"Mail fraud as well as everything else," said Arlene. "At least three federal laws broken if we do it."
"Do it," said Kurtz.
"I called yesterday," said Arlene. "Requested the files from both Chicago and Atlanta. I had them Express Mailed since FedEx won't deliver to P.O. boxes. We'll get the reports on Monday."
"How did you pay?"
"Charged it to the D.A.'s office," said Arlene. "I still have their billing code."
"Won't they notice it?"
Arlene laughed and went back to her computer. "We could charge a fleet of Lexuses to that office, Joe. No one would notice. Do you have time to look at some possible office space with me today?"
"No, I've got things to do. But I do need your help on something."
Kurtz drove alone to the bar near Broadway Market, where he'd braced Donnie Rafferty. Detectives Brubaker and Myers had been driving a different unmarked car that morning when they had followed him from the Royal Delaware Arms to his office, and they had stayed several cars back and attempted a serious tail rather than just harassing him, but Kurtz had made them immediately. If they stopped him now with the two guns he was carrying, it would be bad news, but he suspected that they were actually on surveillance. He pulled into the parking lot, grabbed the camera bag he'd brought from the office, and went into the bar. He noticed that Brubaker
and Myers parked across the street to watch the parking lot and the bar's only entrance. When he'd been waiting for Donald Rafferty here, Kurtz had noticed the alley running behind the row of buildings and the high board fence concealing the alley from the parking lot.
"Back door?" Kurtz said to the bartender in the dark, hops-smelling space within. Only three or four committed regulars were celebrating Saturday morning there.
"It's for emergency use only," said the bartender. "Hey!"
Kurtz stepped into the alley, Arlene guided her blue Buick to a stop, and he got in. They drove a block, turned north, then turned west on a street parallel to where the detectives were parked.
"Where to?" asked Arlene.
"Back to the office for you," said Kurtz. "I have to borrow your car for a few hours."
Arlene sighed. "We're not that far from Chippewa Street. We could check out an office space there."
"I bet it's over a Starbucks," said Kurtz.
"How did you know?"
"Every third store on Chippewa is a Starbucks these days," said Kurtz. "I don't have time today. And we don't want to pay yuppie leases. Let's find an office somewhere less gentrified."
Arlene sighed again. "It would be nice to have windows."
Kurtz said nothing on the ride back to the office.
The Tuscarora Indian Reservation was northeast of the city of Niagara Falls, curled around half of the big Power Reservoir that stored water to run through the Power Project's giant turbines. Big Bore Redhawk was not a Tuscarora, and quite possibly wasn't an Indianword was that Big Bore had discovered his Native American ancestry when he was trying to fence stolen jewelry and learned that he would be tax-exempt as an Indian jewelry salespersonbut his trailer was on the reservation property. Kurtz knew so much about Redhawk's personal life because the big man had been one of the most talkative morons in C-Block.
Kurtz took Walmore Road into the reservation and turned left onto the third gravel road. Big Bore's rusted-out trailer squatted in the deep snow just short of where Garlow Road ran along the reservoir. A clapped-out Dodge Powerwagon with a blade sat in the Indian's driveway and snow was heaped eight feet high on either side. Big Bore earned his drinking money from plowing the reservation's private roads during the winter. Kurtz pulled the Buick back behind one of these snowpiles so he could see the door to Redhawk's trailer. Snow was falling, stopping, then falling harder.
Twenty-five minutes later, all six-feet-five-inches of Big Bore came stumbling out the door wearing only jeans and a loose plaid shirthe did not seem aware of Kurtz's carclimbed one of the higher drifts, and urinated toward the line of trees.
Kurtz drove the Buick up, slid to a stop, and got out quickly with the.40 Smith & Wesson in his hand. "Good morning, B.B."
Redhawk turned with mouth and fly agape. His bloodshot eyes flickered toward the trailer, and Kurtz guessed that the half-breed's gun was still inside. Big Bore had always been a shank man.
"Kurtz? Hey, man, fucking good to see you, man. You out on parole too?"
Kurtz smiled. "You drinking the advance on my hit, B.B.?"
Big Bore worked his face into a puzzled frown, glanced down, and zipped up his fly. "Huh?" he said. "What's the piece for? We were friends, man."
"Yeah," said Kurtz.
"Fuck, man," said Big Bore. "I don't know what you heard, but we can talk it out, man. Come on inside." He took a half step toward his trailer.
Kurtz raised the semiauto's aim slightly and shook his head.
Big Bore raised his hands and squinted. "You're a big man with that gun, aren't you, Kurtz?"
Kurtz said nothing.