Dan Simmons - Hardcase

"Please, now," she whispered, her mouth wet and open against his cheek. "Now."

They moved together hard. Kurtz made his right hand a saddle and lifted her higher against the tiles while she wrapped her legs around his hips and leaned back, her hands cusped behind his neck, her arm and thigh muscles straining.

When she came it was with a low moan and a fluttering of eyelids, but also with a spasm that he could feel through the head of his cock, his thighs, and splayed fingers of his supporting hand.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered in a moment, still being held against the tile in the warm spray. Kurtz wondered just how capacious this loft's hot water tank was. After another moment, she kissed him, began moving again, and said, "I didn't feel you come. Don't you want to come?"

"Later," said Kurtz and lifted her slightly. She moaned again when he slid out of her and she cupped his balls while his erection throbbed against her pubic hair.

"My God," she said, smiling now, "you'd think it was me who'd been in jail for a dozen years."

"Eleven and a half," said Kurtz. He turned off the shower and they toweled each other off. The towels were thick and fluffy.

As she rubbed between his legs, she said, "You're still hard as ever. How can you stand it?"

In answer, Kurtz lifted her and carried her into her bedroom.

It was after 5:00 a.m. when they finally separated and lay next to each other on the bed that Kurtz had decided was exactly the size of his former cell.

Sophia lit a cigarette and offered him one. Kurtz shook his head.

"A con who doesn't smoke," she said. "Unheard of."

"Watching TV from the inside," he said, "you get the impression that everyone on the outside has given up smoking and is busy suing the tobacco companies. Guess it ain't so."

"Say it ain't so, Joe," said Sophia. She set a small enamel ashtray on her sheeted belly and flicked ashes. "So, Joe Kurtz," she said, "why did you come to my father with this private-investigation bullshit?"

"It wasn't bullshit. It's what I do."

Sophia exhaled smoke and shook her head. "I mean the offer to find Buell Richardson. You must know as well as I do that he's in Lake Erie or under four feet of loam somewhere."

"Yeah."

"Then why offer to find him and haul him back for a bonus?"

Kurtz rubbed his eyes. He was feeling a bit sleepy. "Seemed like a way to get work."

"A lot of effort you've spent on the job so far. Went to visit Buell's widow—who got herself killed as soon as you left, it sounds like—and crippled our poor, late Carl."

"Late?" Kurtz was surprised. "He's dead?"

"Some complications in the hospital," said Sophia. "What did Skag tell you about the truck hijackings and Richardson's disappearance?"

"Enough to let me know that it's more complicated than it looks," said Kurtz. "Someone's either moving in on your father, or there's something else in play here."

"Any suspects?" asked Sophia, stubbing out her cigarette and looking directly at Kurtz. The sheet had slipped from her breasts and she made no effort to pull it back in place.

"Sure," said Kurtz. "Miles the lawyer, of course. Any of your father's top guys who are getting ambitious."

"All the ambitious ones left since Papa retired."

"Yeah, I know," said Kurtz.

"So that leaves Miles."

"And you."

Sophia did not feign outrage. "Sure. But why would I be pulling this crap when I inherit Papa's money, anyway?"

"Good question," said Kurtz. "Now it's my turn. You said that you could tell me who's setting me up for a hit."

Sophia shook her head. "I don't know for sure, but if Miles is involved, you might watch out for a guy named Malcolm Kibunte and a scary white friend of his."

"Malcolm Kibunte," Kurtz repeated. "Don't know him. Description?"

"Former Crip from Philadelphia. Big, black, mean as a snake-bit Mormon. Early thirties. Shaves his head, but wears one of those little major-league-pitcher goatees. Wears black leather and lots of jewelry. Has a diamond stud in his front tooth. I've seen him only once. I don't think Leonard Miles knows that I know about their contacts."

"I won't ask how you know," said Kurtz.

Sophia lit another cigarette, took a long drag and exhaled smoke and said nothing.

"What's our Malcolm friend into?" said Kurtz.

"He left Philly one step ahead of a murder rap," said Sophia. "Not for the Crips, though. Popped a cap on a fellow Crip for one of the Colombian rings down there. Malcolm was into moving coke big time. Then he began specializing on eliminating competitors."

"Served time?" said Kurtz.

"Nothing serious. Aggravated assault. Illegal possession of a weapon. Killed his first wife—strangled her."

"That must have cost him some time."

"Not much. Miles represented him and got him two years on a psychiatric thing. I think that's why Miles thinks that Kibunte is on a leash. I wouldn't bet my life on it if I were Miles."

"And what about this white friend of his?"

Sophia shook her head. Her curly hair was dry and curlier than ever. "Haven't seen him. Don't have a name. Supposed to be real white—almost albino—and good with a blade."

"Ahh," said Kurtz.

"Ah, indeed." Sophia sighed. "If Papa were still in charge of things in Buffalo, these two would have been swatted like flies as soon as they showed up in town. But I doubt if Papa has even heard of them."

"Why exactly did your father get squeezed out of the local action?"

Sophia sighed. "Did Skag tell you about the shooting?"

"Just the fact of it, not the details."

"Well, it's simple enough," said Sophia. "About eight years ago, Papa and two of his bodyguards were driving back from a restaurant down in Boston Hills when a couple of cars tried to block them in. Papa's driver was well trained, of course, and the glass was bulletproof, but when the driver was backing out of the trap they'd set, one of the shooters used a shotgun on the driver's-side window, shattered it, and then sprayed the inside with automatic weapons' fire. Papa was just scratched, but both his men were killed."

She paused and flicked ashes into the enamel ashtray.

"So Papa crawled over the seat, took the wheel, and drove that Caddy out of there himself," she continued, "returning fire with Lester's—the driver's—nine-millimeter. He got at least one of the shooters."

"Were they white or black?" asked Kurtz.

"White," said Sophia. "Anyway, Papa would have gotten away all right, but someone used a.357 Magnum to fire through the trunk of the Caddy. The damned slug went through the rear end, the spare tire, both seats, and ended up in Papa's back, a quarter of an inch from his spine. And that trunk was armored ."

"Did Don Farino figure out who'd put the hit on him?"

Sophia shrugged. Her nipples were a delicate brown. "A lot of inquiries, a few suspects, but no confirmation. It was probably the Gonzagas."

"They're the only other Italian mob with action in western New York, right?" said Kurtz.

Sophia frowned. "We don't call them 'Italian mob. "

"Okay," said Kurtz. "The Gonzagas are the only other guinea gangsters licensed to do business in this end of the state, right?"

"Right."

"And it's been about six years since what's left of the Farinos had any real clout?"

"Yes," she said. "Things went downhill after Papa was crippled."

Kurtz nodded. "Your oldest brother, David, tried to keep the family in the action until the mid-90's. Then he killed himself in a car accident while coked to the eyes, and your older sister took off for a nunnery in Italy."

Sophia nodded.

"And then Little Skag fucked things up for a while until the other families decided it was time for your father to retire," said Kurtz. "Little Skag gets high and attacks his Brazilian girlfriend with a shovel, and here you are, alone in that big house with Papa."