It was just getting light—predawn Buffalo grayness bleeding into even dimmer Buffalo morning gray—when Kurtz got back to his flophouse hotel, only to find that Detectives Brubaker and Myers had come to roust him.

Kurtz had various telltales in his hotel to tell him if visitors were waiting, but these weren't called for this morning. The hotel was in a rough neighborhood and the local kids had already spray-painted Brubaker's unmarked Plymouth with the tag UNMRACKED CAR on the driver's side—spelling was not the local hoodlums' strong suit—and PIGMOBILE—they had not planned their spacing well—on the passenger side. Something about the sound of «pigmobi» amused Kurtz.

The rest of the situation did not amuse him all that much. Brubaker and Myers rousted him about once every three weeks and, so far, they'd not caught him with a weapon, but when they did—and the law of averages suggested they would have to—he'd be back in prison within twenty-four hours. Paroled felons in New York State were exempt from the God-given, Constitution-guaranteed, and redneck-worshiped right of every American to carry as much firepower as he wanted.

With his.40 S&W in one pocket and Angelina Farino Ferrara's cute but heavy little Compact Witness in the other, Kurtz went into the alley in back of his hotel and stashed both weapons behind some masonry he'd loosened himself two weeks earlier. The alley's resident winos and druggies were at the shelter or protecting their benches at this time of day, so Kurtz guessed that he might have a few hours before some scavenger would find his stash. If this roust took more than a few hours, he was screwed anyway and probably would not need the weapons.

Kurtz's residence hotel, the Royal Delaware Arms, had been a fancy place about the time President McKinley had been shot in Buffalo two turns of the century ago. McKinley may have stayed here the night before he was shot as far as Kurtz knew. The hotel had been going downhill for the past ninety years and seemed to have reached a balance point somewhere between total decay and imminent collapse. The Royal Delaware Arms was ten stories tall and boasted a sixty-foot radio-transmission tower on its roof, pouring out microwave radiation day and night, lethal doses according to many of the hotel's more paranoid inhabitants. The tower was about the only thing on the premises that worked. Over the preceding decades, the hotel part of the building, the lower five floors, had gone from a workingman's hotel to flophouse to low-income housing center, and then back to residential flophouse. Most of the residents were on welfare, lithium, and/or Thorazine. Kurtz had convinced the manager to let him live on the eighth floor, even though the top three floors had been effectively abandoned since the 1970s. A loophole in the fire and building codes had not specifically prohibited the rooms from being rented or some idiot from renting one—living up there amidst the peeling wallpaper, exposed lathing, and dripping pipes—and that is exactly what Kurtz was doing. The room still had a door and a refrigerator and running water, and that was all Kurtz really needed. His room—two large, connected rooms, actually—was on the alley-side corner and served not by one but by two rusting fire escapes. The elevator doors above the fifth floor had been sealed off, so Kurtz had to walk the last three floors every time he came or went. That was a small trade-off for the security of knowing when anyone had visited him and for the warning he would get when someone tried to visit him. Both Petie, the manager and day man on the counter, and Gloria, the night man on the counter, were paid enough each month to be trustworthy about ringing Kurtz on his cell phone if anyone unknown to them headed toward the elevator or stairs.

Now Kurtz let himself in the alley entrance in case Brubaker had left his sidekick Myers in the lobby—unlikely, since plainclothes cops were like snakes or nuns and always traveled in pairs. He took the back stairs up to the third floor from the abandoned kitchen in back and then walked up the smelly main staircase to the eighth floor. At the sixth-floor level, Kurtz could see the two sets of footprints in the plaster dust he'd left covering the center of the stairs. Brubaker, who had the larger feet—Kurtz had noticed before—had a hole in his sole. That sounded about right to Kurtz. The footprints led down the center of the dusty and dark corridor—Kurtz kept to the walls when he came and went—and ended at the open door to his room. The two detectives had kicked his door in, splintering the lock and knocking the door off the hinges. Kurtz braced himself, made his stomach muscles rigid, and walked into his home.

Myers came out from behind the door and hit him in the belly with what felt like brass knuckles. Kurtz went down and tried to roll against the wall, but Brubaker had time to step in from the opposite side of the door and give Kurtz a kick to the head that landed on his shoulder as he tucked and rolled again.

Myers kicked him in the back of his left leg, paralyzing the calf muscle, while Brubaker—the taller, uglier, smarter one of the pair—pulled his Glock-9mm and pressed it to the soft spot behind Kurtz's left ear. "Give us a reason," hissed Detective Brubaker. Kurtz did not move. He could not breathe yet, but he knew from experience that his stunned belly muscles and diaphragm would relax from the blow before he passed out from lack of oxygen.

"Give me a fucking reason" shouted Brubaker, cocking the piece. It didn't need cocking of course, since it was a single-action, but it looked and sounded dramatic.

"Hey, hey, Fred," said Myers, sounding sincerely alarmed.

"Fuck hey, hey, Tommy," said Brubaker, spraying Kurtz's cheek with saliva. "This miserable fuck—" He slapped Kurtz hard on the neck with the cocked pistol and then kicked him in the small of the back.

Kurtz grunted and did not move.

"Pat him down," snapped Brubaker.

With Brubaker's Glock against his temple now, Kurtz lay still while Myers frisked him roughly, ripping buttons off his peacoat as he pulled it open, turning his pockets inside out.

"He's clean, Fred."

"Fuck!" The muzzle quit pressing into the flesh next to Kurtz's left eye. "Sit up, asshole, hands behind your back, back against the wall."

Kurtz did as he was told. Myers was lounging on the arm of the sprung sofa Kurtz had dragged up to serve as both furniture and bed. Brubaker was standing five feet away with the 9mm still aimed at Kurtz's head.

"I ought to kill you right now, you miserable cock-sucker," Brubaker said conversationally. He patted the pocket of his cheap suit. "I've got a throwdown right here. Leave you here. The rats would have you three-fourths eaten before anyone fucking found you."

They'd have all of me eaten before anyone found me up here, thought Kurtz. He did not share the opinion aloud.

"Jimmy Hathaway's ghost would rest easy," said Brubaker, voice tense again, finger also tense on the trigger.

"Fred, Fred," said Myers, playing the good cop. Or at least the semi-sane cop. The non-rogue killer cop.

"Fuck it," said Brubaker, lowering the weapon. "You're not worth it, you piece of ratshit. Not when we'll get to do you legally soon enough. You're not worth the fucking paperwork this way." He stepped forward and kicked Kurtz in the belly.

Kurtz sagged against the wall and began the countdown to a point where he could breathe again.

Brubaker walked out. Myers paused for a moment looking down at the gasping Kurtz. "You shouldn't have killed Hathaway," the fat man said softly. "Fred knows you did it and someday he's going to prove it. Then there won't be any warnings."

Myers walked out too, and Kurtz listened to their footfalls and cursing about the elevator as they descended the echoing staircase. He made a mental note to sprinkle more plaster dust on the steps. He hoped they wouldn't tear his Volvo apart when they searched it.