by Dan Simmons
"Go on now," said the Boss. "Get going."
"Okay, Boss." The Dodger broke the connection, lifted his pack, slipped the Beretta and its silencer into his specially rigged holster, and left the Harbor Inn by the window and fire escape on the north, where he had dismantled Kurtz's simple alarms.
Twelve miles away, in the mostly Polish and Italian section of the suburb of Cheektowaga, Arlene DeMarco was preparing to head for the closed Niagara Falls shopping mall to pick up the girl named Aysha. It was only ten minutes after ten P.M., but Arlene believed in arriving early for important things.
She took 190 up and around, over Grand Island, across the toll bridge, and hooked left onto the Moses Expessway past the tower of mist declaring the American Falls and right into the city of Niagara Falls. There was almost no traffic this next-to-last night of October. The rain had stopped but Arlene had to use her Buick's wipers to clear her windshield of the spray from the Falls.
Having grown up in Buffalo, Arlene had seen Niagara Falls, New York, go from being a comfortable, kitschy old place reflecting the roadhouses and dowdy tourist hotels of mid-century America to being a heap of rubble resembling Berlin after WWII—almost everything leveled for urban restoration—before finally becoming the convention-center wasteland it was today. If you wanted to see a pretty and classy and up-to-date city of Niagara Falls, you had to cross the Rainbow Bridge to the Canadian side.
But Arlene didn't care about urban planning this night. She drove down Niagara Street to the Rainbow Centre Mall just a block from the double-wasteland of the Information Center and Convention Center, surrounded by their moats of empty parking lots. The Rainbow Centre Mall had a smaller parking area, with just a sprinkling of vehicles in it this Sunday night—cars belonging to the custodial crews and security people, no doubt. But a retaining wall blocked this part of the lot from the view of the street—from the view of any passing police vehicles late on a Sunday night, she realized—and Joe's instructions had been to wait for the girl, Aysha, to be dropped off near the main, north doors of the mall here.
Arlene patted her large purse, checking for the fifth or sixth time that the big Magnum revolver was in there. It was. She'd felt foolish taking it from the office, but Joe had rarely sent her out on tasks like this, and although she vaguely understood this Yemeni girl's connection to recent events, she wasn't at all clear as to what the other factors might be. Arlene just knew that Joe was doing something important tonight if he was sending her to pick up Aysha. So while Arlene wasn't alarmed or unduly nervous, she did have the loaded pistol in her purse, along with a can of Mace, her cell phone, her former and illegally but convincingly updated ID showing her to be a member of the Erie County District Attorney's office—as well as the carry permit for the Magnum. She also had some fresh fruit, two water bottles, a pack of Marlboros, her trusty Bic lighter, a small Yemeni-English dictionary she'd picked up yesterday with some difficulty, a Thermos of coffee, and the better and smaller of the two pairs of binoculars from the office.
Arlene took her time choosing where to wait—she didn't want to be spotted by a mall security patrol and picked up—and finally decided on a spot far back near the Dumpsters, between two old cars that had obviously been parked there all night She settled in, lowered the window, and lit a Marlboro.
It was about twenty minutes later, just about eleven P.M., when the van entered the parking lot, circled once—Arlene slid low in her seat, out of sight—and then parked near the four workers' cars closer to the front door of the silent mall. Because the vehicle was at right angles to Arlene's Buick, she was able to use the binoculars to check it out.
It was a pest control van. On its side was a cartoon of a long-nosed insect gasping and falling in a cartoon cloud of pesticide. The driver had not emerged. His face was in shadow, but Arlene kept the binoculars trained on his silhouette until he leaned forward over the steering wheel to peer at the shopping mall, and for a moment the tall, mall lights illuminated him clearly.
For an instant, Arlene thought that the man's face was wildly tattooed or covered with white streaks and swirls. Then she realized that it was covered with burn scars. He was wearing a baseball cap, but his eyes caught the sodium vapor lamps and seemed to glow orangely, like a cat's.
As Arlene sat there, transfixed, the binoculars steady, the burned man's head suddenly turned her way—swiveling as smoothly as an owl's—and he stared directly at her.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
« ^ »
Kurtz didn't know why he agreed to follow Angelina Farino Ferrara to her home atop Marina Towers.
He told himself that it was because he knew that Detective Paul Kemper might be hunting for him in the next few hours, almost certainly knowing that Rigby King had started her day with Kurtz and wondering now where the hell she was.
He told himself that it was because he really needed Angelina to agree to do what he'd asked for earlier, and it was not time to offend her. His life might depend on her decision.
He told himself that it was because he was hungry.
In the end, he told himself that he was full of shit.
The dinner—perfectly grilled steak, just rare enough, fresh salad with some sort of mustardy dressing, baked potatoes, fresh and crisply prepared green beans, fresh bread, tall glasses of ice water—was fantastic. It didn't even make Kurtz want to throw up again, which was more than he could say about any food he'd had since the previous Wednesday.
Angelina had insisted, and he hadn't resisted, on Kurtz showering, shaving, brushing his teeth, and getting into clean clothes before dinner. The punishingly hot shower—Angelina had installed no fewer than three pounding nozzles in this huge, glass-enclosed guest room shower—made Kurtz ache all the worse, but he almost fell asleep standing there. When he came out of the bathroom naked, he found his old rags gone and the fresh clothes laid out on the bed: an expensive silk, black turtleneck that seemed to weigh nothing, a butter-soft pair of black tweed pants that fit as if someone had tailored them for him, a new belt, clean socks, and black Mephisto boots in his size. There was also a black, uninsulated windshell-parka on the bed; Kurtz tried it on and found that it was made of some soft fabric that didn't crinkle or make any nylon noise when he moved—a factor that might be important in the next few hours.
Kurtz had tossed the windshell back onto the guest bed and gone out to the main room of the penthouse to eat dinner.
"Normally we'd have wine," said Angelina, lighting a candle, "but we're not going to mix that with the pills I'm going to give you when you wake up."
"Wake up?" said Kurtz, glancing at his watch—the only thing other than his wallet that he'd kept.
"You need to sleep a couple of hours before we leave tonight."
"You're going?" said Kurtz. It had been agreed that the Gonzagas and the Farinos would "each contribute two people" to the night's foray, but Kurtz hadn't heard Angelina or the other don specify that they were going.
Now Angelina just raised an eyebrow at Kurtz. Finally, as she was passing the steak, she said, "It wouldn't be much of that promised bonding experience if Toma and I didn't both go, now would it?"
They ate in silence at the polished rosewood table near the freestanding fireplace. Angelina's penthouse filled the entire top story of Marina Towers and there were few viewblocking walls in the central living and dining areas. Over the woman's shoulder, Kurtz could see the lights of ships out in Lake Erie and entering the Niagara River, and behind him, the electric skyline of Buffalo became brighter as the drizzle ended and the clouds lifted. By the time they were finished with dessert—a flaky apple cobbler—Kurtz could see the stars and crescent moon between the scudding clouds.
She led him to a corner on the Lake side where another gas fireplace burned. The chairs and a broad couch here were in a conversation cluster, but Angelina tossed the couch cushions onto the thick carpet behind the couch, pulled a pillow and two blankets from a cupboard, lay one blanket on the broad couch and set
the other on the back. "It's only a little after eight," she said. "You need to get some sleep."
"I don't…" began Kurtz.
"Shut up, Kurtz," she said. Then, more softly, "You don't know what a fucking wreck you are. My life may depend on you tonight, and I can't trust a zombie."
Kurtz looked at the couch doubtfully.
"I'll wake you in plenty of time," said Angelina Farino Ferrara. "Right now I have to take the elevator down one floor and decide which of my merry men gets to go with me on our half-assed expedition tonight."
"What are your criteria?" asked Kurtz. A long, lighted ship moved slowly toward the southwest out on the Lake.
"Smart but not too smart," said Angelina. "Able to kill when he has to, but also able to know when not to. Most of all, expendable." She gestured toward the couch as she walked away. "In other words, I'm looking for another Joe Kurtz."
When she was gone, Kurtz thought for a minute, then took off his new Mephisto boots, set the alarm on his watch, and lay down on the couch for a minute. He wouldn't sleep—a couple of hours would just make him more tired—but it felt good just to lie here for a few minutes and let the pounding in his head back off a bit.
Kurtz woke to Angelina shaking his shoulder. His watch was buzzing but he'd slept through it. He looked at the glowing dial—11:10. Kurtz wasn't sure he'd ever felt so groggy. He tried to focus on the woman, but she was now also wearing all black, and all he could see in the dim firelight was her glowing face.
"Here," she said, offering him a glass of water and two blue pills.
"Don't worry about it. Just take them. I was serious about you needing to be conscious enough to be worth hauling along tonight."
He swallowed the pills, put on his boots, and went into the guest room bathroom to use the facilities and splash water on his face. When he came out, wearing the wind-breaker shell with his cell phone in the pocket—he'd left Gonzaga's at the office—Angelina was holding a 9mm Browning semi-auto.
"Here," she said, handing it to him. "Ten in the magazine, one already up the spout." She handed him two extra clips and an expensive belt holster, its leather the smoothest Kurtz had ever felt.
Kurtz slipped the extra magazines into the windbreaker's pocket and attached the holster on the left side of his belt under the unbuttoned windshell, the Browning's grip backward where he could reach across his body for it. It was his fastest pull.
They drove to the rendezvous site in two SUVs—Angelina driving one and the goomba she'd chosen, a lean, serious-looking bodyguard named Campbell, following in the other. Kurtz had asked for one van or SUV to use as an ambulance if he got Rigby back alive. Or as a hearse if he didn't.
"Shit," said Kurtz. He'd forgotten to call Arlene to tell her to forget the Aysha pickup. Something didn't feel right about that rendezvous, although Kurtz couldn't think what.
Whatever it was, it wasn't worth risking Arlene for. He'd figure out this little puzzle without the Yemeni girl.
It was 11:23 when he rang Arlene's cell phone, and he got a busy signal. That wasn't like her. He kept hitting redial until they reached their destination, a large industrial and storage complex near the tracks less than two miles from Brie County Medical Center. Gonzaga owned the complex and Kurtz had asked for the proximity to the hospital. They'd humored him.
Waiting Gonzaga guards opened no fewer than three gates before the two SUVs drove into the center of the complex—a rain-slickened loading area a hundred yards across, flanked on three sides by the dark factory buildings.
Arlene's line was still busy. "Shit," said Kurtz and put the phone away.
"That's why I like traveling with you, Kurtz," said Angelina. "The conversation."
Toma Gonzaga rolled in next in a black Suburban. He had three of his men with him, but only one—the heavy-lidded but obviously alert bodyguard Kurtz had seen in the limo with Gonzaga—was going on tonight's raid with the don. Kurtz reached through his headache to find the man's name… Bobby. Everyone was wearing black trousers and turtlenecks. It was like some formal event for manosa. People began unloading things from the various SUVs when yet another pair of the big vehicles showed up. These were Baby Doc's men and they had the largest number of crates and metal boxes to unload. Everyone was armed, most with automatic weapons, and the boxes being unloaded from Baby Doc's vehicles were mostly army-stenciled ammunition and weapons containers.
It's beginning to look like some sport-utility commercial from hell here, thought Kurtz. He almost chuckled out loud before he realized that his headache had faded about as far as it was going to, most of his early aches and pains were gone, and he felt great—alive, alert, eager, ready to fly to Neola under his own power and take on the Major and his men with his bare hands if he had to.
I've got to ask Angelina for the recipe for those blue pills, thought Kurtz.
Then, a few minutes before midnight. Baby Doc himself arrived in a Long Ranger helicopter. The thing buzzed in from the north, circled the enclosed compound twice, and set down next to the gaggle of SUVs. Kurtz was astounded at how large the helicopter was—and at how much noise it made. We're supposed to sneak up on the Major and his men in this fucking thing? was his first thought.
Well, this had all been Kurtz's idea. He stepped back with the others as the dark-green Bell Long Ranger settled onto its skids amidst a cyclone of dust and whirling debris. It looked like Baby Doc, in the front right pilot's seat, was the only one aboard. He killed the jet turbines, the howl lowered itself to a whine and became a whisper, the big rotors slowed, and Baby Doc pulled off headphones and a mike, disappeared for a second, and then slid the big side cargo door back and to the side. He gestured impatiently for his men to begin loading some of the boxes.
The interior of the Long Ranger had its six seats pushed aside against the outside bulkheads or fuselage or whatever. The central floor was empty and had been covered with a plastic tarp taped down all around.
I wonder why… Kurtz's thoughts began and then ended with an Oh, yeah. This chopper was a rental, and Baby Doc certainly didn't want to return it with blood and gore everywhere. He'll probably lose his damage deposit, thought Kurtz and had to hold back another snicker.
Baby Doc stood in the doorway and looked at Angelina and Gonzaga. "You folks have anything for me?"
Campbell went back to his SUV and carried a flight bag to the chopper. One of Gonzaga's men did the same thing with a nylon backpack. Baby Doc nodded to one of his men, who opened the bag, counted the three-quarters of a million dollars, nodded to his boss, and carried the bags back to their vehicle. Kurtz wondered idly where even mafia dons found three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars in cash lying around on a Sunday evening.
"Listen up," said Baby Doc. "Here's what you're getting for your money tonight." The Lackawanna longshoreman and mob boss was wearing his old green Army flight suit—the velcroed-on name badge read Lt. Skrzypczyk—and it still fit him after twelve years. He wore a regulation-issue pilot's tan shoulder holster and what looked to be a service .45 tucked in it. Baby Doc began opening the olive green boxes and handing out gear, beginning with canvas shoulder bags to stow the loose crap in.
One of his men pulled automatic weapons from the longest carton—Mp5s Kurtz saw, guessing from the tubular stocks, although his familiarity with Army weaponry started and ended with being qualified on M-16s and sidearms. His weapon of choice as an MP so many years ago was the baton. Baby Doc's man offered one short rifle to each person going on the raid.
"Keep your army toys," said Toma Gonzaga. He and his man, Bobby, held up sawed-off 12-gauge shotguns.
Angelina's bodyguard, Campbell, took an Mp5 for himself and one for his boss, slinging both of them over his shoulder.
"The smaller clips hold thirty rounds, the larger ones a hundred and twenty rounds each," said Baby Doc. "Carry as many as you can stuff into the ditty bag I gave you…"
"Holy Mary, Mother of God," whispered Angelina as the larger banana clips were handed out and stowed. "We're re
ally going to war."
"It seems that way," muttered Toma Gonzaga. The handsome don appeared to be amused.
Kurtz waved off the automatic rifle. If the 9mm Browning and two extra magazines didn't prove adequate for the evening, he was in deeper shit than he could imagine.
Baby Doc's men carried the extra Mp5s back to their SUV and opened another olive-green box and began handing out what appeared to be thick, cylindrical grenades.
"Flash bangs," said Baby Doc, still standing in the chopper's doorway. "They're not going to blow anything up, but they'll blind and deafen anyone in a room for a few seconds. Just remember to roll them in before you go through the door." He gave quick instructions on how to activate and throw the things.
Kurtz stowed three of the flash-bang grenades in his new little ditty bag.
They opened another container and offered flexcuffs.
"Hey," said Toma Gonzaga. "I'm not going down there to arrest these people." Angelina had Campbell grab several. "We'll want someone to talk to us," she said.
Kurtz took several. Baby Doc's men opened another large crate and began handing out black Kevlar vests. Everyone going took one of these.
It's like Christmas morning in downtown Baghdad, thought Kurtz. He set his ditty bag and other gear down, pulled off the windbreaker, and began tugging and velcroing the thin but heavy vest in place around him.
"Here, I'll help," said Angelina's bodyguard, Campbell. The man securely adjusted and fastened the side straps for Kurtz.
"Thanks."
"These aren't military spec," Baby Doc was saying. "But they're up to SWAT specifications. In fact, they were stolen from a SWAT supply house."
When everyone was a little bulkier and warmer and less comfortable, Baby Doc himself unlatched the last metal box. He held up a bulky fistful of optics and straps. "State-of-the-art military night vision. Each pair weighs two-point-two pounds, has digital controls and an infrared mode that you won't want to fuck with. They also have five-times magnification that you also won't want to fuck with."