Dan Simmons - Hard Freeze

Kurtz sat in silence for another short spell. Finally, he said, "Turn off the engine. Get out."

She did. Kurtz gestured toward the far end of the loading dock, near the Dumpsters. He had her walk ahead of him to the end of the asphalt there. Her Bally shoes made small tracks in the snow.

"Stop here."

Angelina turned to face him. "I said the wrong thing. You know it's bullshit. We don't need each other. I just need you—need to use you. And Joe Kurtz isn't a man who likes to be used."

Kurtz bent his arm, keeping it close to his body, aiming the pistol from his waist.

"Not in the face, please," said Angelina Farino Farrera.

Traffic passed on the Thruway, out of sight to their right.

"Why?" said Kurtz. "Why goad me and set me up this way and then meet me without backup? What did you expect?"

"I expected you to be more stupid."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"You haven't so far, Kurtz. It's all been very amusing up to this point. Perhaps Big Bore Redhawk will avenge me."

"I doubt it."

"You're probably right. But my brother will."

"Maybe."

Two semis roared by on the Thruway, throwing slush into the cones of yellow light there. Kurtz did not glance that way. "I have most of it figured," he said. "How you were going to use me against both Little Skag and Gonzaga. But why me? You're planning to become don in reality if not in name—you've had all this time to plan—why not bring people you trust to do your work?"

"I'm getting cold," said Angelina. "Can we go back to your car now?"

"No."

"I'm going to raise my hands just to rub my arms, all right?"

Kurtz said nothing.

Angelina briskly massaged her arms through the thin jacket she was wearing. "I had more than six years to plan what I had to do, but the little bloodbath you were part of last November ruined those plans. If I was going to act, I had to act now, but all of a sudden my father's dead, my whore-sister Maria is dead, even Leonard Miles, the crooked consigliere, is dead. Stevie explains how you set it all up, hired the Dane. Revenge for something my father had done to you."

Kurtz said nothing.

"I know that's not true," said Angelina, speaking slowly and clearly. "Stevie set up the hit, borrowing money from the Gonzagas to do it. But you helped get Stevie's deal to the Dane, Kurtz. You were part of it."

"I just passed it along," said Kurtz.

"Just like Johnny Norse," said Angelina with an audible sneer. "Innocent. Just a messenger. I hope you end up in the ninth circle of hell, just like Norse."

Kurtz waited.

"Six years, Kurtz. You know what that sort of time is like—waiting, planning? I married two men to get in the right position, acquire the right sort of power and knowledge. All for nothing. I come back to chaos and the whole plan is shot to shit."

Red and blue police flashers reflected from the Thruway, but the cop car was out of sight, rushing somewhere else. Neither of them turned to look.

"Stevie sold what was left of the Family to Emilio Gonzaga," said Angelina. "He had to."

"Gonzaga controls the judges and the swing vote on the parole board," said Kurtz. "But why don't you just wait for Skag to get out? Rewrite the script. Run your game later, when he trusts you?"

"Stevie will be dead before autumn," Angelina said with a sharp little laugh. "Do you think that Emilio Gonzaga is going to keep the Farino heir apparent around? Emilio will be running both families then. He doesn't need Stephen Farino."

"Or you?"

"He needs me as his whore."

"Not a bad position to plot from," said Kurtz.

Angelina Farino Ferrara took half a step forward, as if she was going to slap Kurtz's face. She caught herself and stopped. "Want to know why I went to Sicily and the Boot?"

"A sudden interest in Renaissance art?" said Kurtz.

"Emilio Gonzaga raped me seven years ago," she said, voice flat and hard. "My father knew about it Stevie knew about it. Instead of castrating that Gonzaga fuck with bolt cutters, they decided to send me away. I was pregnant. Twenty-five years old and pregnant with Emilio Gonzaga's love child. Daddy wanted me to have the baby. He wanted leverage for a merger. So I went to Sicily. Married an idiot don-in-waiting our family knew there."

"But you didn't have the baby," said Kurtz.

"Oh, but I did," said Angelina and laughed that hard, short laugh again. "I did. A boy. A beautiful baby boy with Emilio's fat, rubbery lips, lovely brown eyes, and the Gonzaga chin and forehead. I drowned him in the Belice River in Sicily."

Kurtz said nothing.

"You'll have a hard time killing Emilio Gonzaga, Kurtz. His compound on Grand Island isn't like a fortress, it is a fortress. The older Emilio gets, the more paranoid he becomes. And he was born paranoid. He rarely goes out anymore. Lets no one near him. Keeps twenty-five of the best killers in New York State on his payroll, rotting away out there on the island."

"How did you plan to kill him?" asked Kurtz.

Angelina smiled. "Well, I sort of hoped you'd take care of that detail for me, now that you know what you know."

"How did you find out about that? About Gonzaga authorizing the hit on Sam?"

"Stevie told me when he told me about you."

Kurtz nodded. His hair was wet with the falling snow. Three years in the same cell block with Little Skag, saving his ass—literally—from a black rapist named Ali. And all the while, Little Skag knew who had really been behind Sam's death. It must have amused Skag. Kurtz almost had to smile at the irony. Almost.

"Can we get out of this fucking snow now?" asked Angelina.

They walked back to the car. Kurtz nodded her to the driver's seat She was shaking from the cold when she turned the ignition and lights on.

"Are you in this with me, Kurtz?"

"No."

She let out a breath. "Are we going back to the HSBC arena?"

"No," said Kurtz. "But we'll stop somewhere you can find a cab."

"My absence is going to be hard to explain to the Boys and Stevie," said Angelina, driving across the parking lot and back onto the empty industrial service road.

"Tell them you were fucking Emilio," said Kurtz.

She looked at him then and it was good for Kurtz that he had the gun at that moment. "Yes," she said at last. "I might say just that."

They drove in silence for a few minutes. Finally Angelina Farino Ferrara said, "You really loved her, didn't you? Your ex-partner Sam, I mean."

Kurtz gestured with the pistol, explaining that she should shut up and drive.

Kurtz let himself into the office about ten the next morning, only to find Arlene taking a coffee-and-cigarette break at her desk while reading a detective novel. Kurtz tossed his peacoat onto the coatrack and settled into the old chair behind his desk. Three new files on his desktop were labeled "Frears," "Hansen," and "Other Murder-Suicides/Common Factors."

"How's the book?" asked Kurtz. He squinted at the title. "Isn't that the same guy you were reading twelve years ago, before I got sent away?"

"Yeah. His detective fought in the Korean War, which makes the old fart in his late sixties at least, but he still kicks ass. A new book comes out every year, if not sooner."

"Good, huh?"

"Not anymore," said Arlene. "The P.I.'s got a girlfriend who's a real bitch. An arrogant piece of work. And she's got a dog."

"So?"

"A dog who eats on the table and sleeps in their bed. And the P.I. loves them both to bits."

"Then why do you keep reading him?"

"I keep hoping the P.I. will wake up and cap both the girlfriend and that ratty dog," said Arlene. She put the book down. "To what do I owe this Saturday-morning pleasure, Joe?"

He patted the three files on the desk. He started thumbing through the Frears folder. It was quite a biography—born to upper-class parents in 1945, John Wellington Frears was one of those rarest of anomalies—an African-American in mid-twentieth-century America who had been a child of privilege. Something of a musical prodigy, Frears had gone to Princeton as an undergraduate but had transferred to Juilliard for his junior year. Then something truly strange: after graduation from Juilliard, with offers from several prestigious city symphonic groups, John Wellington Frears had volunteered for the U.S. Army and had gone to Vietnam in 1967. The note said that he had been with the Army Engineers, a sergeant in charge of demolition and disarming booby traps. He'd served two tours in Vietnam and one year in the States before returning to civilian life and beginning his professional music career.