Chosen Prey

any. Whoever had put the body here had known what he was doing. The grave had simply been a bit too shallow, and a dog had found it, or coyotes. And then the hunter had come by, scouting for bird sign.
    And that was all, except the sound of the wind in the trees.
    On the way back to town, he called Marcy to tell her that he’d be running around town for a couple of hours, talking to his people, picking up bits and pieces.
    “Afraid to leave them on their own?”
    “I need time to think,” he said. “I’m a little worried about giving those drawings to the movie people, but I can’t see any other seams in the thing.”
    “That’s probably our best bet,” Marcy agreed.
     
    L UCAS SPENT THE rest of the morning and early afternoon roaming the metropolitan area, working his personal network, thinking about the Aronson murder and about the possibility of losing his job and maybe having a baby or two. He touched the hickey on his neck.
    Susan Kelly was a pretty woman, but she wasn’t at Hot Feet Jazz Dance. Her dog was having a breast cancer operation and she wanted to be there when it woke up, her assistant said. Lori, the assistant, was also a pretty woman, if a little over the edge with the dancing. She grabbed one of the brass rails that lined one wall of the polished-maple practice floor, dropped her head to the floor, and told Lucas from the upside-down position that a creep named Morris Ware was back in action, looking for little girls to pose for his camera.
    “Wonderful. Glad to hear it,” Lucas said.
    “You ought to chain-whip him,” Lori said.
    Ben Lincoln at Ben’s Darts & Cues told him that two Harley clubs, the Asia Vets and the Leather Fags, were planning a paint-ball war on a farm south of Shakopee, and it could get rough; some of the Leather Fags were reportedly replacing the paint balls with ball bearings. Larry Hammett at Trax Freight said that somebody had dumped a ton of speed on local over-the-road drivers: “Half the guys on the road are flying; I won’t let my daughter take the car out of the fuckin’ driveway.”
    Lannie Harrison at Tulip’s Hose Couplings and Fittings told him a joke: “Guy walks into a bar and orders a scotch-and-soda. The bartender brings it over, puts it on the bar, and walks away. Just as the guy is reaching for the drink, this little teeny monkey runs out from under the bar, lifts up his dick, dips his balls into the scotch-and-soda, then runs back under the bar. The guy is astounded. He calls the bartender over and says, ‘Hey. This little monkey just ran out from under the bar . . .’ And the bartender says, ‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. Let me get you another drink.’ So he brings over a fresh scotch-and-soda and walks away with the old one. Just as the guy is reaching for the fresh drink, this little monkey runs out from under the bar . . .”
    “Lifts up his dick and dunks his balls in the scotch-and-soda,” Lucas said.
    “Yeah? You heard this?”
    “No, but I’m familiar with the form,” Lucas said.
    “Okay. So the guy calls the bartender back and said, ‘The little monkey . . .’ And the bartender says, ‘Listen, pal, you gotta watch your drink. I’ll give you one more fresh one.’ And the guy says, ‘Well, what’s the story about the goddamn monkey?’ The bartender says, ‘I only worked here a couple of weeks. But you see that piano player over there?’ He points to a guy at a piano and says, ‘He’s worked here for twenty years. He can probably tell you about it.’ So the guy gets his new drink and goes over to the piano player and says, ‘You know that little teeny monkey that runs out from under the bar and lifts up his dick and dips his balls in your scotch-and-soda?’
    “The piano player says, ‘No, but if you hum a couple of bars, I can probably fake it.’ ”
     
    A T A S OUTHSIDE sweatshop, where illegal Latinos embroidered nylon athletic jackets with team insignias, Jan Murphy told him that a noted University of Minnesota athlete had gotten a job at a package-delivery service. Unlike the other messengers, who drove small white Fords, the athlete’s company car was a Porsche C4.
    “A kid’s gotta have wheels, this day and age. And who knows, maybe he only handles special deliveries, really important stuff,” Lucas said.
    “Oh, that’s right,” Murphy said, pointing a pistol finger at him, “Mr. Four-Year Letterman, right? Hockey? I’d forgotten.”
    At The Diamond Collective, Sandy Hu told