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Inn?”
    “Thought we might,” Lucas said.
    T HE W EE B LUE I NN was a hole-in-the-wall motel and bar on Robert Street in West St. Paul. All three of them knew it, and Del and Andrews had been inside. “The owner is a guy named John Poe, like in Edgar Allan, but he doesn’t write poetry,” Del said. “He sells the occasional gun, and he’ll rent you a room for an hour at a time.”
    “He sweats a lot,” Andrews said. “He usually smells like onion sweat. I think he eats those ‘everything’ bagels.”
    “Can we jack him up without anybody looking in a window at us?” Lucas asked. “I’d rather talk to Poe straight up, see what he has to say, than go in with the whole SWAT squad.”
    “I could go in and look around,” Del said. He looked nothing like a cop, a major asset in his job.
    “Except that Poe knows you,” Lucas said.
    “He won’t tell anybody,” Del said. “He doesn’t want his clientele knowing that cops are hanging around.”
    “Let’s do that,” Lucas said. “If there are three bad Mexicans in there, we’ll call up the SWAT.”
    T HEY TALKED ABOUT Poe on the way over, and Andrews called headquarters and got them to put a couple squads in a dry cleaner’slot two blocks away, no stoplights between them and the Wee Blue Inn. “Just in case,” he said.
    At the Wee Blue Inn, they dropped Del and went on their way, around the block. Del called one minute later and said, “I talked to Poe. He says the Mexicans were here, but they’re gone. Checked out yesterday morning. They said they were going back to Dallas.”
    “Did he
ask
them where they were going, or did they volunteer it?”
    Del went away for a moment, then came back: “They volunteered it.”
    “So they’re not going back to Dallas,” Lucas said.
    “I wouldn’t think so,” Del said.
    “Huh. Be back in one minute.”
    T HE W EE B LUE I NN was an earth-colored stucco place with a blue-tile roof. The earth color came from dirt.
    The floors inside were made of dark wood and squeaked underfoot, not from polish, but from rot, and the whole place smelled of old cigar smoke and something that might have been swimming-pool chlorine, or possibly old semen. Lucas tried not to touch anything, just in case; no swimming pool was visible.
    Poe was a short fat man with a bad toupee and a three-day beard, whose lips formed a small but perfect O. Del had him in his office, where he sat sweating. He fit in the place like a finger in a glove, Lucas thought; or a dick in a condom. Andrews nodded to him, then pointed at him and said to Lucas, “This is Poe.”
    Poe was adamant about the Mexicans leaving. “They had duffel bags, and they took off. Loaded up, said, ‘Thank you,’ and they were out of here.”
    “Speak good English?” Lucas asked.
    “So-so. They was Mexican, no doubt about that.”
    “What, they were wearing sombreros?” Del asked.
    “No, they just looked like Mexicans,” Poe said. “Mexican boxers. Welterweights. Small guys, good shape. Mean-looking. Most Mexicans around here don’t look mean.”
    “Couldn’t have been, like, Colombians?” Del asked.
    Poe was exasperated: “They was Mexicans. They was fuckin’ Mexicans, Del. What can I tell you?”
    “They carrying guns?” Del asked.
    “Don’t know. We have a strict privacy policy about entering our guests’ rooms.”
    “That’s a little hard to believe,” Lucas said. “No offense.”
    Poe said, “Well, we do. We got it when my ex entered a room and found the city council president banging his secretary. Who was of the same sex. Not that I got anything against fudge-punchers, in particular.”
    “You always have been sort of a liberal,” Andrews said.
    “I do what I can,” Poe said.
    “I N OTHER NEWS ,” Del said, “you got an ex. She around somewhere?”
    “No. We agreed that she should stay in the southern states, and I’d stay in the north. We stick to that pretty close. And I got Vegas.”
    Lucas: “These Mexicans, they said they were