Hardcase

CHAPTER 5

As lawyer Leonard Miles watched the millions of tons of water flowing hypnotically over the blue-green edge of infinity, he thought of what Oscar Wilde had said about Niagara Falls: "For most people, it's the second biggest disappointment of their honeymoon." Or something like that. Miles was no expert on Wilde.

Miles was watching the falls from the American side—decidedly inferior viewing to the Canadian side—but necessary, since the two men Miles was meeting here probably could not cross into Canada legally. As with most native Buffalonians, Miles rarely paid attention to Niagara Falls, but this was the kind of public place where a lawyer might run into one of his clients—Malcolm Kibunte had been his client—and it was not too far from Miles's home on Grand Island. And Miles had little worry about running into any of the Farino Family or, more important to Miles, into any of his professional or social peers at the Falls on a workday afternoon.

"Thinking about jumping, Counselor?" came a deep voice from behind him as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

Miles started. He turned slowly to look at the grinning face and gleaming diamond tooth of Malcolm Kibunte. Malcolm still had a firm grip on Miles's shoulder, as if considering whether or not to lift the lawyer and throw him over the railing.

He would have, too, Miles knew. Malcolm Kibunte gave him the creeps, and his buddy Cutter actively scared him. Since Leonard Miles had spent much of the last three decades of his life around made men, professional killers, and psychotic drug dealers, he paid some attention to these anxieties. Looking at them both now, Miles did not know which man was stranger looking—Malcolm, the athletic six-foot-three black man with his shaved head, wrestler's body, eight gold rings, six diamond earrings, one diamond-studded front tooth, and ubiquitous black leather outfit, or Cutter, the silent, anorectic-looking near-albino, with his junkie eyes looking like holes melted through white plastic and long, greasy hair hanging down over his grubby sweatshirt.

"What the fuck you want, Miles, calling our asses all the way out here to this fucking place?" said Malcolm, releasing the lawyer.

Miles grinned affably, thinking, Jesus Christ, I defend the scum of the earth. In truth, he had never really represented Cutter. He had no idea if Cutter had ever been arrested. He had no idea what Cutter's real name was. Malcolm Kibunte was obviously an acquired name, but Miles had represented the big man—successfully, thank God—in two murder raps (one involving Malcolm's strangling of his wife), a cop shooting, a drug-ring bust, a statutory-rape case, a regular rape case, four aggravated-assault cases, two grand-larceny trials, and some parking violations. The lawyer knew that this did not make them good buddies. In fact, he thought again that Malcolm was precisely the type who would have tossed him over the falls on a whim if it weren't for two factors: (1) Miles worked for the Farino Family, and although the family was a pale shadow of its former self, they still commanded some respect on the street, and (2) Malcolm Kibunte knew that he would need Miles's legal skills again.

Miles led the way apart from the other tourists, motioned the other two to a park bench. Miles and Malcolm sat. Cutter remained standing, staring at nothing. Miles clicked open his briefcase and handed Malcolm a file folder.

Malcolm opened the folder and looked at the mug shots clipped to the top sheet.

"Recognize him?" said Miles.

"Uh-uh," said Malcolm. "But the fucking name sounds sort of familiar."

"Cutter?" said Miles.

"Cutter don't recognize him neither," said Malcolm. Cutter had not even looked in the general direction of the photographs. He hadn't yet looked at Miles. He wasn't even looking at the roaring falls. "You bring us out here so early in the fucking day to look at a picture of some motherfucking honky?" said Malcolm.

"He just got out of—"

"Kurtz," interrupted Malcolm. "That German for 'short, Miles, my man. This fucker short?"

"Not especially," said Miles. "How'd you know that 'kurtz' was German for 'short'?"

Malcolm gave him a look that would have made a lesser man wet his pants. "I drive me a fucking Mercedes SLK, man. That's what the fucking 'K' in fucking 'SLK' stand for, asshole… 'short. You think I'm a fucking illiterate, you bald college-boy asshole guinea-ass-licking piece-a-shit mouthpiece?" All of this was said without heat or emphasis.

"No, no," said Miles, waving his hands in the air as if shooing away insects. He glanced at Cutter. Cutter did not appear to be listening! "No, I was just impressed," Miles said to Malcolm. "SLK is a great car. Wish I had one."

"No wonder," Malcolm said conversationally. "Drivin' around that fucking piece of American pig-iron Cadillac shit you got."

Miles nodded and shrugged at the same time. "Yes, well, anyway, this Kurtz showed up at Mr. Farino's place with an introduction from Little Skag—"

"Yeah, that's where I hear the fucking name," said Malcolm. "Attica. Motherfucker named Kurtz wasted Ali, leader of the Death Mosque brothers up in Cell-block D, 'bout a year ago. Mosque brothers put ten thousand out for whoever kill the white motherfucker, every nigger motherfucker in Attica sharpening shanks out of fucking spoons and angle irons. Even some of the fucking guards hot for the payoff, but somehow nobody get to this Kurtz motherfucker. If that the same Kurtz. You think it the same, Cutter?"

Cutter turned his grub white face in Malcolm's general direction, but said nothing. Miles looked at Cutter's pale gray eyes in that dead face and shuddered.

"Yeah, I think so, too," said Malcolm. "Why you showin' us this shit, Miles?"

"Kurtz is going to work for Mr. Farino."

"Mr. Farino," parroted Malcolm in a mincing falsetto. He flashed his diamond tooth at Cutter as if he had made a profound witticism. Malcolm's laugh was deep, low, and unnerving. "Mr. Farino be a dried-up piece of wop shit with shriveled-up balls. Don't deserve no 'Mister' no more, Miles, my man."

"Be that as it may," said Miles, "this Kurtz—"

"Tell me where Kurtz lives, and Cutter and me will collect the Death Mosque ten thousand."

The lawyer shook his head. "I don't know where he lives. He's only been out of Attica for about forty-eight hours. But he wants to investigate some things for Mr… for the Farino family."

"'Vestigate?" said Malcolm. "What the fucker think he is, Sherlock Motherfucking Holmes?"

"He used to be a private investigator," said Miles, nodding toward the folder as if urging Malcolm to read the few pages in it. When Malcolm didn't, Miles went on, "Anyway, he's looking into Buell Richardson's disappearance and also into some of the truck hijackings."

Malcolm flashed his diamond tooth again. "Whoa! Now I see why you want us way up here in Honky Tourist World so early in the day. Miles, my man, you must've shit your three-pleats when you heard that."

This was the second time that Malcolm had mentioned how early in the day it was, Miles noted. He did not point out that it was after 3:00 p.m. He said, "We don't want this Kurtz to be messing with these things, do we, Malcolm?"

Malcolm Kibunte pursed his lips in mock solemnity and slowly shook his gleaming, hairless head. "Aww, no, Miles, my man. We don't want nobody messing around in what we could get our fucking lawyer head blown off for, do we, Counselor?"

"No," Cutter added in a voice lacking all human tone, "we don't, do we?"

Miles literally jumped at the sound of Cutter's voice. He turned and looked at Cutter, who was still staring at nothing. It was as if the words had come from his belly or chest.

"How much?" said Malcolm, no longer playful.

"Ten thousand," said Miles. "Fuck that. Even with the Death Mosque ten, that ain't enough."

Miles shook his head. "This can't get out. No word to the Mosque brothers. We have to make Kurtz disappear."

"Dis-ap-pear," said Malcolm, stretching out the syllables. "Disappearing some motherfucker harder than just capping him. We talking fifty bills."

Miles showed his most disdainful lawyer smile. "Mr. Farino could call in his best professional talent for less than that."

"Mr. Farino," minced Malcolm, "ain't calling in nobody for nothing, is he, Miles, my man? This Kurtz your problem—am I right or am I right?"

Miles made a gesture.

"And besides, Mr. Farino's best professional talent can kiss my serene black ass and eat wop shit and die wop slow, they get in my way," Malcolm continued.

Miles said nothing.

"What Cutter wants to know," said Malcolm, "is do you or don't you have nothing on Kurtz? Not where he live? Not where he work? Friends? Nothing… am I right or am I right? Me and Cutter supposed to play P.I. as well as cap this fucker for you?"

"The folder" — began Miles, nodding toward it—"has some information. Where Kurtz used to have an office on Chippewa. The name of a former associate, dead, a woman… the name and current address of his former secretary and a few other people he spent time with. Mr. Fi… the family had me check on him when Little Skag sent word that Kurtz wanted a meeting. There's not much there, but it could help."

"Forty," said Malcolm. It was not a proposal, merely a final statement. "That only twenty each for C and me. And it's hard to disappoint the Mosque that way, Miles, my man."

"All right," said the lawyer. "A fourth up front. As usual." He looked around, saw only tourists, and handed across his second envelope of cash in two days.

Malcolm smiled broadly and counted the $10,000, showing it to Cutter, who seemed to be absorbed in looking at a squirrel near the trash bin.

"You want pictures, as always?" said Malcolm as he slid the envelope into his black leather jacket.

Miles nodded.

"What you do with those Polaroids, Miles, my man? Jack off to them?"

Miles ignored that. "You sure you can do this, Malcolm?"

For a second, Miles thought that he had gone too far. Various emotions rippled across Malcolm's face, like wind rippling an ebony flag, but the final reaction seemed to be humor.

"Oh, yesss," said Malcolm, looking up at Cutter to share his good humor. "Mistah Kurtz, he dead."