Joe Kurtz Omnibus

by Dan Simmons

  Kurtz stepped into the corner where the loading dock met brick wall and let the pistol drop into his fingers. He cocked the hammer.

  It was a limo. The headlights went out and in the dimmer glow of the parking lights, Kurtz could see the huge mass of the black car silhouetted against distant streetlights, its exhaust swirling around it like fog. A big man got out of the front passenger side and another big man stepped out of the rear left door. Both men reached under their blazer jackets to touch guns.

  Kurtz set the hammer back in place, slid the small pistol back up into his palm, and walked toward the limousine. Neither of the bodyguards drew weapons or moved to frisk him.

  Kurtz walked past the man holding the rear door open, glanced into the rear seat—illuminated by several halogen spots—and got into the car.

  “Mr. Kurtz,” said the old man seated there. He was wearing a tuxedo and had a Stewart-plaid lap robe over his legs.

  Kurtz dropped into the jump seat opposite him. “Mr. Farino.” He uncocked the pistol and slipped it back in his waistband.

  The bodyguards closed the doors and remained outside in the cold.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  How is your investigation proceeding, Mr. Kurtz?”

  Kurtz made a rude noise. “Some investigation. I interviewed your former accountant’s wife for about five minutes and she ended up dead within the hour. That’s all I’ve done.”

  “Investigating was never your real purpose, Mr. Kurtz.”

  “Tell me about it. It was my idea, remember? And my real purpose seems to be working fine. They’ve made the first move on me.”

  “You don’t mean Carl?”

  “No,” said Kurtz, “I mean whoever called the cops and set me up after they murdered—butchered—Mrs. Richardson. They’d arranged a yard-shank job on me as soon as I got in general population.”

  Don Farino rubbed his cheek. It was a particularly rosy cheek for such a sick old man. Kurtz wondered idly if the don used makeup.

  “And have you determined who set you up for this?” asked Farino.

  “It’s been suggested that it was a mook named Malcolm Kibunte who sometimes works for your lawyer, Miles. Do you know this Kibunte or the knife-man he hangs with? Cutter?”

  Farino shook his head. “One is not able to keep track of all the black trash that comes through town these days. I presume these two are black.”

  “Malcolm is,” said Kurtz. “Cutter’s described as albino-like.”

  “And who told you about the shank job and suggested these names to you, Mr. Kurtz?” Farino’s eyes were rapt.

  “Your daughter.”

  Farino blinked. “My daughter? You’ve spoken to Sophia?”

  “I’ve more than spoken to her,” said Kurtz. “She bailed me out of jail before I went to County, and then took me home with her and tried to fuck me to death.”

  Don Farino’s thin lips pulled back from his teeth and his fingers clenched on his knees under the robe. “Be careful, Mr. Kurtz. You speak too candidly.”

  Kurtz shrugged. “You’re paying me for the facts. That was the setup we agreed to through Little Skag before I got out—I’d be point man and Judas goat for you and flush out whoever’s betraying you. It was your daughter who acted—both in the bailing and fucking departments—I’m just reporting.”

  “Sophia has always been strong-willed and…of questionable judgment in her sexual choices,” said Farino.

  Kurtz shrugged again. He didn’t give a damn about the fact or the insult behind it.

  “Sophia told you about the connection between Miles and these two killers?” Farino said softly. “Suggesting that she believes Miles is behind everything?”

  “Yep. But that doesn’t mean she’s telling the truth. She could be running both Miles and Malcolm and his knife-freak buddy.”

  “But you said that she was the one who bailed you out and warned you about the yard contract on you, Mr. Kurtz.”

  “She bailed me out. I have to take her word for the yard shank at County.”

  “And why would she go to all that trouble and lie?” asked Farino.

  “To check me out,” suggested Kurtz. “To find out what I’m really up to and how much I know. To put herself above suspicion.” Kurtz looked out the tinted windows. The alley was very dark. “Mr. Farino, Sophia met bail, took me home, and almost threw me into the sack. Maybe she’s just a tramp, like you say, but I don’t believe it was my magnetic personality that made her go out of her way to seduce me.”

  “I doubt that you required much seducing, Mr. Kurtz.”

  “That’s not the point,” said Kurtz. “The point is that you know how intelligent she is—hell, that’s why you’re afraid she might be behind Richardson’s disappearance and the truck hijackings—so you see why it makes more sense that there’s a motive behind her actions.”

  “But Sophia is in line to inherit my wealth and much of the legitimate family business,” said the don, looking at his clenched hands.

  “That’s what she said,” said Kurtz. “Do you know any reasons why she would want to hurry the process along?”

  Don Farino turned his face away. “Sophia has always been…impatient. And she would like to be Don.”

  Kurtz laughed. “Women can’t be dons.”

  “Perhaps Sophia does not accept that,” said Farino with a thin smile.

  “You’re not quite as busy circling the drain or as out of the loop as everyone thinks, are you?” said Kurtz.

  Farino looked back at Kurtz, and there was something almost demonic in the old man’s gaze. “No, Mr. Kurtz. I am paralyzed from the waist down and temporarily—how did you put it? Out of the loop. But I am nowhere near circling the drain. And I have no intention of staying out of the loop.”

  Kurtz nodded. “Maybe your daughter just doesn’t want to wait around like Prince Charles for five or six decades and is ready to help the succession along a little bit. What’s the fancy name for whacking the Old Man—patricide?”

  “You are a crude man, Mr. Kurtz.” Farino smiled again. “But there has been no discussion of whacking to this point. I hired you to find out what is going on with Richardson’s disappearance and the truck hijackings.”

  Kurtz shook his head. “You hired me to be a target so you could find out who the shooter is so as to protect your own ass, Farino. Why did you kill Carl?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You heard me. Sophia said Carl ‘died of complications.’ Why did you put a hit on him?”

  “Carl was a fool, Mr. Kurtz.”

  “No argument there, but why whack him? Why not just cut him loose?”

  “He knew too much about the family.”

  “Bullshit,” said Kurtz. “The average cub reporter at the Buffalo Evening News knows more about the workings of your mob family than dear, departed, dipshit Carl could’ve ever figured out. Why did you have him whacked?”

  Farino was silent for several moments. Kurtz listened to the heavy engine idle. One of the bodyguards lit a cigarette, and the match flare was a small circle of diffused light in the black alley.

  “I wanted to put her in touch with a certain…technician,” Farino said at last.

  “A hit man,” said Kurtz. “Someone from outside the family.”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone outside the Mafia?”

  Farino showed an expression of distaste, as if Kurtz had farted in his expensive limousine. “Someone from outside the organizational structure, yes.”

  Kurtz chuckled. “You sonofabitch. You wanted Sophia to spend time with this hit man just to see if she’d hire him to kill me. Ol’ Carl died just so you’d have a reason for this operator and your little girl to chat.”

  Farino said nothing.

  “Did she?” said Kurtz. “Hire him to kill me?”

  “No.”

  “What’s this technician’s name?”

  “Since he was not hired, his name is of no concern.”

  “It is to me,�
�� said Kurtz, and there was an undertone to his voice. “I want to know all the players.” He touched the .38 in his belt.

  Farino smiled, as if the idea of Kurtz’s shooting him and getting away alive were amusing. Then the smile faded as the don considered the fact that Kurtz might do the former without worrying about the latter. “No one knows this man’s name,” he said.

  Kurtz waited.

  “He’s known as the Dane,” Farino said after another long silence.

  “Holy shit,” breathed Kurtz.

  “You’ve heard of him?” Farino’s smile was back.

  “Who hasn’t? The Kennedy mob connections in the seventies. Jimmy Hoffa. There are rumors that the Dane was behind that lovely underpass hit in Paris, where he used just the little car, no weapon.”

  “There are always rumors,” agreed Farino. “Aren’t you going to ask for a description of the Dane?”

  It was Kurtz’s turn to smile. “From what I hear, it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. This guy is supposed to be better at disguises than the Jackal at the height of his powers. The only good news is that if Sophia had hired him, I’d know it because I’d be dead already.”

  “Yes,” said Farino. “So what is our next step, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “Well, tonight’s your truck delivery from the Vancouver source. If it’s hit, we’ll go from there. I’ll make myself obvious in investigating it. If Kibunte is involved—whoever’s involved—it makes sense for them to come after me next.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Kurtz.”

  Kurtz opened the door and the bodyguard held it for him. “Why wish me that?” Kurtz said to Farino. “Whether I have luck or not, you get the information you need. And if I’m dead, you keep the fifty thousand we agreed to.”

  “Quite true,” said the don. “But I may have a future use for you, and the fifty thousand is a small amount to pay for peace of mind.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Kurtz and stepped out into the alley.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  Old mob guys who never quite became made men don’t die, they just end up as truck drivers for the mob.

  Charlie Scruggs and Oliver Battaglia had both been low-level button men back during the Genovese era, but now, in their golden retirement years, were driving this goddamn truck all the way from Vancouver to Buffalo. Charlie was sixty-nine years old and stout and leathery, with a face full of burst blood vessels; he still wore his Teamsters cap everywhere and proudly told everyone of the week he spent as personal driver and bodyguard to Jimmy Hoffa. He had the constitution of a healthy pit bull. Oliver was tall, thin, saturnine, a chain-smoker, only sixty-two but sick much of the time, and—Charlie Scruggs now knew after eight of these damned Vancouver-Buffalo runs—an absolute pain in the ass.

  The truck was no eighteen-wheeler, just a basic six-ton carryall: what Charlie had called a deuce-and-a-half back in Korea. Because it was a smaller truck, it could go on backroads and even on streets without much notice. Charlie did all the driving; Oliver rode shotgun—literally, since there was a sawed-off shotgun in the concealed compartment at the top rear of the cab—but Oliver was so slow that Charlie put his faith in the Colt .45 semiautomatic that he kept in a quick-draw holster under his seat.

  In eighteen years of driving trucks for the Organization, neither Charlie nor Oliver had ever had to draw his weapons. That was the benefit of working for the Organization.

  The drawback was that they had to take the goddamned long way to Buffalo. Not only driving two-thirds the way across Canada—a country Charlie hated with a passion—but not even taking the direct route down through Michigan, back into Canada at Detroit, and up along the north side of Lake Erie. The problem was Customs. More specifically, the problem was that the Canadian and American Customs guys on the arm for the Farino family worked only the night shift at the same time a certain Thursday of the month at the same place: the Queenston Toll Bridge at Lewiston, about six miles north of the Falls. They were getting close. After more than seventy-two hours on the road, Charlie was creeping the truck north out of the Canadian city of Niagara Falls, on the scenic road that ran along the river and gorge. Of course, it wasn’t very scenic now—a little after 2:00 A.M.—and neither Charlie nor Oliver would have given a shit about the view in the daylight, but Charlie had orders to stay off the QEW that ran along the shore of Lake Ontario—too many eager Mounties—so he’d had to take Highway 20 down from Hamilton and then head north again from the Falls.

  The truck was filled with stolen VCRs and DVD players. Even crammed full, the deuce-and-a-half couldn’t hold all that many machines, so Charlie wondered where the profit was. He knew, of course, that the decks were being dumped after being used to copy pirate tapes and discs, but it was still a mystery why the Organization thought it was worth their while to ship a few score of the units all the way from Vancouver to a has-been family in Buffalo.

  Ah, well, thought Charlie, ours is not to wonder why, ours is but to do and die.

  A few miles below the big park at Canada’s Queenston Heights, Charlie pulled the truck into an empty rest area. He shook Oliver awake. “Watch the truck. I gotta go take a piss.”

  Oliver grunted but rubbed his eyes. Charlie shook his head, went into the empty visitors’ center perched right on the edge of the Niagara Gorge just north of the whirlpool, and took his piss. When he came out and crawled back up into the cab, Oliver was sleeping again with his bony chin on his bony chest.

  “Goddamn you,” said Charlie and shook the shotgun man.

  Oliver went face forward into the metal dash. Blood trickled out of his left ear.

  Charlie stared for a fatal minute and then went for his .45. Too late. Both doors were flung open and an array of grinning black faces and aimed pistol muzzles pointed his way.

  “Hey, Charles, my man,” said the tallest jig, who had a goddamned diamond in his front tooth and was waving a huge gun. “It’s cool, my man. Forget the piece, Charles.” The jig held up Charlie’s pistol and then dropped it back in his jacket pocket. He pointed the huge revolver. “Just be cool a minute, and then you be on your way again.”

  Charlie Scruggs had had guns pointed at him before, and was still around to tell about it. He didn’t like the fact that they knew his name, but Oliver may have told them that. He was not about to be intimidated by this pissant. “Nigger,” he said, “you have no idea the shit you just stepped in. Do you know who this truck belongs to?”

  Several of the blacks, especially the one near Oliver wearing a red do-rag, began glowering hate/kill looks, but the tall bald black just looked surprised. “Who it belong to, Charles?” he said, his eyes widening like Stepin Fetchit’s.

  “The Farino Family,” said Charlie Scruggs.

  The black’s eyes got wider. “Oh, my goodness gracious, heavens to Betsy,” he said in a fag voice. “Do you mean the Mafia Farino family?”

  “I mean this truck and everything in it—including Oliver and me—are Organization property you coon sonofabitch,” said Charlie. “You touch anything in it, and there won’t be a shithole in Central America where you can hide your black ass.”

  The bald man nodded thoughtfully. “You probably right, Charles, my man. But I guess it be too late.” He glanced mournfully at Oliver. “We done already touch Ollie there.”

  Charlie glanced at his dead companion and tried to phrase his next sentence carefully.

  The jig did not give him the chance to speak. “Plus, Charlie, my man, you already use the N-word.”

  Malcolm shot Charlie Scruggs through the left eye.

  “Hey!” screamed Doo-Rag from the opposite side, ducking low behind Oliver’s body. “Tell me when you about to do that, motherfucker.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” said Malcolm. “’Jectory be up. See Charles’s brains on the roof there? You in no danger, nigger.”

  Doo-Rag glowered.

  “Get the machines,” said Malcolm.

  Doo-Rag flashed a last look but went around behind the truck, cut the pad
lock with bolt cutters, and crawled in. A couple of minutes later he came around the driver’s side carrying a stack of DVD players.

  “You sure they the right ones?” said Malcolm.

  “Yeah, I sure I’m sure,” said Doo-Rag. He pointed to the decal with the serial number on top of each of the players.

  Malcolm nodded and Cutter came around the front of the truck. The others made way for him. Cutter removed a small knife from his pocket, pulled open a screwdriver blade, and opened the back of the top DVD.

  “You right for a change, Doo.” Malcolm nodded again, Cutter took the DVD players, and everyone except for Doo-Rag and Malcolm headed for the Astro Van. “Start the engine,” said Malcolm. “Set the block.”

  “Fuck that,” said Doo-Rag. “All that blood and brains and shit. Top of the fucker’s head gone, man. Dude could be HIV positive or something.”

  Malcolm grinned and set the barrel of his huge Smith & Wesson Model 686 Powerport .357 Magnum up alongside Doo-Rag’s head. “Get the keys. Start the truck. Set the block.”

  Doo-Rag crawled in and did all those things. The engine roared as the wooden block was jammed against the accelerator.

  “Now,” said Malcolm, stepping back, “trick be to pop that brake off, put it in gear, and get the fuck off the running board before truck get there, my man.” Malcolm pointed to the edge of the gorge less than fifty feet in front of the truck. There was a light fence there, but no guardrails. Some traffic passed on the road, but no cars pulled into the empty rest area.

  Doo-Rag smirked, kicked the brake off, leaned delicately over Charlie’s slumped, bleeding corpse, kicked in the clutch, and hit the gearshift lever.

  The truck bounced over the concrete parking chock and tore up frozen turf as it roared for the fence.

  Doo-Rag rode along for a minute, swinging on the running board, stepping off nonchalantly at the last possible second before the truck tore through the fence and plummeted out of sight, ripping trees and branches off the side of the cliff as it went.

  Malcolm set the .357 back in its long shoulder holster under his topcoat and applauded. Doo-Rag ignored him and watched the truck fall.