The fat man pulled the curtain off its rod as he fell heavily outward. It wasn't even a real shower, just a tub with a rod and curtain and a jerry-rigged sprayer. Now the fat man was sprawled over the edge of the tub. The Dodger didn't understand how people could live this way.
Terry was humped over the edge of the tub, his fat, hairy ass sticking up, his arms and head and upper torso all tangled up in the stupid fish-curtain. Blood was swirling around his toes and running down the drain. The Dodger didn't want to touch that wet, clammy fleshat least two exit wounds were visible and bubbling in Terry's backso he patted the curtain until he found the fat man's head, grabbed his hair through the cheap plastic, lifted the head, set the silencer against the man's foreheadthe Dodger could see wide, staring eyes through the plasticand pulled the trigger.
The Dodger picked up his brass, went downstairs again, stepping over the woman, and searched every room, starting from the cellar and working his way back up to the second floor, policing the last two ejected cartridges as be went. He'd fired eight rounds but there were still two live ones left in case there was another kid or invalid aunt or somebody in the house. And he had his survival knife.
There was nobody else. The only sound was the water still running in the shower and the sudden scream of a tea kettle in the kitchen.
The Dodger went to the kitchen and turned off the heat under the kettle. It was an old-fashioned gas-type stove. There were fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies on the counter. The Dodger ate three of the cookies and then drank from a milk bottle in the fridge. The milk bottle was glass, but he still had his gloves on.
He unscrewed the silencer, slipped the Berretta and silencer back into his trouser cargo pocket, unlocked the kitchen door, then walked to the front of the house and checked the street through the little slivers of window glass in the front door, the street was as empty and gray-looking as when he'd arrived. He went out the front, pulling it locked behind him.
The Dodger went out to his AstroVan and backed it up the narrow driveway. The van filled the drive. Neighbors wouldn't see a damned thing with his van blocking the view like that The Dodger chose three big mail sacks the right size and went into the house again. He made three trips, dropping each sacked body into the back of the van with an oddly hollow thump from the metal floor. He saved the kid for last, savoring the ease of effort after hauling Mr. and Mrs. Lard-Ass.
Fifteen minutes later, on I-90 headed out of town, he punched in WBFO, 88.7 on his radio. It was Buffalo's coolest jazz station and the Dodger liked jazz. He whistled and patted the steering wheel as he drove.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Daddy Bruce came out of the back, wiping his hands off on a white apron. The old man never sat with customers, but he gripped the back of the chair next to Kurtz and shook his head several times, tut-tutting.
"I hope the other guy looks even worse."
"I don't
know who the other guy is," said Kurtz. "That's why I came by. Anyone been in here asking for me over the last few days?"
"This very morning," said Daddy Bruce. He scratched his short, white beard. "They so many white people in here this morning asking for you, I considered hanging out a sign saying 'Joe Kurtz ain't herego away. "
Kurtz waited for the details.
"First was this woman cop. I remember you in here with her a long, long time ago, Joe, when you was both kids. She identified herself today as Detective King, but you used to call her Rigby. I should've thrown both your asses out back then, being underage and all, but you always loved the music so much and I saw that you were teaching her all about it, plus trying to get in her pants."
"Who else?"
"Three guineas this morning. Button men maybe. Very polite. Said they had some money for you. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Gotta find Joe Kurtz to give him a big bag of money. Lot of that goin' round."
Kurtz didn't have to ask if Daddy Bruce had told them anything. "Were they well-dressed? Blowdried hair?"
The old man laughed a rich, phlegmy laugh. "Maybe in a guinea idea of well-dressed. You know the typethose long, pointy, white collars that don't match their shirts. Off-the-back-of-the-truck suits that they never had tailored. And blowdried? Those three comb their hair with buttered toast."
Gonzaga's people , thought Kurtz. Not Farino Ferrara's .
"Anyone else?"
Daddy Bruce laughed again. "How many people you need after your ass before you feel popular? You want an aspirin?"
"No, thanks. So you haven't heard anything about anyone wanting to cap me?"
"Well, you didn't ask that . Sure I do. Last one I heard was about three weeks agobig halfbreed Indian with a limp. He got real drunk and was telling a couple of A.B. types he was going to do you."
"How'd you know the others were A.B.?"
Daddy Bruce sighed. "You think I don't know Aryan Brotherhood when I smell them?"
"What were they doing in here?" Blues Franklin had never made the mistake of going upscaledespite the Steinway and the occasional headlinersand it still had a largely black clientele.