by Dan Simmons
“Yeah.”
“Then why offer to find him and haul him back for a bonus?”
Kurtz rubbed his eyes. He was feeling a bit sleepy. “Seemed like a way to get work.”
“A lot of effort you’ve spent on the job so far. Went to visit Buell’s widow—who got herself killed as soon as you left, it sounds like—and crippled our poor, late Carl.”
“Late?” Kurtz was surprised. “He’s dead?”
“Some complications in the hospital,” said Sophia. “What did Skag tell you about the truck hijackings and Richardson’s disappearance?”
“Enough to let me know that it’s more complicated than it looks,” said Kurtz. “Someone’s either moving in on your father, or there’s something else in play here.”
“Any suspects?” asked Sophia, stubbing out her cigarette and looking directly at Kurtz. The sheet had slipped from her breasts and she made no effort to pull it back in place.
“Sure,” said Kurtz. “Miles the lawyer, of course. Any of your father’s top guys who are getting ambitious.”
“All the ambitious ones left since Papa retired.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Kurtz.
“So that leaves Miles.”
“And you.”
Sophia did not feign outrage. “Sure. But why would I be pulling this crap when I inherit Papa’s money, anyway?”
“Good question,” said Kurtz. “Now it’s my turn. You said that you could tell me who’s setting me up for a hit.”
Sophia shook her head. “I don’t know for sure, but if Miles is involved, you might watch out for a guy named Malcolm Kibunte and a scary white friend of his.”
“Malcolm Kibunte,” Kurtz repeated. “Don’t know him. Description?”
“Former Crip from Philadelphia. Big, black, mean as a snake-bit Mormon. Early thirties. Shaves his head, but wears one of those little major-league-pitcher goatees. Wears black leather and lots of jewelry. Has a diamond stud in his front tooth. I’ve seen him only once. I don’t think Leonard Miles knows that I know about their contacts.”
“I won’t ask how you know,” said Kurtz.
Sophia lit another cigarette, took a long drag and exhaled smoke and said nothing.
“What’s our Malcolm friend into?” said Kurtz.
“He left Philly one step ahead of a murder rap,” said Sophia. “Not for the Crips, though. Popped a cap on a fellow Crip for one of the Colombian rings down there. Malcolm was into moving coke big time. Then he began specializing on eliminating competitors.”
“Served time?” said Kurtz.
“Nothing serious. Aggravated assault. Illegal possession of a weapon. Killed his first wife—strangled her.”
“That must have cost him some time.”
“Not much. Miles represented him and got him two years on a psychiatric thing. I think that’s why Miles thinks that Kibunte is on a leash. I wouldn’t bet my life on it if I were Miles.”
“And what about this white friend of his?”
Sophia shook her head. Her curly hair was dry and curlier than ever. “Haven’t seen him. Don’t have a name. Supposed to be real white—almost albino—and good with a blade.”
“Ahh,” said Kurtz.
“Ah, indeed.” Sophia sighed. “If Papa were still in charge of things in Buffalo, these two would have been swatted like flies as soon as they showed up in town. But I doubt if Papa has even heard of them.”
“Why exactly did your father get squeezed out of the local action?”
Sophia sighed. “Did Skag tell you about the shooting?”
“Just the fact of it, not the details.”
“Well, it’s simple enough,” said Sophia. “About eight years ago, Papa and two of his bodyguards were driving back from a restaurant down in Boston Hills when a couple of cars tried to block them in. Papa’s driver was well trained, of course, and the glass was bulletproof, but when the driver was backing out of the trap they’d set, one of the shooters used a shotgun on the driver’s-side window, shattered it, and then sprayed the inside with automatic weapons’ fire. Papa was just scratched, but both his men were killed.”
She paused and flicked ashes into the enamel ashtray.
“So Papa crawled over the seat, took the wheel, and drove that Caddy out of there himself,” she continued, “returning fire with Lester’s—the driver’s—nine-millimeter. He got at least one of the shooters.”
“Were they white or black?” asked Kurtz.
“White,” said Sophia. “Anyway, Papa would have gotten away all right, but someone used a .357 Magnum to fire through the trunk of the Caddy. The damned slug went through the rear end, the spare tire, both seats, and ended up in Papa’s back, a quarter of an inch from his spine. And that trunk was armored.”
“Did Don Farino figure out who’d put the hit on him?”
Sophia shrugged. Her nipples were a delicate brown. “A lot of inquiries, a few suspects, but no confirmation. It was probably the Gonzagas.”
“They’re the only other Italian mob with action in western New York, right?” said Kurtz.
Sophia frowned. “We don’t call them ‘Italian mob.’”
“Okay,” said Kurtz. “The Gonzagas are the only other guinea gangsters licensed to do business in this end of the state, right?”
“Right.”
“And it’s been about six years since what’s left of the Farinos had any real clout?”
“Yes,” she said. “Things went downhill after Papa was crippled.”
Kurtz nodded. “Your oldest brother, David, tried to keep the family in the action until the mid-90’s. Then he killed himself in a car accident while coked to the eyes, and your older sister took off for a nunnery in Italy.”
Sophia nodded.
“And then Little Skag fucked things up for a while until the other families decided it was time for your father to retire,” said Kurtz. “Little Skag gets high and attacks his Brazilian girlfriend with a shovel, and here you are, alone in that big house with Papa.”
Sophia said nothing.
“What’s being hijacked?” asked Kurtz. “On the trucks they hit?”
“VCRs, DVD players, cigarettes,” said Sophia. “The usual penny-ante crap. The New York families are big into bootleg videos and DVDs, and that means they’ve got thousands of machines to unload. They toss Papa that crumb. The cigarettes are just for old times’ sake.”
“Untaxed cigarettes can bring in nice money,” said Kurtz.
“Not in the quantities that they let our family have,” said Sophia. She slid out of bed and walked to the closet. There was a thick robe on one of the leather chairs by the window, but she ignored it, obviously feeling comfortable naked. “You’re going to have to get out of here,” she said. “It’s almost sunrise.”
Kurtz nodded and got out of bed.
“My God, you’ve got a lot of scars,” said Sophia Farino.
“Accident prone,” said Kurtz. “Where are my clothes?”
“Down the disposal chute,” she said. She slid back one of the mirrored doors and took a man’s denim shirt, some packaged Jockey shorts, and a pair of corduroy trousers out of a drawer. “Take these,” she said. “They should fit you. I’ll get some new sneakers and socks for you.”
Kurtz tossed the shirt back. “Don’t wear these,” he said.
“Don’t wear what?” she said. “Shirts? Denim shirts?”
“Polo ponies.”
“You’re shitting me. That’s a brand-new two-hundred-dollar shirt.”
Kurtz shrugged. “I don’t wear company logos. If they want me to advertise for them, they can pay me.”
Sophia Farino laughed again and once again Kurtz enjoyed the sound of it. “A man of principle,” she said. “Butchered Eddie Falco, crippled ol’ Carl, and shot God knows how many others in cold blood, but a man of principle. I love it.” She tossed him a cheaper-looking denim shirt. “No ponies, alligators, sheep, Nike swooshes, or anything else on it. Satisfied?”
Kurtz pulled it o
n. It fit fine. So did the underpants, corduroy slacks, socks, and boat shoes. He didn’t think that Sophia had gone shopping ahead of time for him, so he wondered how many men’s sizes she kept in stock. Maybe it was like the package of condoms in the shower: Be prepared was evidently this woman’s motto. He headed for the front door.
“Hey,” she said, finally pulling on the robe and padding along beside him. “It’s cold out there.”
“Did you throw away my jacket as well?”
“Damned right I did.” She opened the foyer closet door and handed him an expensive, insulated leather bomber jacket. “This should fit you.”
It did. He unbolted the door.
“Kurtz,” she said. “You’re still naked.” She took a 9mm Sig Sauer from the closet and offered it to him.
Kurtz checked it—the magazine was fully loaded—and then handed it back. “Don’t know where it’s been,” he said.
Sophia smiled. “It’s not traceable. Don’t you trust me?”
Kurtz twitched a smile and let her keep the pistol. He went out the door, down a private hallway, took the elevator to the ground floor, and went out into the dark past a sleepy but curious front-lobby security guard. When he’d walked a block west, he looked back at the loft building. Her lights were still on, but they flicked out as he watched.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Kurtz’s current bolthole was in an old icehouse being renovated into lofts, but it was a mile or so from the already-gentrified area where Sophia Farino had her pied-à-terre. It was not really light yet, but there was a certain brighter grayness to the low clouds that were drizzling on him.
He felt naked without a weapon, and a little woozy. He put that down to not having eaten or drunk anything except the glass of Chivas for the past twenty-four hours rather than because of great sex. Kurtz admitted to himself that he’d had images of sitting around in those soft terry-cloth robes, enjoying a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and steaming hot coffee with Ms. Farino before he headed out into the storm. Getting soft, Joe, he thought. At least the expensive bomber jacket was warm against the icy drizzle.
Kurtz was walking under the I-90 overpass when a memory struck him. He left the sidewalk, climbed the steep concrete gradient, and peered into the low, dark niches where the concrete supports met iron girders. The first two cubbies were empty except for pigeon crap and human shit, but the third held a small skeletal figure that pulled back to the far end of the cluttered hole. As Kurtz’s eyes adapted to the dark, he could make out wide white eyes, trembling shoulders, and long, bare, quaking arms emerging from a torn T-shirt. Even in the dim light, he could see the bruises and track marks on those arms. The thin man tried to pull himself farther back from the opening.
“Hey, it’s okay, Pruno,” said Kurtz. He reached out and patted the arm. It was almost fleshless and colder than some corpses Kurtz had handled. “It’s me, Joe Kurtz.”
“Joseph?” said the quaking figure. “Really you, Joseph?”
“Yeah.”
“When’d you get out?”
“Just a while ago.”
Pruno came farther out and tried to smooth out the flattened cardboard box and stinking blanket he was sitting on. The rest of the niche was filled with bottles and newspapers that the man obviously had been using for insulation.
“Where the hell’s your sleeping bag, Pruno?”
“Somebody stole it, Joseph. Just a couple nights ago. I think…it wasn’t long ago. Just when it was turning cold.”
“You should go to the shelter, man.”
Pruno lifted one of the bottles of wine and offered it. Kurtz shook his head. “Shelter’s getting meaner every year,” said the wino and junkie. “Work for sleep’s the motto now.”
“Working’s better than freezing to death,” said Kurtz.
Pruno shrugged. “I’ll find a better blanket when one of the old street guys dies. ’Round about first snow, probably. So how are the guys in C Block, Joseph?”
“Last year they moved me to D Block,” said Kurtz. “But I heard that Billy the C went to L.A. when he got out and is working in the movies out there.”
“Acting?”
“Providing set security.”
Pruno made a sound that started as a laugh and soon turned into a cough. “Usual protection racket. Those movie guys eat it up. What about you, Joseph? Heard that the Mosque brothers were pronouncing fatwah on you, as if they knew what that meant.”
Kurtz shrugged. “Most people know that the D-bros don’t have the money for that. I’m not worried. Hey, Pruno—you know anything about some Farino trucks being knocked over?”
The haggard, bearded figure looked up from his bottle. “You working for the Farinos these days, Joseph?”
“Not really. Just doing what I used to do.”
“What do you want to know about the trucks?”
“Who’s hitting them. When is the next job due?”
Pruno closed his eyes. The light was coming up gray beyond the overpass, and illuminated the filthy, haggard face enough to remind Kurtz of carved wooden statues of Jesus he had seen in Mexico. “I think I heard something about a low-rent type named Doo-Rag and his boys fencing some cigarettes and DVD players after the last truck thing,” said Pruno. “No one tells me about crimes in the planning stage.”
“Doo-Rag the Blood?” said Kurtz.
“Yes. You know him?”
Kurtz shook his head. “There was a punk in D Block got shanked in the showers supposedly because he owed money to a young Blood named Doo-Rag. Supposedly this Doo-Rag played a season for the NBA.”
“Nonsense,” said Pruno, emphasizing both syllables. “Closest Doo-Rag got to the NBA was the public courts up at Delaware Park.”
“Those are pretty good,” said Kurtz. “Would a Blood like Doo-Rag take marching orders from an ex-Crip?”
Pruno coughed again. “Everyone is doing business with everyone these days, Joseph. It’s the global economy. You ever see a brochure from any of those top Ivy League—type colleges the last ten years or so?”
“No,” said Kurtz. “I haven’t received too many of those.” He knew that Pruno had been a college professor at one time.
“Diversity and tolerance,” said Pruno and drank the last of his wine. “Tolerance and diversity. No mention of the canon, of the classics, of knowledge or learning. Just tolerance and diversity and diversity and tolerance. It paves the way for global e-commerce and personal empowerment.” His rheumy eyes focused on Kurtz in the dim light. “Yes, Joseph, Doo-Rag and his street associates would take orders from an ex-Crip if it meant money. Then they’d try to kill the motherfucker. Which ex-Crip are we talking about?”
“Malcolm Kibunte.”
Pruno shrugged and then began shivering again. “Didn’t know Malcolm Kibunte was ever a Crip.”
“You know of any arrangements between this Malcolm or Doo-Rag and the Farinos?”
Pruno coughed again. “Doesn’t seem likely, since the Farinos are as racist as all the rest of the wiseguy families. To be more succinct, Joseph—no.”
“Know where I can find Kibunte?”
“I don’t. But I’ll ask around.”
“Don’t be too obvious about it, Pruno.”
“Never, Joseph.”
“One more question. Do you know anything about a white guy that this Malcolm hangs around with?”
“Cutter?” Pruno’s voice was quaking from the cold or withdrawal.
“That’s his name?”
“That is what people know him as, Joseph. I know nothing else. I wish to know nothing else. A very disturbed individual, Joseph. Please stay clear of him.”
Kurtz nodded. “You need to get to a shelter and at least get a decent blanket, Pruno. Some food. Spend some time with people. Don’t you get lonely out here?”
“Numquam se minus otiosum esse, quam cum otiosus, nee minus solum, quam cum solus esset,” said the junkie. “Are you familiar with Seneca, Joseph? I had him on your reading list.”
“Haven’t got that far yet, I guess,” said Kurtz. “Seneca the Indian chief?”
“No, Joseph, although he was quite eloquent as well. Especially after we whites gave his people a ‘gift’ of blankets riddled with smallpox. No, Seneca the philosopher…” Pruno’s eyes grew vague and lost.
“You want to translate for me?” said Kurtz. “Like old times?”
Pruno smiled. “That he was never less idle than when he was idle, and never less alone than when he was alone. Seneca attributed it to Scipio Africanus, Joseph.”
Kurtz took his leather jacket off and set it on Pruno’s lap.
“I can’t accept this, Joseph.”
“It was a freebie,” said Kurtz. “Got it less than an hour ago. I’ve got a closet full of those things at home.”
“Bullshit, Joseph. Absolute bullshit.”
Kurtz tapped the old man on his bony shoulder and slid down the embankment. He wanted to get back to his warehouse before it was truly light.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The old, seven-story brick building had been built as an icehouse, then served as a warehouse through most of the twentieth century, then made money as a U-Store-It warehouse for a couple of decades with its grand old spaces broken up into a warren of cages and windowless cells. Most recently, it had been bought by a consortium of lawyers who were going to make a killing by converting it to expensive condo-lofts opening onto city views on the outside with interior mezzanines looking down into a fancy center atrium. The architect’s prospectus had used Los Angeles’s Bradbury Building, that favorite location interior for TV shows and films, as a template: clean brick, fancy ironwork, interior iron stairways and cage elevators, dozens of offices with frosted glass doors. Developers had begun the conversion: fencing off the entire structure, leaving the central section open as the atrium, adding rough mezzanines on the upper floors, adding an expensive skylight, knocking down some walls, cutting out some windows. But the loft market had slowed down, the gentrification had crept in the opposite direction, the lawyers’ money had dried up, and now the warehouse sat alone except for the dozen other abandoned brick warehouses around it. The lawyers, ever optimistic, had left some of the construction materials at the fenced-off site in anticipation of getting back to work on it as soon as the consortium came into new funds.
