The second book in the Lucas Davenport series, 1990

In the Beginning…

They were in a service alley, tucked between two dumpsters. Carl Reed, a beer can in his hand, kept watch. Larry Clay peeled the drunk Indian girl, tossing her clothes on the floor of the backseat, wedging himself between her legs.

The Indian started to howl. "Christ, she sounds like a fuckin' coon-dog," said Reed, a Kentucky boy.

"She's tight," Clay grunted. Reed laughed and said, "Hurry up," and lobbed his empty beer can toward one of the dumpsters. It clattered off the side and fell into the alley.

Clay was in full gallop when the girl's howl pitched up, reaching toward a scream. He put one big hand over her face and said, "Shut up, bitch," but he liked it. A minute later he finished and crawled off.

Reed slipped off his gunbelt and dumped it on top of the car behind the light bar. Clay was in the alley, staring down at himself. "Look at the fuckin' blood," he said.

"God damn," Reed said, "you got yourself a virgin. " He ducked into the backseat and said, "Here comes Daddy…"

The squad car's only radios were police-band, so Clay and Reed carried a transistor job that Reed had bought in a PX in Vietnam. Clay took it out, turned it on and hunted for something decent. An all-news station was babbling about Robert Kennedy's challenging Lyndon Johnson. Clay kept turning and finally found a country station playing "Ode to Billy Joe."

"You about done?" he asked, as the Bobbie Gentry song trickled out into the alley.

"Just… fuckin'… hold on…" Reed said.

The Indian girl wasn't saying anything.

When Reed finished, Clay was back in uniform. They took a few seconds to get some clothes on the girl.

"Take her, or leave her?" Reed asked.