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Show Flying - 56 "Don't you sweat Biggs, man," says Arkwright. "That boy ain't never going to catch us. We're a little too cool for him." "The back steps creak," explains O'Connell. "Gives us enough time to take cover," says Thompson. John Henry defies the odds that are always with the dealer and in about twenty minutes runs his nickel up to sixty cents. He is sitting there with a little pile of silver and two cards in front of him when the door swings open and discloses the angry face of Lieutenant Biggs staring at him eye to eye, at floor level. He has not bothered to use the steps that creak. John Henry can already feel the shotgun butts and hoe handles driving into his crotch and kidneys. Sees himself hanging spread-eagled on the barbed-wire of the stockade fence, shot in the back in a desperate attempt to break out. "Out," says Biggs, and lines them up at attention beside the truck. He looks at them for a very long time without saying anything. Sweat spreads into John Henry's starched fatigues and fear eats into his soul. Biggs looks at them and taps his leg gently with his swagger-stick. All around them work details have slowed and about half of C company is watching, peering around trucks, staring out the windows of nearby vans. looking over their shoulder as they walk by picking up |