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. "
CHAPTER 6
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 decadessomewhere 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 grayalmost blackand 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."