NativeTongue

Da

"Ten bucks says it's right in the training manual."

"Bud, I swear to God."

"Gimme the crutch and I'll prove it."

Da

"That's not it," said Bud Schwartz, but when he turned around his partner was gone. He found him on line at the Wild Bill Hiccup rodeo ride; Da

The ride was set up in an indoor corral that had been laboriously fabricated, from the brown-dyed dirt to the balsa fence posts to the polyethylene cowshit that lay in neat regular mounds, free of flies. Twenty-five mechanical bulls (only the horns were real) jumped and bucked on hidden tracks while a phony rodeo a

During this particular session, the twenty-five bulls were mounted by twenty-three tourists and two professional crooks. Before the ride began, Bud Schwartz leaned over to Da

"What?"

"You heard me. And make it look good."

When the bell rang, Bud Schwartz hung on with his good hand and bounced back and forth for maybe a minute without feeling anything close to excitement. Da

"Why don't you put your name on this, li'l pardner?" said one of the Cowpokes.

Da

"Release of liability," Bud Schwartz said. He looked up with a dry smile. "This means we can't sue, right?"

"Naw," said the solicitous Cowpoke. "All it means is your buddy's not hurt."

"Says who?" said Bud Schwartz. "Bunch a dumb cowboy shit-kickers. Thanks, but I think we'll try our luck with an actual doctor."

The Cowpokes didn't look so amiable anymore, or so Western. In fact, they were starting to look like pissed-off Miami insurance men. Da

"Not another word." Bud Schwartz seized his partner by the elbow, as if to prop him up. Then he a

The Cowpoke in charge of the blood-pressure cuff said, "It's closed today."

"Then we'll come back Monday," said Bud Schwartz. "Where is the office, please?"

"Over Sally's Saloon," the Cowpoke answered. "Upstairs, ask for Mr. Dexter in Risk Management."

"And he'll be in Monday?"

"Nine sharp," muttered the Cowpoke.

The other tourists watched curiously as Bud Schwartz led Da

Into Da

"It wasn't on purpose."

"Yeah, I had a feeling."

As they watched Da

One of them called out: "Hey, how about a wheelchair?"

Without turning around, Bud Schwartz declined the offer with the wave of an arm.

"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?" Da

"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 Da

"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, Da

"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 Da

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, Da

"He knows how to buy jewelry, too." Bud Schwartz pointed at some large numbers. "Look here."

"Yeah," said Da

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."

Da

"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 Da

Da

"It means we're go

Da

"Gotti," said Bud Schwartz. "Rhymes with body."