Hardcase

  Malcolm Kibunte pursed his lips in mock solemnity and slowly shook his gleaming, hairless head. "Aww, no, Miles, my man. We don't want nobody messing around in what we could get our fucking lawyer head blown off for, do we, Counselor?"

  "No," Cutter added in a voice lacking all human tone, "we don't, do we?"

  Miles literally jumped at the sound of Cutter's voice. He turned and looked at Cutter, who was still staring at nothing. It was as if the words had come from his belly or chest.

  "How much?" said Malcolm, no longer playful.

  "Ten thousand," said Miles. "Fuck that. Even with the Death Mosque ten, that ain't enough."

  Miles shook his head. "This can't get out. No word to the Mosque brothers. We have to make Kurtz disappear."

  "Dis-ap-pear," said Malcolm, stretching out the syllables. "Disappearing some motherfucker harder than just capping him. We talking fifty bills."

  Miles showed his most disdainful lawyer smile. "Mr. Farino could call in his best professional talent for less than that."

  "Mr. Farino," minced Malcolm, "ain't calling in nobody for nothing, is he, Miles, my man? This Kurtz your problem—am I right or am I right?"

  Miles made a gesture.

  "And besides, Mr. Farino's best professional talent can kiss my serene black ass and eat wop shit and die wop slow, they get in my way," Malcolm continued.

  Miles said nothing.

  "What Cutter wants to know," said Malcolm, "is do you or don't you have nothing on Kurtz? Not where he live? Not where he work? Friends? Nothing… am I right or am I right? Me and Cutter supposed to play P.I. as well as cap this fucker for you?"

  "The folder"—began Miles, nodding toward it—"has some information. Where Kurtz used to have an office on Chippewa. The name of a former associate, dead, a woman… the name and current address of his former secretary and a few other people he spent time with. Mr. Fi… the family had me check on him when Little Skag sent word that Kurtz wanted a meeting. There's not much there, but it could help."

  "Forty," said Malcolm. It was not a proposal, merely a final statement. "That only twenty each for C and me. And it's hard to disappoint the Mosque that way, Miles, my man."

  "All right," said the lawyer. "A fourth up front. As usual." He looked around, saw only tourists, and handed across his second envelope of cash in two days.

  Malcolm smiled broadly and counted the $10,000, showing it to Cutter, who seemed to be absorbed in looking at a squirrel near the trash bin.

  "You want pictures, as always?" said Malcolm as he slid the envelope into his black leather jacket.

  Miles nodded.

  "What you do with those Polaroids, Miles, my man? Jack off to them?"

  Miles ignored that. "You sure you can do this, Malcolm?"

  For a second, Miles thought that he had gone too far. Various emotions rippled across Malcolm's face, like wind rippling an ebony flag, but the final reaction seemed to be humor.

  "Oh, yesss," said Malcolm, looking up at Cutter to share his good humor. "Mistah Kurtz, he dead."

  * * *

  CHAPTER 6

  « ^ »

  South Buffalo's Lackawanna had gone belly up as a steel town years before Kurtz had been sent away, but driving south on the elevated expressway now made him think of some sci-fi movie about a dead industrial planet. Below the expressway stretched mile after mile of dark and empty steel mills, factories, black brick warehouses, parking lots, train tracks, rusting rolling stock, smokeless chimneys, and abandoned worker housing. At least Kurtz hoped that those shitty tarpaper shacks on darkened streets under shot-out streetlights were abandoned.

  He exited, drove several blocks past hovels and high-fenced yards, and pulled into one of the darkened mills. The gate padlock was unlocked. He drove through, closed the huge gate behind him, and drove to the far end of a parking lot that had been built to hold six or seven thousand cars. There was one vehicle there now: a rusted-out old Ford pickup with a camper shell on the back. Kurtz parked Arlene's Buick next to it and made the long, dark walk into the main factory building.

  The main doors were open wide. Kurtz's footfalls echoed in the huge space as he passed slag heaps, cold open hearths, hanging crucibles the size of houses, gantries and cranes stripped of everything worth anything, and many huge, rusted shapes he couldn't begin to identify. The only lighting was from the occasional yellow trouble light.

  Kurtz stopped beneath what had once been a control room thirty feet above the factory floor. A dim light illuminated the dirty glass on three sides of the box. An old man came out onto the metal balcony and shouted down, "Come on up."

  Kurtz climbed the steel ladder.

  "Hey, Doc," said Kurtz as the two men walked into the soft light of the control room.

  "Howdy, Kurtz," said Doc. The old man had disappeared into that never-never land of indeterminate age that some men occupy for decades—somewhere over sixty-five but definitely under eighty-five.

  "It seemed weird to see your pawnshop turned into an ice-cream parlor," said Kurtz. "I never thought you'd sell the shop."

  Doc nodded. "Fucking economy just stayed too good in the nineties. I like the watchman job better. Don't have to worry about doped-up shitheads trying to knock me over. What can I do you for, Kurtz?"

  Kurtz liked this about Doc. It had been more than eleven years since he had seen the old man, but Doc had just used up his entire inventory of small talk.

  "Two pieces," said Kurtz. "One semiauto and the other a concealed-carry revolver."

  "Cold?"

  "As cold as you can make them."

  "That's very cold." Doc went into the padlocked back room. He came back out in a minute and set several metal cases and small boxes on his cluttered desk. "I remember that nine-millimeter Beretta you used to love so much. What ever happened to that weapon?"

  "I buried it with honors," Kurtz said truthfully. "What do you have for me?"

  "Well, look at this first," said Doc and opened one of the gray carrying cases. He lifted out a black semiautomatic pistol. "Heckler & Koch USP .45 Tactical," he said. "New. Beautiful piece. Grooved dust cover for lasers or lights. Threaded extended barrel for silencer or suppressor."

  Kurtz shook his head. "I don't like plastic guns."

  "Polymer," corrected Doc.

  "Plastic. You and I are made mostly of polymers, Doc. The gun is plastic and glass fiber. It looks like something Luke Sky walker would use."

  Doc shrugged.

  "Besides," said Kurtz, "I don't use lasers, lights, silencers, or suppressors, and I don't like German guns."

  Doc put away the H&K. He opened another case.

  "Nice," said Kurtz, lifting out the semiautomatic pistol. It was dark gray—almost black—and constructed primarily of forged steel.

  "Kimber Custom .45 ACP," said Doc. "Owned briefly by a little old lady from Tonawanda who just hauled it down to the firing range once or twice a month."

  Kurtz racked the slide, checked that the chamber was empty, dropped out the seven-round magazine, made sure that it was empty, slapped the magazine back in, and sighted down the barrel. "Good balance," he said. "But it has a full-length spring guide rod."

  "Best kind," said Doc.

  "Raises the risk of a loading malfunction," said Kurtz.

  "Not on the Kimber. Like I said, custom-made."

  "I've never owned a custom weapon," said Kurtz, putting the 1911-style pistol in his waistband and drawing it a few times.

  "McCormick low-profile combat sights," said Doc.

  "Catches cloth or leather," said Kurtz. "They should use ramp sights on all these fighting guns."

  Doc shrugged. "You won't find many of those."

  "I prefer double-actions."

  "Yeah," said Doc. "I remember that you used to carry cocked and locked. But the Kimber has a sweet trigger pull."

  Kurtz dry-fired the weapon several times and nodded. "How much?"

  "It cost $675 new just a couple of years ago."

  "That's what the li
ttle old lady from Tonawanda would've paid," said Kurtz. "How much?"

  "Four hundred."

  Kurtz nodded. "I'll need to fire some rounds."

  "That's what the slag heap down there is for," said Doc. "I got some paper targets in back. I'll throw in a few boxes of Black Hills 185-grain."

  Kurtz shook his head. "I'll be using 230-grain."

  "Got those, too," said Doc.

  "I'll need some leather."

  "I got a CYA small-of-the-back. Used, but just nicely broken in. Clean. Twenty bucks."

  "Okay," said Kurtz.

  "Good. So you've got your home-defense weapon. What do you want to see in the concealed-carry revolver line? Interested in an AirLite Ti?"

  "Titanium?" said Kurtz. "Hell, no. I didn't get so old and weak on vacation that I can't lift a pound or two of blue steel."

  "Don't look like you did," Doc said and opened a cardboard box. "Can't get much more basic than this, Kurtz. S&W Model 36 Special."

  Kurtz checked the heft, inspected the five empty chambers, held the barrel to the light, flipped shut the cylinder and dry-fired it. "How much?"

  "Two hundred and fifty."

  "Throw the semiauto holster in that."

  Doc nodded.

  "If I can put five into a three-inch circle at fifty feet with this, it's a deal," said Kurtz.

  "Going deer hunting?" Doc said dryly. "You'll need a sandbag rest at that distance. Barrel under two inches, generally the best plan is to sneak up on the deer and shove the Special against its belly before pulling the trigger."

  "I noticed a few sandbags down there."

  "Speaking of deer hunting," said Doc. "You hear that Manny Levine is looking for you?"

  "Who's Manny Levine?"

  "A psycho. Brother of Sammy Levine."

  "Who's Sammy Levine?"

  "Was," said Doc. "Sammy disappeared about eleven-and-a-half years ago. Word on the street was that you helped him get started in the energy business."

  "Energy business?"

  "Methane production," said Doc.

  "Don't know either of them," said Kurtz. "But in case this Manny comes calling, what does he look like?"

  "Sort of like Danny DeVito on a bad day. But a much shittier disposition. Carries a .44 Magnum Ruger Redhawk and likes to use it."

  "That's a lot of gun for a short fat man," said Kurtz. "Thanks for the heads-up."

  Doc shrugged again. "Need anything else tonight?"

  "Sap," said Kurtz.

  "Regular, ballistic cloth, or leather?"

  It was after midnight when Kurtz drove back to Cheektowaga with the .45 holstered in the small of his back, the .38 in his left jacket pocket, and the two-pound sap in his right jacket pocket. He stayed at or under the speed limit all the way back. It would be embarrassing to be stopped by a cop and his license was eight years out of date.

  He had just pulled into the Motel 6 when he noticed the sports car parked far from the light, its cloth top up. A red Honda S2000. It could be Coincidence, except Kurtz did not believe in coincidence. He made a quick U-turn and drove back out onto the boulevard.

  The S2000 switched on its lights and accelerated hard to follow.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  « ^ »

  Kurtz drove about three miles before deciding that whoever was behind the wheel of the Honda was a fucking idiot. The driver hung so far back that several times Kurtz had to slow down after stoplights or turns to let him catch up.

  Kurtz drove away from the lights, down a county road he remembered from the old days. The urban sprawl hadn't stretched this far and the road was empty of traffic. Kurtz accelerated until the sports car had to rush to keep up and was only forty or fifty feet behind him, and then he swerved off on a paved turnout, braking hard, swinging the protesting Buick into a clean 180-degree skidding turn. His headlights illuminated the S2000 as it came to a stop twenty feet away. Only the driver's head was visible.

  Kurtz scrambled out, crouched behind the driver's-side door of the Buick, and pulled out the .45 Kimber.

  A huge man stepped out of the sports car. His hands were empty.

  "Kurtz, you asshole. Come out of there, goddamn you."

  Kurtz sighed, slid the .45 into its holster, and stepped out into the headlights' glare. "You don't want to do this, Carl."

  "The fuck I don't," said the big Farino-family bodyguard.

  "Who sent you?"

  "Nobody sent me, asshole."

  "Then you're dumber than you look," said Kurtz. "If that's possible."

  Carl stepped closer. He was wearing the same tight pants and polo shirt as before, without the blazer, showing his pecs despite the chilly night air. "I'm not packing heat, cocksucker," he said.

  "Okay," said Kurtz.

  "Let's settle this—" said the bodybuilder.

  "Settle what?"

  "—man to man," said Carl, finishing his thought.

  "We're one man short," said Kurtz. He glanced at his watch. The road remained empty.

  "Huh?" Carl frowned.

  "One thing before going mano a mano," said Kurtz. "How'd you find me?"

  "Followed you when you left Mr. Farino's."

  Christ, I'm slipping! thought Kurtz with the first alarm he had felt since identifying the hulking bodyguard in the sports car.

  Carl took another step closer. "No one calls me a bitch," he said, extending the muscles in his powerful forearms and flexing his huge hands.

  "Really?" said Kurtz. "I thought you'd be used to it."

  Carl lunged.

  Kurtz sidestepped him and sapped him over his left ear. Carl went face first onto the Buick bumper and then again onto the asphalt. Kurtz heard teeth snapping off on both impacts. Kurtz walked over and kicked him in the ass. Carl did not stir.

  Kurtz went back to the Buick to switch off its lights, then did the same with the sports car, shutting off its engine, locking the doors, and tossing the keys into the woods. Grunting slightly, he dragged Carl around to the left rear of the Buick and kicked his legs into line just in front of the left rear wheel.

  Then Kurtz got back in Arlene's car, made sure no one was coming, tuned the radio to an all-night blues station, and drove away, switching on the lights once he was on the highway, heading back to the Motel 6 to check out.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 8

  « ^ »

  "Of all the unbelievable nerve," said Attorney Leonard Miles. "Of all the unmitigated gall."

  "Incredible balls, you mean," said Don Farino.

  "Whatever," said Miles.

  There were three of them in the huge solarium, not counting the mynah bird who was carrying on his own raucous conversation in his cage amidst the riot of green plants. Farino was in his wheelchair, but as was his custom when in the wheelchair, he was dressed in a suit and tie. His twenty-eight-year-old daughter Sophia sat on the green, silk-upholstered settee under the palm fronds. Miles was pacing back and forth.

  "Which part do you think took the nerve," asked Sophia, "crippling Carl or calling us last night to tell us about it?"

  "Both," said Miles. He stopped pacing and crossed his arms. "But especially the call. Absolute arrogance."

  "I heard the tape of the call," said Sophia. "He didn't sound arrogant. He sounded like someone phoning to let you know that your dry cleaning is ready for pickup."

  Miles glanced at Farino's daughter but looked at her father when he spoke next. He hated dealing with the woman. Farino's oldest son, David, had been capable enough, but had wrapped his Dodge Viper around a telephone pole at 145 miles per hour. The second son, Little Skag, was hopeless. The Don's older daughter, Angelina, had run away to Europe years before. That left this… girl.

  "Either way, sir," Miles said to the former don, "I think that we should call in the Dane."

  "Really?" said Byron Farino. "You think it's that serious, Leonard?"

  "Yes, sir. He crippled one of your people and then called to brag about it."

  "Or perhaps he
just called to save us the embarrassment of finding out about Carl's injuries in the newspaper," said Sophia. "This way we were able to get out to the accident scene first."

  "Accident scene," repeated Miles, not hiding his derision.

  Sophia shrugged. "Our people made it look like an accident. It saved us a lot of questions and legal expenses."

  Miles shook his head. "Carl was a brave and loyal employee."

  "Carl was an absolute idiot," said Sophia Farino. "All those steroids obviously burned out what little brain he had left."

  Miles turned to say something sharp to the bitch and instantly thought better of it. He stood in silence, listening to the mynah bird berate an invisible opponent.

  "Leonard," said Don Farino, "what was the first thing Carl said to our people when he regained consciousness this morning?"

  "He couldn't say anything. His jaw is wired shut, and he'll need extensive oral surgery before—"

  "What did he write to Buddy and Frank, then?" asked Don Farino.

  The attorney hesitated. "He wrote that five of Gonzaga's people followed him and jumped him," Miles said after a moment.

  Don Farino nodded slowly. "And if we had believed Carl… if Kurtz had not called last night… if I had not called Thomas Gonzaga this morning, we could be at war, could we not, Leonard?"

  Miles showed his hands and shrugged. "Carl was embarrassed. He was in pain—medicated—and afraid we'd blame him."

  "He followed this Kurtz and tried to settle his private scores on family time," said Sophia Farino. "Then he screwed that up. Why shouldn't we blame him?"

  Miles only shook his head and gave Don Farino a look that said, Women can't understand these things.

  Byron Farino shifted slightly in his wheelchair. It was obvious that he was in pain from the eight-year-old gunshot wound and the bullet still embedded near his spine. "Write a check for $5,000 for Carl's family," said the Don. "Is it just his mother?"

  "Yes, sir," said Miles, not seeing any reason to mention that Carl lived with a twenty-year-old male model of Miles's acquaintance.