Hardcase

CHAPTER 3

Orchard Park was an upscale area out near the Bills' Stadium. Arlene's car—although just a basic Buick—had one of those GPS navigational LCD-screen doohickies set in the dash, but Kurtz never turned it on. He had memorized the route and had an old road map if he needed it. He wondered just what in the hell had happened to people's sense of direction in the last decade if they needed all this electronic shit just to find their way around.

Most of the homes in Orchard Park were upper-middle-class or better, but a few were real mansions, set behind stone walls and iron gates. Kurtz turned into one of these, gave his name to a speaker grille, and was told to wait. A video camera mounted on a pillar by the gate had ceased its slow arcs and now stared down at him. Kurtz ignored it.

The gate opened and three bodybuilder types in blue blazers and gray slacks came out.

"You can leave the car here," said the smoothest-looking of the three. He gestured for Kurtz to get out of the car.

They frisked him well—even checking his groin area carefully—and then had him unbutton his shirt so that they could see that he wasn't wearing a wire. Then they gestured him onto the back bench of a golf cart and drove him up the long, curving driveway to the house.

Kurtz did not pay much attention to the house. It was your basic brick mansion, a little heavier on security than usual. There was a four-car garage set back to one side, but a Jaguar, a Mercedes, a Honda S2000, and a Cadillac were lined up along the drive. The blueblazered driver stopped the cart, and the other two men led Kurtz around back to the pool area.

Even though it was October, the pool was still filled and free of leaves. An older man in a paisley robe sat at a poolside table along with a balding middle-aged man in a gray suit. They were drinking coffee from fragile china cups. The bald man refilled the cups from a silver pot as Kurtz and his minders walked up. A fourth bodyguard, this one wearing tight slacks and a polo shirt under his blue blazer, stood with his hands folded over his crotch a few paces behind the old man. "Sit down, Mr. Kurtz," said the old man. "You'll forgive me if I don't get up. An old injury." Kurtz sat.

"Coffee?" said the old man. "Sure."

The bald man poured, but it was obvious that he was no lackey. An expensive metal briefcase lay on the table near him.

"I am Byron Tatrick Farino," said the old man.

"I know who you are," said Kurtz.

The old man smiled slightly. "Do you have a first name, Mr. Kurtz?"

"Are we going to be on a first-name basis, Byron?"

The smile faded.

"Watch your mouth, Kurtz," said the bald man.

"Shut up, consigliere." Kurtz's eyes never left the old man. "This meeting's between Mr. Farino and me."

"Quite right," said Farino. "But you understand that the meeting is a courtesy and that it would not be taking place at all if you had not… ah… provided a service to us with regard to my son."

"By keeping Little Skag from being raped up the ass in the showers by Ali and his gang," said Kurtz. "Yeah. You're welcome. But this meeting is business."

"You want compensation for helping young Stephen?" said the lawyer. He clicked open the briefcase.

Kurtz shook his head. He was still looking at Farino. "Maybe Skag told you what I had to offer."

Farino sipped his coffee. The old man's hands were almost as translucent as the expensive china. "Yes, Stephen sent word via his lawyer that you wanted to offer your services. But what services can you possibly provide us that we do not already have, Mr. Kurtz?"

"Investigations."

Farino nodded but the lawyer showed an unpleasant smile. "You were a private investigator once, Kurtz, but you'll never have a license again. You're on parole, for chrissakes. Why on earth would you think that we need a killer ex-con washed-up P.I. on our payroll?"

Kurtz turned his gaze on the lawyer. "You're Miles," he said. "Skag talked about you. He said you like young boys and that the older and limper you get, the younger they get."

The lawyer blinked. His left cheek blazed with blood, as if Kurtz had slapped him. "Carl," he said. The goon in the straining polo shirt opened his hands and took a step forward.

"If you want Carl around, you'd better jerk his leash," said Kurtz.

Mr. Farino held up one hand. Carl stopped. Farino put his other veined hand on the lawyer's forearm. "Leonard," he said. "Patience. Why do you provoke us, Mr. Kurtz?"

Kurtz shrugged. "I haven't had my morning coffee yet." He drank some.

"We are willing to reimburse you for your help with Stephen," said Farino. "Please accept it as a…"

"I don't want to be paid for that," said Kurtz. "But I'm willing to help you with your real problem."

"What problem?" said Attorney Miles.

Kurtz looked at him again. "Your accountant, a guy named Buell Richardson, is missing. That's not good news at the best of times for a family like yours; but since Mr. Farino's been forced out… retired… you don't know what the fuck is going on. The FBI could have turned Richardson and have him stashed in a safe house somewhere, singing his guts out. Or the Gonzagas, the other Western New York family, could have whacked him. Or maybe Richardson is going freelance and will be sending you a note and demands any day now. It might be nice to know ahead of time."

"What makes you think—" Miles began.

"Plus, the only part of the action they left you was the contraband being brought in from La Guardia, up from Florida, and down from Canada," Kurtz said to Farino. "And even before Richardson disappeared, someone had been knocking over your trucks."

"What makes you think that we can't deal with this?" Miles's voice was strained, but under control.

Kurtz turned his gaze back on the old man. "You used to," he said. "But who do you trust now?"

Farino's hand was shaking as he set his cup down in its saucer. "What is your proposal, Mr. Kurtz?"

"I investigate for you. I find Richardson. I bring him back to you if possible. I find out if the truck hijacking is linked with his disappearance."

"And your fees?" said Farino.

"Four hundred dollars a day plus my expenses."

Attorney Miles made a rude sound.

"I don't have too many expenses," continued Kurtz. "A thousand up front for a stake. A bonus if I drag your CPA back in good time."

"How large a bonus?" said Farino.

Kurtz drank the last of the coffee. It was black and rich. He stood up. "I'll leave that to you, Mr. Farino. Now I've got to get going. What do you say?"

Farino rubbed his liver-colored lower lip. "Write the check, Leonard."

"Sir, I don't think—"

"Write the check, Leonard. A thousand dollars advance, you said, Mr. Kurtz?"

"In cash."

Miles counted out the money, all in crisp fifties, and put it in a white envelope.

"You realize, Mr. Kurtz," said the old man, his voice suddenly flat and cold, "that the penalties for failure in situations such as this are rarely restricted to simple loss of payment." Kurtz nodded.

The old man took a pen from the lawyer's briefcase and jotted on a blank business card. "Contact these numbers if you have information or questions," said Farino. "You are never to come back to this house. You are never again to call me or contact me directly in any way."

Kurtz took the card.

"David, Charles, and Carl will run you down the drive to your car," said Farino.

Kurtz looked Carl in the eye and smiled for the first time that morning. "Your bitches can follow me if they want," he said. "But I'll walk. And they'll stay at least ten paces behind me."