Danny Pogue said, "You go to hell."

"Ten bucks says it's right in the training manual."

"Bud, I swear to God."

"Gimme the crutch and I'll prove it."

Danny Pogue said, "You're the one's always on my ass about attitude. And now just listen to yourself – all because people're actin' nice to me and not to you."

"That's not it," said Bud Schwartz, but when he turned around his partner was gone. He found him on line at the Wild Bill Hiccup rodeo ride; Danny Pogue had stashed his crutch in the men's room and was determined to give Wild Bill Hiccup a go. Bud Schwartz was tired of bickering.

The ride was set up in an indoor corral that had been laboriously fabricated, from the brown-dyed dirt to the balsa fence posts to the polyethylene cowshit that lay in neat regular mounds, free of flies. Twenty-five mechanical bulls (only the horns were real) jumped and bucked on hidden tracks while a phony rodeo announcer described the action through a realistically tinny megaphone.

During this particular session, the twenty-five bulls were mounted by twenty-three tourists and two professional crooks. Before the ride began, Bud Schwartz leaned over to Danny Pogue and told him to be sure and fall off.

"What?"

"You heard me. And make it look good."

When the bell rang, Bud Schwartz hung on with his good hand and bounced back and forth for maybe a minute without feeling anything close to excitement. Danny Pogue, however, was launched almost instantly from the sponge hump of his motorized Brahma – a tumble so spectacular that it brought three Company Cowpokes out of the bronco chute at a dead run. They surrounded Danny Pogue, measured his blood pressure, palpated his ribs and abdomen, listened to his heart, shined a light in his eyeballs and finally shoved a piece of paper under his nose.

"Why don't you put your name on this, li'l pardner?" said one of the Cowpokes.

Danny Pogue examined the document, shook his head and handed it to Bud Schwartz for interpretation.

"Release of liability," Bud Schwartz said. He looked up with a dry smile. "This means we can't sue, right?"

"Naw," said the solicitous Cowpoke. "All it means is your buddy's not hurt."

"Says who?" said Bud Schwartz. "Bunch a dumb cowboy shit-kickers. Thanks, but I think we'll try our luck with an actual doctor."

The Cowpokes didn't look so amiable anymore, or so Western. In fact, they were starting to look like pissed-off Miami insurance men. Danny Pogue got to his feet, dusted off his butt and said, "Hell, Bud, it's my fault anyhow – "

"Not another word." Bud Schwartz seized his partner by the elbow, as if to prop him up. Then he announced to the Cowpokes: "We'd like to file a complaint about this ride. Where exactly is the administration office?"

The Cowpoke in charge of the blood-pressure cuff said, "It's closed today."

"Then we'll come back Monday," said Bud Schwartz. "Where is the office, please?"

"Over Sally's Saloon," the Cowpoke answered. "Upstairs, ask for Mr. Dexter in Risk Management."

"And he'll be in Monday?"

"Nine sharp," muttered the Cowpoke.

The other tourists watched curiously as Bud Schwartz led Danny Pogue haltingly out of the corral. By this time the Wild Bill Hiccup attraction had come to a complete and embarrassing stop (a man with a sprocket wrench had beheaded Danny Pogue's bull), and Bud Schwartz wanted to depart the arena before his partner spoiled the plan by saying something irretrievably stupid.

Into Danny Pogue's ear he said, "You're doing fine."

"It wasn't on purpose."

"Yeah, I had a feeling."

As they watched Danny Pogue's genuine hobble, the three Cowpokes from Risk Management began to worry that they might have missed something during their quickie medical exam.

One of them called out: "Hey, how about a wheelchair?"

Without turning around, Bud Schwartz declined the offer with the wave of an arm.

"No thanks, li'l pardner," he called back.

The same tool that picked the lock on Francis X. Kingsbury's office did the job on the rosewood file cabinet.

"So now what?" Danny Pogue said.

"We read." Bud Schwartz divided the files into two stacks. He showed his partner how to save time by checking the index labels.

"Anything to do with banks and property, put it in the bag. Also, anything that looks personal."

"What about Falcon Trace?" asked Danny Pogue. "That's what Mrs. McNamara said to get."

"That, too."

They used pocket flashlights to examine the files because Bud Schwartz didn't want to turn on the lights in Kingsbury's office. They were on the third floor of the administration building, above Sally's Cimarron Saloon. Through the curtains Bud Schwartz could watch the Wild West show on the dusty street below. Tourists shrieked as two scruffy bank robbers suddenly opened fire on the sheriff; bloodied, the sheriff managed to shoot both bandits off their horses as they tried to escape. The tourists cheered wildly. Bud Schwartz grunted and said, "Now there's a job for you. Fallin" off horses."

Sitting on the floor amid Kingsbury's files, Danny Pogue looked orphaned. He said, "I know lawyers that couldn't make sense a this shit." He couldn't take his eyes off a portable Canon photocopier: seventy-five bucks, staring him in the face.

"We'll give it an hour," said Bud Schwartz, but it didn't take him that long to realize that his partner was right. The files were impenetrable, stuffed with graphs and pie charts and computer printouts that meant nothing to your average break-in artist. The index tabs were marked with hopelessly stilted titles like "Bermuda Intercontinental Services, Inc.," and "Ramex Global Trust, N.A.," and "Jersey Premium Market Research."

Bud Schwartz arbitrarily selected the three thickest files and stuffed them in the camera bag. This would keep the old bat busy for a while.

"Look here," said Danny Pogue, holding up a thin file. "Credit cards."

The index tab was marked "Personal Miscellany." Inside was a folder from the American Express Company that listed all the activity on Francis X. Kingsbury's Platinum Card for the previous twelve months. Bud Schwartz's expression warmed as he skimmed the entries.

Reading over his shoulder, Danny Pogue said. "The guy sure knows how to eat."

"He knows how to buy jewelry, too." Bud Schwartz pointed at some large numbers. "Look here."

"Yeah," said Danny Pogue, catching on. "I wonder where he keeps it, all that jewelry."

Bud Schwartz slipped Kingsbury's American Express folder into the camera bag. "This one's for us," he told his partner. "Don't show the old lady unless I say so."

Danny Pogue said, "I heard a that place in New York. Cartier's." He pronounced it "Car-teer's." "That's some expensive shit they sell."

"You bet," said Bud Schwartz. Another thin file had caught his attention. He opened it on his lap, using his good hand to hold the flashlight while he read. The file contained Xeroxed copies of numerous old newspaper clippings, and three or four letters from somebody at the U.S. Department of Justice. The letterhead was embossed, and it felt important.

"Jesus," said Bud Schwartz, sizing things up.

"What is it?"

He thrust the file at Danny Pogue. "Put this in the damn bag, and let's get going."

Danny Pogue peered at the index tab and said, "So what does it mean?"

"It means we're gonna be rich, li'l pardner."

Danny Pogue contemplated the name on the file folder. "So how do you pronounce it anyway?"

"Gotti," said Bud Schwartz. "Rhymes with body."