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 Twins baseball hat and the other a Vikings sweatshirt with a plastic football on the chest. Lucas and Del watched the game for a minute, then Lucas said to the guy in the baseball cap, "We're police officers. We're looking for a friend of yours."
The two men looked at each other, then the guy in the baseball hat shrugged and said, "Who? What'd he do?"
"Larry Lapp, and he didn't do anything. We just need to talk to him about a woman he used to know."
"Oh, jeez . . . You're talking about that girl that got killed?" the Vikings fan asked.
They nodded, and Del asked, "You knew her?"
"Knew who she was," the Vikings fan said. "She was from the neighborhood, until her folks moved out-state somewhere. She knew some other kids from over here."
"I understand she was . . . seeing this Lapp guy," Lucas said, giving a little extra to the "seeing."
"Oh, man, I don't think so--and you could get Larry in big trouble with his wife, talking that way," the guy said. "Him and this girl went back a long way, you know, to junior high or something. They weren't doin' nothing, but Marcella ain't gonna believe that if you go knockin' on her door."
Del said, "Mind if we sit for a minute?" and pulled around a chair without waiting for an answer. Lucas pulled one up for himself, leaned on the table, and said quietly, "We were told that this girl . . . might have been selling it. Hundred bucks a throw. Nobody's gonna get in trouble for talking about it, or even going with her--we're just trying to get some traction on the murder. Either of you guys ever hear anything like that?"
"That's bullshit," said the baseball cap, sitting back. "Whoever told you that is an asshole."
"Never heard nothing like that," the football-shirt guy said, shaking his head. "She was a nice kid. Shy. I mean, if she was selling it, she could've sold it to me, and she never offered or even let on that, you know, it might be possible."
The baseball cap said, "Same with me. We get a pro in here every once in a while, and it's not like you don't figure it out pretty goddamn quick."
"Look around," the football shirt said. They looked down the bar at the cheap stools, at the used booths sloppily cut into the new space, at the crap littering the floor. "You think you're gonna find a hundred-dollar girl working this place? Twenty-nine-ninety-five is more like it."
"This Lapp guy," Del said.
"You're gonna fuck him up if you talk to him with his wife around," the baseball cap said. "He has a troubled marriage."
"If you want, I could go get him," the Vikings guy said. "He's only two blocks from here."
"That'd be cool," Lucas said. "If I could get your names first . . . for the notebook."
"In case we decide to run for it?" the baseball cap asked. He grinned at Lucas.
"Well. For the notebook, you know."
LARRY LAPP WAS short and square, wore a heavy, short, square dark coat, and a Navy watch cap pulled down to his eyebrows. He followed the painters into the bar, nodded at the bartender, and continued back to the table where Lucas and Del were waiting. He nodded, quickly, and sat down, hands in his coat pockets. He had a flat, wide face and a day-old beard that looked like it was made of nails. "What's this shit about Julie?"
"We're trying to follow up on some information."
"If somebody told you she was selling it, that guy oughta be investigated, because he's full of shit," Lapp said. He was angry, his face tight and white despite the cold. "She was one of the nicest goddamn girls you could want to meet."
Lucas shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, we just heard . . . actually, we heard that you were the recipient of some of her favors, but that you'd had to pay."
"You heard this?" Lapp asked, his voice rising. "About
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 Twins baseball hat and the other a Vikings sweatshirt with a plastic football on the chest. Lucas and Del watched the game for a minute, then Lucas said to the guy in the baseball cap, "We're police officers. We're looking for a friend of yours."
The two men looked at each other, then the guy in the baseball hat shrugged and said, "Who? What'd he do?"
"Larry Lapp, and he didn't do anything. We just need to talk to him about a woman he used to know."
"Oh, jeez . . . You're talking about that girl that got killed?" the Vikings fan asked.
They nodded, and Del asked, "You knew her?"
"Knew who she was," the Vikings fan said. "She was from the neighborhood, until her folks moved out-state somewhere. She knew some other kids from over here."
"I understand she was . . . seeing this Lapp guy," Lucas said, giving a little extra to the "seeing."
"Oh, man, I don't think so--and you could get Larry in big trouble with his wife, talking that way," the guy said. "Him and this girl went back a long way, you know, to junior high or something. They weren't doin' nothing, but Marcella ain't gonna believe that if you go knockin' on her door."
Del said, "Mind if we sit for a minute?" and pulled around a chair without waiting for an answer. Lucas pulled one up for himself, leaned on the table, and said quietly, "We were told that this girl . . . might have been selling it. Hundred bucks a throw. Nobody's gonna get in trouble for talking about it, or even going with her--we're just trying to get some traction on the murder. Either of you guys ever hear anything like that?"
"That's bullshit," said the baseball cap, sitting back. "Whoever told you that is an asshole."
"Never heard nothing like that," the football-shirt guy said, shaking his head. "She was a nice kid. Shy. I mean, if she was selling it, she could've sold it to me, and she never offered or even let on that, you know, it might be possible."
The baseball cap said, "Same with me. We get a pro in here every once in a while, and it's not like you don't figure it out pretty goddamn quick."
"Look around," the football shirt said. They looked down the bar at the cheap stools, at the used booths sloppily cut into the new space, at the crap littering the floor. "You think you're gonna find a hundred-dollar girl working this place? Twenty-nine-ninety-five is more like it."
"This Lapp guy," Del said.
"You're gonna fuck him up if you talk to him with his wife around," the baseball cap said. "He has a troubled marriage."
"If you want, I could go get him," the Vikings guy said. "He's only two blocks from here."
"That'd be cool," Lucas said. "If I could get your names first . . . for the notebook."
"In case we decide to run for it?" the baseball cap asked. He grinned at Lucas.
"Well. For the notebook, you know."
LARRY LAPP WAS short and square, wore a heavy, short, square dark coat, and a Navy watch cap pulled down to his eyebrows. He followed the painters into the bar, nodded at the bartender, and continued back to the table where Lucas and Del were waiting. He nodded, quickly, and sat down, hands in his coat pockets. He had a flat, wide face and a day-old beard that looked like it was made of nails. "What's this shit about Julie?"
"We're trying to follow up on some information."
"If somebody told you she was selling it, that guy oughta be investigated, because he's full of shit," Lapp said. He was angry, his face tight and white despite the cold. "She was one of the nicest goddamn girls you could want to meet."
Lucas shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, we just heard . . . actually, we heard that you were the recipient of some of her favors, but that you'd had to pay."
"You heard this?" Lapp asked, his voice rising. "About
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