Broken Prey

referring to a razor strop. Maybe he’d said strap and Ruffe had misspelled it.
    Back to the dictionary: strop meant “a strip of leather for sharpening razors.” Huh. Again, the precision. He’d have to talk to Ruffe . . .
     
    HE FINISHED DRESSING , picking out a good-looking Versace blue suit and tie, a subtle Hermès necktie, blue over-the-calf socks with small coffee-colored comets woven into them, and soft black Italian loafers. He looked at himself in a mirror, took a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket, and tried a smile.
    Fuckin’ Jack Nicholson, he thought. Except taller and better-looking. He tried to whistle going out the door, but his face hurt when he pursed his lips.
     
    RUFFE IGNACE TOOK two big phone calls.
    The first was from Davenport. Ignace was sitting in the basement of Minneapolis’s scrofulous City Hall, reading about the New York Yankees—his team—when his phone rang.
    Davenport: “You sure he said ‘forlorn hope’ and ‘razor strop’?”
    “Hey. How many times do I explain the word verbatim to you?” Ignace asked. “That’s what he said.”
    “But maybe he said strap, instead of strop.”
    “Sounded like strop to me. I don’t even know what a strop is. It’s like a sharpening stone, right?”
    “No, it’s more like a strap.”
    “Strop, strap, what the fuck are you talking about?”
     
    THEN LATER , the second call.
    Ignace was walking along Sixth Street, heading back toward the paper, playing Ruffe’s Radio: Thought I was a bum, shit, this jacket cost four hundred bucks. Wonder why they put the street cars right down the middle of the main street so they screw up traffic for the whole town? Look at that skinny chick, wonder if she’s bulimic? She looks bulimic, looks sour . . . wonder how much Macallister makes, can’t be two grand, can it? Maybe I oughta ask for another hundred, my review’s when, when was the last one? March? Gotawaytogo. . .
    Like that. He was mumbling to himself, standing on a street corner, watching the WALK light when his cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and slipped it open:
    “Ignace.”
    “Roo-Fay . . . it’s me.” The coarse whisper. No question.
    “Mr. Pope? Is that you?” Ignace had a reporter’s notebook stuffed in his back pocket. He fished it out, walked sideways to the wall of the nearest building, and sat down on the sidewalk, the cell phone trapped between his right shoulder and ear. “How’d you get my number?”
    “I called at the newspaper and told them I was a cop and it was an emergency and they gave me your cell phone. And I was telling the truth: it’s an emergency, all right.”
    “What?”
    Pope laughed. “I got her.”
    Ignace didn’t make the connection for a second, and again said, “What?”
    “I got her. The next one.”
    Ignace started taking notes. “Who?”
    “Carlita Peterson. I been watching her for three weeks. Got her in my car and I’m leaving right now, taking her up the thirty-five right into the deep woods. Know where’s this old empty cabin up there, you can camp out.”
    “Ah, Jesus, man, you gotta stop. You gotta stop . . .”
    “I ain’t gonna stop, Roo-Fay,” the whisperer said. “Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna spend a little time with her tonight, take the starch out of her. Then I’m gonna kick her out in the woods tomorrow, give her a one-minute head start—I won’t look, either, I won’t look which way she runs. Then I’m going out with my razor. Maybe she’ll get away.”
    “Ah, Jesus . . .”
    “My other woman drove me to it; I been walking around with a hard-on for three days, the way she talks, she just drives me to distraction. But this’ll fix it for a while. You know how, after you fuck, you don’t have to fuck again for a while? Well, after I take this next one, I won’t have to worry about taking my woman.”
    “Ah, jeez . . .”
    “Hey, don’t tell me it don’t give you a little tingle in the back of your balls, thinking about it.”
    “Listen, Mr. Pope. Please. Let her go. C’mon, you gotta get help, please let her go. I’ll write whatever you want, I’ll write your whole story, whatever you want to say, if you just let her go . . .”
    “Hey, fuck you, Roo-Fay. Too late for all of that shit. But I’ll tell you what—you got the rest of today and all of tonight to find us. I won’t do her until tomorrow morning; but that’s as long as I’m gonna go. You tell that to the