Secret Prey

with the feeling he’d entered a sudden silence. He’d felt that a lot, lately.
    Lucas was a tall man, hard-faced, broad-shouldered, showing the remnants of a summer tan. A thin line of a scar dropped through one eyebrow onto a cheek, like a piece of fishing line. Another scar slashed across his throat, where a friend had done a tracheotomy with a jackknife.
    His hair was dark, touched by the first few flecks of gray, and his eyes were an unexpectedly intense blue. He was wearing a black silk sweatshirt showing the collar of a French-blue shirt beneath it, jeans, and a .45 in an insidethepants rig. He carried a leather jacket.
    He nodded at Del, and to Sloan said, ‘‘Get out of my chair or I’ll kill you.’’
    Sloan yawned, then eased out of the chair. ‘‘You get your jeans dry-cleaned?’’ he asked.
    ‘‘What?’’ Lucas looked down at his jeans.
    ‘‘They look so crisp,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘They almost got a crease. When I wear jeans, I look like I’m gonna paint something.’’
    ‘‘When you wear a tuxedo, you look like you’re gonna paint something,’’ Del said.
    ‘‘Mr. Fashion Plate speaking,’’ Sloan said.
    Del was already wearing his winter parka, olive drab with an East German army patch on one shoulder, an Eat More Muffin sweatshirt, fire-engine-red sneaks with holes over the joints of his big toes, through which were visible thin black dress socks—Del had bunion problems—and the oversized Calvin Kleins. ‘‘Fuck you,’’ he said.
    ‘‘So what’s happening?’’ Lucas asked, looking at Del. He circled behind the desk and dropped into the chair vacated by Sloan. He turned a yellow legal pad around, glanced at it, ripped off the top sheet and wadded the paper in his fist.
    ‘‘We’re trying to figure how to snap you out of it,’’ Del said bluntly.
    Lucas looked up, then shrugged. ‘‘Nothing to do.’’
    ‘‘Weather’s coming back,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘She’s got too much sense to stay away.’’
    Lucas shook his head. ‘‘She’s not coming back, and it doesn’t have anything to do with good sense.’’
    ‘‘You guys are so fucked,’’ Del said.
    ‘‘You say ‘fuck’ way too much,’’ Sloan said.
    ‘‘Hey, fuck you, pal,’’ Del said, joking, but with an edge in his voice.
    Lucas cut it off: ‘‘Ready to go, Sloan?’’
    Sloan nodded. ‘‘Yeah.’’
    Lucas looked at Del: ‘‘What’re you doing here?’’
    ‘‘Seeking guidance from my superiors,’’ Del said. ‘‘I’ve got an opium ring with fifty-seven members spread all over Minneapolis and the western suburbs, especially the rich ones like Edina and Wayzata. One or two in St. Paul. Grow the stuff right here. Process it. Use it themselves—maybe sell a little.’’
    Lucas frowned. ‘‘How solid?’’
    ‘‘Absolutely solid.’’
    ‘‘So tell me.’’ Lucas poked a finger at Del. ‘‘Wait a minute . . . you’re not telling me that fuckin’ Genesse is back? I thought he was gone for fifteen.’’
    Del was shaking his head: ‘‘Nah.’’
    ‘‘So . . .’’
    ‘‘It’s fifty-seven old ladies in the Mountbatten Garden Club,’’ Del said. ‘‘I got the club list.’’
    Sloan and Lucas looked at each other; then Sloan said, ‘‘What?’’
    And Lucas asked, ‘‘Where’d you get the list?’’
    ‘‘From an old lady,’’ Del said. ‘‘There being nothing but old ladies in the club.’’
    ‘‘What the hell are you talking about?’’ Lucas asked.
    ‘‘When I went over to Hennepin to get my finger sewed up after the pinking shears thing, this doc told me he’d treated this old-lady junkie. She was coming down from the opium, but she thought she had the flu or something. It turns out they’ve been growing poppies for years. The whole club. They collect the heads at the end of the summer and make tea. Opium tea. A bunch of them are fairly well hooked, brewing up three or four times a day.’’
    Lucas rubbed his forehead. ‘‘Del . . .’’
    ‘‘What?’’ Del looked at Sloan, defensively. ‘‘What? Should I ignore it?’’
    ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Where’re they getting the seeds?’’
    ‘‘Seed stores,’’ Del said.
    ‘‘Bullshit,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘You can’t buy opium seeds from seed stores.’’
    ‘‘I did,’’ Del said. He dug in his parka pocket, pulled out a half-dozen seed packets. Lucas, no gardener, recognized the brand names and the envelopes.
    ‘‘That’s