Lawrence, the city editor, brightened, but Lily continued to stew. "And if you don't we'll go to court and drag it out of you anyway," she snarled.
"Hey…" Wink sat up.
Daniel broke in before he could go any further. He pointed a finger at Lily's face and said, "No, we won't, Lieutenant. If they decide against us in this room, we'll look for other pictures, but we won't go to court. And if you keep this up, I'll ship your ass back to New York faster than you can say 'Avenue of the Americas.' "
Lily opened her mouth and just as suddenly snapped it shut. "Okay," she said. She glanced at Wink. "Sorry."
Daniel smiled his most charming smile at Wink and said, "Please?"
"I think… we should get some prints in here," Wink said. He nodded at Lawrence. "Get them."
They all sat silently until the city editor came back with three manila envelopes and handed them to Wink. Wink opened one, took out a set of eight-by-ten prints, looked at them, then passed them to Daniel. Daniel dealt them out across the table to Lily, who stood up, spread them out and began studying them.
"It's him," she said after a moment. She tapped one of the faces. "That's my man."
They got two sets of photos and stopped on the street corner before Daniel walked back to City Hall.
"Larry Hart is coming over this afternoon. He had to get his case load closed out," Daniel said to Lucas. "I'll get him a set of photographs. He may know somebody."
"All right. And I'll show my set around."
Daniel nodded and looked at Lily. "You should watch your temper. You almost lost it for us."
"Newsies piss me off," she said. "You were getting pushed around."
"I wasn't getting pushed. Everybody knew what would happen. We had to go through the ritual," Daniel said mildly.
"Okay. It's your turf. I apologize," she said.
"You should apologize. Being a hell of guy, I accept," Daniel said, and started off across the street.
Lily looked after him. "He's a piece of work," she said after a moment.
"He's okay. He can be an asshole, but he isn't stupid," Lucas said.
"So who's this Larry Hart?" Lily asked.
"He's a Welfare guy, a Sioux. Good guy, knows the streets, probably knows a thousand Indians. He's fairly large in Indian politics. He's written some articles, goes out to all the powwows and so on."
"We need him. I spent six hours on the street yesterday and didn't learn a thing. The guy I was with-"
"Shearson?"
"Yeah. He wouldn't know an Indian from a fire hydrant. Christ, it was almost embarrassing," she said, shaking her head.
"You're not going back out with him?"
"No." She looked at him without a sign of a smile. "Besides his woefully inadequate IQ, we had a little problem yesterday."
"Welclass="underline" …"
"I thought I might ride along with you. You're showing the pictures around, right?"
"Yeah." Lucas scratched his head. He didn't like working with a partner: he sometimes made deals that were best kept private. But Lily was from New York and shouldn't be a problem that way. "All right, I guess. I'm parked down this way."
"Everybody says you've got the best contacts in the Indian community," Lily said as they walked along. Lucas kept looking at her and tripped on an uneven sidewalk slab. She grinned, still looking straight ahead.
"I know about eight guys. Maybe ten. And not well," Lucas said when he recovered.
"You came up with the picture from the paper," she pointed out.
"I had a guy I could squeeze." Lucas stepped off the curb and walked around the nose of his Porsche. Lily walked behind him.
"Uh, around there," he said, pointing back to the passenger-side door.
She looked down at the 911, surprised. "Is this your car?"
"Yeah."
"I thought we were crossing the street," Lily said as she stepped back to the curb.
Lucas got in and popped open her door; she climbed inside and fastened the seat belt. "Not many New York cops would have the guts to drive around in a Porsche. Everybody would figure he was in the bag," she said.
"I've got some money of my own," Lucas said.
"Even so, you wouldn't have to buy a Porsche with it," Lily said primly. "You could buy a perfectly good car for ten or fifteen thousand and give the other twenty or thirty thousand to charity. You could give it to the Little Sisters of the Poor."
"I thought about that," Lucas said. He gunned the Porsche through an illegal U-turn and punched it up to forty in the twenty-five-mile-per-hour business zone. "And I decided, fuck "em."
Lily threw back her head and laughed. Lucas grinned at her and thought that maybe she was carrying a few too many pounds, but maybe that wasn't all bad.
They took the photographs to the Indian Center, showed them around. Two of the men in the photos were known by face but not by name. Nobody knew where they lived. Lucas called Anderson, told him about the tentative IDs, and Anderson promised to get more photos on the street.
After leaving the Indian Center, they stopped at an Indian-dominated public housing project, where Lucas knew two old men who worked as caretakers. They got no new IDs. The hostility was palpable.
"They don't like cops," Lily said as they left.
"Nobody around here likes cops," Lucas said, looking back at the decrepit buildings. "When they see us, we're mostly getting their cars towed away in the winter. They don't like us, but at least they're not against us. But this is something else. This time, they're against us."
"Maybe they got reasons," Lily said. She was looking out the window at a group of Indian children sitting on the porch of a decaying clapboard house. "Those kids ought to be in school. What you've got here, Davenport, is a clean slum. The people are fucked up, but the street gets cleaned twice a week."
They spent the rest of the morning running the photos down Lucas' Indian acquaintances. Lily trailed behind, not saying much, studying the faces of the Indians, listening to them, the Indians looking curiously back.
"They think you might be an Indian, or part Indian, but they're not sure until they hear your voice," Lucas said between stops. "You look a little Indian."
"I don't sound Indian."
"You sound Lawn Guyland."
"There's an Indian reservation on Long Island," she said.
"No shit? Jesus, I'd like to hear those people talk…"
Late in the morning, Lucas drove to Yellow Hand's apartment at the Point, describing him to Lily as they went. Outside, on the stoop, he reached back and freed the P7 in its holster.
"Is this trouble?" she asked.
"I doubt it," he said. "But you know."
"Okay." When they were inside the door, she slipped her hand into a mufflike opening in her shoulder bag, took out a short Colt Officer's Model.45 and jacked a shell into the chamber.
"A forty-five?" Lucas said as she put it back in the purse.
"I'm not strong enough to wrestle with assholes," she said bluntly. "If I shoot somebody, I want him to go down. Not that the P7 isn't a nice little gun. But it's a bit light for serious work."
"Not if you can shoot," Lucas said through his teeth as he headed up the stairs.
"I can shoot the eyes out of a moving pigeon," she said. "And not hit the feathers."
The door on the top floor was open. Nobody home. Lucas eased inside, looked around, then tramped across a litter of paper, orange peels and empty personal-size catsup packs from McDonald's. "This is where he was," Lucas said, kicking Yellow Hand's mattress.
"Place feels vacant," Lily said. She touched one of the empty catsup packs with the toe of her shoe. Street people stole them from fast-food joints and used the catsup to make tomato soup. "They're really hurting for money."