Dan Simmons: Hard Freeze

Throwing Moe over his shoulder and pulling the.38 from his belt the baton dangling from his wrist by its leather strap, Kurtz walked around to the west side of the building.

Larry must have sensed something. He was standing by Kurtz's Volvo and peering anxiously through the windows. He had a Mac-10 in his hands. According to other people Kurtz had known inside, Larry had always sung the praises of serious firepower.

With Moe still on his shoulder, Kurtz raised the.38 and shot Larry three times—body mass, head, and body mass again. The third Stooge went down quickly, the Mac-10 skittering away on ice and ending up under a parked SUV. The shots had been somewhat muffled by the falling snow. No one came to the door or window to check.

Still carrying Moe and dragging Larry's body, Kurtz tossed both men into the back seat of his Volvo, started the car, and drove around to the east side of the parking lot. Curly was moaning and beginning to come to, flopping around listlessly with his hands cuffed behind his back. No one had seen him.

Kurtz stopped the car, got out, lifted Curly, and tossed the moaning Stooge into the back seat with his dead and unconscious pals. He closed Curly's door, went around and unlatched the door behind the driver's position, got in, and drove away down Sheridan to the Youngman Expressway.

The Expressway was slick and icy, but Kurtz got the Volvo up to sixty-five miles per hour before glancing around. Larry's body was slumped up against the cracked-open door, Moe was still unconscious and leaning against Curly, and Curly was playing possum.

Kurtz cocked the service revolver with an audible click. "Open your eyes or I'll shoot you now," he said softly.

Curly's eyes flew open. He opened his mouth to say something.

"Shut up." Kurtz nodded toward Larry. "Kick him out."

The pale ex-con's face paled even further. "JesusfuckingChrist. I can't just—"

"Kick him out," said Kurtz, glancing back at the road and then turning around to aim the.38 at Curly's face.

His wrists handcuffed behind him, Curly shoved Moe aside with his shoulder, lifted his legs, and kicked Larry out the door. He had to kick twice to get him out. Cold air whirled inside the car. Possibly because of the storm, traffic on the Youngman was light.

"Who hired you to kill me?" asked Kurtz. "Be careful… you don't get many chances at the right answer."

"Jesus Christ," moaned Curly. "No one hired us. I don't even fucking know who you are. I don't even—"

"Wrong answer," said Kurtz. He nodded at Moe and then at the open door. Icy pavement was roaring by.

"Jesus Christ, I can't… he's still alive… listen to me, please…"

The Volvo tried to slide a bit as they came around a curve on the ice. Keeping one eye on the rearview mirror, Kurtz corrected the slide, turned back, and aimed the pistol at Curly's crotch. "Now," he said.

Moe started to gain consciousness as Curly kicked him across the seat to the open door. The icy air revived Moe enough that the bigger man reached up and grabbed the seat back and held on for dear life. Curly glanced at Kurtz's pistol and kicked Moe in the belly and face with both feet. Moe flew out into the night, striking the pavement with an audible wet noise.

Curly was panting, almost hyperventilating, as he looked up at Kurtz's weapon. His legs were up on the back seat, but he was obviously concocting a way to kick at Kurtz.

"Move those feet without permission and I put two into your belly," Kurtz said softly. "Let's try again. Who hired you? Remember, you don't have any wrong answers left."

"You're going to shoot me anyway," said Curly. His teeth were chattering in the blast of cold air from the open door.

"No," said Kurtz. "I won't. Not if you tell me the truth. Last chance."

Curly said, "A woman."

Kurtz glanced at the road and then back. That made no sense. The D-Block Mosque still had a $10,000 fatwa out on Kurtz as far as he knew. Little Skag Farino, still in the pen, had several reasons to see Kurtz dead, and Little Skag had always been a cheap son of a bitch, likely to hire skanks like the Stooges. An inner-city Crips gang called the Seneca Social Club had put out the word that Joe Kurtz should die. He had a few other enemies who might hire someone. But a woman?

"Not good enough," said Kurtz. He raised the aim toward Curly's belly.

"No, Jesus Christ, I'm telling the truth! Brunette. Drives a Lexus. Paid five thousand in cash up front—we get another five when she reads about you in the paper. She was the one who told us about you probably not carrying today because of your PO visit. Jesus Christ, Kurtz, you can't just—"

"What's her name?"

Curly shook his head wildly. Curly was bald. "Farino. She didn't say… but I'm sure of it… she's Little Skag's sister."

"Maria Farino is dead," said Kurtz. He had reason to know.

Curly began shouting, talking so fast that spittle flew. "Not Maria Farino. The other one. The older sister. I seen a family picture once that Skag had in stir. Whatshername, the fucking nun, Agelica, Angela, some fucking wop name—"

"Angelina," said Kurtz.

Curly's mouth twisted. "You're going to shoot me now. I told you the fucking truth, but you're going to—"

"Not necessarily," said Kurtz. It was snowing harder and this part of the Youngman was notorious for black ice, but he got the car up to seventy-five. Kurtz nodded toward the open car door.

Curly's eyes grew wide. "You're fucking joking… I can't—"

"You can take one in the head," said Kurtz. "Then I dump you. You can make your move, take a couple in the belly, maybe we crash. Or you can take a chance and tuck and roll. Plus, there's some snow out there. Probably as soft as a goosedown pillow."

Curly's wild eyes went to the door.

"It's your call," said Kurtz. "But you only have five seconds to decide. One. Two—"

Curly screamed something indecipherable, scooched over on the seat, and threw himself out the door.

Kurtz glanced at the mirror. Headlights swerved and spun as cars tried to take evasive action, tangled, bounced over the bundle in the road, and piled up behind Kurtz's Volvo.

He lowered his speed to a more sane forty-five miles per hour and exited at the Kensington Expressway, heading back west toward Buffalo's downtown. Passing Mt. Calvary Cemetery in the dark, Kurtz tossed the cop's pistol and baton out the window.

The snow was getting thicker and falling faster. Kurtz liked Buffalo in the winter. He always had. But this was shaping up to be an especially tough winter.

The offices of High School Sweetheart Search, Inc. were in the basement of a former X-rated video and magazine store close to the Buffalo bus station. The XXX store had never looked too classy and looked even less so now after it had been closed for three months and the entire block condemned by the city for demolition. A little before 7:30 A.M., Arlene parked in the alley behind the store, used her key to let herself in the back door, and was surprised to find Joe working at his computer. The long room was unfurnished except for the two desks, a coatrack, a clutter of servers and cables, and a sagging couch set against one wall.

Arlene hung up her coat, set her purse on her desk, removed a pack of Marlboros from the purse and lit one, then turned on her computer and the video monitor connected to the two cameras upstairs. The abandoned interior of the adult bookstore on the monitors looked as littered and empty as always. No one had ever bothered to clean the bloodstains off the linoleum floor up there. "You sleep here again last night, Joe?"

Kurtz shook his head. He called up the court file on Donald Lee Rafferty, age 42, 1016 Locus Lane, Lockport, NY. The file showed another DWI on Rafferty's record—the third this year. Rafferty's driver's license was one point away from being pulled.