Joe Kurtz Omnibus

by Dan Simmons

  He told himself that it was because he knew that Detective Paul Kemper might be hunting for him in the next few hours, almost certainly knowing that Rigby King had started her day with Kurtz and wondering now where the hell she was.

  He told himself that it was because he really needed Angelina to agree to do what he’d asked for earlier, and it was not time to offend her. His life might depend on her decision.

  He told himself that it was because he was hungry.

  In the end, he told himself that he was full of shit.

  The dinner—perfectly grilled steak, just rare enough, fresh salad with some sort of mustardy dressing, baked potatoes, fresh and crisply prepared green beans, fresh bread, tall glasses of ice water—was fantastic. It didn’t even make Kurtz want to throw up again, which was more than he could say about any food he’d had since the previous Wednesday.

  Angelina had insisted, and he hadn’t resisted, on Kurtz showering, shaving, brushing his teeth, and getting into clean clothes before dinner. The punishingly hot shower—Angelina had installed no fewer than three pounding nozzles in this huge, glass-enclosed guest room shower—made Kurtz ache all the worse, but he almost fell asleep standing there. When he came out of the bathroom naked, he found his old rags gone and the fresh clothes laid out on the bed: an expensive silk, black turtleneck that seemed to weigh nothing, a butter-soft pair of black tweed pants that fit as if someone had tailored them for him, a new belt, clean socks, and black Mephisto boots in his size. There was also a black, uninsulated windshell-parka on the bed; Kurtz tried it on and found that it was made of some soft fabric that didn’t crinkle or make any nylon noise when he moved—a factor that might be important in the next few hours.

  Kurtz had tossed the windshell back onto the guest bed and gone out to the main room of the penthouse to eat dinner.

  “Normally we’d have wine,” said Angelina, lighting a candle, “but we’re not going to mix that with the pills I’m going to give you when you wake up.”

  “Wake up?” said Kurtz, glancing at his watch—the only thing other than his wallet that he’d kept.

  “You need to sleep a couple of hours before we leave tonight.”

  “You’re going?” said Kurtz. It had been agreed that the Gonzagas and the Farinos would “each contribute two people” to the night’s foray, but Kurtz hadn’t heard Angelina or the other don specify that they were going.

  Now Angelina just raised an eyebrow at Kurtz. Finally, as she was passing the steak, she said, “It wouldn’t be much of that promised bonding experience if Toma and I didn’t both go, now would it?”

  They ate in silence at the polished rosewood table near the freestanding fireplace. Angelina’s penthouse filled the entire top story of Marina Towers and there were few view-blocking walls in the central living and dining areas. Over the woman’s shoulder, Kurtz could see the lights of ships out in Lake Erie and entering the Niagara River, and behind him, the electric skyline of Buffalo became brighter as the drizzle ended and the clouds lifted. By the time they were finished with dessert—a flaky apple cobbler—Kurtz could see the stars and crescent moon between the scudding clouds.

  She led him to a corner on the Lake side where another gas fireplace burned. The chairs and a broad couch here were in a conversation cluster, but Angelina tossed the couch cushions onto the thick carpet behind the couch, pulled a pillow and two blankets from a cupboard, lay one blanket on the broad couch and set the other on the back. “It’s only a little after eight,” she said. “You need to get some sleep.”

  “I don’t…” began Kurtz.

  “Shut up, Kurtz,” she said. Then, more softly, “You don’t know what a fucking wreck you are. My life may depend on you tonight, and I can’t trust a zombie.”

  Kurtz looked at the couch doubtfully.

  “I’ll wake you in plenty of time,” said Angelina Farino Ferrara. “Right now I have to take the elevator down one floor and decide which of my merry men gets to go with me on our half-assed expedition tonight.”

  “What are your criteria?” asked Kurtz. A long, lighted ship moved slowly toward the southwest out on the Lake.

  “Smart but not too smart,” said Angelina. “Able to kill when he has to, but also able to know when not to. Most of all, expendable.” She gestured toward the couch as she walked away. “In other words, I’m looking for another Joe Kurtz.”

  When she was gone, Kurtz thought for a minute, then took off his new Mephisto boots, set the alarm on his watch, and lay down on the couch for a minute. He wouldn’t sleep—a couple of hours would just make him more tired—but it felt good just to lie here for a few minutes and let the pounding in his head back off a bit.

  Kurtz woke to Angelina shaking his shoulder. His watch was buzzing but he’d slept through it. He looked at the glowing dial—11:10. Kurtz wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so groggy. He tried to focus on the woman, but she was now also wearing all black, and all he could see in the dim firelight was her glowing face.

  “Here,” she said, offering him a glass of water and two blue pills.

  “What are they?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just take them. I was serious about you needing to be conscious enough to be worth hauling along tonight.”

  He swallowed the pills, put on his boots, and went into the guest room bathroom to use the facilities and splash water on his face. When he came out, wearing the wind-breaker shell with his cell phone in the pocket—he’d left Gonzaga’s at the office—Angelina was holding a 9mm Browning semiauto.

  “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “Ten in the magazine, one already up the spout.” She handed him two extra clips and an expensive belt holster, its leather the smoothest Kurtz had ever felt.

  Kurtz slipped the extra magazines into the windbreaker’s pocket and attached the holster on the left side of his belt under the unbuttoned windshell, the Browning’s grip backward where he could reach across his body for it. It was his fastest pull.

  They drove to the rendezvous site in two SUVs—Angelina driving one and the goomba she’d chosen, a lean, serious-looking bodyguard named Campbell, following in the other. Kurtz had asked for one van or SUV to use as an ambulance if he got Rigby back alive. Or as a hearse if he didn’t.

  “Shit,” said Kurtz. He’d forgotten to call Arlene to tell her to forget the Aysha pickup. Something didn’t feel right about that rendezvous, although Kurtz couldn’t think what. Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth risking Arlene for. He’d figure out this little puzzle without the Yemeni girl.

  It was 11:23 when he rang Arlene’s cell phone, and he got a busy signal. That wasn’t like her. He kept hitting redial until they reached their destination, a large industrial and storage complex near the tracks less than two miles from Brie County Medical Center. Gonzaga owned the complex and Kurtz had asked for the proximity to the hospital. They’d humored him.

  Waiting Gonzaga guards opened no fewer than three gates before the two SUVs drove into the center of the complex—a rain-slickened loading area a hundred yards across, flanked on three sides by the dark factory buildings.

  Arlene’s line was still busy. “Shit,” said Kurtz and put the phone away.

  “That’s why I like traveling with you, Kurtz,” said Angelina. “The conversation.”

  Toma Gonzaga rolled in next in a black Suburban. He had three of his men with him, but only one—the heavy-lidded but obviously alert bodyguard Kurtz had seen in the limo with Gonzaga—was going on tonight’s raid with the don. Kurtz reached through his headache to find the man’s name… Bobby. Everyone was wearing black trousers and turtlenecks. It was like some formal event for mafiosa. People began unloading things from the various SUVs when yet another pair of the big vehicles showed up. These were Baby Doc’s men and they had the largest number of crates and metal boxes to unload. Everyone was armed, most with automatic weapons, and the boxes being unloaded from Baby Doc’s vehicles were mostly army-stenciled ammunition and weapons containers.

  It’s beginni
ng to look like some sport-utility commercial from hell here, thought Kurtz. He almost chuckled out loud before he realized that his headache had faded about as far as it was going to, most of his early aches and pains were gone, and he felt great—alive, alert, eager, ready to fly to Neola under his own power and take on the Major and his men with his bare hands if he had to.

  I’ve got to ask Angelina for the recipe for those blue pills, thought Kurtz.

  Then, a few minutes before midnight. Baby Doc himself arrived in a Long Ranger helicopter. The thing buzzed in from the north, circled the enclosed compound twice, and set down next to the gaggle of SUVs. Kurtz was astounded at how large the helicopter was—and at how much noise it made. We’re supposed to sneak up on the Major and his men in this fucking thing? was his first thought.

  Well, this had all been Kurtz’s idea. He stepped back with the others as the dark-green Bell Long Ranger settled onto its skids amidst a cyclone of dust and whirling debris. It looked like Baby Doc, in the front right pilot’s seat, was the only one aboard. He killed the jet turbines, the howl lowered itself to a whine and became a whisper, the big rotors slowed, and Baby Doc pulled off headphones and a mike, disappeared for a second, and then slid the big side cargo door back and to the side. He gestured impatiently for his men to begin loading some of the boxes.

  The interior of the Long Ranger had its six seats pushed aside against the outside bulkheads or fuselage or whatever. The central floor was empty and had been covered with a plastic tarp taped down all around.

  I wonder why… Kurtz’s thoughts began and then ended with an Oh, yeah. This chopper was a rental, and Baby Doc certainly didn’t want to return it with blood and gore everywhere. He’ll probably lose his damage deposit, thought Kurtz and had to hold back another snicker.

  Baby Doc stood in the doorway and looked at Angelina and Gonzaga. “You folks have anything for me?”

  Campbell went back to his SUV and carried a flight bag to the chopper. One of Gonzaga’s men did the same thing with a nylon backpack. Baby Doc nodded to one of his men, who opened the bag, counted the three-quarters of a million dollars, nodded to his boss, and carried the bags back to their vehicle. Kurtz wondered idly where even mafia dons found three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars in cash lying around on a Sunday evening.

  “Listen up,” said Baby Doc. “Here’s what you’re getting for your money tonight.” The Lackawanna longshoreman and mob boss was wearing his old green Army flight suit—the velcroed-on name badge read Lt. Skrzypczyk—and it still fit him after twelve years. He wore a regulation-issue pilot’s tan shoulder holster and what looked to be a service .45 tucked in it. Baby Doc began opening the olive green boxes and handing out gear, beginning with canvas shoulder bags to stow the loose crap in.

  One of his men pulled automatic weapons from the longest carton—Mp5s Kurtz saw, guessing from the tubular stocks, although his familiarity with Army weaponry started and ended with being qualified on M-16s and sidearms. His weapon of choice as an MP so many years ago was the baton. Baby Doc’s man offered one short rifle to each person going on the raid.

  “Keep your army toys,” said Toma Gonzaga. He and his man, Bobby, held up sawed-off 12-gauge shotguns.

  Angelina’s bodyguard, Campbell, took an Mp5 for himself and one for his boss, slinging both of them over his shoulder.

  “The smaller clips hold thirty rounds, the larger ones a hundred and twenty rounds each,” said Baby Doc. “Carry as many as you can stuff into the ditty bag I gave you…”

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” whispered Angelina as the larger banana clips were handed out and stowed. “We’re really going to war.”

  “It seems that way,” muttered Toma Gonzaga. The handsome don appeared to be amused.

  Kurtz waved off the automatic rifle. If the 9mm Browning and two extra magazines didn’t prove adequate for the evening, he was in deeper shit than he could imagine.

  Baby Doc’s men carried the extra Mp5s back to their SUV and opened another olive-green box and began handing out what appeared to be thick, cylindrical grenades.

  “Flash bangs,” said Baby Doc, still standing in the chopper’s doorway. “They’re not going to blow anything up, but they’ll blind and deafen anyone in a room for a few seconds. Just remember to roll them in before you go through the door.” He gave quick instructions on how to activate and throw the things.

  Kurtz stowed three of the flash-bang grenades in his new little ditty bag.

  They opened another container and offered flexcuffs.

  “Hey,” said Toma Gonzaga. “I’m not going down there to arrest these people.” Angelina had Campbell grab several. “We’ll want someone to talk to us,” she said.

  Kurtz took several. Baby Doc’s men opened another large crate and began handing out black Kevlar vests. Everyone going took one of these.

  It’s like Christmas morning in downtown Baghdad, thought Kurtz. He set his ditty bag and other gear down, pulled off the windbreaker, and began tugging and velcro-ing the thin but heavy vest in place around him.

  “Here, I’ll help,” said Angelina’s bodyguard, Campbell. The man securely adjusted and fastened the side straps for Kurtz.

  “Thanks.”

  “These aren’t military spec,” Baby Doc was saying. “But they’re up to SWAT specifications. In fact, they were stolen from a SWAT supply house.”

  When everyone was a little bulkier and warmer and less comfortable, Baby Doc himself unlatched the last metal box. He held up a bulky fistful of optics and straps. “State-of-the-art military night vision. Each pair weighs two-point-two pounds, has digital controls and an infrared mode that you won’t want to fuck with. They also have five-times magnification that you also won’t want to fuck with.”

  “What will we want to fuck with?” asked Gonzaga’s man, Bobby.

  Baby Doc told them how to get the straps adjusted and to power the things up. The bodyguards tried them on. Gonzaga, Angelina, and Kurtz slipped theirs into their already bulging ditty bags.

  “Better be careful,” said Baby Doc. “You break ’em, you’ve bought ’em.”

  “I thought we’d already bought them,” said Gonzaga.

  Baby Doc laughed softly. “You’re renting this stuff, Mr. Gonzaga. For one night So you don’t want to lose it or bruise it.”

  The men loaded several boxes aboard the Long Ranger and secured them with bungee cords and tie-downs. “Medical stuff,” said Baby Doc. He pointed to a small, dark man standing with his bodyguards. The gentleman was wearing a sweater and tie and thick glasses. “This is Dr. Tafer,” he said. “He’s going with us but he won’t get out of the Long Ranger. If you get wounded, you’ve got to haul your own ass back to the chopper or find someone who will.” The little doctor smiled hesitantly and nodded at the cluster of men and Angelina. Everyone just stared back at him.

  Baby Doc looked at his oversized wristwatch. “Any questions or second thoughts before we take off?”

  “Let’s shut up and do it,” said Angelina. “I’m beginning to feel like I’m in a Jerry Bruckheimer movie.”

  Gonzaga’s bodyguard, Bobby, barked a laugh at that but shut up quickly when no one else laughed.

  “Kurtz,” said Baby Doc, “you come sit up front with me.”

  “Why?” said Kurtz. He hated helicopters—he’d always hated helicopters—and he’d just as soon not sit where he could see better.

  “Because,” said Baby Doc, “you’re the only one who really knows where we’re going.”

  People climbed aboard and the powerful jet turbines fired up again.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The man with the terribly burned face was staring across the dark parking lot at her.

  Arlene didn’t know how he could see her without binoculars—and she could see through her own binoculars that he had none—but she was sure that he saw her. She leaned her head back against the Buick’s headrest, deeper into the shadows, making sure that there was no glint of the sodiu
m-vapor lamps reflecting off her binocular lenses.

  The burned man kept staring at her from the pest control truck. His rapt but blind attention reminded Arlene of something but she couldn’t think of what for a moment. When she did remember, it wasn’t reassuring.

  Like an animal—a predator—that can’t see its prey but smells it.

  She thumbed her cell phone on and held that thumb over the fifth pre-set fast-dial button. Earlier in the evening she’d looked up the number for the Niagara Falls precinct house closest to the Rainbow Centre Mall…sometimes direct dial brought help faster than 911.

  The burned man stared her way for another minute but then pulled his scarred face back into the shadows of the van. Arlene couldn’t see even a silhouette.

  Is he back in the van? Did he get out the other side? The overhead cab light hadn’t gone on in his vehicle, but Arlene was sure that this man had long since broken or removed that bulb. Whatever else he was, he was a stalker. He loved the night.

  Arlene licked her lips and considered her options. She assumed that the burned man was also waiting for Aysha, although there was no evidence for that yet. But like her boss, Arlene DeMarco very rarely believed in coincidence.

  If the man started across the parking lot on foot toward her—and she was still about eighty yards away from his truck and parked in the shadows here by the Dumpsters—she’d simply start the Buick and drive like hell.

  If he pulls a weapon?

  She’d get her head down, steer by instinct, and try to run over him.

  If he starts that obscene pest control van and drives it my way?

  Outrun him. Alan had always kept their Buicks well maintained and Arlene had continued the practice after her husband’s death.

  But what if he just sits there and waits until Aysha’s dropped off?

  This was the contingency she didn’t have an answer for. The burned man was much closer to the mall doors than Arlene was. The Yemeni girl, Aysha, had been told she’d be picked up by her fiancé—the man Joe had killed—or by someone who’d take her to her fiancé. She’d get in the first vehicle that drove up.