you’re a crazier fuck than I ever knew. It’s bad out here.”
“See you then,” Lucas said.
As he dropped the phone on the hook, Weather asked, “Playing his bagpipe? Where do you guys come up with that trash?”
“That was really bad,” Lucas said. “Pinching me. It still hurts.”
“Aw. What are you going to do about it?”
He looked at the clock. He was ten minutes from the Cobra. “I’m gonna have to turn you over my knee,” he said.
“Fat chance,” she said.
T HE WEATHER WAS as bad as Del had said it was. A bitter winter wind was blowing the snow directly into the car’s windshield as he headed north along the river, and created an illusion of a funnel; Lucas felt as though he were staring into the small end of a tornado. Ten minutes later, he spotted Del standing under a streetlight, and parked next to him.
“The place is cursed,” Del said, as Lucas got out of his Tahoe. Del was wearing his winter street outfit, an East German Army greatcoat with home-knitted mittens and matching toque. He was looking across the street at the Cobra. The place was a storefront with venetian blinds covering the windows, Busch and Lite signs in the window, and a gold-on-black sign that said “Cobra” and flickered from a bad fluorescent tube.
“Cursed? You mean Minnesota?”
“I mean the Cobra. I bet there’ve been ten businesses in there in the last fifteen years,” Del said. “Nobody makes it.”
“That snake place,” Lucas remembered. “Is that how the Cobra got its name?”
“Yeah, I think so. I knew that guy who owned it, the snake place. Herpetology Grand. He said snakes were the coming yuppie pets, the next new thing. They were beautiful, clean, quiet, and they only ate once a week. Plus there was a big markup on them. He wanted me to invest; he was going to start a whole chain of them.”
“What could possibly have gone wrong?” Lucas asked, as they crossed the street.
“You had to feed them live gerbils,” Del said. “Turns out that yuppie women can’t get tight with the idea of feeding live gerbils to big snakes. You know, as an everyday thing.”
T HE C OBRA WAS as dim inside as out, a narrow entry past the bar with its red leatherette stools, a couple of tables in the back with a color TV, a shuffleboard bowling game, and what appeared to be a little-used dartboard. The smell of beer and peanuts and smoke. A unisex toilet in the back showed down a back hall, next to a lighted sign that said “Caution, Alarm Will Sound: Emergency Exit Only.” Two customers sat at a table in the back, watching a Lakers game. A third huddled over the bar. Lucas pointed at a stool and said, “Beer?”
“You buy,” Del said.
The bartender drifted over, pulled two beers, gave Lucas change on a five. Lucas laid his badge case on the bar and said, “We’re cops. We’re looking around for one of your regulars.”
“Yeah?” The bartender was friendly enough. “I seen you on TV once or twice. You the Minneapolis guy?”
“Yeah. We’re looking for Larry Lapp,” Lucas said. “You know him?”
“Larry?” The bartender was surprised. “What’d he do?”
“Nothing, really. We need to talk about a friend of his.”
“I wondered. He’s a good guy. . . . He was here tonight, must’ve left two hours ago. He only lives two or three blocks away, I think, but I don’t know where, exactly.”
“Couldn’t find him in the phone book,” Lucas said.
“He’s got an old lady, I think it’s her house.” He spread his hands apologetically. “All I know about her is that her name is Marcella.”
Del nodded toward the back of the bar. “Any of those guys know him?”
The bartender looked. “Those guys?” He thought about it. “Yeah, maybe.”
Lucas and Del collected their beers and walked to the back, where the two guys were watching the basketball game; they were painters, Lucas thought, still in paint-spattered jeans. Both were in their mid-twenties; one was wearing a
“See you then,” Lucas said.
As he dropped the phone on the hook, Weather asked, “Playing his bagpipe? Where do you guys come up with that trash?”
“That was really bad,” Lucas said. “Pinching me. It still hurts.”
“Aw. What are you going to do about it?”
He looked at the clock. He was ten minutes from the Cobra. “I’m gonna have to turn you over my knee,” he said.
“Fat chance,” she said.
T HE WEATHER WAS as bad as Del had said it was. A bitter winter wind was blowing the snow directly into the car’s windshield as he headed north along the river, and created an illusion of a funnel; Lucas felt as though he were staring into the small end of a tornado. Ten minutes later, he spotted Del standing under a streetlight, and parked next to him.
“The place is cursed,” Del said, as Lucas got out of his Tahoe. Del was wearing his winter street outfit, an East German Army greatcoat with home-knitted mittens and matching toque. He was looking across the street at the Cobra. The place was a storefront with venetian blinds covering the windows, Busch and Lite signs in the window, and a gold-on-black sign that said “Cobra” and flickered from a bad fluorescent tube.
“Cursed? You mean Minnesota?”
“I mean the Cobra. I bet there’ve been ten businesses in there in the last fifteen years,” Del said. “Nobody makes it.”
“That snake place,” Lucas remembered. “Is that how the Cobra got its name?”
“Yeah, I think so. I knew that guy who owned it, the snake place. Herpetology Grand. He said snakes were the coming yuppie pets, the next new thing. They were beautiful, clean, quiet, and they only ate once a week. Plus there was a big markup on them. He wanted me to invest; he was going to start a whole chain of them.”
“What could possibly have gone wrong?” Lucas asked, as they crossed the street.
“You had to feed them live gerbils,” Del said. “Turns out that yuppie women can’t get tight with the idea of feeding live gerbils to big snakes. You know, as an everyday thing.”
T HE C OBRA WAS as dim inside as out, a narrow entry past the bar with its red leatherette stools, a couple of tables in the back with a color TV, a shuffleboard bowling game, and what appeared to be a little-used dartboard. The smell of beer and peanuts and smoke. A unisex toilet in the back showed down a back hall, next to a lighted sign that said “Caution, Alarm Will Sound: Emergency Exit Only.” Two customers sat at a table in the back, watching a Lakers game. A third huddled over the bar. Lucas pointed at a stool and said, “Beer?”
“You buy,” Del said.
The bartender drifted over, pulled two beers, gave Lucas change on a five. Lucas laid his badge case on the bar and said, “We’re cops. We’re looking around for one of your regulars.”
“Yeah?” The bartender was friendly enough. “I seen you on TV once or twice. You the Minneapolis guy?”
“Yeah. We’re looking for Larry Lapp,” Lucas said. “You know him?”
“Larry?” The bartender was surprised. “What’d he do?”
“Nothing, really. We need to talk about a friend of his.”
“I wondered. He’s a good guy. . . . He was here tonight, must’ve left two hours ago. He only lives two or three blocks away, I think, but I don’t know where, exactly.”
“Couldn’t find him in the phone book,” Lucas said.
“He’s got an old lady, I think it’s her house.” He spread his hands apologetically. “All I know about her is that her name is Marcella.”
Del nodded toward the back of the bar. “Any of those guys know him?”
The bartender looked. “Those guys?” He thought about it. “Yeah, maybe.”
Lucas and Del collected their beers and walked to the back, where the two guys were watching the basketball game; they were painters, Lucas thought, still in paint-spattered jeans. Both were in their mid-twenties; one was wearing a
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