Hard as Nails

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Kurtz took the afternoon off. He cleaned up his apartment area as best he could, stopped by Gail's place later to tell Arlene that she could go home and take Aysha with her if she wanted. He picked up his Browning and cell phone while he was there. He stopped by Blues Franklin and returned the Ray Charles sunglasses to Daddy Bruce. He turned in early that night.

The headache did not return. Kurtz wondered idly if he should have taken the taser off the bodyguard in the catacombs in case he needed more shock therapy to get rid of the headache if it ever did come back. Maybe he could write some sort of paper about it for the AMA Journal or something.

The next morning, be was driving the repaired Pinto to the hospital when he saw that he was being tailed by a Lincoln Town Car. Kurtz pulled to the curb on north Main, reached under the seat to get the Browning, and racked the slide. It had taken him an hour to find the bug in the Pinto the previous evening, and he was tired of all this surveillance crap.

Gonzaga's man, Bobby, got out of the Lincoln and walked up to the Pinto. Kurtz thought that the bodyguard didn't look his best in a dark suit—actually, he looked like a fireplug that had been poured into a suit. The black ninja outfit had been more becoming on him.

Bobby handed Kurtz a sealed envelope, said, "From Mr. Gonzaga," and walked back to his Town Car and drove off.

Kurtz waited until the black car was out of sight before tucking away the Browning and ripping open the envelope. Inside was a cashier's check for one hundred thousand dollars. Kurtz set the check and envelope under the seat next to the gun and drove the rest of the way to Erie County Medical Center.

Rigby King was alone and conscious when Kurtz came in. They'd moved her overnight from the ICU to a private room. There was a uniformed officer on guard, but Kurtz had waited for him to step down the hall to the men's room.

"Joe," said Rigby. There was an untouched breakfast on the swing tray near her. "Want some coffee? I don't want it."

"Sure," said Kurtz. He took the cup off the tray and sipped. It was almost as bad as the stuff he made for himself.

"I just got a call from Paul Kemper," said Rigby. "With some very surprising news that you might be interested in."

Kurtz waited.

"Someone wasted your mafia girlfriend's brother in a maximum security federal prison yesterday afternoon," said Rigby.

"Little Skag." said Kurtz.

Rigby raised an eyebrow. "How many mafia girlfriends with brothers in maximum security prisons do you have, Joe?"

Kurtz let that go and tried the coffee again. It was as bad as the first sip, only colder. "Some sort of yard shank job?" he said, knowing it hadn't been.

Rigby shook her head. "I told you—Little Skag's been kept on ice at a maximum security federal hidey-hole. Up in the Adirondacks. No general population. He didn't see anyone except the guards and feebies, and even they got searched. But someone managed to get in there and put a bullet between his beady little eyes. Incredible."

"Wonders never cease," said Kurtz.

"Why do I think you're not totally surprised?" She struggled for a minute with the gizmo on a cable that raised the angle of her bed. Kurtz watched her struggle. When she had it the way she wanted it, she looked exhausted to Kurtz.

"Do I know who shot me yet, Joe?"

"Yeah," said Kurtz. "It was Brian Kennedy and some of his guys."

"Kennedy? The security snot? O'Toole's fiancé?"

"Right. You got suspicious on Sunday—realizing that Kennedy's alibi didn't really hold up…"

"It didn't?" said Rigby. Someone had brushed her short, dark hair and it looked nice against the pillow. "I thought Kennedy was on his private Lear when you and O'Toole were shot."

"Gulfstream," said Kurtz. "He had two planes."

"Ahh," said Rigby. And then, "Had?"

"I think Kennedy took off after shooting you. He may be found. Maybe not."

"Where did he shoot me?"

"In the leg?" suggested Kurtz. The coffee was not only bad, it was now totally cold.

"You know what the fuck I mean."

"Oh. Your call. I think they're going to find his fancy SUV in Delaware Park."

"Or what's left of it if he was stupid enough to leave it there," said Rigby.

"Or what's left of it," agreed Kurtz. He set the coffee cup back on her tray. "I've got to go. Your guard cop is probably finished pissing by now."

"Joe?" said Rigby.

He turned back.

"Why did I suspect Kennedy of shooting his own fiancée? And if he shot me in Delaware Park, how'd I get to the hospital in the middle of the night? Inquiring minds will want to know."

"Jesus," said Kurtz. "Do I have to do all your thinking for you? Show some initiative. You're the goddamned detective here."

"Joe?" she called again just as he was about to shut her door.

He stuck his head back in.

"Thank you," said Rigby.

Kurtz went down the hall, around a corridor, and down another hall. No one was guarding Peg O'Toole's room and the nurse had just stepped out.

Kurtz went in and pulled the only visitor's chair closer to her bed.

Machines were keeping her alive. One breathed up and down for her. At least four visible tubes ran in and out of her body, which already looked pale and emaciated. The parole officer's auburn hair was stiff and pulled back off her face where it hadn't been shaved off near the bandage over her forehead and temples. She was unconscious, with a snorkel-like ventilator tube taped in her mouth. Her posture in coma, wrists cocked at a painful angle, knees drawn up, reminded Kurtz of a broken baby bird he'd found in his backyard one summer day when he was a kid.

"Ah, goddamn it," breathed Kurtz.

He walked over to the machines that were breathing for her and acting as her kidneys. There were various switches and dials and plugs and sensors. None of the readouts made any sense to him.

Kurtz looked at his parole officer's unconscious face for a long moment and then laid his hand on the top of the nearest machine. It had been one week exactly since the two of them had been shot together in the parking garage.

His cell phone vibrated in his sport coat pocket Kurtz answered in a whisper. "Yeah?"

"Joe?" It was Arlene.

"Yeah."

"Joe, I didn't want to bother you, and I've hesitated to ask, but Gail needs to know about Friday…"

"Friday," said Kurtz.

"Yes… Friday evening," said Arlene. "It's…"

"It's Rachel's birthday party," said Kurtz. "She'll be fifteen. Yeah, I'll be there. Tell Gail that I wouldn't miss it."

He disconnected, not interested in hearing whatever Arlene was going to say next. Then he touched Peg O'Toole's shoulder under the thin hospital gown and went back to the uncomfortable chair, leaning forward so it didn't press against his bruised back.

Sitting that way, leaning forward, hands loosely clasped, speaking softly only to the nurse when she came in from time to time to check on her patient, Kurtz waited there with O'Toole the rest of the day.