Dan Simmons: Hard Freeze

"One-stop shopping," said the don.

"I will be a veritable Wal-Mart," agreed Hansen.

"So you're so fucking sure that you're going to be chief of police?"

"Indubitably," said Hansen and then, as the toad-man's brow furrowed again, "Without doubt, sir. In the meantime, I can make sure that no homicide investigation even turns in your direction."

"In exchange for whacking one guy?"

"In exchange for simply helping me whack one guy."

"When?"

"I'm supposed to meet him at the old train station at midnight That means he'll probably be there by ten o'clock."

"This guy," said Gonzaga, looking at the photograph again. "He looks fucking familiar but I can't place him. Mickey."

The Asian glided over from the wall.

"You know this guy, Mickey?"

"That's Howard Conway." The man's voice was smooth as his gait, very quiet, but the words made Hansen's head spin, and for the second time that day he saw black spots dancing in his vision.

Kurtz has been playing with me. If he knows Howard's name, then Howard is dead. But why tell Gonzaga? Have they foreseen this move as well?

"Yeah," said Gonzaga, "Angie Farino's new fucking bodyguard." He flapped the photo at Hansen. "What's going on here? Why are you after this Raiford jailbird?"

"He's not a Raiford ex-con," Hansen said smoothly, blinking away the dancing spots while trying not to look distressed. "He's an Attica ex-con named Kurtz."

The don looked at the Asian. "Kurtz. Kurtz. Where've we heard that name, Mickey?"

"Before Leo, our guy in their camp, disappeared, he said that Little Skag was putting out some nickels and dimes to whack an ex-P.I. named Kurtz," said Mickey Kee, showing no special deference to Gonzaga.

Gonzaga's brow furrowed more deeply. "Why would Angie hire some guy that her brother's trying to whack?"

"She has her own agenda," said Hansen. "And my bet is that it doesn't include you in the picture, Mr. Gonzaga."

"How many men you want?" grunted Gonzaga.

"I don't care how many," said Hansen. "The fewer the better. I just want them to be the best. I need a guarantee that Kurtz—and anyone he brings with him—won't leave that train station alive. Are any of your men so good that you can give me that guarantee?"

Emilio Gonzaga smiled broadly, showing great horses' teeth like yellowed ivory. "Mickey?" he said.

Mickey Kee did not smile. But he nodded.

"Kurtz said midnight but he'll get there early," Hansen said to Mickey Kee. "I'm going to be there at eight with two men. It'll be dark in that old station. Make sure you don't mistake us for Kurtz. Can you get there through this storm?"

Emilio Gonzaga removed his cigar and gave a phlegmy laugh. "Mickey owns a fucking Hummer."

The afternoon and early evening in Marina Towers had a strangely sweet, almost elegiac calm to it.

Pruno had taught Joe Kurtz the word «elegiac» during their long correspondence while Kurtz was in Attica. Before Kurtz had gone behind bars, Pruno had given him a list of two hundred books he should read to begin his education. Kurtz had read them all, beginning with The Iliad and ending with Das Kapital . He had to admit that he'd enjoyed Shakespeare the most, spending weeks on each play. Kurtz had a hunch that before the night was over, the Buffalo train station might look like the last act of Titus Andronicus .

After the chili lunch, Frears had gone to one end of the big penthouse living room to tune his violin and it was Arlene who asked him to play. Frears had only smiled and shaken his head, but Angelina had joined in the request. Then—surprisingly—so had Marco, and even Kurtz had looked up from his brooding by the window.

While everyone sat around on sectionals and bar stools, John Wellington Frears had walked to the center of the room, removed a linen handkerchief from his suit pocket and draped it on the chin rest of the impossibly expensive violin, stood almost on his tiptoes with bow poised, and had begun playing.

To Kurtz's surprise, it was not classical. Frears played the main theme from Schindler's List , the long, plaintive passages holding notes that seemed to die with a sigh, the dying-away parts echoing against the cold glass windows like the half-heard cries of children in the trains being pulled to Auschwitz. When he was done, no one applauded, no one moved. The only sound was the snow pelting against the glass and Arlene's soft snuffling.

Frears took Hansen's titanium briefcase with its photographs and went into the library. Angelina poured herself a tall scotch. Kurtz went back to the window to watch the storm and the growing darkness.

He met with Angelina in her private office at the northwest corner of the penthouse.

"What's happening tonight, Kurtz?"

He held up one hand. "I've given Hansen blackmail demands. We're supposed to meet at midnight. I suspect he'll be there early."

"You going to take the money if he brings it?"

"He won't bring it."

"So you're going to kill him."

"I don't know yet."

Angelina raised a dark eyebrow at that. Kurtz came over and sat on the edge of her modern rosewood desk. "I'll ask you again, what are your goals? What have you been trying to get out of all this bullshit?"

She studied him for a minute. "You know what I wanted."

"Gonzaga dead," said Kurtz. "Your brother… neutralized. But what else?"

"I'd like to rebuild the family someday, but along different lines. In the meantime, I'd like to be the best thief in the state of New York."

"And you have to be left alone to do both those things."

"Yes."

"And if I help you get those things, are you going to leave me the fuck alone?"

Angelina Farino Ferrara hesitated only a second. "Yes."

"Did you print out that list I asked for?" said Kurtz.

Angelina opened a drawer and produced three sheets of paper stapled together. Each page held columns of names and dollar amounts. "We can't use this for anything," she said. "If I were to release it, the Five Families would have me killed within the week. If you release it, you'll be dead within a day."

"You're not going to release it and neither am I," said Kurtz. He told her the last version of his plans.

"Jesus," whispered Angelina. "What do you need tonight?"

"Transportation. And do you have two walkie-talkie-type radios? The kind with earphones? They're not necessary, but could be useful."

"Sure," said Angelina. "But they're only good within a range of a mile or so."

"That'll work."

"Anything else?"

"That pair of handcuffs you used on Marco."

"Anything else?"

"Marco. I have some heavy lifting to do."

"Are you going to arm him?"

Kurtz shook his head. "He can bring a knife if he wants to. I'm not asking him to get mixed up in a gun-fight, so he doesn't need to come heavy. There'll probably be enough guns there in the dark anyway."

"What else?"

"Long underwear," said Kurtz. "Thermal long Johns if you've got them."

"You're kidding."

Kurtz shook his head. "It may be a long wait and it's going to be cold as a witch's teat in there."

He went into the library, where John Wellington Frears was sitting in an Eames chair, the briefcase open on the ottoman, photographs of dead children reflecting light from the soft halogen spotlight above. Kurtz assumed that Frears's daughter Crystal was one of the corpses on display, but he did not look and he did not ask.

"Can I talk to you a minute?" said Kurtz.

Frears nodded. Kurtz took a seat in a second leather Eames chair across from the violinist.

"I need to talk to you about what's going to happen next with Hansen," said Kurtz, "but first I have a personal question."