by K. W. Jeter
Curt saw immediately what the target of the gunfire had been. A plume of carbon monoxide came from the Lincoln’s exhaust pipes, its engine running. The passenger’s side door was open. Inside, Heinz’s bloodied corpse sprawled against the steering wheel.
The other bodyguards formed a close knot around Curt, all four men quickly scanning the street. No one . . .
Earl covered Curt, turning slowly from side to side with his upraised gun, as the other man reached inside the Lincoln and pulled Heinz – what was left of him – back against the seat.
Foley and Elton split up, each running toward either side of the restaurant.
The alleyway just beyond the building was lined with trash dumpsters. Foley edged his way along them, all the way to the brick wall at the end, but found nothing. Except the door into the restaurant kitchen, still standing open.
He looked over as Elton came running up to him.
“Anything?”
Shaking his head, he pointed to the doorway. “Sonuvabitch had already gotten out, while we were still firing at him. When he ran out to the street, he saw Heinz with the car ready. And took care of him.”
“Damn.” Elton looked toward the mouth of the alley. “That sucks.”
Both men trudged back to the restaurant entrance. Guns lowered, they stopped in their tracks. Along with Earl, they watched as Curt held Heinz up against his chest, as though trying to shake him back to life.
THREE
When you have that kind of job – bodyguard for somebody like Falcon – maybe you don’t change your shirt when it’s covered in blood, because you want everybody to know. That you’re right there when things get tight.
Or maybe Curt wasn’t even aware that his shirt was soaked red. He was deep in thought as he sat in the chair outside the door of Karsh’s office. At least, that’s how it was described to me. And not the kind of thoughts with words and possibilities and decisions in them. Maybe pictures, things he remembered seeing. Things that had happened, some of them from a long way in the past. He leaned forward in the chair, his arms laid across his knees, his eyes focused on something a million miles away.
He and Heinz had been friends for a long time. Maybe that was why he didn’t change his shirt.
There were two other bodyguards in the office lobby. Not part of Curt’s crew. Younger guys, hard-faced, leaning back against the wall. Watching him and not saying anything. Hadn’t even asked about the blood, just as if they couldn’t have cared less about it. They worked for Karsh.
The office door opened. Curt turned and looked around to it. His boss and the other bodyguards’ boss had just finished up their meeting. That had originally been planned for the restaurant.
“Okay, but remember –” Karsh laid a hand on Falcon’s shoulder. He was a little younger than Falcon, maybe right around Curt’s age. Smartly tailored, sleekly groomed – even more so than his friend and business associate Falcon. “If there’s anything I can do, you call me. All right? Anything at all.”
“Don’t worry,” said Falcon. “And . . . you know . . . I’m sorry we couldn’t work out all the details on this today. I’m still . . . just a little rattled.”
“Hey, believe me, I understand. It’s okay.” Karsh exuded sympathy. “I’m amazed we were able to get together at all. After what happened. If we’d just taken a rain check on the meeting, that would’ve been perfectly acceptable with me.” He lowered his head, peering closer at Falcon. “Sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.” Falcon gave a slight nod. “My people took good care of me.”
“So I hear.” Karsh looked over at the figure in the chair. “Curt – I want you to know I’m sorry.”
Curt looked up at him. “What about?”
“Well . . .” Karsh spread his manicured hands wide. “If I’d known there was going to be trouble, I wouldn’t have suggested a location like that for our meeting. I thought those days were over. I mean . . . when things like that could happen.”
The bodyguard shrugged and looked away from him.
“Heinz was a good man,” continued Karsh. “You know, back then – back when we were having our little differences – I was more afraid of him than the rest of you put together.” He paused for a moment. “Did he have any family?”
“I think he had a sister in Pittsburgh.”
“I’ll send her a check.”
“Don’t bother,” said Curt. “She hated his guts.”
Karsh glanced over at his own bodyguards. “Come on. Let’s go.”
They pushed themselves away from the wall. They gave Curt one more hard scrutiny before they followed their boss out of the office lobby. Falcon watched them go, then turned to Curt.
“We need to talk.” Falcon nodded toward the office that he’d just stepped out of. “In here.”
He closed the door behind Curt, then pointed to the chair in front of the desk. “Have a seat.”
Instead of taking the high-backed chair behind the desk, Falcon walked over to the window and looked out through the blinds. “You know,” he said, “I would’ve liked it if you’d been a little more polite with Mr. Karsh.”
“Sorry.” Curt kept his hands flat against his legs. “I wasn’t . . . really thinking about him.”
“That would be the problem, all right.” Falcon turned away from the window. If he and I are going to be partners – if this whole merger thing is going to go through – then everybody’s going to have to get along together. Top to bottom.”
Curt nodded.
“I don’t care how things were before.” Falcon stepped behind the desk and sat down. “That was then. This is now. There are new ways of doing things.”
Curt stayed silent.
“You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, sure.” Curt gave another nod. “I guess.”
Falcon shook his head as he swiveled the chair away from the desk. “I wonder if you do . . .”
Curt waited for the rest.
“This couldn’t come at a worse time.” Falcon gazed toward the office window. “Why now? Why does something like this have to pop up right now, for Christ’s sake?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Falcon.”
“Got any leads on who’d want to go after me? Right now, I mean?”
“No –” Curt shook his head. “Haven’t had a chance to start asking around.”
“Probably . . .” Falcon sunk into his own thoughts. “Somebody who’s not happy about this merger. Between me and Karsh. Think about it. It’s not only going to put us on top of the whole city. It’ll do a lot more than that. Right?”
“Sure.”
“It’ll make us legitimate,” said Falcon. “Both of us. Me and Karsh. Nobody will be able to lay a finger on us then. That’s worth killing somebody over.”
“We’ll find ’em,” said Curt. “We’ll take care of it.”
“Really?” Falcon looked over his shoulder at him. “You think you can do that? You’re down a man. On the crew. There’s a hole now, with Heinz missing. A big one.”
Curt shrugged. “We can work around it.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you need a new man.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” The shake of Curt’s head was emphatic. “Not now. There’s somebody out there gunning for you. And we don’t know who it is. We just know they’ll probably try again. That’s not a good time to be breaking in a new member of the crew.”
“Really?” Falcon smiled. “And when would be a good time?”
No answer, except for another shrug.
“Look,” said Falcon. “I know how you feel. You and the rest of the guys – you’re tight. And you’ve always done a great job for me. Hey, I’m alive, right? That’s why I keep you around. But any time a change comes along . . .” The smile faded. “You get your backs up. You all do. Like you did when Elton came aboard.”
“Elton?” A frown showed on Curt’s face. “I was the one who wanted Elton on the crew.”
“Whatever. The other
guys gave you plenty of crap about it.”
“They got over it.”
“Did they?” Falcon leaned back in the high-backed chair. “I don’t know about that. Let’s just say they got over it enough. That’s all. But that’s not the point I’m making here. You guys are just resistant to change. That’s all. And people just can’t be that way anymore. Things are different now. And they’re going to keep getting different. We have to keep up.”
“Look –” Curt raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’ve been with you longer than anybody.”
“That’s kind of what I’m saying, Curt.”
“You want to make some changes, bring a new guy on the crew, whatever – that’s fine with me. But not now. We got a job to do. We gotta keep you alive.”
“Exactly,” said Falcon. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s what I’m worried about.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s your job, all right. And you came pretty close to screwing it up today. That’s how Heinz got killed. Something like that wouldn’t have happened before.
Curt lowered his head, spreading his hands apart.
“We’ll do the job,” he said. “You know we will. We always have.”
“I can’t count on that anymore. I think the crew needs some new blood.”
“I just don’t know –”
“I’ve made my decision.” Falcon’s gaze narrowed on him. “I’m the one that somebody out there wants to kill.”
“Okay –” Curt sighed in defeat. “So who do you want to bring on? Somebody from Karsh’s organization? I sure hope not – those punks he walks around with are just about useless.”
“Curt, please. If they’re working for Karsh, they’re top of the line. I wouldn’t be looking to partner up with somebody who scrimps on that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, well, they didn’t exactly impress me. They’re the ones who should’ve checked out that restaurant before we got there. It was their boss who suggested the spot. That’s why we’re a man down now. They didn’t do their job.”
“Things happen. You know that. There was probably some miscommunication – that’s all.”
“Miscommunication? Yeah, right. Heinz got miscommunicated right through the chest.”
“That’s enough, Curt. I don’t feel like rehashing the whole thing now. Besides, I’ve already decided.”
“Decided what?”
“Who the new person on the crew will be.”
Curt nodded slowly. “So when do we get to meet him?”
“Soon enough.” Falcon began sorting through some papers on the desk. “Do me a favor and let the others know. Okay?”
For a few seconds, Curt said nothing, but just remained sitting and watching his boss. Then he got up and headed for the office door.
* * *
“A new guy? Aw, Christ . . .”
The lounge was a little livelier now, but not by much. Mae, the graying-blonde owner, served up drinks to the handful of people at the bar. Over in the same booth they’d started out from that morning, the remnants of Falcon’s bodyguard crew hunched over their beer glasses.
“That sucks.” Foley went on. “I don’t want to have to babysit some kid who needs both hands to find his frickin’ ass.”
“I don’t know.” Elton sipped at his beer. “Might work out.”
“Okay, fine.” Foley glared at him. “We’ll let you baby-sit him. See how you like it.”
“Look, guys.” With his hands wrapped around his glass, Curt leaned back in the booth. “We just need to make the best of the situation. Because there isn’t anything we can do about it. It’s Falcon’s call who he has working for him. If you don’t like that, the only option you got is to quit.” He looked around at the others. “Anybody here feel like doing that?”
Nobody said anything. They all just sat, gazing into their own drinks.
“Seriously,” said Curt. “Now would be the time. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”
“Come on.” That was Earl speaking up. “If we left . . . where would we go?”
There was a long silence after he said that.
“Okay, then.” Curt let them all of the hook. “So I don’t want to hear any more bitching about this. Done deal, gentlemen. So let’s just get this new guy up and running. And let’s not have any problems with him. We need to make this work.”
“Yeah, sure.” Earl again. “But you don’t even know who this new guy is.”
“Give me a break, already. Mr. Falcone isn’t going to –”
“Fal-kun.”
“Right; Falcon. He isn’t going to foist some total putz on us. He wants the best he can get.”
“Okay. But if that’s what he wants . . . why didn’t he let you pick him?”
“I don’t know.” Curt’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know why he didn’t ask me.”
“’Cause you know a lot of guys. You know everyone.”
Curt didn’t say anything. The rest of the crew exchanged embarrassed glances with each other.
After a moment, Curt lifted his gaze toward them again.
“Look,” he said. “Just work with me on this one, will ya? That’s all I’m asking.”
“Sure.” Earl nodded. “No problem.
Curt slid out of the booth and stood up.
“Where you going?” asked Foley.
“Got some things to take care of. See you all later.”
They watched him walk across the lounge. He waved goodbye to Mae behind the bar, then pulled the door open. For a moment, they had a glimpse beyond him of the neon sign glinting off the dirty snow in the gutters; then the door swung shut, and he was gone.
The other crew members hunched forward over their beer glasses, bringing their heads closer together, as though there might have been someone who wanted to listen in to what they were saying.
“Maybe . . .” Foley slowly nodded. “Maybe Falcon knows.”
Elton glanced over at him. “Knows what?”
“You know,” said Foley. “About Curt.”
“Shut up.” Earl glared at both of them. “Just shut up, okay?”
Elton and Foley exchanged a silent glance, then turned their attention back to their drinks.
* * *
Curt left little melting clumps of snow on the stairs, as he headed upstairs to his apartment.
He dug his keys out of his pocket as he walked down the dimly lit hallway, with its shabby, peeling wallpaper. He unlocked one of the numbered doors and pushed it open.
Pushing the door shut behind himself, he hung up his overcoat on the brass hook at its side. He stood for a moment, letting the cold seep out of his bones. Gazing at the cheaply framed photos on the wall . . .
Younger guys. A lot younger. Some of the faces in the pictures, he could barely recognize. Including his own. There was one of the whole crew, plus their boss – still Fal-cone-ee back then – whooping it up at some tiki bar. A real one, a famous place, all the way out in Hawaii. Everybody had those wildly colored, tropical print shirts on, their pale Midwestern arms sticking out from the short sleeves.
Curt looked at the next picture over. It showed a grinning Heinz, looking like a complete tourist, paper leis around his neck, and knee-length shorts with white socks and heavy wing-tip shoes. There was a sunny, sandy beach behind him, with crashing waves – that had been real as well, not some photographer’s backdrop. Really in Hawaii.
That had been a long time ago. He touched the thin glass over the photo with his fingertips. After a moment, he took it off the little brad behind, leaving a lighter spot on the wall in the shape of the frame.
He carried the photo into the kitchen and tossed it into the trash can beside the sink.
When he came back out, he was carrying a cardboard box he’d taken from one of the cupboards. He sat down with it at the Formica-topped table in the middle of the front room. With his forearm, he made himself some working space, scraping aside the food-encrusted dishes from his last several meals there
. But he’d forgotten something; he pushed the chair back, went over to the door and dug his gun out of his overcoat pocket. Then he set back down and began methodically cleaning it, using the blackened rag and the tools from the cardboard box.
It took him a while. He meant it to. The longer it took, the less time there would be to think about other things.
When he finished, he put the rag and tools away. From the box, he took out a carton of ammo and reloaded the gun. Carefully, sliding the bullets in one by one.
He set the gun down on the table. With his hands in his lap, he sat regarding it for a few moments. Then he reached toward it, but stopped just an inch away from picking it up. He watched the slight but noticeable tremor in his hand.
After a couple of seconds, it got worse. He balled his hand into a fist, the knuckles whitening as he tried to keep it from shaking.
He didn’t react when the muzzle of another gun – a bigger one, a .357 – came up behind his ear.
“Hello, Kim.” That was all he said.
I lowered the gun. “How’d you know it was me?”
“I knew you were here soon as I walked in the door. I didn’t have to see you.”
“Damn.” I’d thought I’d been putting one over on him. Taking it slow, hanging out in the apartment’s unlit bedroom, with the door just open a crack so I’d been able to watch him doing his gun-cleaning ritual. I’d thought it was only polite, not to interrupt him during that.
“Have a seat.” He nodded toward the chair on the other side of the table.
“Hold on a second.” I head back toward the bedroom with my gun. “I have to put this away.”
I returned with my backpack, stuffing the .357 inside it. “You knew I was here?” I set the pack beside the chair as I sat down. “How?”
“Easy.” He leaned back in his chair. “I smelled you.”
“Um . . . that’s weird.” Made me a little uncomfortable. “You know . . . I don’t wear any perfume or stuff like that.”
“It’s the soap.”
That figured. My brother Donnie had talked me into buying some kind of shower gel that one of his favorite NASCAR drivers did TV commercials for. Why anybody would want to smell like a sweaty fire suit was beyond me – actually, though, the stuff smelled more like breath mints on steroids. I’m not sure what the connection between that and race cars is. But the shower in our crummy apartment already was barely big enough for even me to turn around in, so I’d decided that one bottle of liquid soap was sufficient. I guess I had been smelling of it the last time I’d talked to Curt.
