Mortal Prey

and Malone crossed into the cool of the hotel.
    “But we got a deal with old man Mejia, which is the main thing,” Mallard said. “If he decides to put a price on her head, Rinker’s gonna have a hard time getting any help from the underground. Word’ll get around.”
    “You have more faith than I do,” Lucas said. “Most of the fuckin’ underground can’t read a TV Guide.”
    “I’m not talking about the assholes on the corner,” Mallard said. “I’m talking about the gun dealers and the moneymen and the document people. They’ll hear. She’ll have trouble moving.”
    Lucas shook his head; he disagreed. The disagreement was fundamental, and generally divided all cops everywhere: Some believed in underlying social order, in which messages got relayed and people kept an eye out, and bosses reigned and buttonmen were ready to take orders, and a network connected them. And some cops believed in social chaos, in which most events occurred through accident, coincidence, stupidity, cupidity, and luck, both good and bad. Lucas fell into the chaos camp, while Mallard and Malone believed in the underlying order.
     
    WHEN WORKING OUT the trip to Mexico, Mallard had allowed extra time for a certain inefficiency; but Martin had been so ruthlessly efficient that they were done at two o’clock, mission more or less accomplished.
    “Swim?” Malone asked.
    “Too hot,” Lucas said. “I’m gonna get a beer at the bar, then a couple of papers, and lay up in my room with the air-conditioning on. Maybe swim before dinner?”
    “Not bad,” Mallard said. “I’m for a beer or two.”
    “I’ll join you,” Malone said. “But I gotta run up to my room for a minute.”
    Lucas and Mallard stopped at the hotel gift shop and bought copies of the Times and the Wall Street Journal, carried the papers into the cool of the bar, got a booth, and ordered Dos Equis.
    “You read the editorials?” Mallard asked.
    “Yeah, though I know it’s wrong,” Lucas said.
    “You want the Fascists or the Commies?”
    Lucas considered for a moment, then said, “Fascists,” and Mallard passed him the Journal. They both opened to the editorial pages, looked over the offerings, and then Lucas asked, casually, “How bad you got it for Malone?”
    Mallard’s newspaper folded down. He looked at Lucas for a long moment, then sighed and said, “Is it that obvious?”
    “Yup,” Lucas said.
    “The goddamn woman drives me crazy. I know you guys…” He didn’t say it—that Lucas and Malone once spent a happy weekend together. “That’s not a big deal. I just… hunger after her. I thought I was hiding it pretty well.”
    “I’m a trained investigator,” Lucas said. He looked at an editorial headline that said, “‘Sweatshops’ Often Build Sustaining Family Businesses.” After a moment of silence from Mallard, he added, “I suspect nobody else knows, except any trained investigators you might have at the FBI. And Malone, of course.”
    Mallard’s eyebrows went up. “You think she knows?”
    “Jesus Christ, Louis, she knew before you did,” Lucas said. “Women always know that shit first. And she’s not backing away. If I were you, I’d set up a moment somewhere. Have a few drinks around the pool tonight, tell her a few stories, give her a chance to tell you a few, and you know, going up stairs, put a hand on her.”
    “What about the drywall guy? The Sheetrocker?”
    “Fuck the drywall guy. You’re not playing tennis.”
    “Have to be more than a few drinks,” Mallard said gloomily. He looked scared to death.
    “It’s no big deal, Louis,” Lucas said. “People do it all the time.”
    “Not me,” Mallard said. “I’m not exactly your romantic hero.”
    “Yes, you are, Louis. You’re a big wheel in the FBI. You’re involved in international intrigue. You carry a great big gun. You spend the taxpayers’ money like it was water.”
    “I’m paying for the beer personally.”
    “Louis, what the fuck are you talking about?”
    “Yeah, yeah.” The phone in his pocket rang and he slipped it out, answered, listened for a moment, then said, “Oh, boy. When? We’ll be out front.” He clicked it shut and said, “Martin’s coming back. They found that guy who might have been the driver.”
    “Dead?”
    “Not yet. But he’s in terrible shape. Martin says he was tortured.”
    “Where is he?”
    “Here. Cancún. He was dumped at a hospital. Martin’ll be here in five minutes.”
     
    MALONE CAME OUT