Rules of Prey

much time as he could in the open, forcing the watchers to hide in their hot, confining wagon, unable to eat, unable to pee. Lucas smiled to himself, the unpleasant smile, the wolverine’s smile, put down Dickinson and picked up the Racing Form.
    “You think the motherfucker is going to sit there forever?” asked the fat cop. He squirmed uncomfortably.
    “Looks like he’s settled in.”
    “I gotta pee like a Russian racehorse,” said the fat one.
    “You shouldn’t of drank that Coke. It’s the caffeine that does it.”
    “Maybe I could slide out and take a leak . . .”
    “If he moves, I gotta follow. If you get left behind, Bendl will get your balls.”
    “Only if you tell him, asshole.”
    “I can’t drive and take pictures at the same time.”
    The fat cop squirmed uncomfortably and tried to figure the odds. He should have gone as soon as he saw Lucas settle on the lawn, but he hadn’t had to pee so bad then. Now that Lucas might be expected to leave, his bladder felt like a basketball.
    “Look at him,” he said, peering at Lucas through a pair of binoculars. “He’s watching the puss go by. Think that’s why we’re watching him? Something to do with the puss?”
    “I don’t know. It’s something weird. The way it come down, nobody sayin’ shit.”
    “I heard he’s got something on the chief. Lucas does.”
    “Must have. He doesn’t do a thing. Wanders around town in that Porsche and goes out to the track every day.”
    “His jacket looks good. Commendations and all.”
    “He got some good busts,” the thin cop admitted.
    “Lot of them,” said the fat man.
    “Yeah.”
    “Killed some guys.”
    “Five. He’s the number-one gunslinger on the force. Nobody else done more than two.”
    “All good shootings.”
    “Press loves him. Fuckin’ Wyatt Earp.”
    “Because he’s got money,” the fat man said authoritatively. “The press loves people with money, rich guys. Never met a reporter who didn’t want money.”
    They thought about reporters for a minute. Reporters were a lot like cops, but with faster mouths.
    “How much you think he makes? Davenport?” the fat one asked.
    The thin cop pursed his meager lips and considered the question. Salary was a matter of some importance. “With his rank and seniority, he probably takes down forty-two, maybe forty-five from the city,” he ventured. “Then the games, I heard when he hits one, he makes like a cool hundred thou, depends on how well it sells.”
    “That much,” said the fat one, marveling. “If I made that much, I’d quit. Buy a restaurant. Maybe a bar, up on one of the lakes.”
    “Get out,” the thin one agreed. They’d had the conversation so often the responses were automatic.
    “Wonder why they didn’t bust him back to sergeant? I mean, when they pulled him off robbery?”
    “I heard he threatened to quit. Said he didn’t want to go backwards. They decided they wanted to keep him—he’s got sources in every bar and barbershop in town—so they had to leave him with the rank.”
    “He was a real pain in the butt as a supervisor,” said the fat man.
    The thin man nodded. “Everybody had to be perfect. Nobody was.” The thin man shook his head. “He told me once that it was the worst job he ever had. He knew he wasmessing up, but he couldn’t stop. Some guy would goof off one inch and Davenport would be on him like white on rice.”
    They stopped talking for another minute, watching their subject through the one-way glass. “But not a bad guy, when he’s not your boss,” the fat cop offered, changing direction. Surveillance cops become expert at conversational gambit. “He gave me one of his games, once. For my kid the computer genius. Had a picture of these aliens, like ten-foot cockroaches, zinging each other with ray guns.”
    “Kid like it?” The thin cop didn’t really care. He thought the fat cop’s kid was overly protected and maybe even a fairy, though he’d never say so.
    “Yeah. Brought it back into the shop and asked him to sign it. Right on the box, Lucas Davenport.”
    “Well, the guy’s no couch,” said the thin one. He paused expectantly. A minute later the fat one got it and they started laughing. Laughing doesn’t help the bladder. The fat cop squirmed again.
    “Listen, I gotta go or I’m gonna pee down my leg,” he said finally. “If Davenport takes off for somewhere besides the shop, he’ll have to get his car. If you’re not here when I get back, I’ll