"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.
CHAPTER 7
Kurtz drove away from the lights, down a county road he remembered from the old days. The urban sprawl hadn't stretched this far and the road was empty of traffic. Kurtz accelerated until the sports car had to rush to keep up and was only forty or fifty feet behind him, and then he swerved off on a paved turnout, braking hard, swinging the protesting Buick into a clean 180-degree skidding turn. His headlights illuminated the S2000 as it came to a stop twenty feet away. Only the driver's head was visible.
Kurtz scrambled out, crouched behind the driver's-side door of the Buick, and pulled out the.45 Kimber.
A huge man stepped out of the sports car. His hands were empty.
"Kurtz, you asshole. Come out of there, goddamn you."
Kurtz sighed, slid the.45 into its holster, and stepped out into the headlights' glare. "You don't want to do this, Carl."
"The fuck I don't," said the big Farino-family bodyguard.
"Who sent you?"
"Nobody sent me, asshole."
"Then you're dumber than you look," said Kurtz. "If that's possible."
Carl stepped closer. He was wearing the same tight pants and polo shirt as before, without the blazer, showing his pecs despite the chilly night air. "I'm not packing heat, cocksucker," he said.
"Okay," said Kurtz.
"Let's settle this" said the bodybuilder.
"Settle what?"
" man to man," said Carl, finishing his thought.