“I’m in luck.” Terabon laughed with relief. 220
Just that way the Mississippi River’s narrow channel brought the River Prophet and the river reporter together. Terabon went up town and bought some clothes, some writing paper, a big blank notebook, and a bottle of fountain-pen ink. With that outfit he returned on board, and a delivery car brought down his share of things to eat.
The doctor said Prebol ought to go into the hospital for at least a week, and Terabon found Prebol’s pirate friends, hidden up the slough on their boat, not venturing to go out except at night. They took the little red shanty-boat up the slough, and Prebol went to the hospital.
Rasba, frankly curious about the man who wrote for newspapers for a living, listened to accounts of an odd and entertaining occupation. He asked about the Palura shooting which everyone was talking about, and when Terabon described it as he had witnessed it, Rasba shook his head.
“Now they’ll close up that big market of sin?” he asked. “They’ve all scattered around.”
“Yes, and they scattered with my skiff, too, and probably robbed Carline of his boat––”
“Carline! You know him?”
“I came down with him from Yankee Bar, and we went up to Palura’s together. I lost him in the shuffle, when the big cop killed Palura.”
“And Mrs. Carline, Nelia Crele?” Rasba demanded.
“Why—I—they said she’d landed in. She’s gone, too––”