by Dan Simmons
"All right, Joe. But you know I'm going to go pick up that girl tonight."
"Yeah." He thumbed the phone off.
It was the same drill of being taken into the men's room at Curly's and searched head to foot One of the bodyguards shifted a toothpick in his mouth and said, "Jesus, fuck, man—you're so wet your skin is wrinkly. You been swimming with your clothes on?"
Kurtz ignored him.
When he was seated across from Baby Doc in the same rear booth, he said, "This is private."
Baby Doc looked at his three bodyguards and at the waiters bustling around getting the place ready for the heavy Sunday evening' dinner traffic. "They all have my confidence," said the big man with the flag tattoo on his massive forearm.
"It doesn't matter," said Kurtz. "This is private."
Baby Doc snapped his fingers and the bodyguards left, herding the waiters and bartender ahead of them into the backroom.
"For your sake," said Baby Doc, "this had better not be a waste of my time."
"It won't be," said Kurtz.
Speaking as economically as he could, he told Baby Doc about the Major, about the heroin ring, about the "war" that seemed to be claiming only casualties in the Farino and Gonzaga camps, about Rigby being shot and her role in this mess.
"Weird story," said Baby Doc, his hands folded in front of him and his flag tattoo visible under the rolled-back sleeves of his white shirt. "What the hell does it have to do with me?"
Kurtz told him.
Baby Doc sat back in the boom. "You have to be kidding." He looked at Kurtz's face. "No, you're not kidding, are you? What on earth could compel me to take part in this?"
Kurtz told him.
Baby Doc didn't so much as blink for almost a full minute. Finally, he said, "You speak for Gonzaga and the Farino woman?"
"Yes."
"Do they know you speak for them?"
"Not yet."
"What arc you going to need from me?"
"A helicopter," said Kurtz. "Big enough to haul six or eight people. And you to pilot it."
Baby Doc started to laugh and then stopped. "You're serious."
"As a heart attack," said Kurtz.
"You look like you've had a heart attack," said Baby Doc. "You're a fucking mess, Kurtz."
Kurtz waited.
"I don't own a goddamned helicopter," Baby Doc said at last. "And I haven't flown one for more than a dozen years. I'd get us all killed even if there was a reason for me to try this stupid stunt."
"But you know where to get one," said Kurtz.
Baby Doc thought a minute. "There's that big heliport up near the Falls. Hauls tourists around. I know the guy who does charter work up there. They might lease one to me for a day."
Kurtz nodded. He'd hired one of the smaller sightseeing choppers there to fly him over Emilio Gonzaga's Grand Island compound about a year ago. His plan then had been to chart the place before killing Emilio. Kurtz didn't see any compelling reason to share that factoid with Baby Doc.
"They have a Bell Long Ranger there that doesn't get a lot of duty this time of year," continued Baby Doc, speaking more to himself than to Kurtz.
"How many does that carry?" said Kurtz.
Baby Doc shrugged. "Usually seven. You can get eight people in it if you rip out the center jump seats and put a couple on the floor. Nine if you don't bother with a copilot."
"We don't need a copilot," said Kurtz.
Baby Doc barked a laugh. "I have about twenty minutes logged on a Long Ranger. I don't even qualify to sit in the copilot seat."
"Good," said Kurtz, "because we don't need a copilot."
"What else will you be needing?"
"Weapons," said Kurtz.
Baby Doc shook his head. "I'm sure the Gonzagas and Farinos have a few weapons between them."
"I'm talking military-spec here."
The other man looked around. The restaurant was still empty. "What kind?"
Kurtz shrugged. "I don't know. Firepower. Some full-auto weapons, probably."
"M-16s."
"Maybe smaller. Uzis or Mac-10s. We don't want anyone getting an eye poked out in the slick."
"You don't find Uzis and Mac-10s in a National Guard arsenal," whispered Baby Doc.
Kurtz shrugged again. Truth be told, he'd seen some examples of the old Seneca Street Social Club's little private arsenal—the weapons had been aimed at him—so he knew what was probably available.
"Anything else?" said Baby Doc, sounding bemused now.
"Body armor."
"Cop style or military grade?"
"Kevlar should work."
"Anything else?"
"Night vision goggles," said Kurtz. "I suspect the Major's men have them."
"Would Russian surplus do?" said Baby Doc. "I can get them discount."
"No," said Kurtz. "The good stuff."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah," said Kurtz. "We'll need some light anti-armor stuff. Shoulder launched."
Baby Doc Skrzpczyk leaned back against the back of the booth. "You're not really amusing me any longer, Kurtz."
"I'm not trying to. You didn't see the Major's freehold down there today. I did. The sheriff drove slow to give me a good look at it all. They wanted me to bring the word back to Gonzaga and Farino in case they considered a preemptive strike. The house itself is on top of that damned mountain. They have maybe nine, ten men there, and I saw the automatic weapons. But down the hill, they have at least three reinforced gates along the drive—each one of them with steel posts sunk deep into concrete. There are two guardhouses, each with four or five 'security guards,' and each guardhouse has a perfect field of fire down the hill. There are armored SUVs—those Panoz things—parked in defilade sites up and down the hill, and two sheriff's cars that seem to be parked outside the lowest gate on a permanent basis."
"You don't need a shoulder-launched missile," said Baby Doc. "You need a fucking tank."
"If we were trying to fight our way up the drive or along the cliff, yeah," said Kurtz. "But we're not We just need one or two deterrents to block the drive if anyone tries to drive up it."
Baby Doc leaned forward, folded his hands on the tabletop, and whispered, "Do you have any idea how much a shoulder-launched antiaircraft missile costs?"
"Yeah," said Kurtz. "About a hundred grand for cheap shit sold-in-the-bazaar piece of Russian crap. Four or five times that for a Stinger."
Baby Doc stared at him.
"But I'm not talking about buying an antiaircraft missile," said Kurtz. "Just something to stop an SUV if we have to. A cheap RPG should do it."
"Who's paying for this?"
"Guess," said Kurtz.
"But they don't know it yet?"
"Not yet."
"You know you're talking about upwards of three-quarters of a million dollars here, not counting the lease of the Long Ranger."
Kurtz nodded.
"And how soon do you want all this—including me and the Long Ranger, if my terms are agreed upon?" said Baby Doc. "A week? Ten days?"
"Tonight," said Kurtz. "Midnight if we can do it. But departing here no later than two A.M."
Baby Doc opened his mouth as if to laugh but then did not. He closed his mouth and just stared at Joe Kurtz. "You're serious," he said at last.
"As a heart attack."
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
« ^ »
It was only a little after four P.M. and the Dodger didn't have any task assigned to him until midnight, when he was supposed to meet and kill that Aysha woman who was coming across the border from Canada, and he was feeling a little frustrated and at loose ends. Tomorrow was his birthday and the Boss, as he always did, had given him the day off—well, technically, he realized, his birthday began at midnight, and he'd still be working then, killing this foreigner, but that shouldn't take long.
But the day's events had frustrated the Dodger. He didn't like going back to Neola—except on Halloween, of course—and he didn't
like being thwarted while stalking someone. It was twice now that he'd decided to kill this ex-P.I., twice that he'd prepared himself to kill a woman with the P.I. as well, and twice he'd been thwarted. The Artful Dodger didn't like to be thwarted—especially when it was by the Major or his men. Even seeing and hearing the old Huey helicopter again had given the Dodger an acid stomach.
So now he had to hang around Buffalo for a full eight hours before he could do his job and get out. And it was raining and cold. It always seemed to be rainy and cold in this damned town—when it wasn't snowy and cold. The Dodger's joints ached—he was getting older, would officially be a year older in a few hours—and his many burn scars always itched when it rained for a long time.
Essentially, he was in a lousy mood. He considered going to a titty bar, but it was the night before his birthday night and he wanted to save the excitement, let it build.
So as the evening began to darken in the rain and the streetlights were coming on and the light Sunday traffic had all but disappeared, the Dodger drove south of downtown, under the elevated interstate, across the narrow bridge onto the island, through the empty area of grain elevators where the air smelled of burned Cheerios, then south to where the triangular intersection of Ohio and Chicago Streets ended with the abandoned Harbor Inn—the P.I.'s hideaway, the little love nest where the Dodger had watched and waited all of last night for Kurtz and the Farino woman.
Odds were that the Major had terminated this minor irritation this afternoon, but if not, if the P.I. and his big-boobed girlfriend were back here, then the Dodger was going to do a little freelancing, and if the Boss didn't like it, well… the Boss didn't have to know about it.
The Harbor Inn was dark. The Dodger drove by slowly three times, noting again the almost-but-not-quite-hidden video cameras—one on the rear wall of the triangular building overlooking where Kurtz had parked his Pinto before (the space was empty now), another high above the front door, one under a rain gutter on the Chicago Street side, the last one above the fire escapes on the Ohio Street approach. A lot of security for an abandoned flophouse.
The Dodger parked his truck a block or so from where he'd had to deal with the two black kids. Then he took a small backpack from between the seats, locked the vehicle, and walked back through the rain.
There was a blind spot for the camera covering the front of the Harbor Inn. If he crossed the street from the abandoned gas station just so, and didn't walk more than six feet to either side of a certain line, then the front camera would be blocked by the old metal lighthouse on the sign itself.
Once under the overhang—and presumably not yet on any monitor or videotape—the Dodger ignored the front door since the P.I. would certainly have telltales there. Securing the backpack, the Dodger crouched low, jumped straight up, caught the sharp edge of the old hotel sign over him, swung twice back and forth, his legs kicking higher each time—continuing to keep the metal lighthouse between him and the surveillance camera a floor above—and then swung all the way up, doing a complete flip and coming to rest on top of the sign, with his back to the metal lighthouse.
The old sign structure creaked and groaned, but did not collapse. The rusted lighthouse with "Harbor Inn" painted on it was about seven feet tall, was hollow and was made of cheap metal. The Dodger kept his hands on it while he worked his way around it, under the camera's field of view now, and crouched outside one of the three big windows looking out on the intersection of Chicago and Ohio.
It was dark inside, but the glow of monitors in there showed the Dodger that the room was empty.
He propped the backpack by his knee, removed a suction cup and glass cutter on a compass, cut a six-centimeter hole in the glass, carefully laid the circle of glass on the sign base, returned the equipment to his pack, and listened—no audible alarm sounded—and then reached in, unlatched the old window, and shoved it up. The ancient sash groaned and protested, but the window slowly rose.
The Dodger—as agile as Spiderman—swung in and pulled the backpack in after him. He hoisted the pack to his back again, carefully lowered the window, held the silenced 9-millimeter Beretta in his hand, and moved into the darkness to find or wait for Mr. Kurtz, the elusive P.I.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
« ^ »
Kurtz wanted nothing so much as to stop by his place, get out of his wet and ruined clothes, take a hot shower, change the bandage on his head, find some clean clothes, pull his only other handgun from its hiding place in the rearmost room of the Harbor Inn, and show up at the meeting with Farino and Gonzaga looking and feeling more like a human being, albeit an armed one.
He had time for none of that.
Traffic was light since it was Sunday evening, but he'd left Curly's Restaurant late and had to head straight for his office on Chippewa if he was going to get there before the others. As it was, he came out of the alley where he'd parked the Pinto and reached the outside door just as Angelina and two new bodyguards pulled up in a black SUV and parked across the street. All three came over at once. The two new personal bodyguards were bigger, heavier, and more the comb-your-hair-with-buttered-toast Sicilian type.
Kurtz paused before unlocking the street door. "Just you," he said.
"We're going to look at the place first," said Angelina.
"You don't trust me?" said Kurtz. "After last night and…"
"Just open the fucking door."
They followed him up the steep stairway and waited below him while be unlocked the office door and turned on the lights. The two goombahs brushed past him.
"Be my guest," said Kurtz.
The two quickly searched the office, looking through the warm back room with the servers and checking out the small bathroom. They were efficient, Kurtz had to give them that. On the second quick sweep, one of them looked under Arlene's desk and said, "Mounted holster set-up here, Ms. Ferrara. No gun."
Angelina looked at Kurtz. "My secretary's," he said. "She works here late at night." He thought, Shit, I was counting on that Magnum being there.
The don's daughter waved the two bodyguards out and Kurtz closed the door behind them. When he turned around, Angelina had her Compact Witness .45 in her hand. "We going to my place again?" he said.
"Shut up."
"Can I sit down?" He pointed to his chair and desk. Suddenly it was either a case of sit down or fall down.
Angelina nodded and gestured him over to his chair. She sat on Arlene's desk and set the pistol next to her. "What is all this mystery crap, Joe?"
Well, at least I'm back to Joe, thought Kurtz. He glanced at his watch. Gonzaga would be here in a minute or two.
"I'll tell you the whole story when your pal Gonzaga gets here. But I needed to ask you something first."
"Ask."
"Word on the street—hell, word everywhere—is that either you or Gonzaga have brought in the Dane and he's already here. I think it's you that brought him in for a job."
Angelina Farino Ferrara said nothing. Outside, the light was waning. Neon signs glowed through the not-quite-closed blinds. Traffic hissed.
"I want to make a deal…" began Kurtz.
"If you're worried that you're on some list," said Angelina, "don't. You're not worth a hundred-thousand-dollars for a hit."
Kurtz shook his head and had to blink at the pain. "Who is?" he said. "No, I had a different deal in mind." He told her quickly.
It was Angelina Farino Ferrara's turn to blink. "You expecting to die suddenly, Joe?"
Kurtz shrugged.
"And you won't tell me the name?" she said.
"I'm not sure yet."
She set the Compact Witness in her purse. The downstairs door buzzed on Arlene's intercom and Kurtz could see Gonzaga and three of his men on the video monitor.
"You're talking a hundred-thousand-dollar gift," said Angelina. "Maybe more."
"No, I'm not," said Kurtz. The doorbell buzzed twice more and then stayed on as Gonzaga's man leaned on it. "I'm talking a simpl
e request Either he'll do it—probably as a gift to you—or he won't. I'm just asking you to ask him."
"And you trust me to?"
"I have to," said Kurtz. The buzzing was hurting his head.
"And you really aren't going to tell Toma and me what this is about tonight unless I agree?"
Kurtz shrugged again.
"All right," said Angelina. "I won't pay for it, but I'll ask him. If this big news of yours is worth it to me."
Kurtz walked over and buzzed Gonzaga and his men up.
After the obligatory search of the office—Gonzaga's boys also turned up Arlene's empty Magnum holster—the bodyguards were shown out, the door was locked, the lights were turned low except for Kurtz's desklamp, and he told his story. Angelina remained sitting on Arlene's desk. Toma Gonzaga paced near the windows, occasionally pulling down a blind to peer out as Kurtz spoke. At first they each asked some questions, but then they just listened. Kurtz started with him and Rigby arriving in Neola, and wrapped it up with Sheriff Gerey showing him to the city limits.
When Kurtz was done, Gonzaga stepped away from the window. "This Major said that it was a war?"
"Yeah," said Kurtz. "As if you've been exchanging casualties for months or years."
Gonzaga scowled at Angelina Farino Ferrara. "You know anything about that?"
"You know I don't. If I'd known that asshole existed, he'd need more than a wheelchair now. He'd be in a coffin."
Gonzaga turned back to Kurtz. "What was he talking about? Is he nuts?"
"I don't mink so," said Kurtz. "I think someone's playing two ends against the middle here."
"Who?" said Gonzaga and the woman at the same time.
Kurtz held up his empty hands. "Who the hell knows? If it's not one of you—and I don't see how it would benefit either one of you to play that game—then it's probably someone in the Major's camp."
"Trinh," said Angelina.
"Or the sheriff," said Gonzaga. "Gerey."
