"Do I get my car back now?" asked Arlene.

"Not quite yet," said Kurtz. "But I'll drive you home and return it later tonight."

Arlene mumbled something. Then she said, "Pearl Wilson returned your call. She said that she'll meet you at the Blue Franklin parking lot at 6:00."

"Damn," said Kurtz. "I didn't want to meet with her, just talk to her."

Arlene shrugged, shut off her computer, and walked to the coat hook on the wall. Kurtz noticed a second topcoat there. "What's that?" he said.

Arlene tossed it to him. Kurtz tried it on. It was long, wool, a charcoal gray, with large pockets inside and out. He liked it. The smell told him that its previous owner had been a smoker.

"Since I had to eat lunch around here, I dropped into the Thrift Store down the block," said Arlene. "That army jacket—wherever it went—just wasn't you."

"Thanks," said Kurtz. "Which reminds me, we have to stop by an ATM on the way to your place. Get about five hundred in cash."

"Oh, you opened an account, Joe?"

"Nope." Before they shut off the lights and went out to the car, Kurtz dialed Doc's number. He wasn't sure how he was going to get to Malcolm Kibunte yet, but he knew that once he did, he'd need more than the short-barreled.38.

Doc's answering machine came on the line with the inevitable "I'm sleeping, leave a message," and the beep.

"Doc, this is Joe. Thought I might drop by later to talk about the Bills." Kurtz hung up. That was enough to let Doc know to leave the steel-mill gate open for him.

Pearl Wilson drove a beautiful dove-gray Infiniti Q45. Kurtz got out of the Buick, blinked against the blowing snow, and got in the passenger side of the Infiniti. The new vehicle smelled of leather and long-chain polymer molecules and of Pearl's subtle perfume. She was wearing a soft, expensive dress of the same dove-gray as the car.

"Seneca Social Club," she said, shifting sideways in the driver's seat. "Joe, honey, what on earth are you thinking about?"

"I just knew that you used to sing there years ago," said Kurtz. "I was just curious about the place. We didn't have to meet in person."

"Uh-uh." Pearl shook her head. "You're never just curious, Joe, honey. And you really don't want to be messing with the Seneca Social Club these days."

Kurtz waited.

"So after you called," she continued, her voice that husky mix of smoke and whiskey and cat purr which never ceased to amaze Kurtz, "I went back down to the Seneca Social Club to look around."

"Goddamn it, Pearl," said Kurtz. "All I wanted from you was an idea about—"

"Don't you dare curse at me," said Pearl, her rich, soft voice shifting to ice and edges.

"Sorry."

"I know what you wanted, Joe, honey, but it's been years and years since I was in that place. Used to sing there for King Nathan when he owned the place. It was a little bar then—a real social club. The layout hasn't changed, but those gangbangers have changed everything else."

Kurtz shook his head. The thought of Pearl Wilson walking among those miserable Bloods made him slightly ill.

"Oh, they'd heard of me," said Pearl. "Treated me all right. Of course, that might have been because I had Lark and D. J. along." Lark and D. J., Kurtz knew, were Pearl's two huge bodyguards. "Gave me a tour and everything."

Kurtz had just driven by the place. No windows on the first floor. Barred windows on the second floor.

Alley in back. A yellow Mercedes SLK parked back there. Steel doors. Peepholes. The Bloods inside would have automatic weapons.

"They've turned it into a pool parlor," said Pearl. "A bar and some tables downstairs. A locked door behind the bar that opens to stairs to the second floor. More tables up there and some ratty furniture. Two rooms up there—the big front room with the four tables, and Malcolm Kibunte's office in back. Another heavy door to his office."

"Did you see this Malcolm Kibunte?" Kurtz asked.

Pearl shook her head. "They said he wasn't there. Didn't see that albino psychopath who hangs with him either."

"Cutter?" said Kurtz.

"Yes, that's his name. Rumor is that Cutter is a black-man albino. Otherwise, the Bloods wouldn't put up with him."

Kurtz smiled at that. "Any back way upstairs?" he said.

Pearl nodded. "Little hall to the back door. Three doors. First one is the back stairway. That door locks from the inside as well. Next two doors for 'Studs' and 'Mares. "

"Cute."

"That's what I said," said Pearl.

"What reason did you use to get in?"

"I said that I used to sing for King Nathan there, Joe, honey, and that I was feeling nostalgic about seeing the place again. The younger Blood didn't know what I was talking about, but one of the older men did, and escorted me through the place. Everything but Kibunte's office." She smiled slightly. "I don't think that you'll get in by saying the same thing, Joe, honey."

"No, I guess not," said Kurtz. "Many people there? Guns?"

Pearl nodded yes to both.

"Women?"

"A few of their 'bitches, " said Pearl. Her voice showed distaste at the last word. "Not many. Mostly younger bangers. Crackheads."

"You wouldn't happen to know where Malcolm lives?"

Pearl patted his knee. "No one does, Joe, honey. The man just comes into the community, sells crack and heroin and other drugs to the kids there, and the Bloods make him a demi-god. He drives a yellow Mercedes convertible, but somehow no one ever sees where it goes when Malcolm leaves."

Kurtz nodded, thinking about that.

"It's a bad place, Joe, honey," said Pearl. She took his fingers in her soft hand and squeezed. "I would feel much better if you'd promise me that you're not going to have anything to do with the Seneca Social Club."

Kurtz held her hand in both of his, but all he said was, "Thank you, Pearl." He stepped out of the sweet smells of the new Infiniti and walked through blowing snow to his borrowed Buick.

Doc didn't come on guard duty at the steel mill until 11:00 p.m., so Kurtz had some time to kill. He felt tired. The last few days and nights had begun to blend together in his mind.

Using some of the $500 in cash that Arlene had retrieved from the ATM—Kurtz had promised to pay her back by the end of the month—he filled the Buick's gas tank for her. He then went into the Texaco convenience store and bought a Bic cigarette lighter, twenty-five feet of clothesline, and four half-liter Cokes—the only drinks which came in glass bottles. Kurtz emptied the Coke and filled the bottles with gasoline, keeping out of sight of the attendant as he did so. He had gone into the restroom, removed his boxer shorts, and torn them into rags. Now he stuffed those rags into the mouths of the gasoline-filled bottles and carefully set the four bottles into the spare-tire niche in the Buick's trunk. He did not have a real plan yet, but he thought that these things might come in handy when and if he visited the Seneca Social Club.

It was definitely colder without underpants.

The snow was trying to become Buffalo's first November snowstorm, but little was sticking to the streets. Kurtz drove down to the Expressway overpass, parked on a side street, and climbed the concrete grade to Pruno's niche. The cold concrete cubicle was empty. Kurtz remembered another place where the old man used to hang out, so he drove to the main switching yard. It was on his way.

Here part of the highway was elevated over twenty rails, and in the slight shelter of the bridge rose a ramshackle city of packing crates, tin roofs, open fires, and a few lanterns. Diesel locomotives growled and clanked in the wide yards a quarter of a mile beyond the squatters' city. What little skyline Buffalo offered rose beyond the railyards. Kurtz walked down the concrete incline and went from shack to shack.