''pissed.''

''What's the address?'' Lucas asked.

''It's over on the southeast side… you got a pencil?''

As Lucas took it down, Del asked, ''You want me to come along?''

Lucas shook his head. ''It's probably bullshit. Half the dopers in town will be calling, trying to fake us out. Go see Cheryl.''

''They'll let me in pretty soon,'' Del said. The light on his watch face flickered in the dark. ''I gotta be there when she wakes up.''

''Keep an eye out,'' Lucas said. ''The crazy fucks could be around the hospital.''

LUCAS, BEGINNING TO FEEL THE WEIGHT OF ALL THE sleepless hours, looked at the house and wondered: called to a semi-slum duplex, in the early-morning darkness.

An ambush?

''What do you think?'' he asked.

''You wait here,'' the patrol cop said. ''We'll go knock.''

The two patrol cops, one tall and one even taller, were wearing heavy-duty armor, capable of defeating rifle bullets. Two more cops sat in the alley behind the house, covering the back door.

Lucas stood by the car, waiting, while the cops approachedthe door. One of them peeked at a window, then suddenly broke back toward the door, and Lucas saw that it was opening. A woman, gaunt, black-haired, poked her head out and said something to the cops. The tall cop nodded, waved Lucas in, and then he and the taller cop went inside.

Lucas caught them just inside the door. The taller cop whispered, ''Her husband's in the back bedroom, and he keeps a gun on the floor next to the bed.

We're invited in, so we can take him.''

Lucas nodded, and the two cops, walking softly as they could over the tattered carpet, eased down the hallway, with the woman a step behind them. At the last door, the lead cop gestured and the woman nodded, and the cop reached inside the dark room and flipped on the light. Lucas heard him say, ''Police,'' and then,

''Get the gun,'' and then, ''Hey, wake up. Wake up. Hey you, wake up.''

Then a man's voice, high and squeaky, ''What the fuck? What the fuck is going on?''

The woman walked back down the hall toward Lucas. She was five-six, and weighed, he thought, maybe ninety pounds, with cheekbones like Frisbees. She said, ''I heard you're putting up the money.''

''If your information is any good,'' he said.

The two patrol cops prodded her husband out into the hallway. Still mostly asleep, he was wearing stained Jockey shorts and a befuddled expression. His hands were cuffed behind his back.

''Oh, the information is good,'' the woman said to Lucas. Then, ''You remember me?''

Lucas looked at her for a moment, saw something familiar in the furry thickness of her dark brows, mentally put twenty-five pounds on her and said, ''Yeah. You used to work up at the Taco Bell, the one off Riverside. You were

… let's see, you were hanging out with Sammy Cerdan and his band. You were what-you played with them. Bass?''

''Yeah, bass,'' she said, pleased that he remembered.

He was going to ask, ''What happened?'' but he knew.

Still smiling, a rickety smile that looked as though it might slide off her face onto the floor, she said, ''Yeah, yeah, good times.''

Her husband said, ''What the hell is going on? Who's this asshole?''

The tall cop said, ''He had a bag of shit under his mattress.''

He tossed a Baggie to Lucas: the stuff inside, enough to fill a teaspoon, looked like brown sugar.

''This is fuckin' illegal. I want to see a search warrant,'' the husband said.

''You shouldn't of hid the bag, Dex,'' the woman said to him. To Lucas, ''He never gave me nothin'. I'm boostin' shit out of Target all day and he never give me nothin'.''

''Kick you in the ass,'' Dexter shouted at her, and he struggled against the taller cop, and tried to kick at her. She dodged the kick and gave him the finger.

''Shut up,'' Lucas said to him. To the woman: ''Where are they?''

''My brother rented them a house, but he doesn't know who they are. The one guy,

Butters? He was here asking about crooked cops and houses he could rent. As soon as I saw on TV, I knew that was him.''

''You cunt,'' her husband shouted.

Lucas turned to him and smiled: ''The next time you interrupt, I'm gonna pull your fuckin' face off.''

The husband shut up and the woman said, ''I want the money.''

''If this pans out, you'll get it. What's the address?''

''I want something else.''

''What?''

''When my mom took the kids, they kicked me off welfare.''

''So?''

''So I want back on.''

Lucas shrugged. ''I'll ask. If you can show them the kids, then. ..''

''I don't want the kids back. I just want back on the roll,'' the woman said.

''You gotta fix it.''

''I'll ask, but I can't promise,'' Lucas said. ''Now, where are they?''

''Over in Frogtown,'' she said. ''I got the address written down.''

''What about the cop?'' Lucas asked. ''Who'd you send him to?''

The woman shook her head. ''We didn't know any cop. Dex just gave him names of some dopers who might know.''

Lucas turned to her husband. ''What dopers?''

''Fuck you,'' Dex said.

''Gonna give you some time to think about it,'' Lucas said, poking a finger in

Dexter's face. ''Down in the jail. For the shit.'' He held up the bag. ''If you think about it fast enough, maybe you can buy out of the murder charge.''

''Fuck that, I want a lawyer,'' Dex said.

''Take him,'' Lucas said to the patrolmen. To the woman: ''Gimme the address.''

LACHAISE WOKE UP SOBER BUT HUNG OVER. HE STOOD up, carefully, walked down to the bathroom, closed the door, found the light switch and flicked it on, took a leak, flushed the toilet.

He'd been sleeping in his jeans, T-shirt and socks. He pulled up the shirt to check the bandage on his ribs, looking in the cracked mirror over the sink, but saw no signs of blood, just the dried iodine compound. Best of all, he didn't feel seriously injured: he'd been hurt in bike accidents and fights, and he knew the coming-apart feeling of a bad injury. This just plain hurt.

The house was silent. He stepped back out of the bathroom, walked down the hall to the next room and pushed the door open. Sandy was curled on the bed, wrapped in a blanket.

''You asleep?'' he asked quietly.

There was no response, but he thought she might be awake. He was about to ask again, when there was a noise in the hall. He stepped back, and saw Martin padding down the hallway, a. 45 in his hand. When Martin saw LaChaise, his forehead wrinkled.

''You all right?'' Martin asked.

''I'm sore, but I been a lot worse,'' LaChaise said. ''Where's Ansel?''

''He went to see about that Davenport kid.''

''Jesus Christ, that's my job,'' LaChaise said.

Martin's mouth jerked; he might have been trying to smile. ''He figured you'd think that. But he thought it might be a trap and he figured, you know, you're the valuable one. You're the brains of the operation.''

''Shoulda told me,'' LaChaise growled.

''You was drunk.''

Sandy pushed herself up. Beneath the blanket, LaChaise noticed, she'd been wrapped in a parka. ''What's going on?''

''Ansel went after the cop's kid,'' LaChaise said. He looked at her in the long coat, and said, ''What's wrong with you? What's the parka for?''

''It's like a meat locker in here,'' she said, crossing her arms and shivering.

''Bullshit: she wants to be ready to run,'' Martin growled.

LaChaise turned to her: ''You run, we'll cut your fuckin' throat. And if you did get away…'' He dug in his shirtpocket, and came up with a stack of photographs. Two men sitting at a table, one black, one white. LaChaise riffled them at her like a deck of cards. ''We got a cop on the string. The only way he gets out is if we get away, or we're all dead. If you get away from us, and go to the cops, he'll have to come after you, in case you know his name. Think about that: we've got a cop who'll kill you, and you don't know who it is.'' He put the photos back in his pocket.