“And Mr. Welles,” the judge added, “will have to consult with the law.”

“I will, Your Honor,” Welles agreed.

Ms. Redcorn said, “And I gotta have a new lawyer.”

They all looked at her with surprise, none more so than Marjorie. Ms. Redcorn gave her a friendly head shake and said, “You do your best, Ms. Dawson, but I need somebody who’s a specialist in this DNA business.”

Judge Higbee said, “Very sensible, Ms. Redcorn. As a matter of fact, you know, if we proceed and then the tests go against you, the penalties could be quite severe. No one wants to go to that expense on what could turn out to be a frivolous contention.”

“I’m not frivolous, Judge,” Ms. Redcorn said. “Trust me.”

“Yes, well,” he said, “I could, if you like, draw up a list of recommended counsel.”

“Thank you, sir, but no,” she said. “I’ve got some friends out west can help me.” Then she turned to Welles and said, “Which company you work for?”

“My firm,” he answered, “is Holliman, Sherman, Beiderman, Tallyman & Funk. You wouldn’t be able to use us, of course.”

“I know,” she told him, “that’s why I wanted to ask.” Turning back to Judge Higbee, she said, “I’ll be all right, Your Honor.” Beaming at the judge, she pointed toward Welles and said, “I’m gonna get me one of them.”

Roger Fox had never seen his partner so upset. “Calm down, Frank,” he said. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”

“Well, it can’t be worse,” Frank told him, “so maybe it is as bad as all that. Roger, they’ve got a way to prove whether or not that damn woman really is Pottaknobbee.”

“What, that list of relatives she throws around? All right, they existed, but that doesn’t mean they have anything to do with her.”

“DNA testing,” Frank said. “I want a drink, and so do you.”

They were meeting this afternoon in Roger’s office, the one that had been shown on TV, and in his office the bar was a mahogany and chrome and mirror construction built into the corner to the right of the desk. (It had been out of sight, to the left of the camera, on television.) Roger had been seated comfortably at his desk when Frank came in from his meeting with Judge Higbee, but now he angled forward, his heavy stuffed swivel chair propelling him to his feet as he said, “DNA? That proves paternity, doesn’t it?”

“It can prove it in the other direction, too,” Frank said, taking down two of the heavy cut-glass whiskey glasses from the chrome shelf and placing them on the mahogany bar. “And prove whether you did the rape,” he said, opening the low refrigerator and adding two ice cubes to each glass, “whether you stabbed the person,” he said, reaching for the bottle of Wild Turkey on the back bar, “whether you had sex with the boss’s wife,” he said, pouring a very generous portion into each glass, “whether your goddamn great-grandfather is goddamn Joseph goddamn Redcorn!” he yelled, and pushed one glass toward Roger—a little slopped, no matter—then drained his own glass by a third.

When next his glass was away from his face, Roger had crossed the room to the bar and was standing there looking at him, but he hadn’t moved a hand toward his own drink. Roger said, “DNA?”

“You said it.”

“What does Welles say?”

“One hundred percent reliable.”

“No, no, I know that. What does he say about can they do it? Did you mention sacred tribal lands?”

“The son of a bitch is buried in New York City!”

Roger reared back, clasping tighter to the bar with both hands. “What the hell is he doing down there?”

“That’s where he fell off the building, the goddamn stumble-footed . . .”

“The rumor was, the Mohawks pushed him.”

“The Three Tribes blame the Mohawks for everything, they always have. He was probably drunk,” he decided, and drank another third of his Wild Turkey.

Roger said, “But why there? The Pottaknobbees, all of us in the Three Tribes, we’re buried here on the reservation. Unless somebody moves away, loses touch.”

“The builder would pay for the funeral,” Frank explained, “only if it was in New York. Nobody up here cared enough, apparently. And Roger, realistically, you know, a lot of the Three Tribes are buried way to hell and gone all over the place.”

Roger at last reached for his glass. “So much for sacred tribal lands,” he said, and drank, not quite as much nor as rapidly as Frank.

“I tried to suggest,” Frank said, “that Redcorn’s grave is sacred tribal land just because he’s in it, but Welles thinks that won’t fly. It could help us stall awhile, but sooner or later a court would order the test to go ahead. And we’ve gotta be careful not to push that stuff too hard, we don’t want to look like we’re trying to stiff-arm that woman, whether she’s Pottaknobbee or not.”

“We are, though.”

“Yes, but quietly,” Frank said.

Roger considered. “What did she think of the idea of DNA testing? She was there, wasn’t she, at the meeting? What did she think?”

“She loves it,” Frank said sourly. “‘That’s my great-grandpa,’” he mimicked, and emptied his glass.

Roger followed down that trail, more slowly, and as Frank refilled his own glass, Roger said, “She’s pretty damn sure of herself, isn’t she?”

“Goddamn it, Roger, I’m becoming pretty damn sure of her! I think the goddamn bitch probably is the last of the Pottaknobbees, and how we’re going to keep her out of these offices, I have no idea.”

“If only we were murderers,” Roger said, and sipped a little more Wild Turkey. It was very warm going down, very comforting.

Frank shook his head. “Come on, Roger,” he said, “you know better than that. I thought of that myself, and of course we could do it. We could find some bum right here on the reservation to do the job for us for five hundred dollars, and guess who the only suspects would be.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Roger said.

“And once we’re suspects, Roger,” Frank said, “their next question is, what were you boys trying to hide?”

“Oh God,” Roger said, and drained his glass. Pushing it toward Frank, he said, “Could we make a deal with her?”

“Never,” Frank said, refilling Roger’s glass and topping up his own. “She’s the coldest, nastiest piece of work I’ve ever seen. Give her an inch and she’ll take a foot, and I do mean off your leg.”

“Then we have to—” Roger said, and the intercom buzzed, and he turned to give his desk a reproachful look. “And what fresh hell is this?” he asked.

“You might as well answer,” Frank said. “I think I’m becoming fatalistic, Roger,” he added as Roger crossed to the desk. “Do you suppose the Indians have their own gangs in prison?”

“In the Northeast? I think you’d really get to know what a minority is,” Roger told him. “Don’t give up yet, Frank.”

“Be sure to tell me when to give up,” Frank said, and drank some more.

Roger reached over his desk for the phone. “Yes, Audrey.”

“Benny’s here,” came the voice of his secretary.

“Good,” Roger said.

Surprised, Audrey said, “Good?”

“Just send him in, Audrey.”

Frank, fumbling with the top of the Wild Turkey bottle, said, “Send who in?”

“Benny.”

“Oh, him,” Frank said, and the door opened, and Benny Whitefish entered.

About thirty, Benny Whitefish was a chunky little guy in faded blue jeans and a red plaid shirt, and his usual expression was hangdog, as though he’d just broken some keepsake of yours and was hoping you wouldn’t notice before he left. “Hi, Uncle Roger,” he said, because, in fact, he was Roger Fox’s nephew, via his otherwise-estimable sister, but there was, in any event, just something essentially nephewish about Benny, as though he would be a nephew at ninety, even with no older relatives to be nephew to. The family gofer, forever.