Hardcase

CHAPTER 6

South Buffalo's Lackawanna had gone belly up as a steel town years before Kurtz had been sent away, but driving south on the elevated expressway now made him think of some sci-fi movie about a dead industrial planet. Below the expressway stretched mile after mile of dark and empty steel mills, factories, black brick warehouses, parking lots, train tracks, rusting rolling stock, smokeless chimneys, and abandoned worker housing. At least Kurtz hoped that those shitty tarpaper shacks on darkened streets under shot-out streetlights were abandoned.

He exited, drove several blocks past hovels and high-fenced yards, and pulled into one of the darkened mills. The gate padlock was unlocked. He drove through, closed the huge gate behind him, and drove to the far end of a parking lot that had been built to hold six or seven thousand cars. There was one vehicle there now: a rusted-out old Ford pickup with a camper shell on the back. Kurtz parked Arlene's Buick next to it and made the long, dark walk into the main factory building.

The main doors were open wide. Kurtz's footfalls echoed in the huge space as he passed slag heaps, cold open hearths, hanging crucibles the size of houses, gantries and cranes stripped of everything worth anything, and many huge, rusted shapes he couldn't begin to identify. The only lighting was from the occasional yellow trouble light.

Kurtz stopped beneath what had once been a control room thirty feet above the factory floor. A dim light illuminated the dirty glass on three sides of the box. An old man came out onto the metal balcony and shouted down, "Come on up."

Kurtz climbed the steel ladder.

"Hey, Doc," said Kurtz as the two men walked into the soft light of the control room.

"Howdy, Kurtz," said Doc. The old man had disappeared into that never-never land of indeterminate age that some men occupy for decades—somewhere over sixty-five but definitely under eighty-five.

"It seemed weird to see your pawnshop turned into an ice-cream parlor," said Kurtz. "I never thought you'd sell the shop."

Doc nodded. "Fucking economy just stayed too good in the nineties. I like the watchman job better. Don't have to worry about doped-up shitheads trying to knock me over. What can I do you for, Kurtz?"

Kurtz liked this about Doc. It had been more than eleven years since he had seen the old man, but Doc had just used up his entire inventory of small talk.

"Two pieces," said Kurtz. "One semiauto and the other a concealed-carry revolver."

"Cold?"

"As cold as you can make them."

"That's very cold." Doc went into the padlocked back room. He came back out in a minute and set several metal cases and small boxes on his cluttered desk. "I remember that nine-millimeter Beretta you used to love so much. What ever happened to that weapon?"

"I buried it with honors," Kurtz said truthfully. "What do you have for me?"

"Well, look at this first," said Doc and opened one of the gray carrying cases. He lifted out a black semiautomatic pistol. "Heckler & Koch USP.45 Tactical," he said. "New. Beautiful piece. Grooved dust cover for lasers or lights. Threaded extended barrel for silencer or suppressor."

Kurtz shook his head. "I don't like plastic guns."

"Polymer," corrected Doc.

"Plastic. You and I are made mostly of polymers, Doc. The gun is plastic and glass fiber. It looks like something Luke Sky walker would use."

Doc shrugged.

"Besides," said Kurtz, "I don't use lasers, lights, silencers, or suppressors, and I don't like German guns."

Doc put away the H&K. He opened another case.

"Nice," said Kurtz, lifting out the semiautomatic pistol. It was dark gray—almost black—and constructed primarily of forged steel.

"Kimber Custom.45 ACP," said Doc. "Owned briefly by a little old lady from Tonawanda who just hauled it down to the firing range once or twice a month."

Kurtz racked the slide, checked that the chamber was empty, dropped out the seven-round magazine, made sure that it was empty, slapped the magazine back in, and sighted down the barrel. "Good balance," he said. "But it has a full-length spring guide rod."

"Best kind," said Doc.

"Raises the risk of a loading malfunction," said Kurtz.

"Not on the Kimber. Like I said, custom-made."

"I've never owned a custom weapon," said Kurtz, putting the 1911-style pistol in his waistband and drawing it a few times.

"McCormick low-profile combat sights," said Doc.

"Catches cloth or leather," said Kurtz. "They should use ramp sights on all these fighting guns."

Doc shrugged. "You won't find many of those."

"I prefer double-actions."

"Yeah," said Doc. "I remember that you used to carry cocked and locked. But the Kimber has a sweet trigger pull."

Kurtz dry-fired the weapon several times and nodded. "How much?"

"It cost $675 new just a couple of years ago."

"That's what the little old lady from Tonawanda would've paid," said Kurtz. "How much?"

"Four hundred."

Kurtz nodded. "I'll need to fire some rounds."

"That's what the slag heap down there is for," said Doc. "I got some paper targets in back. I'll throw in a few boxes of Black Hills 185-grain."

Kurtz shook his head. "I'll be using 230-grain."

"Got those, too," said Doc.

"I'll need some leather."

"I got a CYA small-of-the-back. Used, but just nicely broken in. Clean. Twenty bucks."

"Okay," said Kurtz.

"Good. So you've got your home-defense weapon. What do you want to see in the concealed-carry revolver line? Interested in an AirLite Ti?"

"Titanium?" said Kurtz. "Hell, no. I didn't get so old and weak on vacation that I can't lift a pound or two of blue steel."

"Don't look like you did," Doc said and opened a cardboard box. "Can't get much more basic than this, Kurtz. S&W Model 36 Special."

Kurtz checked the heft, inspected the five empty chambers, held the barrel to the light, flipped shut the cylinder and dry-fired it. "How much?"

"Two hundred and fifty."

"Throw the semiauto holster in that."

Doc nodded.

"If I can put five into a three-inch circle at fifty feet with this, it's a deal," said Kurtz.

"Going deer hunting?" Doc said dryly. "You'll need a sandbag rest at that distance. Barrel under two inches, generally the best plan is to sneak up on the deer and shove the Special against its belly before pulling the trigger."

"I noticed a few sandbags down there."

"Speaking of deer hunting," said Doc. "You hear that Manny Levine is looking for you?"

"Who's Manny Levine?"

"A psycho. Brother of Sammy Levine."

"Who's Sammy Levine?"

"Was," said Doc. "Sammy disappeared about eleven-and-a-half years ago. Word on the street was that you helped him get started in the energy business."

"Energy business?"

"Methane production," said Doc.

"Don't know either of them," said Kurtz. "But in case this Manny comes calling, what does he look like?"

"Sort of like Danny DeVito on a bad day. But a much shittier disposition. Carries a.44 Magnum Ruger Redhawk and likes to use it."

"That's a lot of gun for a short fat man," said Kurtz. "Thanks for the heads-up."

Doc shrugged again. "Need anything else tonight?"

"Sap," said Kurtz.

"Regular, ballistic cloth, or leather?"

It was after midnight when Kurtz drove back to Cheektowaga with the.45 holstered in the small of his back, the.38 in his left jacket pocket, and the two-pound sap in his right jacket pocket. He stayed at or under the speed limit all the way back. It would be embarrassing to be stopped by a cop and his license was eight years out of date.

He had just pulled into the Motel 6 when he noticed the sports car parked far from the light, its cloth top up. A red Honda S2000. It could be Coincidence, except Kurtz did not believe in coincidence. He made a quick U-turn and drove back out onto the boulevard.

The S2000 switched on its lights and accelerated hard to follow.