by Dan Simmons
Little Skag stared at him. "Why should I trust you, Kurtz?"
"Skag, I'm the only person in the world right now with a vested interest in you surviving and getting out of here," Kurtz said softly. "If you don't believe me, you could call your father or sister or your consigliere for help."
Driving back to Buffalo, Kurtz took a detour north to Lockport. The house on Lilly Street looked quiet and locked up, but it was about the time that schools let out, so Kurtz parked across the street and waited. It was trying to snow.
About 4:00 p.m., just as daylight was beginning to ebb, Rachel walked down the street alone. Kurtz had not seen a picture of the girl in years, but he could not mistake her. Rachel had her mother's fair skin and red hair and thin, graceful build. She even walked like her mother. She was alone.
Kurtz watched as the girl went through the gate of the picket fence, fetched the mail from the box, and then reached into her school backpack for a key. A minute after she had entered the house, a light went on in the kitchen on the north side. Kurtz could not see Rachel through the shutters, but he could feel her presence in there.
After another moment, he shifted Arlene's car into gear and drove slowly away.
Kurtz had been very careful to make sure that he had not been followed on his trip out to Attica and back, but he had not been paying attention here in Lockport. He did not notice the black Lincoln Town Car with the tinted windows parked half a block south. He did not see the man behind the tinted glass or notice that the man was watching him through binoculars. The black Lincoln did not follow Kurtz when he drove away, but the man watched through the binoculars until he was out of sight.
CHAPTER 28
"Do I get my car back now?" asked Arlene.
"Not quite yet," said Kurtz. "But I'll drive you home and return it later tonight."
Arlene mumbled something. Then she said, "Pearl Wilson returned your call. She said that she'll meet you at the Blue Franklin parking lot at 6:00."
"Damn," said Kurtz. "I didn't want to meet with her, just talk to her."
Arlene shrugged, shut off her computer, and walked to the coat hook on the wall. Kurtz noticed a second topcoat there. "What's that?" he said.
Arlene tossed it to him. Kurtz tried it on. It was long, wool, a charcoal gray, with large pockets inside and out. He liked it. The smell told him that its previous owner had been a smoker.
"Since I had to eat lunch around here, I dropped into the Thrift Store down the block," said Arlene. "That army jacket—wherever it went—just wasn't you."
"Thanks," said Kurtz. "Which reminds me, we have to stop by an ATM on the way to your place. Get about five hundred in cash."
"Oh, you opened an account, Joe?"
"Nope." Before they shut off the lights and went out to the car, Kurtz dialed Doc's number. He wasn't sure how he was going to get to Malcolm Kibunte yet, but he knew that once he did, he'd need more than the short-barreled.38.
Doc's answering machine came on the line with the inevitable "I'm sleeping, leave a message," and the beep.
"Doc, this is Joe. Thought I might drop by later to talk about the Bills." Kurtz hung up. That was enough to let Doc know to leave the steel-mill gate open for him.
Pearl Wilson drove a beautiful dove-gray Infiniti Q45. Kurtz got out of the Buick, blinked against the blowing snow, and got in the passenger side of the Infiniti. The new vehicle smelled of leather and long-chain polymer molecules and of Pearl's subtle perfume. She was wearing a soft, expensive dress of the same dove-gray as the car.
"Seneca Social Club," she said, shifting sideways in the driver's seat. "Joe, honey, what on earth are you thinking about?"
"I just knew that you used to sing there years ago," said Kurtz. "I was just curious about the place. We didn't have to meet in person."
"Uh-uh." Pearl shook her head. "You're never just curious, Joe, honey. And you really don't want to be messing with the Seneca Social Club these days."
Kurtz waited.
"So after you called," she continued, her voice that husky mix of smoke and whiskey and cat purr which never ceased to amaze Kurtz, "I went back down to the Seneca Social Club to look around."
"Goddamn it, Pearl," said Kurtz. "All I wanted from you was an idea about—"
"Don't you dare curse at me," said Pearl, her rich, soft voice shifting to ice and edges.
"Sorry."
"I know what you wanted, Joe, honey, but it's been years and years since I was in that place. Used to sing there for King Nathan when he owned the place. It was a little bar then—a real social club. The layout hasn't changed, but those gangbangers have changed everything else."
Kurtz shook his head. The thought of Pearl Wilson walking among those miserable Bloods made him slightly ill.
"Oh, they'd heard of me," said Pearl. "Treated me all right. Of course, that might have been because I had Lark and D. J. along." Lark and D. J., Kurtz knew, were Pearl's two huge bodyguards. "Gave me a tour and everything."
Kurtz had just driven by the place. No windows on the first floor. Barred windows on the second floor.
Alley in back. A yellow Mercedes SLK parked back there. Steel doors. Peepholes. The Bloods inside would have automatic weapons.
"They've turned it into a pool parlor," said Pearl. "A bar and some tables downstairs. A locked door behind the bar that opens to stairs to the second floor. More tables up there and some ratty furniture. Two rooms up there—the big front room with the four tables, and Malcolm Kibunte's office in back. Another heavy door to his office."
"Did you see this Malcolm Kibunte?" Kurtz asked.
Pearl shook her head. "They said he wasn't there. Didn't see that albino psychopath who hangs with him either."
"Cutter?" said Kurtz.
"Yes, that's his name. Rumor is that Cutter is a black-man albino. Otherwise, the Bloods wouldn't put up with him."
Kurtz smiled at that. "Any back way upstairs?" he said.
Pearl nodded. "Little hall to the back door. Three doors. First one is the back stairway. That door locks from the inside as well. Next two doors for 'Studs' and 'Mares. "
"Cute."
"That's what I said," said Pearl.
"What reason did you use to get in?"
"I said that I used to sing for King Nathan there, Joe, honey, and that I was feeling nostalgic about seeing the place again. The younger Blood didn't know what I was talking about, but one of the older men did, and escorted me through the place. Everything but Kibunte's office." She smiled slightly. "I don't think that you'll get in by saying the same thing, Joe, honey."
"No, I guess not," said Kurtz. "Many people there? Guns?"
Pearl nodded yes to both.
"Women?"
"A few of their 'bitches, " said Pearl. Her voice showed distaste at the last word. "Not many. Mostly younger bangers. Crackheads."
"You wouldn't happen to know where Malcolm lives?"
Pearl patted his knee. "No one does, Joe, honey. The man just comes into the community, sells crack and heroin and other drugs to the kids there, and the Bloods make him a demi-god. He drives a yellow Mercedes convertible, but somehow no one ever sees where it goes when Malcolm leaves."
Kurtz nodded, thinking about that.
"It's a bad place, Joe, honey," said Pearl. She took his fingers in her soft hand and squeezed. "I would feel much better if you'd promise me that you're not going to have anything to do with the Seneca Social Club."
Kurtz held her hand in both of his, but all he said was, "Thank you, Pearl." He stepped out of the sweet smells of the new Infiniti and walked through blowing snow to his borrowed Buick.
CHAPTER 29
Doc didn't come on guard duty at the steel mill until 11:00 p.m., so Kurtz had some time to kill. He felt tired. The last few days and nights had begun to blend together in his mind.
Using some of the $500 in cash that Arlene had retrieved from the ATM—Kurtz had promised to pay her back by the end of the month—he filled the Buick's gas tank for her. He then
went into the Texaco convenience store and bought a Bic cigarette lighter, twenty-five feet of clothesline, and four half-liter Cokes—the only drinks which came in glass bottles. Kurtz emptied the Coke and filled the bottles with gasoline, keeping out of sight of the attendant as he did so. He had gone into the restroom, removed his boxer shorts, and torn them into rags. Now he stuffed those rags into the mouths of the gasoline-filled bottles and carefully set the four bottles into the spare-tire niche in the Buick's trunk. He did not have a real plan yet, but he thought that these things might come in handy when and if he visited the Seneca Social Club.
It was definitely colder without underpants.
The snow was trying to become Buffalo's first November snowstorm, but little was sticking to the streets. Kurtz drove down to the Expressway overpass, parked on a side street, and climbed the concrete grade to Pruno's niche. The cold concrete cubicle was empty. Kurtz remembered another place where the old man used to hang out, so he drove to the main switching yard. It was on his way.
Here part of the highway was elevated over twenty rails, and in the slight shelter of the bridge rose a ramshackle city of packing crates, tin roofs, open fires, and a few lanterns. Diesel locomotives growled and clanked in the wide yards a quarter of a mile beyond the squatters' city. What little skyline Buffalo offered rose beyond the railyards. Kurtz walked down the concrete incline and went from shack to shack.
Pruno was playing chess with Soul Dad. Pruno's gaze was unfocused—he was very high on something—but it did not seem to hurt his game. Soul Dad gestured him in. Kurtz had to duck low to get under the two-by-four-girded construction-plastic threshold.
"Joseph," said Soul Dad extending his hand. "It is good to see you again." Kurtz shook the bald black man's strong hand. Soul Dad was about Pruno's age, but in much better physical shape—he was one of the few homeless whom Kurtz had met who was not an addict or a schizophrenic. Solid, bald, bearded, given to wearing cast-off tweed jackets with a sweater vest over two or three shirts during the winter, Soul Dad had a mellifluous voice, a scholar's wisdom, and—Kurtz had always thought—the saddest eyes on earth.
Pruno looked at him as if Kurtz were an alien life-form that had just teleported into their midst. "Joseph?" The scrawny man looked warmer in the insulated bomber jacket Kurtz had given him. Sophia Farino's gift to the homeless, thought Kurtz, and then smiled when he realized that it had been a gift to the homeless when she'd given it to him.
"Pull up a crate, Joseph," rumbled Soul Dad. "We were just approaching the endgame."
"I'll just watch for a while," said Kurtz.
"Nonsense," said Soul Dad. "This game will go on for another day or so. Would you like some coffee?"
As the older man hunkered over a battered hot-plate in the rear of the shack, Kurtz noticed how powerful Soul Dad's back and shoulders and upper arms were under his thin jacket. Kurtz had no idea where they pirated the electricity for the shack, but the hot-plate worked, and Soul Dad had a refurbished laptop computer in the corner near his sleeping bag. Some form of chaos-driven fractal imagery—almost certainly home-programmed—was acting as a screen saver, adding to the glow of the lantern light in the little space.
Soul Dad and Kurtz sipped coffee while Pruno rocked, closing his eyes occasionally, the better to appreciate some interior light show. Soul Dad asked polite questions about Kurtz's last eleven and a half years, and Kurtz tried to answer with some humor. There must have been some wit in his answers, since Soul Dad's deep laugh was loud enough to bring Pruno out of his reveries.
"Well, to what do we owe the pleasure of this nocturnal visit, Joseph?" Soul Dad asked at last.
Pruno answered for him. "Joseph is tilting against windmills… a windmill named Malcolm Kibunte, to be precise."
Soul Dad's thick eyebrows rose. "Malcolm Kibunte is no windmill," he said softly.
"More a murderous sonofabitch," said Kurtz.
Soul Dad nodded. "That and more."
"Satan," said Pruno. "Kibunte is Satan incarnate." Pruno's rheumy eyes tried to focus on Soul Dad. "You're the theologian here. What's the origin of the name 'Satan'? I've forgotten."
"From the Hebrew," said Soul Dad, rooting around in a crate, taking out some bread and fruit. "It means one who opposes, obstructs, or acts as adversary. Thus, 'the Adversary. He moved the chessboard and set some of the food in front of Kurtz. "Take thou also unto thee wheat, and barley, and beans, and lentils, and millet, and fitches, and put them in one vessel, and make thee bread thereof," he intoned in his resonant growl. "Ezekiel 4:9." He broke the bread in a ceremonial manner and handed a piece to Kurtz.
Kurtz knew that twice a week the nearby Buffalo Bakery left an abandoned pickup truck in its park lot filled with three-day-old bread. The homeless knew the schedule. Kurtz's belly rumbled. He had not eaten all day. He held the battered, steaming tin coffee cup in one hand and accepted the bread.
"Song of Solomon 2:5," continued Soul Dad, setting two overripe apples on the crate in front of Kurtz. "Comfort me with apples."
Kurtz had to smile. "The Bible actually has recipes and recommends apples?"
"Absolutely," said Soul Dad. "Leviticus 7:23 is even so modern as to advise, Eat no manner of fat—although if I had some bacon, I'd fry it up for us."
Kurtz ate the bread, took a bite of apple, and sipped his scalding coffee. It was one of the best meals he'd ever tasted.
Pruno blinked and said, "Leviticus also advises, Ye shall eat no manner of blood. But I think that is what Joseph has in mind when it comes to this Satan, Malcolm."
Soul Dad shook his head. "Malcolm Kibunte is no Satan… the white man who provides him with the poison is Satan. Kibunte is Mastema from the lost book, Jubilees…"
Kurtz looked blank.
Pruno cleared his phlegmy throat. "Mastema was the demon who commanded Abraham to kill his own son," he said to Kurtz.
"I thought God did that," said Kurtz.
Soul Dad slowly, sadly shook his head. "No God worth worshiping would do that, Joseph."
"Jubilees is apocryphal," Pruno said to Soul Dad. And then, as if remembering something obvious. "Diabolos. Greek for one who throws something across one's path. Malcolm Kibunte is diabolical, but not Satanic."
Kurtz sipped his coffee. "Pruno sent me a reading list before I went into Attica. I didn't think it was that long a list, but I spent the better part of ten years working on it and didn't finish it."
"Sapientia prima est stultitia caruisee, " said Pruno. "Horace. 'To have shed stupidity is the beginning of wisdom. "
"Frederick was always good for self-improvement lists," said Soul Dad, chuckling.
"Who's Frederick?" said Kurtz.
"I used to be," said Pruno and closed his eyes again.
Soul Dad was looking at Kurtz. "Joseph, do you know why Malcolm Kibunte is an agent of Satan and why the white man behind Kibunte is Satan himself?"
Kurtz shook his head and took another bite of apple.
"Yaba," said Soul Dad.
The word rang a faint bell for Kurtz, but only a very faint bell. "Is that Hebrew?" he asked.
"No," said Soul Dad, "it's a form of methamphetamine, like speed, only with the punch and addictiveness of heroin. Yaba can be smoked, ingested, or injected. Every orifice becomes a portal to heaven."
"Portal to heaven," repeated Pruno, but it was obvious that he was no longer a part of the conversation.
"A devil drug," said Soul Dad. "A true generation killer."
Yaba. Shooting yaba. That's where Kurtz had heard the name. Some of the younger cons used it. Kurtz had never had much interest in other people's addictions. And there were so many drugs available in prison.
"So Kibunte is dealing yaba?" said Kurtz.
Soul Dad nodded slowly. "He came first with the usual—crack, speed, heroin. The Bloods were the victors in the gang wars of the early nineties, and to the victors belong the spoils. Malcolm Kibunte supplied the spoils. The usual mindkillers at first—crack, meth, speed, angel dust. But within th
e past eight or nine months, yaba has flowed from the Seneca Social Club to every street corner. The bangers buy it cheap, but then need it soon and often. The price goes up quickly until within a year—or less—the price is death."
"Where does yaba come from?" said Kurtz.
"That's the fascinating part," said Soul Dad. "It flows in from Asia—from the Golden Triangle—but its use has been limited in the United States. Suddenly here it is in great quantities in Buffalo, of all places."
"The New York Families?" said Kurtz.
Soul Dad opened his large hands. "I think not. The Colombians controlled the drug trade here for decades, but in recent years, the Families have come back onto the scene, working with the Colombians to regulate much of the flow of opium products. The sudden introduction of yaba, although terribly profitable, does not appear to be part of the plan of organized crime."
Kurtz finished the last of his coffee and set the tin cup down. "The Farino family," he said. "Someone in the family is supplying Malcolm. Could it be coming from Vancouver? What source is in Vancouver—" Kurtz stopped in mid-sentence.
Soul Dad nodded.
"Jesus!" whispered Kurtz. "The Triads? They control the flow of junk into North America on the West Coast, and they have plenty of meth labs in Vancouver, but why supply a mob family here? The Triads are at war with the West Coast Families…"
Kurtz was silent for several minutes, thinking. Somewhere in the shack city, an old man began coughing uncontrollably and then fell silent. Finally Kurtz said, "Christ. The Dunkirk Arsenal thing."
"I think you are right, Joseph," Soul Dad rumbled. Closing his eyes, he intoned, "Our contest is not against flesh and blood, but against powers, against principalities, against the world-rulers of this present darkness, against spiritual forces of evil in heavenly places." He opened his eyes and showed strong white teeth in a grin. "Ephesians 6:12."
