She paused and flicked ashes into the enamel ashtray.

"So Papa crawled over the seat, took the wheel, and drove that Caddy out of there himself," she continued, "returning fire with Lester's—the driver's—nine-millimeter. He got at least one of the shooters."

"Were they white or black?" asked Kurtz.

"White," said Sophia. "Anyway, Papa would have gotten away all right, but someone used a.357 Magnum to fire through the trunk of the Caddy. The damned slug went through the rear end, the spare tire, both seats, and ended up in Papa's back, a quarter of an inch from his spine. And that trunk was armored."

"Did Don Farino figure out who'd put the hit on him?"

Sophia shrugged. Her nipples were a delicate brown. "A lot of inquiries, a few suspects, but no confirmation. It was probably the Gonzagas."

"They're the only other Italian mob with action in western New York, right?" said Kurtz.

Sophia frowned. "We don't call them 'Italian mob. "

"Okay," said Kurtz. "The Gonzagas are the only other guinea gangsters licensed to do business in this end of the state, right?"

"Right."

"And it's been about six years since what's left of the Farinos had any real clout?"

"Yes," she said. "Things went downhill after Papa was crippled."

Kurtz nodded. "Your oldest brother, David, tried to keep the family in the action until the mid-90's. Then he killed himself in a car accident while coked to the eyes, and your older sister took off for a nunnery in Italy."

Sophia nodded.

"And then Little Skag fucked things up for a while until the other families decided it was time for your father to retire," said Kurtz. "Little Skag gets high and attacks his Brazilian girlfriend with a shovel, and here you are, alone in that big house with Papa."

Sophia said nothing.

"What's being hijacked?" asked Kurtz. "On the trucks they hit?"

"VCRs, DVD players, cigarettes," said Sophia. "The usual penny-ante crap. The New York families are big into bootleg videos and DVDs, and that means they've got thousands of machines to unload. They toss Papa that crumb. The cigarettes are just for old times' sake."

"Untaxed cigarettes can bring in nice money," said Kurtz.

"Not in the quantities that they let our family have," said Sophia. She slid out of bed and walked to the closet. There was a thick robe on one of the leather chairs by the window, but she ignored it, obviously feeling comfortable naked. "You're going to have to get out of here," she said. "It's almost sunrise."

Kurtz nodded and got out of bed.

"My God, you've got a lot of scars," said Sophia Farino.

"Accident prone," said Kurtz. "Where are my clothes?"

"Down the disposal chute," she said. She slid back one of the mirrored doors and took a man's denim shirt, some packaged Jockey shorts, and a pair of corduroy trousers out of a drawer. "Take these," she said. "They should fit you. I'll get some new sneakers and socks for you."

Kurtz tossed the shirt back. "Don't wear these," he said.

"Don't wear what?" she said. "Shirts? Denim shirts?"

"Polo ponies."

"You're shitting me. That's a brand-new two-hundred-dollar shirt."

Kurtz shrugged. "I don't wear company logos. If they want me to advertise for them, they can pay me."

Sophia Farino laughed again and once again Kurtz enjoyed the sound of it. "A man of principle," she said. "Butchered Eddie Falco, crippled ol' Carl, and shot God knows how many others in cold blood, but a man of principle. I love it." She tossed him a cheaper-looking denim shirt. "No ponies, alligators, sheep, Nike swooshes, or anything else on it. Satisfied?"

Kurtz pulled it on. It fit fine. So did the underpants, corduroy slacks, socks, and boat shoes. He didn't think that Sophia had gone shopping ahead of time for him, so he wondered how many men's sizes she kept in stock. Maybe it was like the package of condoms in the shower: Be prepared was evidently this woman's motto. He headed for the front door.

"Hey," she said, finally pulling on the robe and padding along beside him. "It's cold out there."

"Did you throw away my jacket as well?"

"Damned right I did." She opened the foyer closet door and handed him an expensive, insulated leather bomber jacket. "This should fit you."

It did. He unbolted the door.

"Kurtz," she said. "You're still naked." She took a 9mm Sig Sauer from the closet and offered it to him.

Kurtz checked it—the magazine was fully loaded—and then handed it back. "Don't know where it's been," he said.

Sophia smiled. "It's not traceable. Don't you trust me?"

Kurtz twitched a smile and let her keep the pistol. He went out the door, down a private hallway, took the elevator to the ground floor, and went out into the dark past a sleepy but curious front-lobby security guard. When he'd walked a block west, he looked back at the loft building. Her lights were still on, but they flicked out as he watched.

Kurtz's current bolthole was in an old icehouse being renovated into lofts, but it was a mile or so from the already-gentrified area where Sophia Farino had her pied-à-terre. It was not really light yet, but there was a certain brighter grayness to the low clouds that were drizzling on him.

He felt naked without a weapon, and a little woozy. He put that down to not having eaten or drunk anything except the glass of Chivas for the past twenty-four hours rather than because of great sex. Kurtz admitted to himself that he'd had images of sitting around in those soft terry-cloth robes, enjoying a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and steaming hot coffee with Ms. Farino before he headed out into the storm. Getting soft, Joe, he thought. At least the expensive bomber jacket was warm against the icy drizzle.

Kurtz was walking under the I-90 overpass when a memory struck him. He left the sidewalk, climbed the steep concrete gradient, and peered into the low, dark niches where the concrete supports met iron girders. The first two cubbies were empty except for pigeon crap and human shit, but the third held a small skeletal figure that pulled back to the far end of the cluttered hole. As Kurtz's eyes adapted to the dark, he could make out wide white eyes, trembling shoulders, and long, bare, quaking arms emerging from a torn T-shirt. Even in the dim light, he could see the bruises and track marks on those arms. The thin man tried to pull himself farther back from the opening.

"Hey, it's okay, Pruno," said Kurtz. He reached out and patted the arm. It was almost fleshless and colder than some corpses Kurtz had handled. "It's me, Joe Kurtz."

"Joseph?" said the quaking figure. "Really you, Joseph?"

"Yeah."

"When'd you get out?"

"Just a while ago."

Pruno came farther out and tried to smooth out the flattened cardboard box and stinking blanket he was sitting on. The rest of the niche was filled with bottles and newspapers that the man obviously had been using for insulation.

"Where the hell's your sleeping bag, Pruno?"

"Somebody stole it, Joseph. Just a couple nights ago. I think… it wasn't long ago. Just when it was turning cold."

"You should go to the shelter, man."

Pruno lifted one of the bottles of wine and offered it. Kurtz shook his head. "Shelter's getting meaner every year," said the wino and junkie. "Work for sleep's the motto now."

"Working's better than freezing to death," said Kurtz.

Pruno shrugged. "I'll find a better blanket when one of the old street guys dies. 'Round about first snow, probably. So how are the guys in C Block, Joseph?"

"Last year they moved me to D Block," said Kurtz. "But I heard that Billy the C went to L.A. when he got out and is working in the movies out there."

"Acting?"