"Thank you." He lowered the bar and left it lowered. Angelina was doing curls with fifteen-pound weights. Her biceps were feminine but well-defined. No one was within earshot. "When do you have lunch with Gonzaga this week?"

"Tomorrow, Tuesday. Then again on Thursday. Did you bring my property?"

"No. Tell me the drill when you and the Boys go for lunch." There was a heavy bag and a speed bag in the room, and he put on gloves and began working on the heavy bag.

Angelina set down the dumbbells and went to a bench to do some pull-ups. "The car takes us to Grand Island—"

"Your car or Gonzaga's?"

"His."

"How many people other than the driver?"

"One. The Asian stone-killer called Mickey Kee. But the driver's carrying as well."

"What can, you tell me about Kee?"

"He's from South Korea. He was trained in their Special Forces—sort of Green Berets by way of SMERSH. I think he got a lot of on-the-job experience assassinating North Korean infiltrators, people the regime didn't like, that sort of thing. He's probably the most efficient killer in New York State right now."

"When you go to lunch, they pick you up at the Marina Tower?"

"Yeah."

"Frisk you there?"

"No. They take the Boys' guns at the guardhouse. Then they drive us the rest of the way. There's a metal-detector at the entrance to the main house—it's subtle, but it's there—and then I get frisked again by a woman in a private room off the foyer before being allowed into Emilio's presence. I guess they're afraid I'll go at him with a hat pin or something."

"A hat pin," repeated Kurtz. "You're older than you look."

Angelina ignored him. "The Boys sit on a couch in the foyer while the Gonzaga goons watch them. The Boys get their guns back when we drive out."

"Okay," said Kurtz. He concentrated on hitting the big bag for a few minutes. When he looked up, Angelina handed him a towel and a water bottle.

"You looked like you meant it with the bag," she said.

Kurtz drank and wiped the sweat from his eyes. "I'm going with you to Gonzaga's place tomorrow."

Angelina Farino Ferrara's lips went pale. "Tomorrow? You're going to try to kill Emilio tomorrow? With me along? You're fucking crazy."

Kurtz shook his head. "I just want to go along as one of your bodyguards."

"Uh-uh." She was shaking her head hard enough to cause sweat to fly. "They only allow two guys to come with me. Marco and Leo, that's been the drill."

"I know. I'll take the place of one of them."

Angelina looked over her shoulder to where the Boys were sitting watching television. "Which one?"

"I don't know. We'll decide later."

"They'll be suspicious, new guard."

"That's why I want to go tomorrow. So they'll know me on Thursday."

"I—" She stopped. "Do you have a plan?"

"Maybe."

"Does it involve bulldozers and earthmovers?"

"Probably not."

She rubbed her lower lip with her fist. "We need to talk about this. You should come out to the penthouse this evening."

"Tomorrow morning," Kurtz said. "I'll be out of town this evening."

"Where the hell is he going?" asked Detective Myers. He and Brubaker had spent a cold and boring and useless afternoon watching Joe Kurtz's car and office, and when the son of a bitch finally emerged and started driving his scratched-up Volvo, the bastard had taken the 190 out to 90-South and seemed headed for the toll booths and the Thruway to Erie, Pennsylvania.

"How the fuck should I know where he's going?" said Brubaker. "But if he leaves the fucking state, he's in violation of his parole and we've got him." Five minutes later, Brubaker said, "Shit."

Kurtz had exited onto Highway 219, the last turnoff before the I-90 West Thruway toll booths. It was snowing and getting dark.

"What's out here?" whined Myers as they followed Kurtz toward the town of Orchard Park. "The Farino Family used to have their headquarters out here, but they moved it to town after that nun sister showed up, didn't they?"

Brubaker shrugged, although, he knew exactly where the new Farino Family digs were at Marina Towers since he took his weekly payoff from Little Skag via Skag's lawyer, Albert Bell, near there every Tuesday. Brubaker knew that Myers suspected him of being on the Farino payroll but wasn't sure. If Myers was certain, he'd want in himself, and Brubaker didn't like sharing.

"Why don't we just roust Kurtz tonight?" said Myers. "I got the throwdown if he's not armed."

Brubaker shook his head. Kurtz had turned right near Chestnut Ridge Park, and it was hard to follow the Volvo in the gloom and snow along these two-lane roads amidst all the construction cones and commuter traffic. "We're out of our jurisdiction here," he said. "His lawyer could call it harassment if we get him out here."

"Fuck that. We got probable cause."

Brubaker shook his head again.

"Then let's just forget this shit," Myers said. "It's a fucking waste of time."

"Tell that to Jimmy Hathaway," Brubaker said, invoking the name of the cop killed under mysterious circumstances four months earlier. The only link to Kurtz, Brubaker knew, was Little Skag Farino's comment to him that Hathaway—who had been the Farinos' bitch for years—had tapped a phone call and followed Kurtz somewhere on the night of the detective's murder. Hathaway had been eager to earn a bounty on Joe Kurtz's head at the time.

"Fuck Jimmy Hathaway," said Myers. "I never liked the asshole."

Brubaker shot a glance at his partner. "Look, if Kurtz leaves the state, we've got him on parole violation."

Myers pointed two cars ahead of him. "Leave the state? The fucker's not even leaving the county. Look—he just turned back toward Hamburg."

Brubaker lit a cigarette. It was hard to follow Kurtz now that it was really dark.

"You want him," said Myers, "let's roust him tomorrow in the city. Use the throwdown. Beat the shit out of him and turn him over to County."

"Yeah," said Brubaker. "Yeah." He turned back to Highway 219 and the Thruway to Buffalo.

When Kurtz was sure that the unmarked car had turned back, he took the back road from Hamburg to the Thruway, accepted a ticket at the toll booth, and drove the two hundred miles to Cleveland.

Dr. Howard K. Conway's office and home were in an old section not far from the downtown. It was a neighborhood of big old Victorian homes broken into apartments and large Catholic churches, either closed or locked tight against the night. As the Italian and Polish residents had been replaced by blacks in the old neighborhoods, the parishes had died or moved to the suburbs. Despite its new stadium and rock-and-roll museum, Cleveland was still, like Buffalo, an old industrial city with rot at its heart.

If Emilio Gonzaga's compound was a fortress, Conway's home was fortress-lite, circled by a black iron fence, its first-floor windows caged, the old house dark except for a single lighted window on the second floor. The sign outside read Dr. H.K. Conway, DDS. Kurtz unlatched the iron gate—assuming that an alarm was being tripped in the house—and walked to the front door. There was a buzzer and an intercom, and he leaned on the former and moaned in the direction of the latter.

"What is it?" The voice was young—too young for Conway—and harsh.

"I 'ave a 'oothache," moaned Kurtz. "I 'eed a 'entis'."

"What?"

"I 'ave a 'errible 'oothache."

"Fuck off." The intercom went dead.

Kurtz leaned on the buzzer.

"What?"

"I 'ave a 'errible 'oothache," moaned Kurtz, louder now, audibly whining.

"Dr. Conway doesn't see patients." The intercom clicked off.

Kurtz hit the buzzer button eight times and then leaned his weight on it.

There came a thudding on bare stairs and the door jerked open to the length of a chain. The man standing there was so large that he blocked the light coming down the stairway—three hundred pounds at least, young, perhaps in his twenties, with cupid lips and curly hair. "Are you fucking deaf? I said Dr. Conway doesn't see patients. He's retired. Fuck off."