Joe Kurtz Omnibus

by Dan Simmons

  Kurtz said nothing.

  “He is fucking serious,” Angelina said softly. “Christ.”

  “Tonight?” said Gonzaga, pronouncing each syllable as if he’d never beard the word before.

  “It would have to be, wouldn’t it?” said Angelina. “Kurtz is right And we don’t have much time to decide.”

  Kurtz looked at his watch again. “You have less than a minute to decide.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” snarled Toma Gonzaga.

  The downstairs buzzer made its raucous noise.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The conference with Baby Doc Skrzypczyk—whose two men searched longer, harder, and more thoroughly than either Gonzaga’s or Angelina’s had—lasted longer than Kurtz had imagined it would. There were a lot of details. Evidently Gonzaga and Farino Ferrara wanted their money’s worth in exchange for a mere three-quarters of a million dollars.

  No one shook hands when Baby Doc’s bodyguards left. No one spoke. Kurtz made no introductions. He doubted if the three had ever met, but they knew enough about each other. The powerfully built Lackawanna boss simply took off his expensive, camel-hair topcoat, hung it on the coat-rack, sat on the sprung couch, looked at Toma Gonzaga and Angelina Farino Ferrara, and said, “Have you decided that it’s worth the money to you? Time’s wasting here either way.”

  Angelina looked at Baby Doc, then at Gonzaga, and chewed her lip for a second. “I’m in,” she said at last.

  “Yeah,” said Toma Gonzaga.

  “Yeah?” said Baby Doc, sounding like a schoolteacher prompting a student. “What does that mean?”

  “That means I’m in for my half. If you can provide all that stuff tonight. And if you don’t have any more demands.”

  “I do, actually,” said Baby Doc. “I want to be able to take over and run the Major’s empire if I can.”

  Well, thought Kurtz, there goes the old ballgame.

  Angelina shot a glance at Gonzaga where he sat on the far edge of Arlene’s desk. “What do you mean?” asked Toma Gonzaga, obviously understanding but stalling for a moment to think.

  “I mean what I said. I want you to acknowledge my right to take over the Major’s business operations down there. I don’t need help… I just need your word that if I can do it, you won’t try to come in and take it away from me.”

  Angelina and Gonzaga looked at each other again. “You’re going into sale of…the product?” said Angelina.

  “I will if I can take over the Major’s and Colonel’s business,” said Baby Doc. “It doesn’t have to compete with yours. You and I both know that it’s small potatoes…rural stuff.”

  “Several million dollars a year worth of small potatoes,” said Gonzaga. The don was rubbing his cheek while he thought.

  “Yeah,” said Baby Doc. And waited.

  Angelina shot Gonzaga a final glance, they born nodded as if they were using some sort of special Mafia telepathy, and she said, “All right You have our word. You manage to take over that network, you can have it. Just don’t bring it north of Kissing Bridge.”

  Kurtz knew that Kissing Bridge was a ski area about halfway between Buffalo and Neola.

  “Done,” said Baby Doc. “Let’s talk about how this gets done.”

  Kurtz had been working on a sketch of the Major’s house and grounds, and now he moved to the photocopier behind Arlene’s desk, got the machine warmed up, and made three copies. They all studied the sketch.

  “How do you know the guard will be out here in this cupola near the little train tracks?” asked Gonzaga.

  “I noticed when they were taking me into the house from the heliport that the cupola had a porta-potty next to it and one of those heavy-duty, gas-powered heaters inside it. It’s the logical place for a sentry.”

  “Where else?” asked Angelina. “Here at this little gatehouse at the top of the driveway before it curls around the back of the house?”

  “Yeah,” said Kurtz. “One guy there. That little gatehouse doesn’t have a gate or barrier. All that stuff is down the hill.”

  “Anyone on the terrace?” asked Baby Doc.

  Kurtz shrugged. “I doubt it. No one’s going to be coming up that stairway. Most of their people are down the hill.”

  They talked for another hour. Finally Baby Doc rose. “Any other details left, speak now… I’ve only got about five hours to fill this order, you know.”

  “A medic,” said Kurtz.

  “What?” said Angelina.

  “I need someone along who knows how to give some medical treatment,” said Kurtz. “If Rigby King is alive down there—and if we can keep her alive during the gun-fight at the OK Corral—I want to get her back to Erie County Medical Center. I don’t want her to bleed to death on the ride back.”

  “Why?” said Angelina.

  Kurtz looked at her. “Why what?”

  “Why do you think she might still be alive? What reason would Major O’Toole and Colonel Trinh have for keeping her alive?”

  Kurtz sighed and rubbed his head. He was very tired. Every part of him ached and he realized that he’d managed to screw up his back during his butt-first descent down the ziggurat. “They want me to kill Rigby,” he said at last.

  “What do you mean?” asked Baby Doc.

  “They don’t mind taking on the Five Families after they waste Gonzaga and Farino tomorrow in Neola,” said Kurtz, “but I don’t think their juice necessarily extends to Buffalo P.D. Homicide. Plus, they don’t expect me there tomorrow at the sheriff’s office, so they’ll need to kill me as well. It’s tidier if they rig it so it looks like I killed Detective King—probably in my own place up here. Maybe she’ll get a shot off to kill me before she dies. They have both of our guns and they used mine to shoot her in the leg.”

  “M.E.,” enunciated Gonzaga—meaning that the Medical Examiner would determine the times of death to within an hour or two, so the Major didn’t want King dead days before the hypothetical shoot-out with Kurtz. They had to die at the same time.

  “Yeah,” said Kurtz.

  “How romantic,” said Angelina. “A regular Romeo and Juliet.”

  Kurtz ignored her. “Can you get a medic and some medical supplies on the list?” he asked Baby Doc. “A stretcher, bandages, an IV drip, some morphine? And a doctor?”

  The standing man coughed into his fist.

  “Is that a yes?” said Kurtz.

  “It’s a yes,” said Baby Doc Skrzypczyk. “But a yes with some irony in it. The only doctor I can get who’s guaranteed to take the risk and to keep his mouth shut is a Yemeni, like our mutual friend Yasein Goba. Is that acceptable, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “Yeah, that’s acceptable.” What the fuck.

  “Midnight then, at Mr. Gonzaga’s place,” said Baby Doc and barely nodded to Gonzaga and Angelina. He went out the door and down the stairs.

  “Who’s Yasein Goba?” asked Angelina.

  Kurtz shook his head and winced at the motion. He’d never learn. “It doesn’t matter,” he said through the pain.

  A minute later, Toma Gonzaga said, “Midnight then,” and went down the long stairs to join his bodyguards. Angelina lingered as Kurtz shut off the lights.

  “What?” he said. “You waiting for refreshments?”

  “Come home with me,” she said softly. “You look like shit.”

  “What are you talking about, ‘Come home with me?’ You kidnapping me at gunpoint again?”

  “Knock that off, Joe. You really look awful. When’s the last time you ate?”

  “Lunch,” he said. He didn’t really remember what he ate with Rigby earlier this endless day, but he clearly remembered throwing up by the Pinto while the sheriff and deputy watched and laughed.

  “Do you have food at home?” she said.

  “Of course I have some food at home.” He realized that he’d better stop at Ted’s Hot Dogs or somewhere to grab something on the way back to the Harbor Inn.

  “Liar. Come on to the Towers. I’
ll fix us steak. I have one of those good indoor grills, so we can actually grill it.”

  Kurtz’s stomach cramped. It had been cramping, he realized, but he hadn’t really paid attention to it because of all the more urgent aches and pains.

  “I gotta change clothes,” he said dully.

  “I have clothes your size at the penthouse. You can shower and shave and brush your teeth while I get the steaks on.”

  He looked at the don’s daughter—the acting don now. He wasn’t going to ask why she had men’s clothes his size in her closets at Marina Towers. It wasn’t his business. “No thanks,” he said. “I’ve got other stuff to do…”

  “You’ve got to eat something and get a couple of hours sleep before we go tonight,” said Angelina. “In the shape you’re in right now, you’re going to be more a liability than an asset. Eat, sleep, and I’ve got some pills that will pep you up for a few hours like you’ve never been pepped up before.”

  “I bet you do,” said Kurtz.

  He followed her out the door and down the stairs. It was still raining out, but the wind had died down and the rain was just a light drizzle. Kurtz looked up to check the cloud cover—Baby Doc had said that would be important—but the neon along Chippewa Street made it impossible to tell what was going on up there.

  “Come on, Joe, I’ll drive you.”

  Kurtz shook his head slowly. “I’ll drive myself. But I’ll follow you.” He turned toward the alley but Angelina Farino Ferrara’s voice stopped him.

  “Kurtz,” she said. “This whole thing tonight isn’t about saving that female cop, is it? Damsel in distress and all that crap?”

  “You have to be kidding,” said Kurtz.

  “She looks like she might be worth saving,” said Angelina. “That cute smile, big eyes, big tits. But that would mean that while you have a hard-on for her, you’re going soft on us, and we don’t need that right now.”

  “When did you ever see Rigby King?” asked Kurtz.

  “I see lots of things you don’t think I see,” said Angelina.

  “Whatever,” said Kurtz and walked down the dark alley to his car.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SIX

  The Dodger didn’t mind waiting. He was good at it. He’d done it for years in the bughouse in Rochester—just sitting, reptile-like, not even staring, waiting for nothing and knowing that nothing was coming. It had served him well in the years since, running chores for the Boss, waiting for targets to finish whatever they were doing and to come to him. He didn’t mind waiting here for the P.I. who might or might not come, who might or might not still be alive.

  He left the lights off, of course. After making sure that his entrance hadn’t triggered any alarms, the Dodger took thick, clear tape from his pack and covered the small circle he’d cut from the window. It was already chilly in the abandoned inn, but this Kurtz might feel a draft when he came in downstairs. Ex-cons were always sensitive to changes in their cages.

  Using the small, shielded penlight from his pack, the Dodger had gone through the entire three stories and seventeen rooms of the moldering old hotel. He’d found Kurtz’s sleeping area and odd little library room, of course, but he’d also found the subtle tripwires and telltales in the triangular room on the first floor, and the two hiding places for weapons on the second—the empty niche over the door molding in the room next to Kurtz’s sleeping room, and an even more clever nook under the floor of the coldest, most broken-down back room. Kurtz had hidden a 9mm Colt and ammunition in plastic wrap and oily rags there. The Dodger took the gun and went back to the front upstairs room—staying out of the light of the flickering black-and-white monitors—to wait.

  And Kurtz did not come. And Kurtz still did not come. The Dodger began imagining all the ways the Major might have killed the P.I. and his top-heavy cop girlfriend. But he hoped he hadn’t The Dodger wanted Kurtz to come home. But still he did not come.

  It was sometime after ten-thirty that the Dodger’s phone vibrated against his leg. He answered it with a whispered, “Yeah,” his eyes still on the video monitors showing the rain-slicked streets and walls outside.

  “Where are you?” It was the Boss.

  “At the P.I.’s.” The Dodger tried not to lie to the Boss. The Boss had ways of knowing when the Dodger lied.

  “Kurtz’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he there?”

  “Not yet.”

  The Dodger heard the Boss expell a breath. He hated it when the Boss grew angry at him. “Never mind the P.I.,” said the Boss. “You need to get up to the shopping mall in Niagara Falls. We don’t want you to miss our foreign friend.”

  It took a second for the Dodger to remember that the Boss was talking about the woman coining across the border tonight. “Plenty of time,” whispered the Dodger. He didn’t need to meet her until midnight And he didn’t want her body lying in his pest control van longer than it had to.

  “No, go now,” said the Boss. “You can wait up there. Then you’re off duty for a whole day and night.”

  “Yeah,” said the Dodger, smiling as he thought about tomorrow.

  “Happy Birthday,” said the Boss. “I’ll have something special for you when I see you on Tuesday.”

  “Thanks, Boss,” said the Dodger. He was always touched by the Boss’s gifts. Every year it was something special, something the Dodger would never have thought to get for himself.

  “Go on now,” said the Boss. “Get going.”

  “Okay, Boss.” The Dodger broke the connection, lifted his pack, slipped the Beretta and its silencer into his specially rigged holster, and left the Harbor Inn by the window and fire escape on the north, where he had dismantled Kurtz’s simple alarms.

  Twelve miles away, in the mostly Polish and Italian section of the suburb of Cheektowaga, Arlene DeMarco was preparing to head for the closed Niagara Falls shopping mall to pick up the girl named Aysha. It was only ten minutes after ten P.M., but Arlene believed in arriving early for important things.

  She took 190 up and around, over Grand Island, across the toll bridge, and hooked left onto the Moses Expressway past the tower of mist declaring the American Falls and right into the city of Niagara Falls. There was almost no traffic this next-to-last night of October. The rain had stopped but Arlene had to use her Buick’s wipers to clear her windshield of the spray from the Falls.

  Having grown up in Buffalo, Arlene had seen Niagara Falls, New York, go from being a comfortable, kitschy old place reflecting the roadhouses and dowdy tourist hotels of mid-century America to being a heap of rubble resembling Berlin after WWII—almost everything leveled for urban restoration—before finally becoming the convention-center wasteland it was today. If you wanted to see a pretty and classy and up-to-date city of Niagara Falls, you had to cross the Rainbow Bridge to the Canadian side.

  But Arlene didn’t care about urban planning this night. She drove down Niagara Street to the Rainbow Centre Mall just a block from the double-wasteland of the Information Center and Convention Center, surrounded by their moats of empty parking lots. The Rainbow Centre Mall had a smaller parking area, with just a sprinkling of vehicles in it this Sunday night—cars belonging to the custodial crews and security people, no doubt. But a retaining wall blocked this part of the lot from the view of the street—from the view of any passing police vehicles late on a Sunday night, she realized—and Joe’s instructions had been to wait for the girl, Aysha, to be dropped off near the main, north doors of the mall here.

  Arlene patted her large purse, checking for the fifth or sixth time that the big Magnum revolver was in there. It was. She’d felt foolish taking it from the office, but Joe had rarely sent her out on tasks like this, and although she vaguely understood this Yemeni girl’s connection to recent events, she wasn’t at all clear as to what the other factors might be. Arlene just knew that Joe was doing something important tonight if he was sending her to pick up Aysha. So while Arlene wasn’t alarmed or unduly nervous, she did have the loaded
pistol in her purse, along with a can of Mace, her cell phone, her former and illegally but convincingly updated ID showing her to be a member of the Erie County District Attorney’s office—as well as the carry permit for the Magnum. She also had some fresh fruit, two water bottles, a pack of Marlboros, her trusty Bic lighter, a small Yemeni-English dictionary she’d picked up yesterday with some difficulty, a Thermos of coffee, and the better and smaller of the two pairs of binoculars from the office.

  Arlene took her time choosing where to wait—she didn’t want to be spotted by a mall security patrol and picked up—and finally decided on a spot far back near the Dumpsters, between two old cars that had obviously been parked there all night She settled in, lowered the window, and lit a Marlboro.

  It was about twenty minutes later, just about eleven P.M., when the van entered the parking lot, circled once—Arlene slid low in her seat, out of sight—and then parked near the four workers’ cars closer to the front door of the silent mall. Because the vehicle was at right angles to Arlene’s Buick, she was able to use the binoculars to check it out.

  It was a pest control van. On its side was a cartoon of a long-nosed insect gasping and falling in a cartoon cloud of pesticide. The driver had not emerged. His face was in shadow, but Arlene kept the binoculars trained on his silhouette until he leaned forward over the steering wheel to peer at the shopping mall, and for a moment the tall, mall lights illuminated him clearly.

  For an instant, Arlene thought that the man’s face was wildly tattooed or covered with white streaks and swirls. Then she realized that it was covered with burn scars. He was wearing a baseball cap, but his eyes caught the sodium vapor lamps and seemed to glow orangely, like a cat’s.

  As Arlene sat there, transfixed, the binoculars steady, the burned man’s head suddenly turned her way—swiveling as smoothly as an owl’s—and he stared directly at her.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Kurtz didn’t know why he agreed to follow Angelina Farino Ferrara to her home atop Marina Towers.