Ocean Prey (A Prey Novel #31) - John Sandford Page 0,93
Weaver conceded. “We’ll go after the wand.”
* * *
The meeting was over in half an hour and Virgil and Rae were back out the door and across the street. “That was unnecessary,” Virgil said. “The whole meeting was a waste of time, except for making sure that they pull us out before they hit anyone. Even that, we could have done on the phone.”
“I dunno,” Rae said. “Did you notice that one agent who didn’t say anything? The guy with the striped tie?”
“Yeah?”
“I think he might have been a shrink, the way he was watching you talk. Lucas was telling the truth, when he said they were worried about where your head’s at. They really don’t know anything about diving. They’re thinking about diving in movies, all those sharks and the enemy guys cutting air hoses.”
“A shrink? Really?”
“I think so.”
“Hmm. Like I told them, I’m more worried about coming up and finding somebody’s pointing a gun at my head,” Virgil said. “But then, I’ve got you to take care of me.”
Rae snorted: “I’ll never have enough shoes. This is not an act, the shoe thing. I can’t afford a private jet, but with the right shoes, nobody’ll know that.”
“All right. I’ve got the energy for a couple more stores, but first, we gotta find a place to get a sandwich.”
They didn’t find a sandwich, but they did find a sushi shop, and as Virgil was dunking a chunk of raw tuna into a cup of wasabi, Rae said, “You sounded . . . smart . . . up there. In the meeting. Like a smart cop. With a hard nose. Giving shit to the feds.”
“Why not? I am smart,” Virgil said.
“You hide it well. Even when it’s just you and me.”
Virgil tried the shrimp: “Jesus, this stuff is good. Don’t much get good sushi in the rural Midwest.” He chewed for a moment and then said, “You know about the tall poppy syndrome?”
“Mmm, no. Does it have something to do with heroin poppies?”
“Any poppies, I guess. You hear about it mostly in Australia and Canada, but Minnesota’s almost Canada anyway—same people settled both places. Anyway, the tall poppy syndrome refers to the idea that the tall poppies in a field will get their tops cut off to make everything neat and equal. When it comes to a culture, it means that people who let their light shine will eventually get dragged down, and a lot of people will enjoy seeing that happen. If you’re in a tall poppy culture, it’s all right to be smart, but you can’t act smart. You can’t show it.”
“That sounds like girls in eighth grade: ‘You think you’re so smart?’ That kind of thing.”
“Exactly,” Virgil said. “If you grow up in Minnesota, you develop this cover. You know, you do well, but, ‘I’m an ordinary guy who got lucky, that’s all, I really like standing around on the street corner when it’s ten below zero having long conversations about the Vikings.’ Eventually, it becomes reflexive. You really sort of become that. The guy who likes to hang out on street corners, bullshitting. You don’t let the smart out.”
“Not exactly New York or LA,” Rae said. “In those places, they can’t wait to let you know how smart they are.”
“Different culture. That’s why we’re going to fuck Behan and his crew. They’re from New York. They look at us—we’re from Iowa, for Christ’s sake—and they can’t imagine that we’re anything but a lazy motherfucker and his ghetto girl. They’re too smart to make a mistake about it.”
“But they are.”
“And we’re gonna fuck ’em because of it,” Virgil said; a happy guy. He looked down at Rae’s plate. “Say, you want that octopus?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Behan, Cattaneo, Lange, and Regio gathered at Behan’s condo to celebrate: a hundred and ten kilos of heroin, worth something in the neighborhood of three and a half million dollars wholesale in New York, had come out of the ocean and were safely packed away in a high-security storage unit in Hallandale.
“We’re taking it north tomorrow,” Behan said.
The four of them were standing around with crystal whiskey glasses in their hands, all of them drinking scotch, except Behan, who had a bottle of water; all of them in sport coats and dress shirts and loafers. Behan’s low-rent designers had just installed ten of the world’s most famous black-and-white photographs down a long hallway, and they all pretended to be interested in them, though Behan