by Dan Simmons
The van pulled away and drove out of sight.
Kurtz waited at the gun slit for another thirty minutes, until it was light enough to see easily. He listened very carefully, but the icehouse was silent, except for water dripping and the occasional rustle of torn plastic on the mezzanine.
Finally Kurtz dropped the M4, stepped over the bodies of Douglas and Darren on his way to the stairwell, and went down to the sixth floor. He’d left nothing in his little cubby except an old cot—found in a Dumpster—and an untraceable sleeping bag. But he’d been in here without gloves, so there was always the risk of fingerprints and DNA sampling if the cops got too earnest about solving this multiple murder.
Kurtz had been keeping a five-gallon jerrican of gasoline in a closet. Now he poured gas over his sleeping area and the bathroom, dropped the Kimber .45 onto the cot, and lit a match. He hated to give up the .45—he trusted that Doc was telling the truth in saying the weapons were absolutely cold—but there were at least seven depleted slugs in or around Warren’s Kevlar vest that Kurtz did not have the time to retrieve.
The heat and flames were intense, but he had little worry that the whole icehouse would burn down. Too much concrete and brick for that. Kurtz also doubted that the bodies would be burned.
Backing away from the flames, Kurtz turned and jogged down the north stairwell to the basement. The tunnel there was closed off by an ancient steel door that was secured by a new chain and Yale padlock. Kurtz had the key.
He came out in another abandoned warehouse half a block away. Kurtz watched the streets for another ten minutes before stepping out onto the sidewalk and walking away quickly from the icehouse.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Joe, you look terrible.”
Kurtz opened one eye as he lay on the sprung couch in their office. Arlene was hanging her coat and setting a stack of folders on her desk. “Where’d you get that terrible army coat? It’s about three sizes too big…” She paused and looked at the bundle of straps and optics on her desk. “What on earth is this?”
“Night-vision goggles,” said Kurtz. “I forgot that I had them in my pocket until I tried to lie down here.”
“And what am I supposed to do with night-vision goggles?”
“Put them in a drawer for now,” said Kurtz. “I need to borrow your car.”
Arlene sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you’ll get it back by lunchtime.”
“Not much,” said Kurtz.
Arlene tossed him the keys. “If I’d known, I would have packed a lunch.”
“There are places in this neighborhood where they serve lunch,” said Kurtz. “Why don’t you eat around here?”
As if in answer, Arlene turned on the surveillance monitor. It was 8:30 A.M., and already there were half a dozen men in raincoats looking at racks of XXX-rated videos and magazines upstairs.
Kurtz shrugged and went out the back door, making sure that it locked behind him.
While driving on the state road toward Darien Center and Attica, Kurtz listened to the morning news on WNY radio tell of a fire in an old Buffalo icehouse and four bodies found by firefighters, all four men killed in what authorities described as “a gangland-style slaying.” Kurtz was never sure what constituted a “gangland-style slaying,” but he suspected it did not involve plummeting seven stories with seven .45 slugs embedded in one’s Kevlar vest. He turned up the radio.
Authorities had not revealed the identities of the four dead men, but police had announced that all of the military-type weapons recovered had been stolen in the previous summer’s Dunkirk arsenal raid and that the Erie County District Attorney’s office was now looking into the involvement of several local white-supremicist groups.
Kurtz turned off the radio, stopped at a roadside rest stop, and left the army jacket draped on a bench at a picnic table. If he’d owned a cell phone, he would have called Arlene and told her to get rid of the night-vision goggles. Kurtz had considered using the goggles as a calling card for Malcolm, but now he just wanted to lose them. He made a mental note to take care of that later.
He drove on to Attica. The little town did not seem familiar to him, and the outside of the State Correctional Facility did not make him feel he was coming home; he had almost never seen the town and exterior of the prison during his years there.
It was Wednesday—visiting day. Kurtz knew that it expedited things to have prearranged the visit, but he filled out the forms, waited more than an hour, and then walked down familiar monkey-puke-green echoing corridors through metal detectors and sliding doors, and then was waved to an empty seat on the visitor side of the thick Plexiglas partition. This made his skin prickle a bit, since he had been in this room a few times.
Little Skag came in on the opposite side, saw Kurtz, and almost walked back out. Reluctantly, sullenly, the short, skinny inmate dropped onto his stool and lifted the phone off the hook. The orange jumpsuit made Little Skag’s blemished skin seem almost orange in the sick light.
“Kurtz, what the fuck do you want?”
“Hello to you, too, Skag.”
“Steve,” said Little Skag. His long white fingers were chewed red and raw around the nails. His hands were trembling. He leaned closer and whispered fiercely into the phone. “What the fuck do you want?”
Kurtz smiled as if he were a friend or family member on his monthly visit. “One million dollars in a numbered Cayman account,” he said softly.
Little Skag began blinking uncontrollably. He held the phone in both hands. “Have you gone fucking crazy on the outside? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Kurtz waited.
“Anything else you want, Kurtz? Want to fuck my baby sister?”
“Been there, done that,” said Kurtz. “But after you agree to set up the Cayman account through your private lawyer, I do need a phone number.”
Little Skag’s lips were almost as white as his fingers. Eventually he was able to whisper, “Whose?”
Kurtz told him.
Little Skag dropped the phone and ran his spidery fingers through his greasy hair, squeezing his skull as if trying to drive out demons.
Kurtz waited. Eventually, Little Skag picked up the phone. The two looked at each other in silence for a long moment. Kurtz glanced at his watch. Five more minutes of his visiting time.
“If I gave you that fucking number,” whispered Little Skag, “I’d be dead in a month. I couldn’t even hide in solitary confinement.”
Kurtz nodded. “If you don’t give me the number now and make arrangements to set up that account, you’ll spend the rest of your life in here. You still Billy Joe Krepp’s punk?”
Little Skag winced and his hands trembled more fiercely, but he tried to bluster. “There’s no way in fucking hell, man, that I’m going to transfer that kind of money to you—”
“I didn’t say it was for me,” said Kurtz. He explained, speaking softly but quickly. When he was finished, he said, “And you’ll need to use your lawyer’s back channels to get in touch with the heads of the other New York families. If they don’t understand what’s going down, this won’t work.”
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
TWENTY-EIGHT
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
TWENTY-NINE
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.”