"Yeah?" said Lucas.

"A lot of people want to hear that," Earl continued. "And he might even be right about some people-winos and junkies. But there's one big question he doesn't answer. What about the kids? That's the question. You're seeing a genocide. The victims aren't the welfare queens. The victims are the kids."

"You can't think this is right, these people being killed," Lucas argued.

Earl shook his head. "People die all the time. Now some folks are dying who were hurting the Indian people. That's too bad for them and it's a crime, but I can't get too upset about it."

"How about you, Betty?" Lucas asked. He turned to the woman, disturbed. "Do you feel the same way?"

"Yeah, I do, Lucas," she said.

Lucas peered at them for a moment, studying Earl's face, then Betty's. They were the best people he knew. What they thought, a lot of people would think. Lucas shook his head, rapped the counter with his knuckles and said, "Shit."

Bluebird's funeral was… Lucas had to search for the right word. He finally settled on peculiar. Too many of the gathered Indians were shaking hands, with quick grins that just as quickly turned somber.

And there were too many Indians for one guy who wasn't that well known. After the coffin had been lowered into the ground, and the last prayers said, they gathered in groups and clusters, twos and threes, talking. An air of suppressed celebration, Lucas thought. Somebody had lashed out. Bluebird had paid, but there were others still at it, taking down the assholes. Lucas watched the crowd, searching for faces he knew, people he might tap later.

Riverwood Cemetery was a working-class graveyard in a working-class neighborhood. Bluebird was buried on a south-facing slope under an ash tree. His grave would look up at the sun, even in winter. Lucas stood on a small rise, next to one of the city's increasingly rare elms, thirty yards from the gravesite. Directly opposite him, across the street from the cemetery and a hundred feet from the grave, were more watchers. The catsup-colored Chevy van fit into the neighborhood like a perfect puzzle piece. In the back, two cops made movies through the dark windows.

Identifying everyone would be impossible, Lucas thought. The funeral had been too big and too many people were simply spectators. He noticed a white woman drifting along the edges of the crowd. She was taller than most women and a little heavy, he thought. She glanced his way, and from a distance, she was a sulky, dark-haired madonna, with an oval face and long heavy eyebrows.

He was still following her progress through the fringe of the crowd when Sloan ambled up and said, "Hello, there." Lucas turned to say hello. When he turned back to the funeral crowd a moment later, the dark-haired woman was gone.

"You talk to Bluebird's old lady?" Lucas asked.

"I tried," Sloan said. "I couldn't get her alone. She had all these people around, saying, 'Don't talk to the cops, honey. Your man is a hero.' They're shutting her down."

"Maybe later, huh?"

"Maybe, but I don't think we'll get much," Sloan said. "Where're you parked?"

"Around the corner."

"So am I." They picked their way between graves, down the shallow slope toward the street. Some of the graves were well tended, others were weedy. One limestone gravemarker was so old that the name had eroded away, leaving only the fading word FATHER. "I was talking to one of the people at her house. The guy said Bluebird hadn't been around that much. In fact, he and his old lady were probably on the edge of breaking up," Sloan said.

"Not too promising," Lucas agreed.

"So what're you doing?"

"Running around picking up bullshit," Lucas said. He looked one last time for the dark-haired woman but didn't see her. "I'm headed over to the Point. Yellow Hand's up there. Maybe he's heard something more."

"It's worth a try," Sloan said, discouraged.

"He's my last shot. Nobody wants to talk."

"That's what I get," Sloan said. "They're rootin' for the other side."

The Point was a row of red-brick townhouses that had been converted to single-floor apartments. Lucas stepped inside the door, pushed it shut and sniffed. Boiled cabbage, a few days old. Canned corn. Oatmeal. Fish. He reached back to his hip, slipped the Heckler and Koch P7 out of its holster and put it in his sport coat pocket.

Yellow Hand's room was five floors up, in what had once been a common-storage attic. Lucas stopped on the landing at the fourth floor, caught his breath and finished the climb with his hand on the P7. The door at the top of the stairs was closed. He tried the knob without knocking, turned it and pushed the door open.

A man was sitting on a mattress reading a copy of People magazine. An Indian, wearing a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows, and jeans and white socks. An army field jacket lay next to the mattress, along with a pair of cowboy boots, a green ginger-ale can, another copy of People and a battered volume of Reader's Digest Condensed Books. Lucas stepped inside.

"Who are you?" the man asked. His forearms were tattooed-a rose inside a heart on the arm nearer to Lucas, an eagle's wing on the other. Another mattress lay across the room with two people on it, asleep, a man and a woman. The man wore jockey shorts, the woman a rose-colored rayon slip. Her dress lay neatly folded by the mattress and next to that were two chipped cups with a coil heater inside one of them. The floor was littered with scraps of paper, old magazines, empty food packages and cans. The room stank of marijuana and soup.

"Cop," said Lucas. He stepped fully into the room and looked off to his left. A third mattress. Yellow Hand, asleep. "Looking for Yellow Hand."

"He's passed out," said the tattooed man.

"Drinking?"

"Yeah." The man rolled off the mattress and picked up his jacket. Lucas pointed a finger at him.

"Stick around for a minute, okay?"

"Sure, no problem. You got a cigarette?"

"No."

The woman on the second mattress stirred, rolled onto her back and propped herself up on her elbows. She was white, and older than Lucas thought when he first saw her. Forties, he thought. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Cop to see Yellow Hand," said the tattooed man.

"Oh, shit." She squinted at Lucas and he saw she was missing her front teeth. "You got a cigarette?"

"No."

"God damn, nobody ever got no smokes around here," she whined. She looked at the man beside her, poked him. "Get up, Bob. The cops are here." Bob moaned, twitched and snored.

"Leave him," said Lucas. He moved over to Yellow Hand and pushed him with his toe.

"Don't fuck w' me," Yellow Hand said sleepily, batting at the foot.

"Need to talk to you."

"Don't fuck w' me," Yellow Hand said again.

Lucas prodded him a little harder. "Get up, Yellow Hand. This is Davenport."

Yellow Hand's eyes flickered and Lucas thought he looked too old for a teenager. He looked as old as the woman, who was now sitting slouched on the mattress, smacking her lips. The tattooed man stood bouncing on his toes for a second, then reached for a cowboy boot.

"Leave the boots," Lucas said, pointing at him again. "Wake up, Yellow Hand."

Yellow Hand rolled to a sitting position. "What is it?"

"I want to talk." Lucas turned to the tattooed man. "Why'n't you come over here and sit on the mattress?"

"I ain't done a fuckin' thing," the man snarled, suddenly defiant. He was rake thin and had one shoulder turned toward Lucas in an unconscious boxing stance.

"I'm not here to fuck with anybody," Lucas said. "I'm not asking for ID, I'm not calling in for warrants. I just want to talk."

"I don't talk to the fuckin' cops," the tattooed man said. He looked around for support. The woman was staring at the floor, shaking her head; then she spat between her feet. Lucas put his hand in his pocket. The attic space was crowded. Ordinarily, he wouldn't worry about a couple of derelicts and a drifter, but the tattooed man exuded an air of toughness. If there were a fight, he wouldn't have much room to maneuver.