Rules of Prey

computer paper and headed slowly back to the car, still window-shopping. He paused at the antiques dealer’s again, pretending to debate whether or not to enter. He should not overplay it, he thought; the watchers would be professionals and might sense something. He went inside.
    “Can I help you?”
    A woman emerged from the back of the shop. She had iron-colored hair tied back in a bun, her hands clasped in front of her. If she’d been wearing a shawl, she’d have looked like a phony grandmother on a package of chocolate-chip cookies. As it happened, she was wearing a cheap blue suit with a red tie and had the strained rheumy look of a longtime alcoholic.
    “Those fishing lures in the window; are they expensive?” asked the maddog.
    “Some are, some aren’t,” the woman said. She maneuvered around him toward the display, keeping her feet wide apart for balance. She’s drunk, the maddog thought.
    “How about the bluegill one?” he asked.
    “That’s hand-carved, hand-painted up at Winnibigoshish. There are a lot of fakes around, you know, but this is the real thing. I bought the whole bunch from an old resort owner last summer, he was cleaning out his cellar.”
    “So how much?”
    She looked him over speculatively. “Twenty?”
    “Sold.”
    She looked like she wished she’d asked for more. “Plus tax,” she said. He left the store with the lure in a brown paper bag and went to the bank, where he wrote a check for two thousand dollars.
     
    The bluegill was carved from a solid piece of pine and had three rusty treble hooks dangling from it. An early pike lure, the woman said, probably carved back in the thirties. The maddog knew nothing about fishing lures, but this one had the rustic rightness of real folk art. If he collected anything, he thought, he might collect this stuff, like Hart did. He would call Kenneth Hart tomorrow, just after lunch.
     
    He rethought the entire project during the night and decided to call it off. At dawn, groggy, he staggered to the bathroom and took half a pill. Just before it carried him away, he changed his mind again, and decided to go ahead.
    “Hello, Ken?”
    “This is Ken Hart . . .” A little wary.
    “This is Louis Vullion, down at Felsen . . .”
    “Sure. What’s up?” Friendly now.
    “You going to be in for a few minutes?”
    “I’ve got a meeting at two . . .”
    “Just want to see you for a minute. Got something for you, actually.”
    “Come on over.”
     
    The invisible net, he supposed, spread around him as he moved through the skyways. He tried not to look, but couldn’t help himself. A lot of the watchers would be women, he knew. They were the best tails. At least, the books said so.
    The maddog left his regular wool overcoat in his office and went to Hart’s office wearing a suit coat and carrying a briefcase. An inexpensive tan trench coat was rolled and stuffed inside the briefcase, along with a crushable tweed hat.
    The maddog went directly to the third-floor reception area of Hart’s firm.
    “I’m here to see Ken Hart,” he told the receptionist.
    “Do you have an appointment, Mr . . . . ?”
    “Vullion. I’m an attorney from Felsen-Gore. I called Ken a few minutes ago to tell him I was running over.”
    “Okay.” She smiled at him. “Go down the hall . . .”
    He smiled back as pleasantly as he could. “I know the way.”
    He went down the hall and punched the private elevator for the fifth floor. The net, he hoped, was fixed on the third-floor reception area.
    “Ken?” The other attorney was paging through a brief, and looked up at the maddog.
    “Hey. Louis. Come on in, sit down.”
    “Uh, I really can’t, I’m in a rush,” the maddog said, glancing at his wristwatch. “I wanted to drop something off. Remember when we ate lunch, you mentioned you collected old fishing lures? I was up north a couple weeks ago . . .” He dumped the lure out of the paper bag onto Hart’s desk.
    “Whoa. That’s a good one,” Hart said, looking pleased. “Thanks, man. How much do I owe you?”
    “I virtually stole the thing,” the maddog said, shaking his head. “I’d be embarrassed to tell you. Of course, if you want to buy the cheeseburgers after the next closing . . .”
    “You got a deal,” Hart said enthusiastically. “Damn, this is really a good one.”
    “I’ve got to get out of here. Can I get out on this floor, or do I have to run back down . . . ?”
    “No, no, just down the