Free Shadow Prey by John Sandford Page A

and propped herself up on her elbows. She was white, and older than Lucas thought when he first saw her. Forties, he thought. “What’s going on?” she asked.
    “Cop to see Yellow Hand,” said the tattooed man.
    “Oh, shit.” She squinted at Lucas and he saw she was missing her front teeth. “You got a cigarette?”
    “No.”
    “God damn, nobody ever got no smokes around here,” she whined. She looked at the man beside her, poked him. “Get up, Bob. The cops are here.” Bob moaned, twitched and snored.
    “Leave him,” said Lucas. He moved over to Yellow Hand and pushed him with his toe.
    “Don’t fuck w’ me,” Yellow Hand said sleepily, batting at the foot.
    “Need to talk to you.”
    “Don’t fuck w’ me,” Yellow Hand said again.
    Lucas prodded him a little harder. “Get up, Yellow Hand. This is Davenport.”
    Yellow Hand’s eyes flickered and Lucas thought he looked too old for a teenager. He looked as old as the woman, who was now sitting slouched on the mattress, smacking her lips. The tattooed man stood bouncing on his toes for a second, then reached for a cowboy boot.
    “Leave the boots,” Lucas said, pointing at him again. “Wake up, Yellow Hand.”
    Yellow Hand rolled to a sitting position. “What is it?”
    “I want to talk.” Lucas turned to the tattooed man. “Why’n’t you come over here and sit on the mattress?”
    “I ain’t done a fuckin’ thing,” the man snarled, suddenly defiant. He was rake thin and had one shoulder turned toward Lucas in an unconscious boxing stance.
    “I’m not here to fuck with anybody,” Lucas said. “I’m not asking for ID, I’m not calling in for warrants. I just want to talk.”
    “I don’t talk to the fuckin’ cops,” the tattooed man said. He looked around for support. The woman was staring at the floor, shaking her head; then she spat between her feet. Lucas put his hand in his pocket. The attic space was crowded. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t worry about a couple of derelicts and a drifter, but the tattooed man exuded an air of toughness. If there were a fight, he wouldn’t have much room to maneuver.
    “We can do it the easy way or we can do it the hard way,” he said softly. “Now get your ass over here or I’ll kick it up between the ears.”
    “What you gonna do, cop, you gonna fuckin’ shoot me? I ain’t got no knife, I ain’t got no gun, I’m in my own fuckin’ apartment, I ain’t seen no warrant, you gonna shoot me?”
    The man stepped closer and Lucas took his hand back out of his pocket.
    “No, but I might beat the snot out of you,” Lucas said. Both the older man and the woman were looking away. If the tattooed man jumped, he would have no support from them. Yellow Hand wasn’t likely to help the stranger, so it would be one on one. He braced himself.
    “Take it easy, Shadow, you don’t want to fight no cop,” Yellow Hand said from the mattress. “You know what’d happen then.”
    Lucas looked from Yellow Hand to the tattooed man and guessed that the tattooed man was on parole.
    “You know Benton?” he snapped. “He your PO?”
    “No, man. I never met him,” the tattooed man said,suddenly closing his eyes and half turning away. The tension ebbed.
    “All I want to do is talk,” Lucas said mildly.
    “You want to talk with a gun in your pocket,” said the tattooed man, turning back to him. “Like all whites.”
    He looked straight at Lucas, and Lucas saw that his eyes were light gray, so light they looked as though cataracts were floating across his irises. The man’s body trembled once, again, and then settled into a low vibration, like a guitar string.
    “Take it easy,” Yellow Hand said again, rubbing his face. “Come on over and sit down. Davenport won’t fuck with you.”
    There was another moment of stress; then, as suddenly as he’d become angry, the tattooed man relaxed and smiled. His teeth were a startling white against his dark face. “Sure. Jeez, I’m sorry, but you come on