Dan Simmons - Hardcase

Arlene Demarco picked him up at the bus station. They drove north to the Thruway and then west in silence.

"Well," Arlene said at last, "you look older, Joe."

"I am older."

About twelve miles farther west, Arlene said abruptly, "Hey… welcome to the Twenty-first Century."

"It arrived inside, too," said Kurtz.

"How could you tell?"

"Good point," said Kurtz and they were silent for another ten miles or so.

Arlene ran her window down and lit a cigarette, batting the ashes out into the brisk autumn air.

"I thought your husband doesn't like it when you smoke."

"Alan died six years ago."

Kurtz nodded and watched the fields go by.

"I guess I could have come to visit you once or twice in eleven years," said Arlene. "Keep you up to speed on things."

Kurtz turned to look at her. "Why? No percentage in that."

Arlene shrugged. "Obviously, I found your message on the machine. But why you thought I'd pick you up after all these years…"

"No problem if you didn't," said Kurtz. "The buses still run between Batavia and Buffalo."

Arlene smoked the rest of her cigarette, then tossed it out the window. "Rachel, Sam's little girl—"

"I know."

"Well, her ex-husband got custody, and he still lives in Lockport. I thought you'd want to—"

"I know where he lives," said Kurtz. "Attica has computers and phone books."

Arlene nodded and concentrated on driving.

"You're working with some legal outfit in Cheektowaga?"

"Yeah. Actually, it's three law offices in what used to be a Kwik-Mart in a shopping center. Two of the firms are ambulance chasers, and the third one is just a capper mill."

"Does that make you a full-fledged legal secretary?"

Arlene shrugged again. "Mostly I do word processing, spend a lot of time on the phone tracking down the claimants, and look up the occasional legal crapola on the Net. The so-called lawyers are too cheap to buy any law books or DVDs."

"You enjoy it?" asked Kurtz.

She ignored the question.

"They pay you what?" said Kurtz. "Two thousand or so a month?"

"More than that," said Arlene.

"Well, I'll add five hundred to whatever they're paying you."

She snorted a laugh. "To do what?"

"Same thing you used to do. Just more of it on computers."

"There some miracle going to happen to get you your P.I. license back, Joe? You have three thousand bucks a month set aside to pay me?"

"You don't have to be a licensed P.I. to do investigations. Let me worry about paying you. You know that if I say I will, I will. You think we can get an office near the old place on East Chippewa?"

Arlene laughed again. "East Chippewa's gotten all gentrified. You wouldn't recognize the place. Uptight little boutiques, delis with outside seating, wine and cheese shops. Rent has gone ballistic there."

"Jesus," said Kurtz. "Well, office space near the downtown will do. Hell, a basement would do as long as it has several phone lines and electricity."

Arlene exited the Thruway, paid the toll, and headed south. "Where do you want to go today?"

"A Motel 6 or someplace cheap in Cheektowaga would work."

"Why Cheektowaga?"

"I'm going to have to borrow your car tomorrow morning, and I thought it might be more convenient for you to pick me up on the way to your job. You can give them notice tomorrow morning and pack your stuff, I'll pick you up in the early afternoon, and we can look for the new office."

Arlene lit another cigarette. "You're so considerate, Joe."

Kurtz nodded.

Orchard Park was an upscale area out near the Bills' Stadium. Arlene's car—although just a basic Buick—had one of those GPS navigational LCD-screen doohickies set in the dash, but Kurtz never turned it on. He had memorized the route and had an old road map if he needed it. He wondered just what in the hell had happened to people's sense of direction in the last decade if they needed all this electronic shit just to find their way around.

Most of the homes in Orchard Park were upper-middle-class or better, but a few were real mansions, set behind stone walls and iron gates. Kurtz turned into one of these, gave his name to a speaker grille, and was told to wait. A video camera mounted on a pillar by the gate had ceased its slow arcs and now stared down at him. Kurtz ignored it.

The gate opened and three bodybuilder types in blue blazers and gray slacks came out.

"You can leave the car here," said the smoothest-looking of the three. He gestured for Kurtz to get out of the car.

They frisked him well—even checking his groin area carefully—and then had him unbutton his shirt so that they could see that he wasn't wearing a wire. Then they gestured him onto the back bench of a golf cart and drove him up the long, curving driveway to the house.

Kurtz did not pay much attention to the house. It was your basic brick mansion, a little heavier on security than usual. There was a four-car garage set back to one side, but a Jaguar, a Mercedes, a Honda S2000, and a Cadillac were lined up along the drive. The blueblazered driver stopped the cart, and the other two men led Kurtz around back to the pool area.

Even though it was October, the pool was still filled and free of leaves. An older man in a paisley robe sat at a poolside table along with a balding middle-aged man in a gray suit. They were drinking coffee from fragile china cups. The bald man refilled the cups from a silver pot as Kurtz and his minders walked up. A fourth bodyguard, this one wearing tight slacks and a polo shirt under his blue blazer, stood with his hands folded over his crotch a few paces behind the old man. "Sit down, Mr. Kurtz," said the old man. "You'll forgive me if I don't get up. An old injury." Kurtz sat.

"Coffee?" said the old man. "Sure."

The bald man poured, but it was obvious that he was no lackey. An expensive metal briefcase lay on the table near him.

"I am Byron Tatrick Farino," said the old man.

"I know who you are," said Kurtz.

The old man smiled slightly. "Do you have a first name, Mr. Kurtz?"

"Are we going to be on a first-name basis, Byron?"

The smile faded.

"Watch your mouth, Kurtz," said the bald man.

"Shut up, consigliere ." Kurtz's eyes never left the old man. "This meeting's between Mr. Farino and me."

"Quite right," said Farino. "But you understand that the meeting is a courtesy and that it would not be taking place at all if you had not… ah… provided a service to us with regard to my son."

"By keeping Little Skag from being raped up the ass in the showers by Ali and his gang," said Kurtz. "Yeah. You're welcome. But this meeting is business."

"You want compensation for helping young Stephen?" said the lawyer. He clicked open the briefcase.

Kurtz shook his head. He was still looking at Farino. "Maybe Skag told you what I had to offer."

Farino sipped his coffee. The old man's hands were almost as translucent as the expensive china. "Yes, Stephen sent word via his lawyer that you wanted to offer your services. But what services can you possibly provide us that we do not already have, Mr. Kurtz?"

"Investigations."

Farino nodded but the lawyer showed an unpleasant smile. "You were a private investigator once, Kurtz, but you'll never have a license again. You're on parole, for chrissakes. Why on earth would you think that we need a killer ex-con washed-up P.I. on our payroll?"

Kurtz turned his gaze on the lawyer. "You're Miles," he said. "Skag talked about you. He said you like young boys and that the older and limper you get, the younger they get."

The lawyer blinked. His left cheek blazed with blood, as if Kurtz had slapped him. "Carl," he said. The goon in the straining polo shirt opened his hands and took a step forward.