Kurtz had to grin. "And get a kickback from every one of those places… except maybe the churches."

"Hah!" said Arlene. "Weddings are important revenue sources for churches and synagogues. They want in Wedding Bells dot com, they give us a piece of the action. No negotiation there."

Kurtz nodded and looked at the rest of the spreadsheets. "Wedding consultants referred. Honeymoon locations recommended and discounts offered. Limos lined up. Even airline tickets reserved for relatives and the wedding couple. Flowers. Catering. You provide local sources and Web links to everything, and everyone pays Wedding Bells dot com. Nice." He closed the folder and handed it back to her. "When do you need the seed money?"

"This is Thursday," said Arlene. "Monday would be nice."

"All right Thirty-five thousand on Monday." He grabbed his peacoat from the coatrack and slipped a semiauto pistol in his belt The weapon was the relatively small and light.40 SW99—a licensed Smith & Wesson version of the Walther P99 double-action service pistol. Kurtz had ten rounds in the magazine and a second magazine in his coat pocket Considering the fact that the SW99 fired formidable.40 S&W loads rather than the more common 9mms, Kurtz trusted that twenty cartridges would do the trick.

"Will you be back in the office before the weekend?" asked Arlene as Kurtz opened the rear door.

"Probably not."

"Anywhere I can reach you?"

"You can try Pruno's e-mail in the next hour or so," said Kurtz. "After that, probably not. I'll give you a call here at the office before the weekend."

"Oh, you can call here Saturday or Sunday, too," said Arlene. "I'll be here."

But Kurtz was out the door and gone and the sarcasm was wasted.

CHAPTER THREE

Kurtz liked Buffalo winters because the Buffalonians knew how to deal with winter. A few inches of snow—snow that would paralyze some wussy city such as Washington or Nashville—went all but unnoticed by Buffalo residents. Plows plowed, sidewalks got shoveled early, and people went on about their business. A foot of snow got people's attention in Buffalo, but only for as long as it took to push and plow it into the ten-foot-high heap of earlier-plowed snow.

But this winter had been a bitch. By January first, more snow had fallen than in the previous two winters combined, and by February, even stoic Buffalo had to shut down some schools and businesses when snow and consistently low temperatures kept blowing in off Lake Erie almost daily.

Kurtz had no idea how Pruno and some of the other winos who refused to stay in shelters more than a few of the worst nights managed to survive such winters.

But surviving the winter was Pruno's problem. Surviving the next few days and weeks was Kurtz's problem.

Pruno's "winter residence" was the packing-crate hovel he and Soul Dad had cobbled together under the highway overpass near the rail yards. In the summer, Kurtz knew, fifty or sixty of the homeless congregated here in a sort of Bonus Army Village that was not totally without appeal. But most of the fair-weather bums had long since headed for shelters or Southern cities—Soul Dad favored Denver, for reasons known only to himself. Now only Pruno's shack remained, and snow had almost covered it.

Kurtz slid down the steep hill from the road above and postholed his way through the drifts to the shack. There was no real door—a section of corrugated, rusted tin slid into place across the opening of the nailed-together crates—so Kurtz knocked on the metal panel and waited. The freezing wind from Lake Erie cut right through the wool of his peacoat. After two or three more knocks, Kurtz heard a racking cough from the interior and took it as his permission to enter.

Pruno—Soul Dad had once mentioned that the old man's name was Frederick—sat against the concrete abutment that made up the far wall. Snow had drifted in through cracks and fissures. The long extension cord to the laptop still ran in from God knows where and a stack of Sterno cans provided both heat and cooking facilities. Pruno himself was almost lost in a cocoon of rags and filthy newspapers.

"Jesus," Kurtz said softly. "Why don't you go to a shelter, old man?"

Pruno coughed what might have been a laugh. "I refuse to render unto Caesar what is Caesar's."

"Money?" said Kurtz. "The shelters don't ask for money. Not even for work in trade for a bed at this time of year. So what would you be rendering unto Caesar—except maybe some frostbite?"

"Obeisance," said Pruno. He coughed and cleared his throat. "Shall we get on with business, Joseph? What is it you would like to know about the redoubtable Ms. Farino?"

"First of all," said Kurtz, "what do you want in exchange for the information? Your e-mail mentioned getting something in return."

"Not really, Joseph. I said that I had a request to make of you in return. I assure you that I will be happy to give you the Farino information with no strings attached."

"Whatever," said Kurtz. "What's your request?"

Pruno coughed for a minute and pulled the newspapers and rags closer around him. The cold air coming in through the chinks and cracks in the packing-crate hovel was making Kurtz shiver and he was wearing a thick peacoat. "I wondered if you would be so kind as to meet with a friend of mine," said Pruno. "In your professional capacity."

"What professional capacity?"

"Investigator."

Kurtz shook his head. "You know I'm not a P.I. anymore."

"You investigated for the Farino family last year," said Pruno. The old man's wheezy, drug-addict's voice still carried more than a hint of a Bostonian accent.

"That was a scam I was part of," said Kurtz, "not an investigation."

"Nonetheless, Joseph, it would please me greatly if you would just meet with my friend. You can tell him yourself that you are no longer in the private investigation business."

Kurtz hesitated. "What's his name?"

"John Wellington Frears."

"And what's his problem?"

"I don't know precisely, Joseph. It is a private issue."

"All right," said Kurtz, imagining himself consulting with another wino. "Where should I find this John Wellington Frears?"

"Perhaps he could come to your office today? It would probably be better for my friend to come see you."

Kurtz thought of Arlene and the last time they'd had visitors at the office. "No," he said. "I'll be at Blues Franklin tonight until midnight. Tell him to meet me there. How will I know him?"

"He likes to wear vests," said Pruno. "Now, about this Angelina Farino query. What would you like to know?"

"Everything," said Kurtz.

Donald Rafferty worked at the main post office down on William Street and liked to eat lunch at a little bar near Broadway Market. As a supervisor, Rafferty managed to take ninety-minute lunch hours. Sometimes he would forget to eat lunch.

This afternoon he came out of the bar and found a man leaning against his 1998 Honda Accord. The man was white—that's the first thing Rafferty checked—and was wearing a peacoat and a wool cap. He looked vaguely familiar, but Rafferty couldn't quite place the face. Actually, this had been an extra-long lunch hour and Donald Rafferty was having a little trouble finding his car keys in his pocket. He stopped twenty feet from the man and considered going back in the bar until the stranger left.

"Hey, Donnie," said the man. Rafferty had always hated the name Donnie.

"Kurtz," Rafferty said at last. "Kurtz."

Kurtz nodded.

"I thought you were in jail, asshole," said Rafferty.

"Not right now," said Kurtz.

Rafferty blinked to clear his vision. "Another state, you would have got the chair… or lethal injection," he said. "For murder."

Kurtz smiled. "Manslaughter." He had been leaning against the Accord's hood, but now he straightened and took a step closer.