Dan Simmons: Hardcase

"Not on the Kimber. Like I said, custom-made."

"I've never owned a custom weapon," said Kurtz, putting the 1911-style pistol in his waistband and drawing it a few times.

"McCormick low-profile combat sights," said Doc.

"Catches cloth or leather," said Kurtz. "They should use ramp sights on all these fighting guns."

Doc shrugged. "You won't find many of those."

"I prefer double-actions."

"Yeah," said Doc. "I remember that you used to carry cocked and locked. But the Kimber has a sweet trigger pull."

Kurtz dry-fired the weapon several times and nodded. "How much?"

"It cost $675 new just a couple of years ago."

"That's what the little old lady from Tonawanda would've paid," said Kurtz. "How much?"

"Four hundred."

Kurtz nodded. "I'll need to fire some rounds."

"That's what the slag heap down there is for," said Doc. "I got some paper targets in back. I'll throw in a few boxes of Black Hills 185-grain."

Kurtz shook his head. "I'll be using 230-grain."

"Got those, too," said Doc.

"I'll need some leather."

"I got a CYA small-of-the-back. Used, but just nicely broken in. Clean. Twenty bucks."

"Okay," said Kurtz.

"Good. So you've got your home-defense weapon. What do you want to see in the concealed-carry revolver line? Interested in an AirLite Ti?"

"Titanium?" said Kurtz. "Hell, no. I didn't get so old and weak on vacation that I can't lift a pound or two of blue steel."

"Don't look like you did," Doc said and opened a cardboard box. "Can't get much more basic than this, Kurtz. S&W Model 36 Special."

Kurtz checked the heft, inspected the five empty chambers, held the barrel to the light, flipped shut the cylinder and dry-fired it. "How much?"

"Two hundred and fifty."

"Throw the semiauto holster in that."

Doc nodded.

"If I can put five into a three-inch circle at fifty feet with this, it's a deal," said Kurtz.

"Going deer hunting?" Doc said dryly. "You'll need a sandbag rest at that distance. Barrel under two inches, generally the best plan is to sneak up on the deer and shove the Special against its belly before pulling the trigger."

"I noticed a few sandbags down there."

"Speaking of deer hunting," said Doc. "You hear that Manny Levine is looking for you?"

"Who's Manny Levine?"

"A psycho. Brother of Sammy Levine."

"Who's Sammy Levine?"

" Was ," said Doc. "Sammy disappeared about eleven-and-a-half years ago. Word on the street was that you helped him get started in the energy business."

"Energy business?"

"Methane production," said Doc.

"Don't know either of them," said Kurtz. "But in case this Manny comes calling, what does he look like?"

"Sort of like Danny DeVito on a bad day. But a much shittier disposition. Carries a.44 Magnum Ruger Redhawk and likes to use it."

"That's a lot of gun for a short fat man," said Kurtz. "Thanks for the heads-up."

Doc shrugged again. "Need anything else tonight?"

"Sap," said Kurtz.

"Regular, ballistic cloth, or leather?"

It was after midnight when Kurtz drove back to Cheektowaga with the.45 holstered in the small of his back, the.38 in his left jacket pocket, and the two-pound sap in his right jacket pocket. He stayed at or under the speed limit all the way back. It would be embarrassing to be stopped by a cop and his license was eight years out of date.

He had just pulled into the Motel 6 when he noticed the sports car parked far from the light, its cloth top up. A red Honda S2000. It could be Coincidence, except Kurtz did not believe in coincidence. He made a quick U-turn and drove back out onto the boulevard.

The S2000 switched on its lights and accelerated hard to follow.

Kurtz drove about three miles before deciding that whoever was behind the wheel of the Honda was a fucking idiot. The driver hung so far back that several times Kurtz had to slow down after stoplights or turns to let him catch up.

Kurtz drove away from the lights, down a county road he remembered from the old days. The urban sprawl hadn't stretched this far and the road was empty of traffic. Kurtz accelerated until the sports car had to rush to keep up and was only forty or fifty feet behind him, and then he swerved off on a paved turnout, braking hard, swinging the protesting Buick into a clean 180-degree skidding turn. His headlights illuminated the S2000 as it came to a stop twenty feet away. Only the driver's head was visible.

Kurtz scrambled out, crouched behind the driver's-side door of the Buick, and pulled out the.45 Kimber.

A huge man stepped out of the sports car. His hands were empty.

"Kurtz, you asshole. Come out of there, goddamn you."

Kurtz sighed, slid the.45 into its holster, and stepped out into the headlights' glare. "You don't want to do this, Carl."

"The fuck I don't," said the big Farino-family bodyguard.

"Who sent you?"

"Nobody sent me, asshole."

"Then you're dumber than you look," said Kurtz. "If that's possible."

Carl stepped closer. He was wearing the same tight pants and polo shirt as before, without the blazer, showing his pecs despite the chilly night air. "I'm not packing heat, cocksucker," he said.

"Okay," said Kurtz.

"Let's settle this—" said the bodybuilder.

"Settle what?"

"— man to man," said Carl, finishing his thought.

"We're one man short," said Kurtz. He glanced at his watch. The road remained empty.

"Huh?" Carl frowned.

"One thing before going mano a mano ," said Kurtz. "How'd you find me?"

"Followed you when you left Mr. Farino's."

Christ, I'm slipping! thought Kurtz with the first alarm he had felt since identifying the hulking bodyguard in the sports car.

Carl took another step closer. "No one calls me a bitch," he said, extending the muscles in his powerful forearms and flexing his huge hands.

"Really?" said Kurtz. "I thought you'd be used to it."

Carl lunged.

Kurtz sidestepped him and sapped him over his left ear. Carl went face first onto the Buick bumper and then again onto the asphalt. Kurtz heard teeth snapping off on both impacts. Kurtz walked over and kicked him in the ass. Carl did not stir.

Kurtz went back to the Buick to switch off its lights, then did the same with the sports car, shutting off its engine, locking the doors, and tossing the keys into the woods. Grunting slightly, he dragged Carl around to the left rear of the Buick and kicked his legs into line just in front of the left rear wheel.

Then Kurtz got back in Arlene's car, made sure no one was coming, tuned the radio to an all-night blues station, and drove away, switching on the lights once he was on the highway, heading back to the Motel 6 to check out.

"Of all the unbelievable nerve," said Attorney Leonard Miles. "Of all the unmitigated gall."

"Incredible balls, you mean," said Don Farino.

"Whatever," said Miles.

There were three of them in the huge solarium, not counting the mynah bird who was carrying on his own raucous conversation in his cage amidst the riot of green plants. Farino was in his wheelchair, but as was his custom when in the wheelchair, he was dressed in a suit and tie. His twenty-eight-year-old daughter Sophia sat on the green, silk-upholstered settee under the palm fronds. Miles was pacing back and forth.

"Which part do you think took the nerve," asked Sophia, "crippling Carl or calling us last night to tell us about it?"

"Both," said Miles. He stopped pacing and crossed his arms. "But especially the call. Absolute arrogance."

"I heard the tape of the call," said Sophia. "He didn't sound arrogant. He sounded like someone phoning to let you know that your dry cleaning is ready for pickup."