“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.”
THIRTEEN
Rummaging through a dead man’s belongings at midnight was not Joe Winder’s idea of fun. The lab was as cold and quiet as a morgue. Intimate traces of the late Will Koocher were everywhere: a wrinkled lab coat hung on the back of a door; a wedding picture in a brass frame on a corner of his desk; a half-eaten roll of cherry-flavored Turns in the drawer; Koocher’s final paycheck, endorsed but never cashed.
Winder shivered and went to work. Methodically he pored through the vole file, and quickly learned to decipher Koocher’s daily charts: size, weight, feeding patterns, sleeping patterns, stool patterns. Some days there was blood work, some days there were urine samples. The doctor’s notes were clinical, brief and altogether unenlightening. Whatever had bothered Koocher about the mango-vole program, he hadn’t put it in the charts.