Thirst

by Pyotyr Kurtinski

  Landau called him five minutes later. He had a hoarse voice with a trace of the old Lower East Side in it.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” he said when Van Diemen said his name. “Is it about your property? Your attorney Bradford Wilcox says you don’t want to sell.”

  “Your offer was rather low, I’m afraid.”

  “I can’t help that. It’s what my client was willing to pay. Anyway, there won’t be any more offers. I won’t play games with you. My client wants out. The city is going to seize your land, as no doubt you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why are you bothering me?”

  “I’d like to know why you had Vincent Mara tortured and killed. He was a harmless little man.”

  “Are you crazy?” Landau shouted. “I don’t have to listen to this. You’re crazy. That’s what you are.”

  “I think you’d better listen. You had Mara killed. But I killed the hitman the Simonellis sent after me. I stuck his body on the spikes outside Marco Polo’s house. I stuck one of your flyers in his mouth. Perhaps your friends on the police force told you about that killing.”

  “This is crazy/’ Landau said, but he didn’t hang up.

  “Do you want to know how I got the body up on that high fence? I dropped it from the sky. I’m a vampire. I can turn myself into a giant bat and fly through the skies.”

  “You should be committed,” Landau said, but he still didn’t hang up the phone.

  It suddenly dawned on Van Diemen that poor Vincent Mara hadn’t told the torturers anything. Landau simply didn’t know.

  “I killed three thugs who defaced my property with garbage and posters. They went off the University Heights bridge with a little assistance from me. You can see for yourself if your Mafia bosses want to go to the expense of hauling them up.”

  “What’re you saying? You’re too old to kill anybody. What is this all about, you don’t mind telling me? Are you crazy or just acting crazy?

  Van Diemen gave a madman’s laugh. “Crazy like a fox is what I am. I know you’re behind this eminent-domain ploy. How much would you take to bow out and leave me in peace? That’s all I want—peace. Name a price. This is a secure phone. That’s why you’ve never been able to call me.”

  When Landau remained silent, Van Diemen said, “No tape recorders here.”

  “Why should I be afraid of tape recorders? I’m talking to a crazy old man who’ll say anything.”

  “Sure I will. How about ten million in cash? I’ve got it right here in nice new bills. Listen now, Landau. When you first offered to buy my property, I told my lawyer to tell you to go to hell. A lot of petty trouble followed. Don’t try to deny it. Vincent Mara was working for me, and he got the whole story.”

  Landau muttered something that Van Diemen didn’t catch.

  “Stop mumbling and listen. I’m talking about ten million dollars, tax free if you want it that way. As I said, the petty trouble has turned into serious trouble, and I’m willing to shell out ten million to get rid of it. I’m too old to move from here, but I have to be sure you and your mobster bosses won’t try something else. I want guarantees. I want to look them in the face when they give their word. Nothing else will do.”

  “What you’re saying is crazy.”

  “Will you stop that. I talked to young Simonelli, as you know. He’s a lot more polite than you are. Could we all meet at his house?”

  “When?” Landau’s greed was getting the better of his caution.

  “Tonight. There’s no time like the present. Don’t tell me you can’t arrange a meeting. You can fix anything. Get it done. I want everybody there: you, the two Simonellis, and Benitez. It’s no deal if they don’t show up. Can you do it?”

  “This is real short notice,” Landau said.

  “As soon as everything is arranged, call me. I’ll be ready with the money. My chauffeur will drive me right over.”

  “Aren’t you nervous with all that money? What about if I send a car with a couple of young guys to protect you?”

  “We’ll do it my way or not at all. I repeat: Arrange the meeting, call me, and I’ll come with the money/’

  Van Diemen slammed down the phone like the cranky old man he was. Then he smiled. Landau had practically been slobbering toward the end of their conversation. He had tried to hide his greed with absolutely no success.

  Landau called back in a little over an hour. “It’s all set,” he said. “They’re on their way. You know where Marcus lives?”

  “Tell me,” Van Diemen said.

  Landau said Van Diemen’s driver, when he got to City Island, was to drive down to the end of the main avenue, which ran right through town. He’d see the house, a big ranch, with a high fence. A man would be waiting to show Van Diemen in.

  Van Diemen told Landau he’d be there in ninety minutes.

  “Why can’t you make it sooner?” Landau said.

  “Because I’m an old man, and I won’t be rushed.”

  Van Diemen didn’t call Maggie Connors until he had the sack of dynamite sticks. Only three sticks were capped; the fuses wouldn’t burn for over thirty seconds, which was more than enough time for him to get away.

  “You didn’t show up last night,” Maggie Connors said when she answered the phone. “I waited and waited.”

  “Don’t nag.”

  “I wasn’t nagging. I was disappointed— that’s all. You want to come over tonight?”

  “Not tonight,” Van Diemen said. “I have another exclusive for you. Much better than the last one.”

  Without missing a beat, Maggie Connors turned into a professional. “Where?”

  “City Island. I won’t tell you where it is— you’re a Bronx girl.”

  “And proud of it,” she said. “What’re you going to do?”

  “Blow up a lot of Mafios,” he said. “The Simonellis, father and son, a crooked lawyer named Landau, a Colombian cocaine king named Hector Benitez. You’ve got all that written down? You have the address?”

  She laughed. “How did you know I was writing it down?”

  “So you could caption your pictures. Let’s be serious. This is going to be a big one. You can’t get anywhere close. The whole house is going to be lifted off its foundations; then it will blow outward. The best place to photograph it would be from a boat. But how will you get a boat?”

  “I’ll think of something. When’s it going to happen?”

  “A little less than ninety minutes from now. How long will it take you to get there?”

  “Nothing like ninety minutes,” she said. “Then don’t hurry. I don’t want you hanging around. These are dangerous people. This time, nobody will be alive to chase you. Just the same, get away as fast as you can.”

  “Will you come over later tonight?”

  “I might. Don’t hold me to it. I can’t be sure. You better get started now. Good luck.”

  Van Diemen had never wished anyone good luck in his life. It was a curious expression: He didn’t believe in luck, yet he’d be gambling on everything that night. Landau might have lied. Maybe nobody was coming. No, that was wrong: The thought of ten million would bring them as bees to honey. What a feeling of satisfaction there would be if Van Diemen could get them all. It wouldn’t put an end to the Mafia, but it would put his enemies out of commission for good.

  Van Diemen waited. Maggie would be well on her way by now. He used the time to recheck the fuses and the caps. Nothing must be left to chance. If he failed to wipe his enemies out, he might never get another chance. The ones who survived would keep after him.

  At last, Van Diemen was ready to move. He carried the sack of dynamite to the tower, jumped off, and flew to City Island at great speed. A pink stretch Cadillac was driving down City Island Avenue, the principal thoroughfare of the island. Van Diemen had seen the same car parked outside Marco Polo Simonelli’s house on Arthur Avenue. Apparently, the old gangster liked pink. And there he was, right on time.

  Van Diemen swooped over th
e house and looked at the other cars parked there. Five expensive cars, evidence of the good life: smuggled Cuban cigars, caviar from the Black Sea, milk-fed veal, sixty-dollar bottles of grappa, the works.

  Hovering high, Van Diemen watched the additional guards patrolling the outside of the house. Usually there were two; that night, there were five.

  There was no sign of Maggie Connors, which was a good thing; there wasn’t supposed to be a sign of her. The guards were more dangerous than the big shots inside, especially the young Sicilians, but they were all dangerous.

  Van Diemen continued to hover, but no one else arrived after the old man in his pink Cadillac. Marcus Simonelli came out of the house and said something to one of the guards. The guard shook his head and Simonelli went back inside.

  Van Diemen landed on the slightly slanting roof without making a sound. So far the guards were staying close to the side of the house. At the moment, they couldn’t see him, but they’d see him quick enough if they moved out from where they were standing.

  He taped the dynamite sticks to the ridge of the house. If he just laid them there, the wind might them roll them off the roof, and that would bring gunfire. Bullets couldn’t kill Van Diemen, but they would ruin his opportunity for revenge. With the sticks all in place; all he had to do was light the fuse and streak up into the night sky. He used an old Zippo gasoline lighter to touch off the fuses. The fuses sizzled fast, and he was well out of danger when the house blew. The blast was so tremendous that he felt hot air currents ramming up into the freezing air.

  Van Diemen saw no flashbulbs going off, but there was no need for them. What was left of the house was burning fiercely, and the boatyard was on fire. He flew away before the police and the fireman came. Of all the wonderful nights in his life, this was the best. He knew he would remember it for a thousand years.

  Van Diemen flew to Fifty-Seventh Street to wait for Maggie Connors. He was standing by the entrance to the building when she drove up in her Land Rover. She unlocked the door and kicked it open. “Hey, you got here. I could’ve given you a lift.”

  It was a hard, cold night. She was wearing a thermal jacket and trousers, fur hat, scarf, and gloves. Van Diemen was dressed for the library, with light blue pants, a red smoking jacket, and Gucci slip-ons.

  “Brrr!” she said. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “I’m all right,” he said. “Did you have any trouble?”

  “Not much. I left the car in a side street and borrowed a dingy and a paddle from the boatyard. I was bobbing around out there when the house went up. The shock wave nearly blew me into the water. It was like a baby hydrogen bomb, the way the fireball went up. There were children in that house, William.”

  “It’s better that they didn’t live to grow up in such an unsavory environment,” he said sententiously.

  “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

  “It’s the only way. The little girl of today is the Mafia princess of tomorrow, writing as-told-to books about her old man, living in a shabby stucco bungalow in West Hollywood while Papa rots out a life sentence in Marion.”

  They went in and the night man, reading the Irish Echo behind a desk, took no heed of the way Van Diemen was dressed. “Fine cold night, Maggie.”

  “That it ‘tis, Barney,” Maggie Connors said. “A good night for a drop of whiskey.”

  Going up in the elevator, Van Diemen said, “You allow that lackey to call you Maggie?”

  “Don’t be such a snob. Barney’s a good old guy. People call me Maggie wherever I go. But it’s how they say it that matters. If some drunken wise guy makes a joke of the name, I let him have it—bam!”

  She opened the door with a key card and they went in. It was a small apartment with modem furniture. It had a large living room and two smallish bedrooms, and it smelled of cigarettes. One of the bedrooms had been turned into a darkroom, and from it came the stink of developing fluid.

  Maggie was hanging her jacket in a hall closet. “Look around,” she said. “This is how the other half lives.”

  The furniture was good, probably from Bloomingdale’s, but a bit beaten up. There were Hockney prints in glass-and-stainless-steel frames.

  “This is hardly the other half,” he said. “Why do you say such a thing?”

  “You look like you come from more elegant surroundings.”

  Van Diemen shrugged. “Don’t pry,” he said. “Would you like a drink?” she said, holding up a glass. “Don’t tell me you don’t drink sometimes. That first night in the zoo you looked looped.

  “I’d been drinking vodka—a bit too much I’m afraid. I was feeling a little reckless.” While Maggie Connors poured their drinks, she said, “I’m glad you were reckless that night. Otherwise we wouldn’t have met. I don’t regret it, and I don’t think I ever will.” She handed him the drink, saying, “Can you entertain yourself while I develop the pictures? I can’t wait to see what they look like.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Van Diemen said. “You’ll give them to the News?”

  “I’d like to give them to the old Life, but that’s gone. I could have made the cover. Oh, well.”

  She came back while the photographs were developing. Most of her drink was left; all she did was add more ice. She drank a little, then put the glass down.

  “We make a pretty good team. Don’t we?”

  “Well, yes,” he said.

  “I’d like us to be real friends. Right now you’re using me, and I’m going along so I can get exclusives. By the way, will there be anymore?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’m thinking of going in more for gallery work. I have enough money now to do it. I can always take foreign assignments if the money runs short.”

  “Don’t worry about money,” he heard himself saying. “I have all the money in the world. You can have your own gallery, the finest in New York and anywhere else. What do you think of that?”

  She didn’t smile. “It wouldn’t mean anything without you. I mean that, William. I don’t understand you or your ways and I don’t care. I have accepted the fact that you are a vampire. I can’t quite grasp what that means—forgive me for saying it’s so strange—but I have to be honest. Nothing is any good without honesty. Don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” Van Diemen said.

  “I don’t know if you love me,” Maggie Connors went on. “I love you with all my heart. You don’t have to say anything. Let me finish. Come to see me as often as you can. I hope you will tell me all about yourself as we get to know each other. But you don’t have to. I accept the mystery of your life. Is that good enough for you?”

  Van Diemen nodded. “It is.”

  “I’d better look at the pictures. Come along.”

  Van Diemen watched over her shoulder as she took the photographs from the developing pan. She let him look before she hung them from the drying line with plastic clips.

  “They’re marvelous,” he said, looking at a photograph of the house being lifted from its foundation. “Such detail.”

  Maggie Connors yawned. “I got oil on my pants in that dirty dingy. I’ve got take a shower. Hey, how about a bubble bath? It’s a lot of fun.”

  Van Diemen hadn’t had a bath since 1799, the year he had become a vampire. It wasn’t that baths were harmful; they just weren’t necessary to him.

  “I don’t know about a bubble bath. Couldn’t we just have a plain bath—you know, with soap?”

  “You can have anything you want, William. I’ll run the bath and holler when it’s ready. Why don’t you have another drink while you’re waiting? You can wear one of my robes. You’ll find one in the bedroom closet.

  Van Diemen made a stiff drink. Was he dreaming? He pinched his thigh. No, he wasn’t dreaming. This was happening to him—really it was. The alcohol was getting to him. He finished his drink in a couple of gulps and went to the bedroom closet to find a robe.

  “Bath’s ready,” Maggie Connors called out.<
br />
  “I’m coming,” Van Diemen said, and he wondered if Vlad Dracul would believe what had become of him.

  Who is Pyotyr Kurtinski?

  Peter J. McCurtin was born in Ireland on 15 October 1929, and immigrated to America when he was in his early twenties. Records also confirm that, in 1958, McCurtin co-edited the short-lived (one issue) New York Review with William Atkins. By the early 1960s, he was co-owner of a bookstore in Ogunquit, Maine, and often spent his summers there. Additionally, McCurtin and his second wife shared their home in Ogunquit with a dog that also happened to be part wolf.

  McCurtin’s first book, Mafioso (1970) was nominated for the prestigious Mystery Writers of America Edgar Award, and filmed in 1973 as The Boss, with Henry Silva. More books in the same vein quickly followed, including Cosa Nostra (1971), Omerta (1972), The Syndicate (1972) and Escape From Devil’s Island (1972). 1970 also saw the publication of his first “Carmody” western, Hangtown.

  Carmody is, on the surface at least, just another trail-wise adventurer. Sometimes he is presented as an outlaw, sometimes as a gun-for-hire. Whatever his current occupation, however, Carmody’s eye is always on the main chance, as McCurtin’s tough, spare narrative frequently makes plain.

  Carmody’s exploits set the tone for most of the westerns McCurtin was to write over the next two decades. His view of the frontier is harsh and unforgiving, a place where a man with any sense looks to his own safety, and to hell with everyone else. McCurtin’s westerns are fast, violent and chauvinistic, but the violence and sex are seldom overtly explicit. McCurtin further distances his protagonist from other stock western anti-heroes by recounting the series in the kind of hard-boiled first-person style normally associated with the private-eye genre.

  McCurtin’s editor at Leisure Books remembers that he was “a terrific, fluent, natural writer of action, and a solid researcher for his westerns and mysteries. Leisure did not, in my time (1979-1981), let anyone else write under Peter’s name, but Peter wrote under other names in addition to his own byline. He was a real workhorse with, unfortunately, an alcohol problem (like so many), and without question the very best writer that Leisure was publishing at the time. Perhaps he could have been better and more prolific under better circumstances.” For a while, McCurtin himself also worked as an editor at Leisure Books.