Hardcase

CHAPTER 16

It was after 5:00 a.m. when they finally separated and lay next to each other on the bed that Kurtz had decided was exactly the size of his former cell.

Sophia lit a cigarette and offered him one. Kurtz shook his head.

"A con who doesn't smoke," she said. "Unheard of."

"Watching TV from the inside," he said, "you get the impression that everyone on the outside has given up smoking and is busy suing the tobacco companies. Guess it ain't so."

"Say it ain't so, Joe," said Sophia. She set a small enamel ashtray on her sheeted belly and flicked ashes. "So, Joe Kurtz," she said, "why did you come to my father with this private-investigation bullshit?"

"It wasn't bullshit. It's what I do."

Sophia exhaled smoke and shook her head. "I mean the offer to find Buell Richardson. You must know as well as I do that he's in Lake Erie or under four feet of loam somewhere."

"Yeah."

"Then why offer to find him and haul him back for a bonus?"

Kurtz rubbed his eyes. He was feeling a bit sleepy. "Seemed like a way to get work."

"A lot of effort you've spent on the job so far. Went to visit Buell's widow—who got herself killed as soon as you left, it sounds like—and crippled our poor, late Carl."

"Late?" Kurtz was surprised. "He's dead?"

"Some complications in the hospital," said Sophia. "What did Skag tell you about the truck hijackings and Richardson's disappearance?"

"Enough to let me know that it's more complicated than it looks," said Kurtz. "Someone's either moving in on your father, or there's something else in play here."

"Any suspects?" asked Sophia, stubbing out her cigarette and looking directly at Kurtz. The sheet had slipped from her breasts and she made no effort to pull it back in place.

"Sure," said Kurtz. "Miles the lawyer, of course. Any of your father's top guys who are getting ambitious."

"All the ambitious ones left since Papa retired."

"Yeah, I know," said Kurtz.

"So that leaves Miles."

"And you."

Sophia did not feign outrage. "Sure. But why would I be pulling this crap when I inherit Papa's money, anyway?"

"Good question," said Kurtz. "Now it's my turn. You said that you could tell me who's setting me up for a hit."

Sophia shook her head. "I don't know for sure, but if Miles is involved, you might watch out for a guy named Malcolm Kibunte and a scary white friend of his."

"Malcolm Kibunte," Kurtz repeated. "Don't know him. Description?"

"Former Crip from Philadelphia. Big, black, mean as a snake-bit Mormon. Early thirties. Shaves his head, but wears one of those little major-league-pitcher goatees. Wears black leather and lots of jewelry. Has a diamond stud in his front tooth. I've seen him only once. I don't think Leonard Miles knows that I know about their contacts."

"I won't ask how you know," said Kurtz.

Sophia lit another cigarette, took a long drag and exhaled smoke and said nothing.

"What's our Malcolm friend into?" said Kurtz.

"He left Philly one step ahead of a murder rap," said Sophia. "Not for the Crips, though. Popped a cap on a fellow Crip for one of the Colombian rings down there. Malcolm was into moving coke big time. Then he began specializing on eliminating competitors."

"Served time?" said Kurtz.

"Nothing serious. Aggravated assault. Illegal possession of a weapon. Killed his first wife—strangled her."

"That must have cost him some time."

"Not much. Miles represented him and got him two years on a psychiatric thing. I think that's why Miles thinks that Kibunte is on a leash. I wouldn't bet my life on it if I were Miles."

"And what about this white friend of his?"

Sophia shook her head. Her curly hair was dry and curlier than ever. "Haven't seen him. Don't have a name. Supposed to be real white—almost albino—and good with a blade."

"Ahh," said Kurtz.

"Ah, indeed." Sophia sighed. "If Papa were still in charge of things in Buffalo, these two would have been swatted like flies as soon as they showed up in town. But I doubt if Papa has even heard of them."

"Why exactly did your father get squeezed out of the local action?"

Sophia sighed. "Did Skag tell you about the shooting?"

"Just the fact of it, not the details."

"Well, it's simple enough," said Sophia. "About eight years ago, Papa and two of his bodyguards were driving back from a restaurant down in Boston Hills when a couple of cars tried to block them in. Papa's driver was well trained, of course, and the glass was bulletproof, but when the driver was backing out of the trap they'd set, one of the shooters used a shotgun on the driver's-side window, shattered it, and then sprayed the inside with automatic weapons' fire. Papa was just scratched, but both his men were killed."

She paused and flicked ashes into the enamel ashtray.

"So Papa crawled over the seat, took the wheel, and drove that Caddy out of there himself," she continued, "returning fire with Lester's—the driver's—nine-millimeter. He got at least one of the shooters."

"Were they white or black?" asked Kurtz.

"White," said Sophia. "Anyway, Papa would have gotten away all right, but someone used a.357 Magnum to fire through the trunk of the Caddy. The damned slug went through the rear end, the spare tire, both seats, and ended up in Papa's back, a quarter of an inch from his spine. And that trunk was armored."

"Did Don Farino figure out who'd put the hit on him?"

Sophia shrugged. Her nipples were a delicate brown. "A lot of inquiries, a few suspects, but no confirmation. It was probably the Gonzagas."

"They're the only other Italian mob with action in western New York, right?" said Kurtz.

Sophia frowned. "We don't call them 'Italian mob. "

"Okay," said Kurtz. "The Gonzagas are the only other guinea gangsters licensed to do business in this end of the state, right?"

"Right."

"And it's been about six years since what's left of the Farinos had any real clout?"

"Yes," she said. "Things went downhill after Papa was crippled."

Kurtz nodded. "Your oldest brother, David, tried to keep the family in the action until the mid-90's. Then he killed himself in a car accident while coked to the eyes, and your older sister took off for a nunnery in Italy."

Sophia nodded.

"And then Little Skag fucked things up for a while until the other families decided it was time for your father to retire," said Kurtz. "Little Skag gets high and attacks his Brazilian girlfriend with a shovel, and here you are, alone in that big house with Papa."

Sophia said nothing.

"What's being hijacked?" asked Kurtz. "On the trucks they hit?"

"VCRs, DVD players, cigarettes," said Sophia. "The usual penny-ante crap. The New York families are big into bootleg videos and DVDs, and that means they've got thousands of machines to unload. They toss Papa that crumb. The cigarettes are just for old times' sake."

"Untaxed cigarettes can bring in nice money," said Kurtz.

"Not in the quantities that they let our family have," said Sophia. She slid out of bed and walked to the closet. There was a thick robe on one of the leather chairs by the window, but she ignored it, obviously feeling comfortable naked. "You're going to have to get out of here," she said. "It's almost sunrise."

Kurtz nodded and got out of bed.

"My God, you've got a lot of scars," said Sophia Farino.

"Accident prone," said Kurtz. "Where are my clothes?"

"Down the disposal chute," she said. She slid back one of the mirrored doors and took a man's denim shirt, some packaged Jockey shorts, and a pair of corduroy trousers out of a drawer. "Take these," she said. "They should fit you. I'll get some new sneakers and socks for you."

Kurtz tossed the shirt back. "Don't wear these," he said.

"Don't wear what?" she said. "Shirts? Denim shirts?"

"Polo ponies."

"You're shitting me. That's a brand-new two-hundred-dollar shirt."

Kurtz shrugged. "I don't wear company logos. If they want me to advertise for them, they can pay me."

Sophia Farino laughed again and once again Kurtz enjoyed the sound of it. "A man of principle," she said. "Butchered Eddie Falco, crippled ol' Carl, and shot God knows how many others in cold blood, but a man of principle. I love it." She tossed him a cheaper-looking denim shirt. "No ponies, alligators, sheep, Nike swooshes, or anything else on it. Satisfied?"

Kurtz pulled it on. It fit fine. So did the underpants, corduroy slacks, socks, and boat shoes. He didn't think that Sophia had gone shopping ahead of time for him, so he wondered how many men's sizes she kept in stock. Maybe it was like the package of condoms in the shower: Be prepared was evidently this woman's motto. He headed for the front door.

"Hey," she said, finally pulling on the robe and padding along beside him. "It's cold out there."

"Did you throw away my jacket as well?"

"Damned right I did." She opened the foyer closet door and handed him an expensive, insulated leather bomber jacket. "This should fit you."

It did. He unbolted the door.

"Kurtz," she said. "You're still naked." She took a 9mm Sig Sauer from the closet and offered it to him.

Kurtz checked it—the magazine was fully loaded—and then handed it back. "Don't know where it's been," he said.

Sophia smiled. "It's not traceable. Don't you trust me?"

Kurtz twitched a smile and let her keep the pistol. He went out the door, down a private hallway, took the elevator to the ground floor, and went out into the dark past a sleepy but curious front-lobby security guard. When he'd walked a block west, he looked back at the loft building. Her lights were still on, but they flicked out as he watched.