"Who?" asked Lucas. "Where'd you send the bill?"

The woman handed Lucas a sheet of computer paper, with one short line pinched between her thumb and forefinger. "It's right here," she said. "A Miss Barbara Gow. That's her address under her name. Does that help?"

Corky Drake had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, only to have it rudely snatched away in his teens. His father had for some years neglected to report his full income to the Internal Revenue Service. When the heathens had learned of Corky Senior's oversight… well, the capital barely covered what was owed, much less the fines.

His father had removed himself from the scene with a garden hose that led from the tailpipe of a friend's Mercedes into the sealed car. The friend had refused to forgive him, even in death, for what he had done to the upholstery.

Corky, who was seventeen, was already a person of refined taste. A life of poverty and struggle simply was not on the menu. He did the only thing he was qualified to do: he became a pimp.

Certain friends of his father's had exceptional interests in women. Corky could satisfy those, for a price. Not only were the women very beautiful, they were very young. They were, in fact, girls. The youngest in his current stable was six. The oldest was eleven, although, Corky assured the wits among his clientele, she still had the body of an eight-year-old…

Corky Drake met Lawrence Duberville Clay at a club in Washington. If they hadn't become friends, they had at least become friendly. Clay appreciated the services offered by Drake.

"My little perversion," Clay called it, with a charming grin.

"No. It's not a perversion, it's perfectly natural," Drake said, swirling two ounces of Courvoisier in a crystal snifter. "You're a connoisseur, is what you are. In many countries of the world…"

Drake would serve his clients in Washington or New York, if they required it, but his home base was in Minneapolis, and his resources were strongest there. Clay, in town on business, visited Corky's home. After that, the visits became a regular part of his life…

Drake was talking to the current queen of his stable when he heard the car in the driveway.

"Here he is now," he said to the girl. "Remember, this could be the most important night of your life, so I want you to be good."

Leo Clark sat in a clump of brush thirty yards from Drake's elaborate Kenwood townhouse. He was worried about the cops. Barbara Gow's car was parked up the street. It didn't fit in the neighborhood. If they checked it and had it towed, he'd be fucked.

He sat in the leaves and waited, looking at his watch every few minutes and studying the face of the Old Man in the Moon. It was a clear night for the Cities, and you could see him staring back at you, but it was nothing like the nights on the prairie, when the Old Man was so close you could almost touch his face…

At ten minutes after nine, a gray Dodge entered Corky's circular driveway. Leo put up a pair of cheap binoculars and hoped there'd be more light when Corky opened the door. There was, and just enough: the elegant gray hair of Lawrence Duberville Clay was unmistakable. Leo waited until Clay was inside the house, then picked his way through the wood to Barbara's car, quickly started it and headed back to her house. He stopped only once, at a pay phone.

The message was simple: "Clay's at the house."

Anderson was waiting in his office when Lucas hurried in.

"What you got?"

"A name," Lucas said. "Let's run it through the machine."

They put Barbara Gow's name into the computer and got back three quick hits.

"She's Indian, and she's a rad, or used to be," Anderson said, scanning down the monitor. "Look at this. Organizing for the union, busted in a march… Christ, this was way back in the fifties, she was ahead of her time… Civil rights and then antiwar stuff there in the sixties…"

"She'd of known the Crows," Lucas said. "There weren't that many activist Indians back in the fifties, not in Minneapolis…"

Anderson was scanning through one of his notebooks; he found a page and held it up to the screen. "Look at this," he said. He tapped an address in the notebook and touched an address on the screen. "She lived just a couple blocks from Rose E. Love, and at the same time."

"All right, I'm going down there," Lucas said. "Get onto Del and some of his narcs, tell them I might need surveillance help. I'll look the place over now. It's too much to hope that they'll be there."

"You want me to start some squads that way, just in case?"

"Yeah, you could start a couple, but keep them off the block unless I holler."

Leo pulled into Barbara Gow's driveway and Aaron lifted the garage door. Leo rolled the car inside but left the engine running. Sam stepped out of the house carrying a chopped-down shotgun. Leo had cut the gun down himself. What had been a conventional Winchester Super-X, a four-shot semiauto, wound up as an ugly illegal killing machine that looked as much like a war club as a shotgun. Sam opened the car door and slipped the shotgun under the passenger seat, and then helped Aaron load a six-foot chunk of railroad tie into the cargo space. They'd sharpened one end with an ax and screwed handles to the top. When it was in, Aaron slammed the tailgate and he and Sam got in.

"You want to leave the garage door up?" Leo asked.

"Yeah. If we gotta get off the street in a hurry when we ' come back, it'll get us an extra minute."!

Lucas cruised by the side of the Gow house, moving as / slowly as he could without being conspicuous. There were lights on in both front and back, probably the living room and the kitchen or a bedroom. The upper floor was dark., He turned the corner to pass in front of the house and saw that the garage door was up, the garage empty. As he passed, a shadow crossed the living room blind. Someone inside. Since the car was gone, that meant more than one person was living in the house…

He picked up the handset and put in a call to Anderson.

"Get me the description of the woman who was seen with Shadow Love," he said.

"Just a second," Anderson said. "I've got the notebook right here. Can't get Del, he's on the street, but one of his guys has gone after him. There are a couple of squads wait- j ing out on Chicago." j "Okay."

There was a moment of silence. Lucas took another corner and went around the block. "Uh, there's not much. Very small, barely see over the steering wheel. Indian. Maybe an older woman. She didn't seem young. Green car, older, a wagon, with white sidewall tires."

"Thanks. I'll get back to you."

He took another corner, then another, and came back up along the side of Gow's house. As he did, a man walked out of the house across the street from Gow's, leading a dog. Lucas stopped at the curb as the man strolled out to the sidewalk, looked both ways, then headed around the side of his house, the dog straining at the leash. Lucas thought about it, let the man get a full lot down the opposite block, then called Anderson.

"I need Del or a couple of narcs in plain cars."

"I got a guy looking for Del; we should have him in a minute."

"Soon as you can. I want them up the block from Gow's place, watching the front."

"I'll pass the word."

"And keep those squads on Chicago."

The dog was peeing on a telephone pole when Lucas pulled up next to the night walker. He got out of the car, his badge case in hand.

"Excuse me. I'm Lucas Davenport, a lieutenant with the Minneapolis Police Department. I need a little help."

"What d'you want?" the man asked curiously.

"Your neighbor across the street. Mrs. Gow. Does she live alone?"

"What'd she do?" the man asked.

"Maybe nothing at all…"

The man shrugged. "She usually does, but the last few days, there's been other people around. I never seen them, really. But people are coming and going."