"But she may have some important information," said Arlene. "And I got the translator from church, Nicky, all set up to…"

"Just fucking forget about it," snapped Kurtz. He took a bream. He never shouted at Arlene. He almost never shouted, period. "Sorry," he said. He was into the industrial wasteland of Lackawanna now, coming at the Basilica and Ridge Road and Curly's Restaurant from the south.

"All right, Joe. But you know I'm going to go pick up that girl tonight."

"Yeah." He thumbed the phone off.

It was the same drill of being taken into the men's room at Curly's and searched head to foot One of the bodyguards shifted a toothpick in his mouth and said, "Jesus, fuck, man—you're so wet your skin is wrinkly. You been swimming with your clothes on?"

Kurtz ignored him.

When he was seated across from Baby Doc in the same rear booth, he said, "This is private."

Baby Doc looked at his three bodyguards and at the waiters bustling around getting the place ready for the heavy Sunday evening' dinner traffic. "They all have my confidence," said the big man with the flag tattoo on his massive forearm.

"It doesn't matter," said Kurtz. "This is private."

Baby Doc snapped his fingers and the bodyguards left, herding the waiters and bartender ahead of them into the backroom.

"For your sake," said Baby Doc, "this had better not be a waste of my time."

"It won't be," said Kurtz.

Speaking as economically as he could, he told Baby Doc about the Major, about the heroin ring, about the «war» that seemed to be claiming only casualties in the Farino and Gonzaga camps, about Rigby being shot and her role in this mess.

"Weird story," said Baby Doc, his hands folded in front of him and his flag tattoo visible under the rolled-back sleeves of his white shirt. "What the hell does it have to do with me?"

Kurtz told him.

Baby Doc sat back in the boom. "You have to be kidding." He looked at Kurtz's face. "No, you're not kidding, are you? What on earth could compel me to take part in this?"

Kurtz told him.

Baby Doc didn't so much as blink for almost a full minute. Finally, he said, "You speak for Gonzaga and the Farino woman?"

"Yes."

"Do they know you speak for them?"

"Not yet."

"What arc you going to need from me?"

"A helicopter," said Kurtz. "Big enough to haul six or eight people. And you to pilot it."

Baby Doc started to laugh and then stopped. "You're serious."

"As a heart attack," said Kurtz.

"You look like you've had a heart attack," said Baby Doc. "You're a fucking mess, Kurtz."

Kurtz waited.

"I don't own a goddamned helicopter," Baby Doc said at last. "And I haven't flown one for more than a dozen years. I'd get us all killed even if there was a reason for me to try this stupid stunt."

"But you know where to get one," said Kurtz.

Baby Doc thought a minute. "There's that big heliport up near the Falls. Hauls tourists around. I know the guy who does charter work up there. They might lease one to me for a day."

Kurtz nodded. He'd hired one of the smaller sightseeing choppers there to fly him over Emilio Gonzaga's Grand Island compound about a year ago. His plan then had been to chart the place before killing Emilio. Kurtz didn't see any compelling reason to share that factoid with Baby Doc.

"They have a Bell Long Ranger there that doesn't get a lot of duty this time of year," continued Baby Doc, speaking more to himself than to Kurtz.

"How many does that carry?" said Kurtz.

Baby Doc shrugged. "Usually seven. You can get eight people in it if you rip out the center jump seats and put a couple on the floor. Nine if you don't bother with a copilot."

"We don't need a copilot," said Kurtz.

Baby Doc barked a laugh. "I have about twenty minutes logged on a Long Ranger. I don't even qualify to sit in the copilot seat."

"Good," said Kurtz, "because we don't need a copilot."

"What else will you be needing?"

"Weapons," said Kurtz.

Baby Doc shook his head. "I'm sure the Gonzagas and Farinos have a few weapons between them."

"I'm talking military-spec here."

The other man looked around. The restaurant was still empty. "What kind?"

Kurtz shrugged. "I don't know. Firepower. Some full-auto weapons, probably."

"M-16s."

"Maybe smaller. Uzis or Mac-10s. We don't want anyone getting an eye poked out in the slick."

"You don't find Uzis and Mac-10s in a National Guard arsenal," whispered Baby Doc.

Kurtz shrugged again. Truth be told, he'd seen some examples of the old Seneca Street Social Club's little private arsenal—the weapons had been aimed at him—so he knew what was probably available.

"Anything else?" said Baby Doc, sounding bemused now.

"Body armor."

"Cop style or military grade?"

"Kevlar should work."

"Anything else?"

"Night vision goggles," said Kurtz. "I suspect the Major's men have them."

"Would Russian surplus do?" said Baby Doc. "I can get them discount."

"No," said Kurtz. "The good stuff."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah," said Kurtz. "We'll need some light anti-armor stuff. Shoulder launched."

Baby Doc Skrzpczyk leaned back against the back of the booth. "You're not really amusing me any longer, Kurtz."

"I'm not trying to. You didn't see the Major's freehold down there today. I did. The sheriff drove slow to give me a good look at it all. They wanted me to bring the word back to Gonzaga and Farino in case they considered a preemptive strike. The house itself is on top of that damned mountain. They have maybe nine, ten men there, and I saw the automatic weapons. But down the hill, they have at least three reinforced gates along the drive—each one of them with steel posts sunk deep into concrete. There are two guardhouses, each with four or five 'security guards, and each guardhouse has a perfect field of fire down the hill. There are armored SUVs—those Panoz things—parked in defilade sites up and down the hill, and two sheriff's cars that seem to be parked outside the lowest gate on a permanent basis."

"You don't need a shoulder-launched missile," said Baby Doc. "You need a fucking tank."

"If we were trying to fight our way up the drive or along the cliff, yeah," said Kurtz. "But we're not We just need one or two deterrents to block the drive if anyone tries to drive up it."

Baby Doc leaned forward, folded his hands on the tabletop, and whispered, "Do you have any idea how much a shoulder-launched antiaircraft missile costs?"

"Yeah," said Kurtz. "About a hundred grand for cheap shit sold-in-the-bazaar piece of Russian crap. Four or five times that for a Stinger."

Baby Doc stared at him.

"But I'm not talking about buying an antiaircraft missile," said Kurtz. "Just something to stop an SUV if we have to. A cheap RPG should do it."

"Who's paying for this?"

"Guess," said Kurtz.

"But they don't know it yet?"

"Not yet."

"You know you're talking about upwards of three-quarters of a million dollars here, not counting the lease of the Long Ranger."

Kurtz nodded.

"And how soon do you want all this—including me and the Long Ranger, if my terms are agreed upon?" said Baby Doc. "A week? Ten days?"

"Tonight," said Kurtz. "Midnight if we can do it. But departing here no later than two A.M."

Baby Doc opened his mouth as if to laugh but then did not. He closed his mouth and just stared at Joe Kurtz. "You're serious," he said at last.

"As a heart attack."