Easy Prey

dance.”
    “I wouldn’t have no more suspected him than I would’ve suspected a . . . a . . . banjo player or something.”
    “Coulda been worse,” Del said.
    “Yeah? How?”
    “She could’ve run off with one of the Eagles.”
    The counterman didn’t laugh. He shook his head and shuffled back to the counter. Del looked at Lucas and said, “Love problems.”
     
 
LUCAS DIDN’T WANT to hear that. He said, “Did you find Loring?”
    “Yeah, he’ll be here anytime. Did you stop at the hospital?”
    “She looks like shit, Del. Her skin’s the color of a piece of paper.”
    “She’s gonna make it,” Del said.
    “She had about a million units of blood. It was running out of her as fast as they could put it in.”
    “Look, they stopped the bleeding, right? That’s most of it with that kind of wound. Stop the bleeding.”
    “Yeah.” Suddenly Lucas felt tired. He hadn’t gotten much sleep since he’d left his cabin three days before, and now it jumped him. And he felt greasy, he thought. Literally greasy, like he needed to shower, right now. He took a sip of the coffee. It lived up to its billing: mediocre. “This isn’t fun anymore.”
    “Was it ever?”
    “Of course it was,” Lucas said. “When all we had was Alie’e and Lansing—all the goddamn media pouring in, all the attention, everybody running around—that was kind of fun.”
    “I’d pick a different word.”
    “Fuck it—it was fun. You were enjoying yourself, Del. So was I. So were the mayor and Rose Marie. Right up to when Marcy was shot.”
    “Yeah, well . . .”
    They were talking aimlessly, pointlessly, when Loring came in. Loring was a very large man; nature had given him square teeth and a naturally mean expression. He was wearing a black raincoat over jeans and brown penny loafers. He got a coffee cup from the counterman, slid in next to Del, poured a cup of coffee, and stirred in a couple of ounces of sugar.
    “Pat Kelly,” Lucas said.
    “Yeah. He’s got that three-stall garage. He’s been doing a game or two every month. Supposed to be a nice layout,” Loring said.
    “You been inside?” Lucas asked.
    “No, but I heard about it. There’s a back door, then some stairs, and a door at the top of the stairs. There’s a toilet up there, and a refrigerator and a Coke machine full of cold drinks and beer. Big table. Kelly deals.”
    “Security?”
    “Depends. I asked, but the guy I asked said he didn’t see any,” Loring said. “That was small stakes, two or three grand. If Del’s right about this one, and they got seven guys playing, then there’s a hundred and seventy-five thousand in cash on the table. So—probably security.”
    “Don’t want to go walking into some asshole with an AK,” Del said. He yawned, and poured out the last of the coffee.
    “Kelly’s too smart for that,” Loring said. “His security would be good.”
    “Hate bad security,” Del said. “Some goddamned workout fag with a baseball hat and a gun.”
    “That’s why I wanted Loring,” Lucas said. “We can stand behind him.”
    “I thought it was my brains, and it was my body all the time,” Loring said.
     
 
PAT KELLY’S HOUSE was on a narrow tree-lined street where the cheapest hovel went for a half-million dollars. His house was shingled with cedar; the cedar had turned old and dark over the years. One yellow light was visible through the front-room curtains, a lamp with a white shade and fringe. A double driveway led toward the back, where a hulking garage peeked out from behind the house. The garage had been built in the same style as the house, but the shingles were paler, redder. New. The only light near the garage was on the house’s back porch—a yellow light, the kind that’s supposed to discourage insects.
    They parked their cars down the street, hooked up, and walked toward the drive. “No light in the garage,” Lucas said.
    “Made that way,” Loring said. “No windows. You drive by, it looks like anything but a casino.”
    “Looks like a rich dude’s house,” Del said.
    They turned up the drive, shoulder to shoulder, and unconsciously began spreading out, and each of them touched his own hip as they walked, feeling for the tender comfort of a gun. They were passing the house when a voice in the dark called, “Can we help you gentlemen?”
    “Police officers,” Lucas said toward the voice. How many was “we”? No way to tell. “We’re looking for a particular player.”
    “Do you have