Dan Simmons - Hard as Nails

Essentially, he was in a lousy mood. He considered going to a titty bar, but it was the night before his birthday night and he wanted to save the excitement, let it build.

So as the evening began to darken in the rain and the streetlights were coming on and the light Sunday traffic had all but disappeared, the Dodger drove south of downtown, under the elevated interstate, across the narrow bridge onto the island, through the empty area of grain elevators where the air smelled of burned Cheerios, then south to where the triangular intersection of Ohio and Chicago Streets ended with the abandoned Harbor Inn—the P.I.'s hideaway, the little love nest where the Dodger had watched and waited all of last night for Kurtz and the Farino woman.

Odds were that the Major had terminated this minor irritation this afternoon, but if not, if the P.I. and his big-boobed girlfriend were back here, then the Dodger was going to do a little freelancing, and if the Boss didn't like it, well… the Boss didn't have to know about it.

The Harbor Inn was dark. The Dodger drove by slowly three times, noting again the almost-but-not-quite-hidden video cameras—one on the rear wall of the triangular building overlooking where Kurtz had parked his Pinto before (the space was empty now), another high above the front door, one under a rain gutter on the Chicago Street side, the last one above the fire escapes on the Ohio Street approach. A lot of security for an abandoned flophouse.

The Dodger parked his truck a block or so from where he'd had to deal with the two black kids. Then he took a small backpack from between the seats, locked the vehicle, and walked back through the rain.

There was a blind spot for the camera covering the front of the Harbor Inn. If he crossed the street from the abandoned gas station just so , and didn't walk more than six feet to either side of a certain line, then the front camera would be blocked by the old metal lighthouse on the sign itself.

Once under the overhang—and presumably not yet on any monitor or videotape—the Dodger ignored the front door since the P.I. would certainly have telltales there. Securing the backpack, the Dodger crouched low, jumped straight up, caught the sharp edge of the old hotel sign over him, swung twice back and forth, his legs kicking higher each time—continuing to keep the metal lighthouse between him and the surveillance camera a floor above—and then swung all the way up, doing a complete flip and coming to rest on top of the sign, with his back to the metal lighthouse.

The old sign structure creaked and groaned, but did not collapse. The rusted lighthouse with "Harbor Inn" painted on it was about seven feet tall, was hollow and was made of cheap metal. The Dodger kept his hands on it while he worked his way around it, under the camera's field of view now, and crouched outside one of the three big windows looking out on the intersection of Chicago and Ohio.

It was dark inside, but the glow of monitors in there showed the Dodger that the room was empty.

He propped the backpack by his knee, removed a suction cup and glass cutter on a compass, cut a six-centimeter hole in the glass, carefully laid the circle of glass on the sign base, returned the equipment to his pack, and listened—no audible alarm sounded—and then reached in, unlatched the old window, and shoved it up. The ancient sash groaned and protested, but the window slowly rose.

The Dodger—as agile as Spiderman—swung in and pulled the backpack in after him. He hoisted the pack to his back again, carefully lowered the window, held the silenced 9-millimeter Beretta in his hand, and moved into the darkness to find or wait for Mr. Kurtz, the elusive P.I.

Kurtz wanted nothing so much as to stop by his place, get out of his wet and ruined clothes, take a hot shower, change the bandage on his head, find some clean clothes, pull his only other handgun from its hiding place in the rearmost room of the Harbor Inn, and show up at the meeting with Farino and Gonzaga looking and feeling more like a human being, albeit an armed one.

He had time for none of that.

Traffic was light since it was Sunday evening, but he'd left Curly's Restaurant late and had to head straight for his office on Chippewa if he was going to get there before the others. As it was, he came out of the alley where he'd parked the Pinto and reached the outside door just as Angelina and two new bodyguards pulled up in a black SUV and parked across the street. All three came over at once. The two new personal bodyguards were bigger, heavier, and more the comb-your-hair-with-buttered-toast Sicilian type.

Kurtz paused before unlocking the street door. "Just you," he said.

"We're going to look at the place first," said Angelina.

"You don't trust me?" said Kurtz. "After last night and…"

"Just open the fucking door."

They followed him up the steep stairway and waited below him while be unlocked the office door and turned on the lights. The two goombahs brushed past him.

"Be my guest," said Kurtz.

The two quickly searched the office, looking through the warm back room with the servers and checking out the small bathroom. They were efficient, Kurtz had to give them that. On the second quick sweep, one of them looked under Arlene's desk and said, "Mounted holster set-up here, Ms. Ferrara. No gun."

Angelina looked at Kurtz. "My secretary's," he said. "She works here late at night." He thought, Shit, I was counting on that Magnum being there .

The don's daughter waved the two bodyguards out and Kurtz closed the door behind them. When he turned around, Angelina had her Compact Witness.45 in her hand. "We going to my place again?" he said.

"Shut up."

"Can I sit down?" He pointed to his chair and desk. Suddenly it was either a case of sit down or fall down.

Angelina nodded and gestured him over to his chair. She sat on Arlene's desk and set the pistol next to her. "What is all this mystery crap, Joe?"

Well, at least I'm back to Joe , thought Kurtz. He glanced at his watch. Gonzaga would be here in a minute or two.

"I'll tell you the whole story when your pal Gonzaga gets here. But I needed to ask you something first."

"Ask."

"Word on the street—hell, word everywhere—is that either you or Gonzaga have brought in the Dane and he's already here. I think it's you that brought him in for a job."

Angelina Farino Ferrara said nothing. Outside, the light was waning. Neon signs glowed through the not-quite-closed blinds. Traffic hissed.

"I want to make a deal…" began Kurtz.

"If you're worried that you're on some list," said Angelina, "don't. You're not worth a hundred-thousand-dollars for a hit."

Kurtz shook his head and had to blink at the pain. "Who is?" he said. "No, I had a different deal in mind." He told her quickly.

It was Angelina Farino Ferrara's turn to blink. "You expecting to die suddenly, Joe?"

Kurtz shrugged.

"And you won't tell me the name?" she said.

"I'm not sure yet."

She set the Compact Witness in her purse. The downstairs door buzzed on Arlene's intercom and Kurtz could see Gonzaga and three of his men on the video monitor.

"You're talking a hundred-thousand-dollar gift," said Angelina. "Maybe more."

"No, I'm not," said Kurtz. The doorbell buzzed twice more and then stayed on as Gonzaga's man leaned on it. "I'm talking a simple request Either he'll do it—probably as a gift to you—or he won't. I'm just asking you to ask him."

"And you trust me to?"

"I have to," said Kurtz. The buzzing was hurting his head.

"And you really aren't going to tell Toma and me what this is about tonight unless I agree?"

Kurtz shrugged again.

"All right," said Angelina. "I won't pay for it, but I'll ask him. If this big news of yours is worth it to me."