Kurtz immediately picked out her bodyguards and could have even if they hadn't been the only other white guys in this part of the park. One of the men was ten yards to her left, studiously studying squirrel activity, and the other was strolling fifteen yards to her right, almost to the courts. Her bodyguards from the previous winter had been lumpish and proletarian, from Jersey, but these two were as thin, well-dressed, and blow-dried as California male models. One of them started crossing toward Kurtz as if to intercept and frisk him, but Angelina Farino Ferrara waved the man off.

As he got closer, Kurtz opened his arms as if to hug her, but really to show that his hands and jacket pockets were free of weapons.

"Holy fuck, Kurtz," she said when he got to within four feet and stopped.

"Nice to see you, too."

"You look sort of like The Spirit."

"Who?"

"A comic strip character from the forties. He wore a fedora and a blue mask, too. He used to have his own comics page in the Herald Tribune. My father used to collect them in a big leather scrapbook during the war."

"Uh-huh," said Kurtz. "Interesting." Meaning—can we cut the crap?

Angelina Farino Ferrara shook her head, chuckled, and began walking east toward the zoo. White mothers were herding their preschoolers toward the zoo gates, casting nervous glances toward the oblivious blacks playing basketball. Most of the males on the courts were stripped to shorts even on this chilly autumn day and their flesh looked oiled with sweat.

"So I heard that you and your parole officer were shot yesterday," said Angelina. "Somehow you just took it on your thick skull while she took it in the brain. Congratulations, Kurtz. You always were nine-tenths luck to one-tenth skill or common sense."

Kurtz couldn't argue with that. "How'd you hear about it so fast?"

"Cops on the arm."

Of course, thought Kurtz. The concussion must be making him stupid.

"So who did it?" asked the woman. She had an oval face out of a Donatello sculpture, intelligent brown eyes, shoulder-length black hair cut straight and tied back this morning, and a runner's physique. She was also the first female acting don in the history of the American mafia—a group that hadn't evolved high enough on the political-correctness ladder even to recognize terms like "female acting don." Whenever Kurtz found himself thinking that she was especially attractive, he would remember her telling him that she'd drowned her newborn baby boy—the product of a rape by Emilio Gonzaga, the head of the rival Buffalo mob family—in the Belice River in Sicily. Her voice had sounded calm when she'd told him, almost satisfied.

"I was hoping you could tell me who shot me," said Kurtz.

"You didn't see them?" She'd stopped walking. Leaves swirled around her legs. Her two bodyguards kept their distance but they also kept their eyes on Kurtz.

"No."

"Well, let's see," said Angelina. "Do you have any enemies who might want to do you harm?"

Kurtz waited while she had her little laugh.

"D-BIock Mosque still has its fatwa out on you," she said. "And the Seneca Street Social Club still thinks you had something to do with their fearless leader, whatshisname, Malcolm Kibunte, going over the Falls last winter."

Kurtz waited.

"Plus there's some oversized Indian with a serious limp who's telling everyone who'll listen that he's going to kill you. Big Bore Redhawk. Is that a real name?"

"You should know," said Kurtz. "You hired the idiot."

"Actually, Stevie did." She was referring to her brother.

"How is Little Skag?" said Kurtz.

Angelina shrugged. "He was never returned to general population after that shank job in Attica last spring. Cons don't like Short Eyes. Even scum has to have its scum to look down on. Best bet is that Little Stevie's under federal protection in a country club somewhere."

"His lawyer would know," said Kurtz.

"His lawyer had an unfortunate accident in his home in June. He didn't survive."

Kurtz looked at her carefully but Angelina Farino Ferrara's expression revealed nothing. Her brother had been her only rival to the control of the Farino crime family, and the loss of his lawyer would have cramped Little Skag's ability to operate at least as much as the shanking and beatings had, which had come about because of a pedophile story that Angelina had leaked to the media.

"Who else might want some of me?" said Kurtz. "Anyone I haven't heard about?"

"What would I be getting in return?"

Kurtz shrugged. "What would you want?"

"That jacket," said Angelina Farino Ferrara.

Kurtz looked down. "You want my jacket in exchange for information?"

"No, dipshit. That was one of Sophia's post-fuck presents. She bought them by the gross from Avirex."

Shit, thought Kurtz. He'd forgotten that Angelina's now-dead younger sister had given him this bomber jacket. It was one of the reasons he'd given it to Pruno. And, indeed, it had been a post-fuck going-away present He wondered now if this concussion had made him too stupid to go out in public. Right, said the more cynical part of his bruised brain, blame it on the concussion.

"I'll give you the jacket right now if you tell me who else might have been in that parking garage with me yesterday," he said.

"I don't want the jacket," Angelina said. "Nor the sex that made Sophia give you the damn thing. I just want to hire you the way she did. The way Papa did."

Kurtz blinked at this. When he'd gotten out of Attica a year ago, he'd tried out the theory that since he couldn't work as a licensed private investigator any longer, he might find dishonest but steady work doing investigations for shady characters like Don Farino and then the don's daughter, Sophia. It hadn't worked out so well for Kurtz, but even less well for the dead don and his dead daughter.

"Are you nuts?" said Kurtz.

Angelina Farino Ferrara shrugged. "Those are my terms for information.",

"Then you are nuts. You want to hire me in what capacity? Hairdresser to your boys?" He nodded in the direction of the pretty bodyguards.

"You weren't listening, Kurtz. I want to hire you as an investigator."

"At my daily rates?"

"Flat fee for services rendered," said Angelina.

"How flat?"

"Fifteen thousand dollars for a single name and address. Ten thousand for just the name."

Kurtz breathed out and waited. His head felt like someone had displaced it about two feet to the left. Even the color of the leaves blowing around them hurt his eyes. The basketball players shouted at some great rebound under the boards. Somewhere in the zoo, an old lion coughed. The silence stretched.

"You thinking, Kurtz, or just having a Senior Moment?"

"Tell me what I'm supposed to investigate and I'll tell you if I'm in."

The woman folded her arms and watched the basketball game for a minute. One of the younger men playing caught her eye and whistled. The bodyguards glowered. Angelina grinned at the kid with the basketball. She turned back to Kurtz.

"Someone's been killing some of our people. Five, to be exact."

"Someone you don't know."

"Yeah."

"You want me to find out who's doing it?"

"Yeah."

"And whack him?"

Angelina Farino Ferrara rolled her eyes. "No, Kurtz, I have people for that. Just identify him beyond any reasonable doubt and give us the name. Five thousand more if you come up with a current location as well."

"Can't your people find him as well as whack him?"

"They're specialists," said Angelina.

Kurtz nodded. "These people close to you getting hit? Button men, that sort of thing?"

"No. Contacts. Connections. Customers. I'll explain later."

Kurtz thought about it. The wad of cash in his pocket was getting close to the last money he had. But what were the ethics of finding someone so these mobsters could kill them? He certainly had an ethical dilemma on his hands.