"He needs money and drugs, and he can't get them legitimately," Lucas said. He'd drifted past the driving area to the putting green. The green's surface was knee high, but dished, to provide a variety of contours. He reached down and pressed his fingers against it. Real grass, carefully groomed, cool and slightly damp to the touch.
"Now that's a hell of a project, right there," Smith said enthusiastically. He picked up a remote control, touched a series of buttons, and the lights over the putting green flickered and came on. "Those are special grow lights," he said, pointing up at the lighting fixture. "Same spectrum as the sun. Joe over there, he knows all about different grasses, he set it up. This is genuine bent grass. It took him a year to get it right."
Smith stepped up and onto the green, walked lightly across it, then turned to look at Lucas. Back to business: "So this guy needs money and drugs?"
"Yeah. And we want you to put the word out on your network. Somebody is dealing with him, and we want him. Now."
Smith picked up a putter that was leaning against the far end. Three balls waited in a rack, and he popped them out, lined up the first one, stroked and missed. The ball rolled past the cup and stopped two feet away.
"Twenty-two feet. Not bad," he said. "When you've got a long lag like that, you just try to get it within two feet of the cup. You pretend you're shooting for a manhole cover. That's the secret to single-bogey golf. Do cops play golf?"
"We need you to put out the word," Fell said.
"Talk into my belly button, said Little Red Riding Hood," Smith said. He lined up another putt, let it go. The ball rolled four feet past the cup. "Fuck it," he said. "Nerves. You guys are putting pressure on me."
"There's no wire," Lucas said quietly. "Neither one of us is wired. We're looking for a little help."
"What do I get out of it?" Smith asked.
"Civic pride," Lucas said. The pitch of his voice had dropped a bit, but Smith pretended not to notice, and lined up the last ball.
"Civic pride? In fuckin' New York?" He snorted, looked up and said, "Excuse the language, Dr. Fell… Anyway, I really don't know what you're talking about, this network."
He walked around the green, squinting at the short putt. The blond man approached with a china platter covered with steaming slices of bread. "Anybody for fresh bread? We've got straight and garlic butter…"
"Fuck the bread," said Fell. She looked at Lucas. "We're not getting to him. Maybe we ought to have the fire department check his…"
"Nah, political shit doesn't work with a guy who's really connected," Lucas said. "Mr. Smith sounds like he's connected."
Smith squinted at him. "Who're you? I don't remember you…"
"I've been hired as a consultant here," Lucas said. He wandered back to the driving net, speaking so softly that the others could barely pick up the words. He pulled a three iron out of the golf bag and looked at it. "I used to work in Minneapolis, until I got thrown off the force. I caught Bekker the first time, but not before he killed a good friend of mine. Cut her throat. He let her see it coming. Made her wait for it. Then he sawed right through her neck… She was tied up, couldn't fight back. So later, when I caught Bekker…"
"His face got all fucked up," Smith said suddenly.
"That's right," said Lucas. He'd come back, carrying the iron. "His face got all fucked up."
"Wait a minute," said Fell.
Lucas ignored her, hopped up on the putting green, and walked toward Smith. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fell's hand sliding into the fold of her shoulder bag. "And I didn't worry about fucking him up. You know why? Because I've got a lot of money of my own and I didn't need the job. I don't need any job."
"What the fuck are you talking…" Smith backed away, looked quickly at the blond.
"… And Bekker got me really pissed," Lucas said to Smith, his voice riding over the other man's. His eyes were wide, the tendons in his neck straining at his shirt collar. "I mean really fuckin' pissed. And I had this pistol, with this big sharp front sight on it, and when I caught him, I pounded his face with the sight until you couldn't tell it was a face. Before that, Bekker'd been really pretty, just like this fuckin' green…"
Lucas pivoted and swung the three iron, a long sweeping swing into the perfect turf. A two-pound divot of dirt and grass sprayed off the platform across the pool table.
"Wait, wait…" Smith was waving his hands, trying to stop it.
The blond had set the china tray aside and his hand went toward the small of his back and Fell had a pistol out, pointed at his head, and she was yelling, "No, no, no…"
Lucas rolled on, swinging the club like a scythe, screaming, walking around Smith, saliva spraying on Smith's black shirt. "Pounded his face, pounded his motherfuckin' face, you believe the way we pounded his fuckin' face."
When he stopped, breathing hard, a dozen ragged furrows slashed the surface of the green. Lucas turned and looked at the blond man. Hopped down off the platform, walked toward him.
"You were going to pull out a gun," he said.
The blond man shrugged. He had heavy shoulders, like a weight lifter, and he shifted, setting his feet.
"That really pisses me off," Lucas shouted at him.
"Hold it, for Christ's sake," said Fell, her voice low and urgent.
Lucas swung the iron again, quickly, violently, overhead, then down. The blond flinched, but the iron smashed through the freshly baked bread and the platter beneath it. Pieces of china skittered across the floor, and he shouted, "And tried to fuckin' bribe us…"
Then he ran down, staggered, turned back to Smith and pointed the club like a saber.
"I don't want to be your friend. I don't want to deal. You're a goddamned dirtbag, and it makes me feel nasty to be here. What I'm telling you is, I want you to put the word out on your network. And I want you to call me. Lucas Davenport. Midtown South. If you don't, I will fuck you up six different ways. I'll talk to the New York Times and I'll talk to the News and I'll talk to Eye Witness News and I'll give them pictures of you and tell them you're working with Bekker. How'd that help business? And I might just come back and fuck you up personally, because this is a serious matter with me, this Bekker thing."
He turned in a half-circle, his breath slowing, took a step toward the door, then suddenly whipped the club into the kitchen like a helicopter blade. It knocked a copper tureen off a wall peg, bounced off the stove, and clattered to the floor with the tureen. "Never was any fucking good with the long irons," he said.
On the way out of the building, Fell watched him until Lucas began to grin.
"Nuttier'n shit, huh?" he said, glancing at her.
"I believed it," she said seriously.
"Thanks for the backup. I don't think blondie would've done much…"
She shook her head. "That was funny; I mean, funny-strange. I didn't know Jackie Smith was gay until I saw this guy. That's like dealing with spouses, only worse. You whack one and the other's liable to come after you with a knife…"
"Are you sure they're gay?"
"Does Raggedy Ann have a cotton crotch?"
"I don't know what that means," Lucas said, laughing.
"It means yes, I'm sure they're gay," she said.
"How come he called you Dr. Fell?" Lucas asked. "Are you a doctor?"
"No. It's from the nursery rhyme: 'I do not love thee, Dr. Fell; the reason why I cannot tell; but this I know, and know full welclass="underline" I do not love thee, Dr. Fell.' "
"Huh. I'm impressed," Lucas said.
"I know several nursery rhymes," Fell said, digging in her purse for the pack of Luckys. "Want to hear 'Old King Cole'?"
"I mean with Smith. Knowing the rhyme."
"I don't impress you, huh?" She flipped the cigarette into her mouth, her eyes slanting up at him.
"Don't know yet," he said. "Maybe…"
Barbara Fell lived on the Upper West Side. They dropped her city car at Midtown South, found a cab, and she said, "I've got a decent neighborhood bar. Why don't you come up and get a drink, chill out, and you can catch a cab from there."