grinned. “Don’t have to come all the way back to Twin Forks. Been looking at the map. We can leave at Crosstown and then cut across country back toward the redoubt in Tennessee. Or travel halfway south again. Might make it easier.”