Hardcase

CHAPTER 29

Doc didn't come on guard duty at the steel mill until 11:00 p.m., so Kurtz had some time to kill. He felt tired. The last few days and nights had begun to blend together in his mind.

Using some of the $500 in cash that Arlene had retrieved from the ATM—Kurtz had promised to pay her back by the end of the month—he filled the Buick's gas tank for her. He then went into the Texaco convenience store and bought a Bic cigarette lighter, twenty-five feet of clothesline, and four half-liter Cokes—the only drinks which came in glass bottles. Kurtz emptied the Coke and filled the bottles with gasoline, keeping out of sight of the attendant as he did so. He had gone into the restroom, removed his boxer shorts, and torn them into rags. Now he stuffed those rags into the mouths of the gasoline-filled bottles and carefully set the four bottles into the spare-tire niche in the Buick's trunk. He did not have a real plan yet, but he thought that these things might come in handy when and if he visited the Seneca Social Club.

It was definitely colder without underpants.

The snow was trying to become Buffalo's first November snowstorm, but little was sticking to the streets. Kurtz drove down to the Expressway overpass, parked on a side street, and climbed the concrete grade to Pruno's niche. The cold concrete cubicle was empty. Kurtz remembered another place where the old man used to hang out, so he drove to the main switching yard. It was on his way.

Here part of the highway was elevated over twenty rails, and in the slight shelter of the bridge rose a ramshackle city of packing crates, tin roofs, open fires, and a few lanterns. Diesel locomotives growled and clanked in the wide yards a quarter of a mile beyond the squatters' city. What little skyline Buffalo offered rose beyond the railyards. Kurtz walked down the concrete incline and went from shack to shack.

Pruno was playing chess with Soul Dad. Pruno's gaze was unfocused—he was very high on something—but it did not seem to hurt his game. Soul Dad gestured him in. Kurtz had to duck low to get under the two-by-four-girded construction-plastic threshold.

"Joseph," said Soul Dad extending his hand. "It is good to see you again." Kurtz shook the bald black man's strong hand. Soul Dad was about Pruno's age, but in much better physical shape—he was one of the few homeless whom Kurtz had met who was not an addict or a schizophrenic. Solid, bald, bearded, given to wearing cast-off tweed jackets with a sweater vest over two or three shirts during the winter, Soul Dad had a mellifluous voice, a scholar's wisdom, and—Kurtz had always thought—the saddest eyes on earth.

Pruno looked at him as if Kurtz were an alien life-form that had just teleported into their midst. "Joseph?" The scrawny man looked warmer in the insulated bomber jacket Kurtz had given him. Sophia Farino's gift to the homeless, thought Kurtz, and then smiled when he realized that it had been a gift to the homeless when she'd given it to him.

"Pull up a crate, Joseph," rumbled Soul Dad. "We were just approaching the endgame."

"I'll just watch for a while," said Kurtz.

"Nonsense," said Soul Dad. "This game will go on for another day or so. Would you like some coffee?"

As the older man hunkered over a battered hot-plate in the rear of the shack, Kurtz noticed how powerful Soul Dad's back and shoulders and upper arms were under his thin jacket. Kurtz had no idea where they pirated the electricity for the shack, but the hot-plate worked, and Soul Dad had a refurbished laptop computer in the corner near his sleeping bag. Some form of chaos-driven fractal imagery—almost certainly home-programmed—was acting as a screen saver, adding to the glow of the lantern light in the little space.

Soul Dad and Kurtz sipped coffee while Pruno rocked, closing his eyes occasionally, the better to appreciate some interior light show. Soul Dad asked polite questions about Kurtz's last eleven and a half years, and Kurtz tried to answer with some humor. There must have been some wit in his answers, since Soul Dad's deep laugh was loud enough to bring Pruno out of his reveries.

"Well, to what do we owe the pleasure of this nocturnal visit, Joseph?" Soul Dad asked at last.

Pruno answered for him. "Joseph is tilting against windmills… a windmill named Malcolm Kibunte, to be precise."

Soul Dad's thick eyebrows rose. "Malcolm Kibunte is no windmill," he said softly.

"More a murderous sonofabitch," said Kurtz.

Soul Dad nodded. "That and more."

"Satan," said Pruno. "Kibunte is Satan incarnate." Pruno's rheumy eyes tried to focus on Soul Dad. "You're the theologian here. What's the origin of the name 'Satan'? I've forgotten."

"From the Hebrew," said Soul Dad, rooting around in a crate, taking out some bread and fruit. "It means one who opposes, obstructs, or acts as adversary. Thus, 'the Adversary. He moved the chessboard and set some of the food in front of Kurtz. "Take thou also unto thee wheat, and barley, and beans, and lentils, and millet, and fitches, and put them in one vessel, and make thee bread thereof," he intoned in his resonant growl. "Ezekiel 4:9." He broke the bread in a ceremonial manner and handed a piece to Kurtz.

Kurtz knew that twice a week the nearby Buffalo Bakery left an abandoned pickup truck in its park lot filled with three-day-old bread. The homeless knew the schedule. Kurtz's belly rumbled. He had not eaten all day. He held the battered, steaming tin coffee cup in one hand and accepted the bread.

"Song of Solomon 2:5," continued Soul Dad, setting two overripe apples on the crate in front of Kurtz. "Comfort me with apples."

Kurtz had to smile. "The Bible actually has recipes and recommends apples?"

"Absolutely," said Soul Dad. "Leviticus 7:23 is even so modern as to advise, Eat no manner of fat—although if I had some bacon, I'd fry it up for us."

Kurtz ate the bread, took a bite of apple, and sipped his scalding coffee. It was one of the best meals he'd ever tasted.

Pruno blinked and said, "Leviticus also advises, Ye shall eat no manner of blood. But I think that is what Joseph has in mind when it comes to this Satan, Malcolm."

Soul Dad shook his head. "Malcolm Kibunte is no Satan… the white man who provides him with the poison is Satan. Kibunte is Mastema from the lost book, Jubilees…"

Kurtz looked blank.

Pruno cleared his phlegmy throat. "Mastema was the demon who commanded Abraham to kill his own son," he said to Kurtz.

"I thought God did that," said Kurtz.

Soul Dad slowly, sadly shook his head. "No God worth worshiping would do that, Joseph."

"Jubilees is apocryphal," Pruno said to Soul Dad. And then, as if remembering something obvious. "Diabolos. Greek for one who throws something across one's path. Malcolm Kibunte is diabolical, but not Satanic."

Kurtz sipped his coffee. "Pruno sent me a reading list before I went into Attica. I didn't think it was that long a list, but I spent the better part of ten years working on it and didn't finish it."

"Sapientia prima est stultitia caruisee, " said Pruno. "Horace. 'To have shed stupidity is the beginning of wisdom. "

"Frederick was always good for self-improvement lists," said Soul Dad, chuckling.

"Who's Frederick?" said Kurtz.

"I used to be," said Pruno and closed his eyes again.

Soul Dad was looking at Kurtz. "Joseph, do you know why Malcolm Kibunte is an agent of Satan and why the white man behind Kibunte is Satan himself?"

Kurtz shook his head and took another bite of apple.

"Yaba," said Soul Dad.

The word rang a faint bell for Kurtz, but only a very faint bell. "Is that Hebrew?" he asked.

"No," said Soul Dad, "it's a form of methamphetamine, like speed, only with the punch and addictiveness of heroin. Yaba can be smoked, ingested, or injected. Every orifice becomes a portal to heaven."

"Portal to heaven," repeated Pruno, but it was obvious that he was no longer a part of the conversation.

"A devil drug," said Soul Dad. "A true generation killer."

Yaba. Shooting yaba. That's where Kurtz had heard the name. Some of the younger cons used it. Kurtz had never had much interest in other people's addictions. And there were so many drugs available in prison.

"So Kibunte is dealing yaba?" said Kurtz.

Soul Dad nodded slowly. "He came first with the usual—crack, speed, heroin. The Bloods were the victors in the gang wars of the early nineties, and to the victors belong the spoils. Malcolm Kibunte supplied the spoils. The usual mindkillers at first—crack, meth, speed, angel dust. But within the past eight or nine months, yaba has flowed from the Seneca Social Club to every street corner. The bangers buy it cheap, but then need it soon and often. The price goes up quickly until within a year—or less—the price is death."

"Where does yaba come from?" said Kurtz.

"That's the fascinating part," said Soul Dad. "It flows in from Asia—from the Golden Triangle—but its use has been limited in the United States. Suddenly here it is in great quantities in Buffalo, of all places."

"The New York Families?" said Kurtz.

Soul Dad opened his large hands. "I think not. The Colombians controlled the drug trade here for decades, but in recent years, the Families have come back onto the scene, working with the Colombians to regulate much of the flow of opium products. The sudden introduction of yaba, although terribly profitable, does not appear to be part of the plan of organized crime."

Kurtz finished the last of his coffee and set the tin cup down. "The Farino family," he said. "Someone in the family is supplying Malcolm. Could it be coming from Vancouver? What source is in Vancouver—" Kurtz stopped in mid-sentence.

Soul Dad nodded.

"Jesus!" whispered Kurtz. "The Triads? They control the flow of junk into North America on the West Coast, and they have plenty of meth labs in Vancouver, but why supply a mob family here? The Triads are at war with the West Coast Families…"

Kurtz was silent for several minutes, thinking. Somewhere in the shack city, an old man began coughing uncontrollably and then fell silent. Finally Kurtz said, "Christ. The Dunkirk Arsenal thing."

"I think you are right, Joseph," Soul Dad rumbled. Closing his eyes, he intoned, "Our contest is not against flesh and blood, but against powers, against principalities, against the world-rulers of this present darkness, against spiritual forces of evil in heavenly places." He opened his eyes and showed strong white teeth in a grin. "Ephesians 6:12."

Kurtz was still distracted. "I'm afraid my contest is going to be against flesh and blood, as well as against powers and principalities."

"Ahhh," said Soul Dad. "You're going up against the shit-eating Seneca Social Club."

"And I don't have a clue as to how to get to Malcolm Kibunte," said Kurtz.

Pruno opened his eyes. "Which book on my list did you like the most and understand the least, Joseph?"

Kurtz thought a moment. "The first one, I think. The Iliad."

"Perhaps your solution lies in that tale," said Pruno.

Kurtz had to smile. "So if I build a big horse for Malcolm and his boys and seal myself in, they'll wheel me into the Social Club?"

" O saculum insipiens et inficetum, " said Pruno and did not translate.

Soul Dad sighed. "He's quoting Catullus now. 'O stupid and tasteless age. When Frederick gets like this, I am reminded of Terence's comment: Me solus nescit omnia. 'Only he is ignorant of everything. "

"Oh, yes?" said Pruno, his rheumy eyes snapping open and his wild gaze fixing on Soul Dad. "Nullum scelus rationem habet—" He pointed at Kurtz. "Has meus ad metas sudet oportet equus—"

"Bullshit," responded Soul Dad. " Dum abast quod avemus, id exsuperare videtur. Caetera, post aliud, quum contigit, Mud, avemus, Et sitis aequo tenet! "

Pruno shifted to what sounded like Greek and began shouting.

Soul Dad answered in what had to be Hebrew. Spittle flew.

"Thanks for the dinner and conversation, gentlemen," said Kurtz, standing and moving to the low doorway.

The two men were arguing in what sounded like a totally unknown language now. They had forgotten that Kurtz was there.

Kurtz let himself out.