"You're going to shoot me anyway," said Curly. His teeth were chattering in the blast of cold air from the open door.

"No," said Kurtz. "I won't. Not if you tell me the truth. Last chance."

Curly said, "A woman."

Kurtz glanced at the road and then back. That made no sense. The D-Block Mosque still had a $10,000 fatwa out on Kurtz as far as he knew. Little Skag Farino, still in the pen, had several reasons to see Kurtz dead, and Little Skag had always been a cheap son of a bitch, likely to hire skanks like the Stooges. An inner-city Crips gang called the Seneca Social Club had put out the word that Joe Kurtz should die. He had a few other enemies who might hire someone. But a woman?

"Not good enough," said Kurtz. He raised the aim toward Curly's belly.

"No, Jesus Christ, I'm telling the truth! Brunette. Drives a Lexus. Paid five thousand in cash up front—we get another five when she reads about you in the paper. She was the one who told us about you probably not carrying today because of your PO visit. Jesus Christ, Kurtz, you can't just—"

"What's her name?"

Curly shook his head wildly. Curly was bald. "Farino. She didn't say… but I'm sure of it… she's Little Skag's sister."

"Maria Farino is dead," said Kurtz. He had reason to know.

Curly began shouting, talking so fast that spittle flew. "Not Maria Farino. The other one. The older sister. I seen a family picture once that Skag had in stir. Whatshername, the fucking nun, Agelica, Angela, some fucking wop name—"

"Angelina," said Kurtz.

Curly's mouth twisted. "You're going to shoot me now. I told you the fucking truth, but you're going to—"

"Not necessarily," said Kurtz. It was snowing harder and this part of the Youngman was notorious for black ice, but he got the car up to seventy-five. Kurtz nodded toward the open car door.