Dan Simmons - Hardcase

Sophia said nothing.

"What's being hijacked?" asked Kurtz. "On the trucks they hit?"

"VCRs, DVD players, cigarettes," said Sophia. "The usual penny-ante crap. The New York families are big into bootleg videos and DVDs, and that means they've got thousands of machines to unload. They toss Papa that crumb. The cigarettes are just for old times' sake."

"Untaxed cigarettes can bring in nice money," said Kurtz.

"Not in the quantities that they let our family have," said Sophia. She slid out of bed and walked to the closet. There was a thick robe on one of the leather chairs by the window, but she ignored it, obviously feeling comfortable naked. "You're going to have to get out of here," she said. "It's almost sunrise."

Kurtz nodded and got out of bed.

"My God, you've got a lot of scars," said Sophia Farino.

"Accident prone," said Kurtz. "Where are my clothes?"

"Down the disposal chute," she said. She slid back one of the mirrored doors and took a man's denim shirt, some packaged Jockey shorts, and a pair of corduroy trousers out of a drawer. "Take these," she said. "They should fit you. I'll get some new sneakers and socks for you."

Kurtz tossed the shirt back. "Don't wear these," he said.

"Don't wear what?" she said. "Shirts? Denim shirts?"

"Polo ponies."

"You're shitting me. That's a brand-new two-hundred-dollar shirt."

Kurtz shrugged. "I don't wear company logos. If they want me to advertise for them, they can pay me."

Sophia Farino laughed again and once again Kurtz enjoyed the sound of it. "A man of principle," she said. "Butchered Eddie Falco, crippled ol' Carl, and shot God knows how many others in cold blood, but a man of principle. I love it." She tossed him a cheaper-looking denim shirt. "No ponies, alligators, sheep, Nike swooshes, or anything else on it. Satisfied?"

Kurtz pulled it on. It fit fine. So did the underpants, corduroy slacks, socks, and boat shoes. He didn't think that Sophia had gone shopping ahead of time for him, so he wondered how many men's sizes she kept in stock. Maybe it was like the package of condoms in the shower: Be prepared was evidently this woman's motto. He headed for the front door.

"Hey," she said, finally pulling on the robe and padding along beside him. "It's cold out there."

"Did you throw away my jacket as well?"

"Damned right I did." She opened the foyer closet door and handed him an expensive, insulated leather bomber jacket. "This should fit you."

It did. He unbolted the door.

"Kurtz," she said. "You're still naked." She took a 9mm Sig Sauer from the closet and offered it to him.

Kurtz checked it—the magazine was fully loaded—and then handed it back. "Don't know where it's been," he said.

Sophia smiled. "It's not traceable. Don't you trust me?"

Kurtz twitched a smile and let her keep the pistol. He went out the door, down a private hallway, took the elevator to the ground floor, and went out into the dark past a sleepy but curious front-lobby security guard. When he'd walked a block west, he looked back at the loft building. Her lights were still on, but they flicked out as he watched.

Kurtz's current bolthole was in an old icehouse being renovated into lofts, but it was a mile or so from the already-gentrified area where Sophia Farino had her pied-à-terre. It was not really light yet, but there was a certain brighter grayness to the low clouds that were drizzling on him.

He felt naked without a weapon, and a little woozy. He put that down to not having eaten or drunk anything except the glass of Chivas for the past twenty-four hours rather than because of great sex. Kurtz admitted to himself that he'd had images of sitting around in those soft terry-cloth robes, enjoying a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and steaming hot coffee with Ms. Farino before he headed out into the storm. Getting soft, Joe , he thought. At least the expensive bomber jacket was warm against the icy drizzle.

Kurtz was walking under the I-90 overpass when a memory struck him. He left the sidewalk, climbed the steep concrete gradient, and peered into the low, dark niches where the concrete supports met iron girders. The first two cubbies were empty except for pigeon crap and human shit, but the third held a small skeletal figure that pulled back to the far end of the cluttered hole. As Kurtz's eyes adapted to the dark, he could make out wide white eyes, trembling shoulders, and long, bare, quaking arms emerging from a torn T-shirt. Even in the dim light, he could see the bruises and track marks on those arms. The thin man tried to pull himself farther back from the opening.

"Hey, it's okay, Pruno," said Kurtz. He reached out and patted the arm. It was almost fleshless and colder than some corpses Kurtz had handled. "It's me, Joe Kurtz."

"Joseph?" said the quaking figure. "Really you, Joseph?"

"Yeah."

"When'd you get out?"

"Just a while ago."

Pruno came farther out and tried to smooth out the flattened cardboard box and stinking blanket he was sitting on. The rest of the niche was filled with bottles and newspapers that the man obviously had been using for insulation.

"Where the hell's your sleeping bag, Pruno?"

"Somebody stole it, Joseph. Just a couple nights ago. I think… it wasn't long ago. Just when it was turning cold."

"You should go to the shelter, man."

Pruno lifted one of the bottles of wine and offered it. Kurtz shook his head. "Shelter's getting meaner every year," said the wino and junkie. "Work for sleep's the motto now."

"Working's better than freezing to death," said Kurtz.

Pruno shrugged. "I'll find a better blanket when one of the old street guys dies. 'Round about first snow, probably. So how are the guys in C Block, Joseph?"

"Last year they moved me to D Block," said Kurtz. "But I heard that Billy the C went to L.A. when he got out and is working in the movies out there."

"Acting?"

"Providing set security."

Pruno made a sound that started as a laugh and soon turned into a cough. "Usual protection racket. Those movie guys eat it up. What about you, Joseph? Heard that the Mosque brothers were pronouncing fatwah on you, as if they knew what that meant."

Kurtz shrugged. "Most people know that the D-bros don't have the money for that. I'm not worried. Hey, Pruno—you know anything about some Farino trucks being knocked over?"

The haggard, bearded figure looked up from his bottle. "You working for the Farinos these days, Joseph?"

"Not really. Just doing what I used to do."

"What do you want to know about the trucks?"

"Who's hitting them. When is the next job due?"

Pruno closed his eyes. The light was coming up gray beyond the overpass, and illuminated the filthy, haggard face enough to remind Kurtz of carved wooden statues of Jesus he had seen in Mexico. "I think I heard something about a low-rent type named Doo-Rag and his boys fencing some cigarettes and DVD players after the last truck thing," said Pruno. "No one tells me about crimes in the planning stage."

"Doo-Rag the Blood?" said Kurtz.

"Yes. You know him?"

Kurtz shook his head. "There was a punk in D Block got shanked in the showers supposedly because he owed money to a young Blood named Doo-Rag. Supposedly this Doo-Rag played a season for the NBA."

"Nonsense," said Pruno, emphasizing both syllables. "Closest Doo-Rag got to the NBA was the public courts up at Delaware Park."

"Those are pretty good," said Kurtz. "Would a Blood like Doo-Rag take marching orders from an ex-Crip?"

Pruno coughed again. "Everyone is doing business with everyone these days, Joseph. It's the global economy. You ever see a brochure from any of those top Ivy League—type colleges the last ten years or so?"