"That's true, too," said Kurtz. He glanced at the two closest bodyguards. They were looking the other way but were close enough to hear everything. Kurtz knew he couldn't take them both even if they weren't armed—he'd seen the bigger man fight professionally years ago—so his only chance might be to crash through the window behind Baby Doc. But he'd never get around front to his car before they did. He'd have to head east through the backyards, into the railyards. Kurtz had known every tunnel and shack and switch tower in those yards when he was young, but he doubted if he could outrun or hide from these guys there now.

Baby Doc folded his hands. "But they found Hathaway there in the mill, too. Shot in the head."

"I've heard that," Kurtz said quietly.

"My people in the department tell me that the bullet went through his gold detective shield," said Baby Doc. "Like he held it up to stop his assailant from shooting. Maybe while shouting that he was a cop—the slug that went through the shield went into Hathaway's open mouth. Or maybe the stupid shit believed it'd really act like a shield and stop a slug."

Kurtz waited.

"But I guess it didn't work," said Baby Doc. He started eating his scrambled eggs again.

"I guess not," said Kurtz.

"So what do you want, Joe Kurtz?" He gestured for the waiter to bring Kurtz coffee, and the man at the counter hurried to comply, providing a fresh mug.

Kurtz didn't let out his breath, but he was tempted to. He said, "Yasein Goba."

"That crazy Yemeni who shot the parole officer Wednesday? Today's paper says they found him dead from a gunshot here in Lackawanna. They didn't say whether it was self-inflicted or not." He quit stabbing at his eggs to squint at Kurtz. "The paper said that an unnamed parolee was shot the same time as the female probation officer, but wasn't hurt as bad. You?"

"Yeah."

"That explains the blood that's drained down under your eyes. You're one lucky son of a bitch, Kurtz."

Kurtz had no comment on that. Somewhere outside a generator was chug-chugging and his headache throbbed along with it.

"What about Goba?" said Baby Doc.

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Nothing right now. These Yemenis stick pretty much to themselves. I have some people who can talk to them—them and the other Middle Easterners who've moved into neighborhoods here—but I never heard of this Goba until I read about it in the papers."

"Could you check with your people—see if they had any contact with this guy?"

"I could," said Baby Doc. "And I understand why you're interested in this Goba if he shot you. But it doesn't seem worth my effort to dig into this. All reports—including my people inside the B.P.D. — say that this little guy was mad at his parole officer, shot her, and then killed himself. You just got in the way, Kurtz."

Kurtz sipped his coffee. It wasn't bad. Evidently they brewed fresh for Saturday mornings when Baby Doc was holding court. "Goba didn't kill himself," he said. "He bled out from a wound he received at the Civic Center."

"Did you shoot him?" asked Baby Doc. "Or was it the P.O. who got him before she caught one in the head?"

Kurtz shrugged slightly. "Does it matter?" When Baby Doc said nothing, Kurtz said, "Goba was shooting a twenty-two-caliber target pistol. The serial number had been taken off by acid—not sloppy, the way so many punks do it, but neatly, carefully, the way Doc used to do it on his used stock."

"You think Doc might have sold this Goba the gun sometime last year before… you know?"

"No," said Kurtz. "Goba got out of jail after your father was killed. But it's possible that one of your people sold him the weapon in the last couple of months."

About a year and a half earlier, some local black gang members had knocked over an overflow National Guard arsenal near Erie, Pennsylvania, liberating quite a few exotic military weapons. The previous November, bad things had happened to the gang members and the FBI and ATF had recovered some of the proscribed M-16s and other stolen weapons. Some—not all. Word on the street had been that Baby Doc Skrzypczyk had ended up with the bulk of the arms shipment and had been reselling them for a fortune—especially to the Middle Easterners currently moving into Lackawanna in droves.

Baby Doc sipped coffee and looked past Kurtz. The other five civilians in the restaurant were still waiting for their time with him. "I won't ask how you know what Goba was shooting or how you know the serial number had been burned off. Maybe your eyes were real good in that parking garage Wednesday. You happen to notice the make and model?"

"Ruger Mark II Standard," said Kurtz. "Long barrel. I think Goba was shooting diminished loads."

"Why?"

Kurtz shrugged again. "Makes less noise that way."

"Was noise a factor in the parking garage?"

"It could have been."

Baby Doc smiled. "You know why the professional double-tap guys tend to use twenty-twos?"

"Common knowledge says that it's because the point twenty-two slugs rattle around in the skull, causing more damage," said Kurtz. "I never thought that explanation was too convincing."

"Nah, me either. Bigger caliber slugs do just fine in the skull. I heard from an old-timer once it was because the mustaches didn't want to lose their hearing. Most of those old button men were half-deaf anyway."

"Can you find out if some of your men sold Goba the gun?" asked Kurtz. "And see if they have any other information on him?"

Baby Doc glanced at his watch. The Rolex on his wrist was gold and massive, the only thing about him that seemed ostentatious. "Lot of guns in this town that have nothing to do with me," he said. "But if I check, what's in it for me?"

"Gratitude," said Kurtz. "I remember favors. Try to repay them."

Baby Doc's cold blue eyes stared into Kurtz's bloodshot eyes for a minute. "All right, I'll check and get back to you today. Where can I reach you?"

Kurtz handed him a card. He took out a pen and circled his cell phone number.

"What's this SweetheartSearch and WeddingBells stuff?" asked Baby Doc.

"My skip-trace business. We look up old high-school sweethearts for lonely people then help some of them get married using online resources."

Baby Doc laughed loudly. "You're not what I expected, Joe Kurtz."

Kurtz stood to go.

"Just a second," said the man in the booth. He lowered his voice so that even the bodyguards wouldn't hear. "When I saw you here, I thought you'd be asking me about the other thing."

"What other thing?"

"The junkies and skag dealers doing their disappearing act," said Baby Doc. He was watching Kurtz very carefully.

Kurtz shrugged again. "Don't know anything about it."

"Well, I thought since you were so tight with the Farinos and Gonzagas…" began Baby Doc and let his voice trail off until it was a question.

Kurtz shook his head.

"Well," said Baby Doc, "word on the street is that one of those guineas brought in a pro called the Dane to settle some old scores."

"Does word on the street say which one of the guineas brought him in?"

"Nope." Baby Doc sipped his coffee. His eyes were colder than blue steel. "It might pay to watch your ass, Joe Kurtz."

He called Arlene while he was driving north on the Skyway toward the downtown. "You get O'Toole's home address?"

"Yes," said Arlene and gave it to him.

Using the same pen he'd used to write on his business card for Baby Doc, Kurtz scribbled the address on the back of his hand. "Anything else?"

"I called the hospital and asked about Peg O'Toole's condition," said Arlene. He could hear her exhale smoke. "I'm not a family member, so they wouldn't give it to me. So I called Gail. She checked on the intensive-care unit's computer. O'Toole's taken a turn for the worse and is on life support."