"Who knows?" said Kurtz, although he had no plans to return to the Farino headquarters at the marina tomorrow. But if she didn't have him killed at the health club, he might need to spend more time with her if his Gonzaga plan was going to work.

"Assuming we do hit it off in this alternate universe, when the time comes are you going to ride to the penthouse with the Boys and me or will you be driving yourself?"

"Driving," said Kurtz.

"You're going to need a better car and a much nicer wardrobe."

"Tell them you're slumming," said Kurtz, and broke the connection.

Late that evening, Arlene drove Kurtz back to the Red Door Tavern—he had to pound on the alley door of the place to get the bartender to let him in so he could walk through—only to find Brubaker and Myers gone from their surveillance and his Volvo scratched down the length of its driver's side. Evidently one or the other of the detectives had looked inside the bar, found Kurtz gone, and then vented his frustration in true professional form.

"To protect and serve," muttered Kurtz.

He drove out to Lockport carefully, checking for tails. No one was following him. These cops have the stick-to-it quality of an old Post-it Note was Kurtz's uncharitable thought.

Down the street and around the corner from Rachel's home, he used the electronic gear he'd brought and checked on the various bugs. Donnie was out of town, as promised. Rachel was home alone, and except for the sound of the TV—she was watching Parent Trap, the Hayley Mills version—and some humming to herself, and one call from her friend Melissa in which Rachel confirmed Rafferty's absence, there was nothing to hear. Kurtz took the humming as a good sign, shut down his equipment, dropped the electronic gear by the office, and drove back to the Royal Delaware Arms.

The plaster dust was undisturbed since that morning. The repairs to his door allowed him to get the police bar in place. Kurtz cooked a dinner of stir-fry on the hot plate and ate it with some cheap wine he'd bought on the way home. The apartment had no TV, but he owned an old grille-front FM radio that he tuned to Buffalo's best jazz/blues station and listened to that while he read a novel called Ada. The wind was cold and seemed to blow in through the plaster cracks and seep up through the floor. By 10:00 p.m., Kurtz was cold enough to check his locks and police bar, flip the big couch into a fold-out bed, brush his teeth, make sure his.40 S&W and Farino Ferrara's two.45s were in reach, and turn in for the night.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Come here often?" asked Kurtz.

"Fuck you."

He and Angelina Farino Ferrara were pacing on parallel treadmills in the mirrored and teak-floored sixth-story main room of the Buffalo Athletic Club. Her bodyguards were in the adjoining weight room, clearly visible through the glass wall as they pressed heavy weights and admired each other's sweat-oiled muscles, but out of earshot. No one was exercising near Kurtz and Angelina.

"Did you bring my property?" she asked. Kurtz was wearing a bulky sweat suit, seriously out of fashion based on what the few other patrons were wearing, but Angelina's fashionable skintight leotard showed that she was not armed.

Kurtz shrugged and set the treadmill for a faster pace. Angelina set hers to match. "I want those two items back." She was breathing and speaking easily, but she had broken a sweat.

"Noted." Kurtz glanced over at the bodyguards. "Are they any good?"

"The Boys? Marco's all right. Leo's a waste of Stevie's money."

"Is Leo the one with the cupid lips and con torso?"

"Right."

"Are these your main men?"

"The Boys? They're the only ones with me full time, but Stevie's brought in eight other new guys. They're all competent at what they do, but they don't hang out at the marina. Shouldn't you be asking about Gonzaga's protection rather than mine?"

"All right. What about Gonzaga's people? How many? Any good? And who else is usually in his compound? And how often does he come out of that compound?"

"These day's, he almost never comes out. And it's never predictable when he does." Angelina cranked up the speed and angle of her machine. Kurtz matched it. They had to speak a bit more loudly to hear one another over the whir. "Emilio keeps twenty-eight people on his payroll at that fortress," she said. "Nineteen of them are muscle. Pretty good, although they must be getting rusty just sitting there guarding his fat ass. The rest are cooks, maids, butlers, sometimes his business manager, technicians…"

"How many with guns in the main house when you visit?"

"I usually see eight. Two baby-sit the Boys in the outer foyer. Emilio usually has four bodyguards playing servant during the lunch. A couple of others roam the house."

"And the rest of the guards?"

"Two in the guardhouse at the gate. About four in the outbuilding security center, where they keep the video monitors. Three more always roaming the grounds with guard dogs. And two with radios driving the perimeter in Jeeps."

"Other people there?"

"Just the servants I mentioned and occasional visits from his lawyer and other people. They've never been there when I go for lunch. No other family there. His wife died nine years ago. Emilio has a thirty-year-old son, Toma, who lives in Florida. The kid was supposed to take over the business, but got disinherited six years ago and knows that he'll be whacked if he ever shows up in New York State again. He's a fag. Emilio doesn't like fags."

"How do you know all this? I mean about the security setup."

"Emilio took me on a tour the first time I visited."

"Not very smart."

"I think he wanted to impress me with his impregnability." Angelina set the treadmill to its fastest pace. She began running in earnest.

Kurtz clicked in matching settings. For a few minutes they ran in silence.

"What's your plan?" she asked at last.

"Am I supposed to have a plan?"

She gave him a look that seemed Sicilian in its intensity. "Yes, you're supposed to have a fucking plan."

"I'm not an assassin," said Kurtz. "I hire out for other things."

"But you are planning to kill Gonzaga."

"Probably."

"But you're not seriously planning to try to get to him in his compound."

Kurtz concentrated on breathing and ran in silence.

"How could you get to him there?" Angelina flicked sweat out of her left eye.

"Hypothetically?" said Kurtz.

"Whatever."

"Have you noticed that roadwork being done about half a mile south of the compound?"

"Yeah."

"Those bulldozers and huge graders and haulers that are parked there half the time?"

"Yeah."

"If someone stole one of the biggest of those machines, he could drive over the guardhouse, smash his way into the main house, shoot all the guards there, and whack Gonzaga in the process."

Angelina hit the stop button and trotted to a halt as the treadmill slowed. "Are you really that stupid?"

Kurtz kept running.

She raised the towel from her shoulders and mopped her face. "Do you know how to drive one of those big Caterpillar things?"

"No."

"Do you know how to start one?"

"No."

"Do you know anyone who does?"

"Probably not."

"You got this from a fucking Jackie Chan movie," Angelina said, and stepped off her treadmill.

"I didn't know they had Jackie Chan movies in Sicily and Italy," said Kurtz, killing his machine.

"They have Jackie Chan movies everywhere." She was toweling the bare skin where the leotard cut across her cleavage. "You're not going to tell me your plan, are you?"

"No," said Kurtz. He looked over at the Boys, who had finished bench-pressing and were admiring each other as they curled dumbbells with each hand. "This has been real fun. And I can feel this attraction building to the point where you're going to invite me home soon. Shall we meet again tomorrow, same time, same place?"