Dan Simmons - Hardcase

Kurtz turned off the radio, stopped at a roadside rest stop, and left the army jacket draped on a bench at a picnic table. If he'd owned a cell phone, he would have called Arlene and told her to get rid of the night-vision goggles. Kurtz had considered using the goggles as a calling card for Malcolm, but now he just wanted to lose them. He made a mental note to take care of that later.

He drove on to Attica. The little town did not seem familiar to him, and the outside of the State Correctional Facility did not make him feel he was coming home; he had almost never seen the town and exterior of the prison during his years there.

It was Wednesday—visiting day. Kurtz knew that it expedited things to have prearranged the visit, but he filled out the forms, waited more than an hour, and then walked down familiar monkey-puke-green echoing corridors through metal detectors and sliding doors, and then was waved to an empty seat on the visitor side of the thick Plexiglas partition. This made his skin prickle a bit, since he had been in this room a few times.

Little Skag came in on the opposite side, saw Kurtz, and almost walked back out. Reluctantly, sullenly, the short, skinny inmate dropped onto his stool and lifted the phone off the hook. The orange jumpsuit made Little Skag's blemished skin seem almost orange in the sick light.

"Kurtz, what the fuck do you want?"

"Hello to you, too, Skag."

"Steve," said Little Skag. His long white fingers were chewed red and raw around the nails. His hands were trembling. He leaned closer and whispered fiercely into the phone. "What the fuck do you want?"

Kurtz smiled as if he were a friend or family member on his monthly visit. "One million dollars in a numbered Cayman account," he said softly.

Little Skag began blinking uncontrollably. He held the phone in both hands. "Have you gone fucking crazy on the outside? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Kurtz waited.

"Anything else you want, Kurtz? Want to fuck my baby sister?"

"Been there, done that," said Kurtz. "But after you agree to set up the Cayman account through your private lawyer, I do need a phone number."

Little Skag's lips were almost as white as his fingers. Eventually he was able to whisper, "Whose?"

Kurtz told him.

Little Skag dropped the phone and ran his spidery fingers through his greasy hair, squeezing his skull as if trying to drive out demons.

Kurtz waited. Eventually, Little Skag picked up the phone. The two looked at each other in silence for a long moment. Kurtz glanced at his watch. Five more minutes of his visiting time.

"If I gave you that fucking number," whispered Little Skag, "I'd be dead in a month. I couldn't even hide in solitary confinement."

Kurtz nodded. "If you don't give me the number now and make arrangements to set up that account, you'll spend the rest of your life in here. You still Billy Joe Krepp's punk?"

Little Skag winced and his hands trembled more fiercely, but he tried to bluster. "There's no way in fucking hell, man, that I'm going to transfer that kind of money to you—"

"I didn't say it was for me," said Kurtz. He explained, speaking softly but quickly. When he was finished, he said, "And you'll need to use your lawyer's back channels to get in touch with the heads of the other New York families. If they don't understand what's going down, this won't work."

Little Skag stared at him. "Why should I trust you, Kurtz?"

"Skag, I'm the only person in the world right now with a vested interest in you surviving and getting out of here," Kurtz said softly. "If you don't believe me, you could call your father or sister or your consigliere for help."

Driving back to Buffalo, Kurtz took a detour north to Lockport. The house on Lilly Street looked quiet and locked up, but it was about the time that schools let out, so Kurtz parked across the street and waited. It was trying to snow.

About 4:00 p.m., just as daylight was beginning to ebb, Rachel walked down the street alone. Kurtz had not seen a picture of the girl in years, but he could not mistake her. Rachel had her mother's fair skin and red hair and thin, graceful build. She even walked like her mother. She was alone.

Kurtz watched as the girl went through the gate of the picket fence, fetched the mail from the box, and then reached into her school backpack for a key. A minute after she had entered the house, a light went on in the kitchen on the north side. Kurtz could not see Rachel through the shutters, but he could feel her presence in there.

After another moment, he shifted Arlene's car into gear and drove slowly away.

Kurtz had been very careful to make sure that he had not been followed on his trip out to Attica and back, but he had not been paying attention here in Lockport. He did not notice the black Lincoln Town Car with the tinted windows parked half a block south. He did not see the man behind the tinted glass or notice that the man was watching him through binoculars. The black Lincoln did not follow Kurtz when he drove away, but the man watched through the binoculars until he was out of sight.

"Do I get my car back now?" asked Arlene.

"Not quite yet," said Kurtz. "But I'll drive you home and return it later tonight."

Arlene mumbled something. Then she said, "Pearl Wilson returned your call. She said that she'll meet you at the Blue Franklin parking lot at 6:00."

"Damn," said Kurtz. "I didn't want to meet with her, just talk to her."

Arlene shrugged, shut off her computer, and walked to the coat hook on the wall. Kurtz noticed a second topcoat there. "What's that?" he said.

Arlene tossed it to him. Kurtz tried it on. It was long, wool, a charcoal gray, with large pockets inside and out. He liked it. The smell told him that its previous owner had been a smoker.

"Since I had to eat lunch around here, I dropped into the Thrift Store down the block," said Arlene. "That army jacket—wherever it went—just wasn't you."

"Thanks," said Kurtz. "Which reminds me, we have to stop by an ATM on the way to your place. Get about five hundred in cash."

"Oh, you opened an account, Joe?"

"Nope." Before they shut off the lights and went out to the car, Kurtz dialed Doc's number. He wasn't sure how he was going to get to Malcolm Kibunte yet, but he knew that once he did, he'd need more than the short-barreled.38.

Doc's answering machine came on the line with the inevitable "I'm sleeping, leave a message," and the beep.

"Doc, this is Joe. Thought I might drop by later to talk about the Bills." Kurtz hung up. That was enough to let Doc know to leave the steel-mill gate open for him.

Pearl Wilson drove a beautiful dove-gray Infiniti Q45. Kurtz got out of the Buick, blinked against the blowing snow, and got in the passenger side of the Infiniti. The new vehicle smelled of leather and long-chain polymer molecules and of Pearl's subtle perfume. She was wearing a soft, expensive dress of the same dove-gray as the car.

"Seneca Social Club," she said, shifting sideways in the driver's seat. "Joe, honey, what on earth are you thinking about?"

"I just knew that you used to sing there years ago," said Kurtz. "I was just curious about the place. We didn't have to meet in person."

"Uh-uh." Pearl shook her head. "You're never just curious , Joe, honey. And you really don't want to be messing with the Seneca Social Club these days."

Kurtz waited.

"So after you called," she continued, her voice that husky mix of smoke and whiskey and cat purr which never ceased to amaze Kurtz, "I went back down to the Seneca Social Club to look around."

"Goddamn it, Pearl," said Kurtz. "All I wanted from you was an idea about—"

"Don't you dare curse at me," said Pearl, her rich, soft voice shifting to ice and edges.