Dan Simmons - Hardcase

"And have you determined who set you up for this?" asked Farino.

"It's been suggested that it was a mook named Malcolm Kibunte who sometimes works for your lawyer, Miles. Do you know this Kibunte or the knife-man he hangs with? Cutter?"

Farino shook his head. "One is not able to keep track of all the black trash that comes through town these days. I presume these two are black."

"Malcolm is," said Kurtz. "Cutter's described as albino-like."

"And who told you about the shank job and suggested these names to you, Mr. Kurtz?" Farino's eyes were rapt.

"Your daughter."

Farino blinked. "My daughter? You've spoken to Sophia?"

"I've more than spoken to her," said Kurtz. "She bailed me out of jail before I went to County, and then took me home with her and tried to fuck me to death."

Don Farino's thin lips pulled back from his teeth and his fingers clenched on his knees under the robe. "Be careful, Mr. Kurtz. You speak too candidly."

Kurtz shrugged. "You're paying me for the facts. That was the setup we agreed to through Little Skag before I got out—I'd be point man and Judas goat for you and flush out whoever's betraying you. It was your daughter who acted—both in the bailing and fucking departments—I'm just reporting."

"Sophia has always been strong-willed and… of questionable judgment in her sexual choices," said Farino.

Kurtz shrugged again. He didn't give a damn about the fact or the insult behind it.

"Sophia told you about the connection between Miles and these two killers?" Farino said softly. "Suggesting that she believes Miles is behind everything?"

"Yep. But that doesn't mean she's telling the truth. She could be running both Miles and Malcolm and his knife-freak buddy."

"But you said that she was the one who bailed you out and warned you about the yard contract on you, Mr. Kurtz."

"She bailed me out. I have to take her word for the yard shank at County."

"And why would she go to all that trouble and lie?" asked Farino.

"To check me out," suggested Kurtz. "To find out what I'm really up to and how much I know. To put herself above suspicion." Kurtz looked out the tinted windows. The alley was very dark. "Mr. Farino, Sophia met bail, took me home, and almost threw me into the sack. Maybe she's just a tramp, like you say, but I don't believe it was my magnetic personality that made her go out of her way to seduce me."

"I doubt that you required much seducing, Mr. Kurtz."

"That's not the point," said Kurtz. "The point is that you know how intelligent she is—hell, that's why you're afraid she might be behind Richardson's disappearance and the truck hijackings—so you see why it makes more sense that there's a motive behind her actions."

"But Sophia is in line to inherit my wealth and much of the legitimate family business," said the don, looking at his clenched hands.

"That's what she said," said Kurtz. "Do you know any reasons why she would want to hurry the process along?"

Don Farino turned his face away. "Sophia has always been… impatient. And she would like to be Don."

Kurtz laughed. "Women can't be dons."

"Perhaps Sophia does not accept that," said Farino with a thin smile.

"You're not quite as busy circling the drain or as out of the loop as everyone thinks, are you?" said Kurtz.

Farino looked back at Kurtz, and there was something almost demonic in the old man's gaze. "No, Mr. Kurtz. I am paralyzed from the waist down and temporarily—how did you put it? Out of the loop. But I am nowhere near circling the drain. And I have no intention of staying out of the loop."

Kurtz nodded. "Maybe your daughter just doesn't want to wait around like Prince Charles for five or six decades and is ready to help the succession along a little bit. What's the fancy name for whacking the Old Man—patricide?"

"You are a crude man, Mr. Kurtz." Farino smiled again. "But there has been no discussion of whacking to this point. I hired you to find out what is going on with Richardson's disappearance and the truck hijackings."

Kurtz shook his head. "You hired me to be a target so you could find out who the shooter is so as to protect your own ass, Farino. Why did you kill Carl?"

"Pardon me?"

"You heard me. Sophia said Carl 'died of complications. Why did you put a hit on him?"

"Carl was a fool, Mr. Kurtz."

"No argument there, but why whack him? Why not just cut him loose?"

"He knew too much about the family."

"Bullshit," said Kurtz. "The average cub reporter at the Buffalo Evening News knows more about the workings of your mob family than dear, departed, dipshit Carl could've ever figured out. Why did you have him whacked?"

Farino was silent for several moments. Kurtz listened to the heavy engine idle. One of the bodyguards lit a cigarette, and the match flare was a small circle of diffused light in the black alley.

"I wanted to put her in touch with a certain… technician," Farino said at last.

"A hit man," said Kurtz. "Someone from outside the family."

"Yes."

"Someone outside the Mafia?"

Farino showed an expression of distaste, as if Kurtz had farted in his expensive limousine. "Someone from outside the organizational structure, yes."

Kurtz chuckled. "You sonofabitch. You wanted Sophia to spend time with this hit man just to see if she'd hire him to kill me. Ol' Carl died just so you'd have a reason for this operator and your little girl to chat."

Farino said nothing.

"Did she?" said Kurtz. "Hire him to kill me?"

"No."

"What's this technician's name?"

"Since he was not hired, his name is of no concern."

"It is to me," said Kurtz, and there was an undertone to his voice. "I want to know all the players." He touched the.38 in his belt.

Farino smiled, as if the idea of Kurtz's shooting him and getting away alive were amusing. Then the smile faded as the don considered the fact that Kurtz might do the former without worrying about the latter. "No one knows this man's name," he said.

Kurtz waited.

"He's known as the Dane," Farino said after another long silence.

"Holy shit," breathed Kurtz.

"You've heard of him?" Farino's smile was back.

"Who hasn't? The Kennedy mob connections in the seventies. Jimmy Hoffa. There are rumors that the Dane was behind that lovely underpass hit in Paris, where he used just the little car, no weapon."

"There are always rumors," agreed Farino. "Aren't you going to ask for a description of the Dane?"

It was Kurtz's turn to smile. "From what I hear, it wouldn't do a damn bit of good. This guy is supposed to be better at disguises than the Jackal at the height of his powers. The only good news is that if Sophia had hired him, I'd know it because I'd be dead already."

"Yes," said Farino. "So what is our next step, Mr. Kurtz?"

"Well, tonight's your truck delivery from the Vancouver source. If it's hit, we'll go from there. I'll make myself obvious in investigating it. If Kibunte is involved—whoever's involved—it makes sense for them to come after me next."

"Good luck, Mr. Kurtz."

Kurtz opened the door and the bodyguard held it for him. "Why wish me that?" Kurtz said to Farino. "Whether I have luck or not, you get the information you need. And if I'm dead, you keep the fifty thousand we agreed to."

"Quite true," said the don. "But I may have a future use for you, and the fifty thousand is a small amount to pay for peace of mind."

"I wouldn't know," said Kurtz and stepped out into the alley.

Old mob guys who never quite became made men don't die, they just end up as truck drivers for the mob. Charlie Scruggs and Oliver Battaglia had both been low-level button men back during the Genovese era, but now, in their golden retirement years, were driving this goddamn truck all the way from Vancouver to Buffalo. Charlie was sixty-nine years old and stout and leathery, with a face full of burst blood vessels; he still wore his Teamsters cap everywhere and proudly told everyone of the week he spent as personal driver and bodyguard to Jimmy Hoffa. He had the constitution of a healthy pit bull. Oliver was tall, thin, saturnine, a chain-smoker, only sixty-two but sick much of the time, and—Charlie Scruggs now knew after eight of these damned Vancouver-Buffalo runs—an absolute pain in the ass.