"'Vestigate?" said Malcolm. "What the fucker think he is, Sherlock Motherfucking Holmes?"

"He used to be a private investigator," said Miles, nodding toward the folder as if urging Malcolm to read the few pages in it. When Malcolm didn't, Miles went on, "Anyway, he's looking into Buell Richardson's disappearance and also into some of the truck hijackings."

Malcolm flashed his diamond tooth again. "Whoa! Now I see why you want us way up here in Honky Tourist World so early in the day. Miles, my man, you must've shit your three-pleats when you heard that."

This was the second time that Malcolm had mentioned how early in the day it was, Miles noted. He did not point out that it was after 3:00 p.m. He said, "We don't want this Kurtz to be messing with these things, do we, Malcolm?"

Malcolm Kibunte pursed his lips in mock solemnity and slowly shook his gleaming, hairless head. "Aww, no, Miles, my man. We don't want nobody messing around in what we could get our fucking lawyer head blown off for, do we, Counselor?"

"No," Cutter added in a voice lacking all human tone, "we don't, do we?"

Miles literally jumped at the sound of Cutter's voice. He turned and looked at Cutter, who was still staring at nothing. It was as if the words had come from his belly or chest.

"How much?" said Malcolm, no longer playful.

"Ten thousand," said Miles. "Fuck that. Even with the Death Mosque ten, that ain't enough."

Miles shook his head. "This can't get out. No word to the Mosque brothers. We have to make Kurtz disappear."

"Dis-ap-pear," said Malcolm, stretching out the syllables. "Disappearing some motherfucker harder than just capping him. We talking fifty bills."

Miles showed his most disdainful lawyer smile. "Mr. Farino could call in his best professional talent for less than that."

"Mr. Farino," minced Malcolm, "ain't calling in nobody for nothing, is he, Miles, my man? This Kurtz your problem—am I right or am I right?"

Miles made a gesture.

"And besides, Mr. Farino's best professional talent can kiss my serene black ass and eat wop shit and die wop slow, they get in my way," Malcolm continued.

Miles said nothing.

"What Cutter wants to know," said Malcolm, "is do you or don't you have nothing on Kurtz? Not where he live? Not where he work? Friends? Nothing… am I right or am I right? Me and Cutter supposed to play P.I. as well as cap this fucker for you?"

"The folder" — began Miles, nodding toward it—"has some information. Where Kurtz used to have an office on Chippewa. The name of a former associate, dead, a woman… the name and current address of his former secretary and a few other people he spent time with. Mr. Fi… the family had me check on him when Little Skag sent word that Kurtz wanted a meeting. There's not much there, but it could help."

"Forty," said Malcolm. It was not a proposal, merely a final statement. "That only twenty each for C and me. And it's hard to disappoint the Mosque that way, Miles, my man."

"All right," said the lawyer. "A fourth up front. As usual." He looked around, saw only tourists, and handed across his second envelope of cash in two days.

Malcolm smiled broadly and counted the $10,000, showing it to Cutter, who seemed to be absorbed in looking at a squirrel near the trash bin.

"You want pictures, as always?" said Malcolm as he slid the envelope into his black leather jacket.

Miles nodded.

"What you do with those Polaroids, Miles, my man? Jack off to them?"

Miles ignored that. "You sure you can do this, Malcolm?"

For a second, Miles thought that he had gone too far. Various emotions rippled across Malcolm's face, like wind rippling an ebony flag, but the final reaction seemed to be humor.

"Oh, yesss," said Malcolm, looking up at Cutter to share his good humor. "Mistah Kurtz, he dead."

South Buffalo's Lackawanna had gone belly up as a steel town years before Kurtz had been sent away, but driving south on the elevated expressway now made him think of some sci-fi movie about a dead industrial planet. Below the expressway stretched mile after mile of dark and empty steel mills, factories, black brick warehouses, parking lots, train tracks, rusting rolling stock, smokeless chimneys, and abandoned worker housing. At least Kurtz hoped that those shitty tarpaper shacks on darkened streets under shot-out streetlights were abandoned.

He exited, drove several blocks past hovels and high-fenced yards, and pulled into one of the darkened mills. The gate padlock was unlocked. He drove through, closed the huge gate behind him, and drove to the far end of a parking lot that had been built to hold six or seven thousand cars. There was one vehicle there now: a rusted-out old Ford pickup with a camper shell on the back. Kurtz parked Arlene's Buick next to it and made the long, dark walk into the main factory building.

The main doors were open wide. Kurtz's footfalls echoed in the huge space as he passed slag heaps, cold open hearths, hanging crucibles the size of houses, gantries and cranes stripped of everything worth anything, and many huge, rusted shapes he couldn't begin to identify. The only lighting was from the occasional yellow trouble light.

Kurtz stopped beneath what had once been a control room thirty feet above the factory floor. A dim light illuminated the dirty glass on three sides of the box. An old man came out onto the metal balcony and shouted down, "Come on up."

Kurtz climbed the steel ladder.

"Hey, Doc," said Kurtz as the two men walked into the soft light of the control room.

"Howdy, Kurtz," said Doc. The old man had disappeared into that never-never land of indeterminate age that some men occupy for decades—somewhere over sixty-five but definitely under eighty-five.

"It seemed weird to see your pawnshop turned into an ice-cream parlor," said Kurtz. "I never thought you'd sell the shop."

Doc nodded. "Fucking economy just stayed too good in the nineties. I like the watchman job better. Don't have to worry about doped-up shitheads trying to knock me over. What can I do you for, Kurtz?"

Kurtz liked this about Doc. It had been more than eleven years since he had seen the old man, but Doc had just used up his entire inventory of small talk.

"Two pieces," said Kurtz. "One semiauto and the other a concealed-carry revolver."

"Cold?"

"As cold as you can make them."

"That's very cold." Doc went into the padlocked back room. He came back out in a minute and set several metal cases and small boxes on his cluttered desk. "I remember that nine-millimeter Beretta you used to love so much. What ever happened to that weapon?"

"I buried it with honors," Kurtz said truthfully. "What do you have for me?"

"Well, look at this first," said Doc and opened one of the gray carrying cases. He lifted out a black semiautomatic pistol. "Heckler & Koch USP.45 Tactical," he said. "New. Beautiful piece. Grooved dust cover for lasers or lights. Threaded extended barrel for silencer or suppressor."

Kurtz shook his head. "I don't like plastic guns."

"Polymer," corrected Doc.

"Plastic. You and I are made mostly of polymers, Doc. The gun is plastic and glass fiber. It looks like something Luke Sky walker would use."

Doc shrugged.

"Besides," said Kurtz, "I don't use lasers, lights, silencers, or suppressors, and I don't like German guns."

Doc put away the H&K. He opened another case.

"Nice," said Kurtz, lifting out the semiautomatic pistol. It was dark gray—almost black—and constructed primarily of forged steel.

"Kimber Custom.45 ACP," said Doc. "Owned briefly by a little old lady from Tonawanda who just hauled it down to the firing range once or twice a month."