Now Kurtz let himself in the alley entrance in case Brubaker had left his sidekick Myers in the lobbyunlikely, since plainclothes cops were like snakes or nuns and always traveled in pairs. He took the back stairs up to the third floor from the abandoned kitchen in back and then walked up the smelly main staircase to the eighth floor. At the sixth-floor level, Kurtz could see the two sets of footprints in the plaster dust he'd left covering the center of the stairs. Brubaker, who had the larger feetKurtz had noticed beforehad a hole in his sole. That sounded about right to Kurtz. The footprints led down the center of the dusty and dark corridorKurtz kept to the walls when he came and wentand ended at the open door to his room. The two detectives had kicked his door in, splintering the lock and knocking the door off the hinges. Kurtz braced himself, made his stomach muscles rigid, and walked into his home.
Myers came out from behind the door and hit him in the belly with what felt like brass knuckles. Kurtz went down and tried to roll against the wall, but Brubaker had time to step in from the opposite side of the door and give Kurtz a kick to the head that landed on his shoulder as he tucked and rolled again.
Myers kicked him in the back of his left leg, paralyzing the calf muscle, while Brubakerthe taller, uglier, smarter one of the pairpulled his Glock-9mm and pressed it to the soft spot behind Kurtz's left ear. "Give us a reason," hissed Detective Brubaker. Kurtz did not move. He could not breathe yet, but he knew from experience that his stunned belly muscles and diaphragm would relax from the blow before he passed out from lack of oxygen.
"Give me a fucking reason " shouted Brubaker, cocking the piece. It didn't need cocking of course, since it was a single-action, but it looked and sounded dramatic.
"Hey, hey, Fred," said Myers, sounding sincerely alarmed.
"Fuck hey, hey, Tommy," said Brubaker, spraying Kurtz's cheek with saliva. "This miserable fuck" He slapped Kurtz hard on the neck with the cocked pistol and then kicked him in the small of the back.
Kurtz grunted and did not move.
"Pat him down," snapped Brubaker.
With Brubaker's Glock against his temple now, Kurtz lay still while Myers frisked him roughly, ripping buttons off his peacoat as he pulled it open, turning his pockets inside out.
"He's clean, Fred."
"Fuck!" The muzzle quit pressing into the flesh next to Kurtz's left eye. "Sit up, asshole, hands behind your back, back against the wall."
Kurtz did as he was told. Myers was lounging on the arm of the sprung sofa Kurtz had dragged up to serve as both furniture and bed. Brubaker was standing five feet away with the 9mm still aimed at Kurtz's head.
"I ought to kill you right now,
you miserable cock-sucker," Brubaker said conversationally. He patted the pocket of his cheap suit. "I've got a throwdown right here. Leave you here. The rats would have you three-fourths eaten before anyone fucking found you."
They'd have all of me eaten before anyone found me up here , thought Kurtz. He did not share the opinion aloud.
"Jimmy Hathaway's ghost would rest easy," said Brubaker, voice tense again, finger also tense on the trigger.
"Fred, Fred," said Myers, playing the good cop. Or at least the semi-sane cop. The non-rogue killer cop.
"Fuck it," said Brubaker, lowering the weapon. "You're not worth it, you piece of ratshit. Not when we'll get to do you legally soon enough. You're not worth the fucking paperwork this way." He stepped forward and kicked Kurtz in the belly.
Kurtz sagged against the wall and began the countdown to a point where he could breathe again.
Brubaker walked out. Myers paused for a moment looking down at the gasping Kurtz. "You shouldn't have killed Hathaway," the fat man said softly. "Fred knows you did it and someday he's going to prove it. Then there won't be any warnings."
Myers walked out too, and Kurtz listened to their footfalls and cursing about the elevator as they descended the echoing staircase. He made a mental note to sprinkle more plaster dust on the steps. He hoped they wouldn't tear his Volvo apart when they searched it.
It could have been much worse. Brubaker and Hathaway had been friends, of sorts, and both were crooked cops, but Hathaway had been on the Farino pad and on the personal payroll of Maria Farino during her shortlived bid to take over her father's business. Hathaway had seen a chance to take out Kurtz and curry favor with Maria Farino, and it had almost worked for him. Almost. If Brubaker and Myers had been working directly for the Farinos or Gonzagas now, it could have been a short, bad morning for Joe Kurtz. At least now he knew for sure that the cops weren't totally in Ms. Angelina Farino Ferrara's pocket.
When Kurtz could finally stand, he staggered a few steps, opened the window, and vomited out into the alley. No reason to get his bathroom all messy. He'd cleaned it just a week or two before.
When he could breathe a little better and his stomach muscles had quit their spasms, Kurtz went to the refrigerator to get breakfast carrying the Miller Lite with him as he sprawled on the couch. He knew he had to get down to the alley to retrieve the two pistols, but he thought he'd rest a bit before doing that.