Hardcase

CHAPTER 17

Kurtz's current bolthole was in an old icehouse being renovated into lofts, but it was a mile or so from the already-gentrified area where Sophia Farino had her pied-à-terre. It was not really light yet, but there was a certain brighter grayness to the low clouds that were drizzling on him.

He felt naked without a weapon, and a little woozy. He put that down to not having eaten or drunk anything except the glass of Chivas for the past twenty-four hours rather than because of great sex. Kurtz admitted to himself that he'd had images of sitting around in those soft terry-cloth robes, enjoying a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and steaming hot coffee with Ms. Farino before he headed out into the storm. Getting soft, Joe, he thought. At least the expensive bomber jacket was warm against the icy drizzle.

Kurtz was walking under the I-90 overpass when a memory struck him. He left the sidewalk, climbed the steep concrete gradient, and peered into the low, dark niches where the concrete supports met iron girders. The first two cubbies were empty except for pigeon crap and human shit, but the third held a small skeletal figure that pulled back to the far end of the cluttered hole. As Kurtz's eyes adapted to the dark, he could make out wide white eyes, trembling shoulders, and long, bare, quaking arms emerging from a torn T-shirt. Even in the dim light, he could see the bruises and track marks on those arms. The thin man tried to pull himself farther back from the opening.

"Hey, it's okay, Pruno," said Kurtz. He reached out and patted the arm. It was almost fleshless and colder than some corpses Kurtz had handled. "It's me, Joe Kurtz."

"Joseph?" said the quaking figure. "Really you, Joseph?"

"Yeah."

"When'd you get out?"

"Just a while ago."

Pruno came farther out and tried to smooth out the flattened cardboard box and stinking blanket he was sitting on. The rest of the niche was filled with bottles and newspapers that the man obviously had been using for insulation.

"Where the hell's your sleeping bag, Pruno?"

"Somebody stole it, Joseph. Just a couple nights ago. I think… it wasn't long ago. Just when it was turning cold."

"You should go to the shelter, man."

Pruno lifted one of the bottles of wine and offered it. Kurtz shook his head. "Shelter's getting meaner every year," said the wino and junkie. "Work for sleep's the motto now."

"Working's better than freezing to death," said Kurtz.

Pruno shrugged. "I'll find a better blanket when one of the old street guys dies. 'Round about first snow, probably. So how are the guys in C Block, Joseph?"

"Last year they moved me to D Block," said Kurtz. "But I heard that Billy the C went to L.A. when he got out and is working in the movies out there."

"Acting?"

"Providing set security."

Pruno made a sound that started as a laugh and soon turned into a cough. "Usual protection racket. Those movie guys eat it up. What about you, Joseph? Heard that the Mosque brothers were pronouncing fatwah on you, as if they knew what that meant."

Kurtz shrugged. "Most people know that the D-bros don't have the money for that. I'm not worried. Hey, Pruno—you know anything about some Farino trucks being knocked over?"

The haggard, bearded figure looked up from his bottle. "You working for the Farinos these days, Joseph?"

"Not really. Just doing what I used to do."

"What do you want to know about the trucks?"

"Who's hitting them. When is the next job due?"

Pruno closed his eyes. The light was coming up gray beyond the overpass, and illuminated the filthy, haggard face enough to remind Kurtz of carved wooden statues of Jesus he had seen in Mexico. "I think I heard something about a low-rent type named Doo-Rag and his boys fencing some cigarettes and DVD players after the last truck thing," said Pruno. "No one tells me about crimes in the planning stage."

"Doo-Rag the Blood?" said Kurtz.

"Yes. You know him?"

Kurtz shook his head. "There was a punk in D Block got shanked in the showers supposedly because he owed money to a young Blood named Doo-Rag. Supposedly this Doo-Rag played a season for the NBA."

"Nonsense," said Pruno, emphasizing both syllables. "Closest Doo-Rag got to the NBA was the public courts up at Delaware Park."

"Those are pretty good," said Kurtz. "Would a Blood like Doo-Rag take marching orders from an ex-Crip?"

Pruno coughed again. "Everyone is doing business with everyone these days, Joseph. It's the global economy. You ever see a brochure from any of those top Ivy League—type colleges the last ten years or so?"

"No," said Kurtz. "I haven't received too many of those." He knew that Pruno had been a college professor at one time.

"Diversity and tolerance," said Pruno and drank the last of his wine. "Tolerance and diversity. No mention of the canon, of the classics, of knowledge or learning. Just tolerance and diversity and diversity and tolerance. It paves the way for global e-commerce and personal empowerment." His rheumy eyes focused on Kurtz in the dim light. "Yes, Joseph, Doo-Rag and his street associates would take orders from an ex-Crip if it meant money. Then they'd try to kill the motherfucker. Which ex-Crip are we talking about?"

"Malcolm Kibunte."

Pruno shrugged and then began shivering again. "Didn't know Malcolm Kibunte was ever a Crip."

"You know of any arrangements between this Malcolm or Doo-Rag and the Farinos?"

Pruno coughed again. "Doesn't seem likely, since the Farinos are as racist as all the rest of the wiseguy families. To be more succinct, Joseph—no."

"Know where I can find Kibunte?"

"I don't. But I'll ask around."

"Don't be too obvious about it, Pruno."

"Never, Joseph."

"One more question. Do you know anything about a white guy that this Malcolm hangs around with?"

"Cutter?" Pruno's voice was quaking from the cold or withdrawal.

"That's his name?"

"That is what people know him as, Joseph. I know nothing else. I wish to know nothing else. A very disturbed individual, Joseph. Please stay clear of him."

Kurtz nodded. "You need to get to a shelter and at least get a decent blanket, Pruno. Some food. Spend some time with people. Don't you get lonely out here?"

"Numquam se minus otiosum esse, quam cum otiosus, nee minus solum, quam cum solus esset," said the junkie. "Are you familiar with Seneca, Joseph? I had him on your reading list."

"Haven't got that far yet, I guess," said Kurtz. "Seneca the Indian chief?"

"No, Joseph, although he was quite eloquent as well. Especially after we whites gave his people a 'gift' of blankets riddled with smallpox. No, Seneca the philosopher…" Pruno's eyes grew vague and lost.

"You want to translate for me?" said Kurtz. "Like old times?"

Pruno smiled. "That he was never less idle than when he was idle, and never less alone than when he was alone. Seneca attributed it to Scipio Africanus, Joseph."

Kurtz took his leather jacket off and set it on Pruno's lap.

"I can't accept this, Joseph."

"It was a freebie," said Kurtz. "Got it less than an hour ago. I've got a closet full of those things at home."

"Bullshit, Joseph. Absolute bullshit."

Kurtz tapped the old man on his bony shoulder and slid down the embankment. He wanted to get back to his warehouse before it was truly light.