"Anything else?"
"Night vision goggles," said Kurtz. "I suspect the Major's men have them."
"Would Russian surplus do?" said Baby Doc. "I can get them discount."
"No," said Kurtz. "The good stuff."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah," said Kurtz. "We'll need some light anti-armor stuff. Shoulder
launched."
Baby Doc Skrzpczyk leaned back against the back of the booth. "You're not really amusing me any longer, Kurtz."
"I'm not trying to. You didn't see the Major's freehold down there today. I did. The sheriff drove slow to give me a good look at it all. They wanted me to bring the word back to Gonzaga and Farino in case they considered a preemptive strike. The house itself is on top of that damned mountain. They have maybe nine, ten men there, and I saw the automatic weapons. But down the hill, they have at least three reinforced gates along the driveeach one of them with steel posts sunk deep into concrete. There are two guardhouses, each with four or five 'security guards, and each guardhouse has a perfect field of fire down the hill. There are armored SUVsthose Panoz thingsparked in defilade sites up and down the hill, and two sheriff's cars that seem to be parked outside the lowest gate on a permanent basis."
"You don't need a shoulder-launched missile," said Baby Doc. "You need a fucking tank."
"If we were trying to fight our way up the drive or along the cliff, yeah," said Kurtz. "But we're not We just need one or two deterrents to block the drive if anyone tries to drive up it."
Baby Doc leaned forward, folded his hands on the tabletop, and whispered, "Do you have any idea how much a shoulder-launched antiaircraft missile costs?"
"Yeah," said Kurtz. "About a hundred grand for cheap shit sold-in-the-bazaar piece of Russian crap. Four or five times that for a Stinger."
Baby Doc stared at him.
"But I'm not talking about buying an antiaircraft missile," said Kurtz. "Just something to stop an SUV if we have to. A cheap RPG should do it."
"Who's paying for this?"
"Guess," said Kurtz.
"But they don't know it yet?"
"Not yet."
"You know you're talking about upwards of three-quarters of a million dollars here, not counting the lease of the Long Ranger."
Kurtz nodded.
"And how soon do you want all thisincluding me and the Long Ranger, if my terms are agreed upon?" said Baby Doc. "A week? Ten days?"
"Tonight," said Kurtz. "Midnight if we can do it. But departing here no later than two A.M."
Baby Doc opened his mouth as if to laugh but then did not. He closed his mouth and just stared at Joe Kurtz. "You're serious," he said at last.
"As a heart attack."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
But the day's events had frustrated the Dodger. He didn't like going back to Neolaexcept on Halloween, of courseand he didn't like being thwarted while stalking someone. It was twice now that he'd decided to kill this ex-P.I., twice that he'd prepared himself to kill a woman with the P.I. as well, and twice he'd been thwarted. The Artful Dodger didn't like to be thwartedespecially when it was by the Major or his men. Even seeing and hearing the old Huey helicopter again had given the Dodger an acid stomach.
So now he had to hang around Buffalo for a full eight hours before he could do his job and get out. And it was raining and cold. It always seemed to be rainy and cold in this damned townwhen it wasn't snowy and cold. The Dodger's joints achedhe was getting older, would officially be a year older in a few hoursand his many burn scars always itched when it rained for a long time.
Essentially, he was in a lousy mood. He considered going to a titty bar, but it was the night before his birthday night and he wanted to save the excitement, let it build.
So as the evening began to darken in the rain and the streetlights were coming on and the light Sunday traffic had all but disappeared, the Dodger drove south of downtown, under the elevated interstate, across the narrow bridge onto the island, through the empty area of grain elevators where the air smelled of burned Cheerios, then south to where the triangular intersection of Ohio and Chicago Streets ended with the abandoned Harbor Innthe P.I.'s hideaway, the little love nest where the Dodger had watched and waited all of last night for Kurtz and the Farino woman.
Odds were that the Major had terminated this minor irritation this afternoon, but if not, if the P.I. and
his big-boobed girlfriend were back here, then the Dodger was going to do a little freelancing, and if the Boss didn't like it, well the Boss didn't have to know about it.
The Harbor Inn was dark. The Dodger drove by slowly three times, noting again the almost-but-not-quite-hidden video camerasone on the rear wall of the triangular building overlooking where Kurtz had parked his Pinto before (the space was empty now), another high above the front door, one under a rain gutter on the Chicago Street side, the last one above the fire escapes on the Ohio Street approach. A lot of security for an abandoned flophouse.
The Dodger parked his truck a block or so from where he'd had to deal with the two black kids. Then he took a small backpack from between the seats, locked the vehicle, and walked back through the rain.