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?"