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Summary
Summary
Somewhere in Western New York, there's a remote mountaintop in the moonlight, its dark forests and moon-dappled meadows populated only by corpses. If ex-PI Joe Kurtz doesn't unravel the secret of that place in five days, he'll be one of them.
Everyone seems to want a piece of Kurtz these days and most succeed in getting one. Unknown assailants gun down Kurtz and his female parole officer, giving Kurtz the headache of a lifetime but putting pretty Peg O'Toole on life support. Working his own case through a haze of concussion migraine, Kurtz has to deal with Toma Gonzaga, the gay don who owes Kurtz a blood debt, and Angelina Farino Ferrara, the female don who is after Kurtz's body-or maybe just his head.
And while someone is murdering all the heroin addicts in Buffalo and hauling away the bodies, a serial killer called the Artful Dodger hatches his twisted plan.
In Kurtz's corner is police detective Rigby King, a beautiful woman who had been his young lover when they were both rebellious teenagers in Father Baker's Orphanage. Rigby also has designs on Joe Kurtz, but whether they're aimed at bedding or abetting him, helping him stay alive or simply putting him away for life, Kurtz will have to discover the hard way.
Lightning fast pace and unrelenting action are the hallmarks of this series, but the epic struggle portrayed in this book sets a new standard for crime fiction. Saturated with the ragged-edged aggression of the Buffalo streets, Dan Simmons's Hard As Nails comes down like a hammer smashing a thumb on a cold day.
Author Notes
Science fiction writer Dan Simmons was born in East Peoria, Illinois in 1948. He graduated from Wabash College in 1970 and received an M. A. from Washington University the following year.
Simmons was an elementary school teacher and worked in the education field for a decade, including working to develop a gifted education program.
His first successful short story was won a contest and was published in 1982. His first novel, Song of Kali, won a World Fantasy Award, and Simmons has also won a Theodore Sturgeon Award for short fiction, four Bram Stoker Awards, and eight Locus Awards. He is also the author of the Hyperion series, and Simmons and his work have been compared to Herbert's Dune and Asimov's Foundation series.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
After last year's well-received Hard Freeze, Simmons stumbles with this disappointing mishmash, the latest entry in his series featuring ex-con-turned-PI Joe Kurtz. The book opens promisingly enough with a (literal) bang: "On the day he was shot in the head, things were going strangely well for Joe Kurtz.... Later, he told himself that he should have known that the universe was getting ready to readjust its balance of pain at his expense." The shooting leaves Kurtz with the headache of a lifetime and a female probation officer on life support. As if that weren't enough, Kurtz has to deal with Toma Gonzaga, the gay don who owes him a debt in blood. On top of that, someone is killing heroin addicts in Buffalo and hauling away the bodies. And on top of that, a serial killer known as the Artful Dodger (why do fictional serial killers always have colorful names?) launches a bizarre plot. There's more, much more, leading to a climax that's well-nigh incomprehensible. Any one, or two, of these plots would have made for a suspenseful mystery. Why Simmons insists on cramming them all into a 288-page novel is a mystery in itself. Surely he can't lack the courage of his fictional convictions? Unfortunately, it seems that way, and with so much going on, the novel lapses into a welter of absurdities. One can only hope for better things from this talented writer and Joe Kurtz in the future. Regional author tour. (Oct. 13) FYI: Simmons's latest SF novel is Ilium (Forecasts, May 26). (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
In his third outing, hard-luck Buffalo PIoeurtz is back in the wringer, and the versatile Simmons cranks it for all its worth. The ever sardonicoe is slapped around, shot in the neck and back, precipitated down a ziggurat, and leaned on from every angle by Mafioso (amorous and otherwise), cops (ditto), hit men, an arms dealer, a drug kingpin and his cadre, and a ghastly and prolific psycho killer known as the Dodger, unleashed by some shadowy Fagin on the world to treble the body count. All of which would be plenty to account for his searing migraines, never mind being shot in the head in chapter 1. With the exception of some sloggy backstory, the plot moves along well, although the uneasy marriage of gritty crime and macabre melodrama may leave some hard-boiled fans balking at baroque excesses worthy ofames Patterson. In sum, a nice, dark, all-purpose thriller with some of the appeal of Mike Hammer, Parker or Burke, and all of the fun of Mac Bolan, Executioner. --David Wright Copyright 2003 Booklist
Kirkus Review
Ex-p.i., ex-con Joe Kurtz (Hard Freeze, 2002, etc.) is on the dodge from gunslingers galore bent on rendering him just plain ex. A Neanderthal he rubbed the wrong way in Attica? A soldier out of the Gonzaga mob? A freelance hit man hired by the Ferraras? The lethal sociopath known as the Artful Dodger? You need a scorecard to keep the players straight, and right at the start one of them comes perilously close to taking Joe out with a .22 slug. If not for a fortuitous ricochet--well, as the ER doc says, "We would be extracting it from your brain as we speak--probably during an autopsy." Okay, so the woods are full of potential Kurtz-killers, that's nothing new in Joe's unsettling world. But when his concussed head clears, he recalls that he didn't venture into that garage alone. At his side was a parole officer. Is it possible that a disenchanted client went gunning for her and hit Joe the innocent bystander instead? It's a thoroughly confusing situation, he thinks, and so do the cops, who don't know the half of it, since, unlike Joe, they haven't yet caught up to this perplexing wrinkle: Someone's been quietly offing Buffalo's busiest drug dealers--24 of them and counting. No one changes lanes from SF to horror to crime fiction more dextrously than the prolific, protean Simmons, who however, whenever, seldom provides less than a page-turner. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
On the day he was shot in the head, things were going strangely well for Joe Kurtz. In fact, things had been going strangely well for weeks. Later, he told himself that he should have known that the universe was getting ready to readjust its balance of pain at his expense. And at much greater expense to the woman who was standing next to him when the shots were fired. He had a two p.m. appointment with his parole officer and he was there at the Civic Center on time. Because curb parking around the courthouse was almost impossible at that time of day, Kurtz used the parking garage under the combined civic, justice, and family court complex. The best thing about his parole officer was that she validated. Actually, Kurtz realized, that wasn't the best thing about her at all. Probation Officer Margaret "Peg' O'Toole, formerly of the Buffalo P.D. narcotics and vice squad, had treated him decently, knew and liked his secretary--Arlene DeMarco--and had once helped Kurtz out of a deep hole when an overzealous detective had tried to send him back to County lock-up on a trumped-up weapons charge. Joe Kurtz had made more than a few enemies during his eleven and a half years serving time for manslaughter in Attica, and odds were poor that he'd last long in general population, even in County. In addition to validating his parking stubs, Peg O'Toole had probably saved his life. She was waiting for him when he knocked on the door and entered her second-floor office. Come to think of it, O'Toole had never kept him waiting. While many parole officers worked out of cubicles, O'Toole had earned herself a real office with windows overlooking the Erie County Holding Center on Church Street. Kurtz figured that on a clear day she could watch the winos being dragged into the drunk tank. "Mr. Kurtz.' She gestured him to his usual chair. "Agent O'Toole.' He took his usual chair. "We have an important date coming up, Mr. Kurtz,' said O'Toole, looking at him and then down at his folder. lKurtz nodded. In a few weeks it would be one year since he left Attica and reported to his parole officer. Since there had been no real problems--or at least none she or the cops had heard about--he should be visiting her once a month soon, rather than weekly. Now she asked her usual questions and Kurtz gave his usual answers. Peg O'Toole was an attractive woman in her late thirties--overweight by current standards of perfection but all the more attractive in Kurtz's eyes for that, with long, auburn hair, green eyes, a taste for expensive but conservative clothing, and a Sig Pro nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol in her purse. Kurtz knew the make because he'd seen the weapon. He liked O'Toole--and not just for helping him out of the frame-up a year ago this coming November--but also because she was as no-nonsense and non-condescending as a parole officer can be with a "client.' He'd never had an erotic thought about her, but that wasn't her fault. There was just something about the act of imagining an ex-police officer with her clothes off that worked on Kurtz like a 1,000-cc dose of anti-Viagra. "Are you still working with Mrs. DeMarco on the Sweetheart Search dot com business?' asked O'Toole. As a felon, Kurtz couldn't be licensed by the state of New York for his former job--P.I.--but he could operate this business of finding old high school flames, first via the Internet--that was his secretary Arlene's part of it--then by a bit of elementary skip-tracing. That was Kurtz's part of it. "I tracked down a former high school football captain this morning in North Tonawanda,' said Kurtz, "to hand him a handwritten letter from his former cheerleader girlfriend.' O'Toole looked up from her notes and removed her tortoise-shell glasses. "Did the football hero still look like a football hero?' she asked, showing only the faintest trace of a smile. "They were both from Kenmore West's Class of '61,' said Kurtz. "The guy was fat, bald, and lived in a trailer that's seen better days. It had a Confederate flag hung on the side of it and a clapped-out '72 Camaro parked outside.' O'Toole winced. "How about the cheerleader?' Kurtz shrugged. "If there was a photo, it was in the sealed letter. But I can guess.' "Let's not,' said O'Toole. She put her glasses back on and glanced back at her form. "How is the ochWeddingBells-dot-com business going?' "Slowly,' said Kurtz. "Arlene has the whole Internet thing set up--all the contacts and contracts with dressmakers, cardmakers, cakemakers, musicians, churches and reception halls set in place--and money's coming in, but I'm not sure how much. I really don't have much to do with that side of the business.' "But you're an investor and co-owner?' said the parole officer. There was no hint of sarcasm in her voice. "Sort of,' said Kurtz. He knew that O'Toole had seen the articles of incorporation during a visit the parole officer had made to their new office in June. "I roll over some of my income from SweetheartSearch back into WeddingBells and get a cut in return.' Kurtz paused. He wondered how the felons and shankmeisters and Aryan Brotherhood boys in the exercise yard at Attica would react if they heard him say that. The D-Block Mosque guys would probably drop the price on his head from $15,000 to $10,000 out of sheer contempt. O'Toole took off her glasses again. "I've been thinking of using Mrs. DeMarco's services.' Kurtz had to blink at that. "For WeddingBells? To set up all the details of a wedding online?' "Yes.' "Ten percent discount to personal acquaintances,' said Kurtz. "I mean, you've met Arlene.' "I know what you meant, Mr. Kurtz.' O'Toole put her glasses back on. "You still have a room at...what is the hotel's name? Harbor Inn?' "Yes.' Kurtz's old flophouse hotel, the Royal Delaware Arms near downtown, had been shut down in July by the city inspectors. Only the bar of the huge old building remained open and the word was that the only customers there were the rats. Kurtz needed an address for the parole board, and the Harbor Inn served as one. He hadn't gotten around to telling O'Toole that the little hotel on the south side was actually boarded up and abandoned or that he'd leased the entire building for less than the price of his room at the old Delaware Arms. "It's at the intersection of Ohio and Chicago Streets?' "Right.' "I'd like to drop by and just look at it next week if you don't mind,' said the parole officer. "Just to verify your address.' li0 Shit, he thought. "Sure,' he said. O'Toole sat back and Kurtz thought that the short interview was over. The meetings had been getting more and more pro forma in recent months. He wondered if Officer O'Toole was becoming more laid back after the hot summer just past and with the pleasant autumn just winding down--the leaves on the only tree visible outside her window were a brilliant orange but ready to blow off. "You seem to have recovered completely from your automobile accident last winter,' said the parole officer. "I haven't seen even a hint of a limp the last few visits.' "Yeah, pretty much full recovery,' said Kurtz. His "automobile accident' the previous February had included being knifed, thrown out of a third story window, and crashing through a plaster portico at the old Buffalo train station, but he hadn't seen any pressing need for the probation office to know the details. The cover story had been a pain for Kurtz, since he'd had to sell his perfectly good twelve-year-old Volvo--he could hardly be seen driving around in the car he was supposed to have wracked up on a lonely stretch of winter highway--and now he was driving a much older red Pinto. He missed the Volvo. "You grew up around Buffalo, didn't you, Mr. Kurtz?' He didn't react, but he felt the skin tighten on his face. O'Toole knew his personal history from the dossier on her desktop, and she'd never ventured into his pre-Attica history before. What'd I do? He nodded. "I'm not asking professionally,' said Peg O'Toole. "I just have a minor mystery--very minor--that I need solved, and I think I need someone who grew up here.' "You didn't grow up here?' asked Kurtz. Most people who still lived in Buffalo had. "I was born here, but we moved away when I was three,' she said, opening the bottom right drawer of her desk and moving some things aside. "I moved back eleven years ago when I joined the Buffalo P.D.' She brought out a white envelope. "Now I need the advice of a native and a private investigator.' Kurtz stared flatly at her. "I'm not a private investigator,' he said, his voice flatter than his gaze. "Not licensed,' agreed O'Toole, evidently not intimidated by his cold stare or tone. "Not after serving time for manslaughter. But everything I've read or been told suggests you were an excellent P.I.' Kurtz almost reacted to this. What the hell is she after? She removed three photographs from the envelope and slid them across the desk. "I wondered if you might know where this is--or was?' Kurtz looked at the photos. They were color, standard snapshot size, no borders, no date on the back, so they'd been taken sometime in the last couple of decades. The first photograph showed a broken and battered Ferris wheel, some cars missing, rising above bare trees on a wooded hilltop. Beyond the abandoned Ferris wheel was a distant valley and the hint of what might be a river. The sky was low and gray. The second photo showed a dilapidated bumper-car pavilion in an overgrown meadow. The pavilion's roof had partially collapsed and there were overturned and rusted bumper cars on the pavilion floor and scattered outside among the brittle winter or late-autumn weeds. One of the cars--Number 9 emblazoned on its side in fading gold script--lay upside down in an icy puddle. The final photograph was a close-up of a merry-go-round or carousel horse's head, paint faded, its muzzle and mouth smashed away and showing rotted wood. Kurtz looked at each of the photographs again and said, "No idea.' O'Toole nodded as if she expected that answer. "Did you used to go to any amusement parks around here when you were a kid?' Kurtz had to smile at that. His childhood hadn't included any amusement park visits. O'Toole actually blushed. "I mean, where did people go to amusement parks in Western New York in those days, Mr. Kurtz? I know that Six Flags at Darien Lake wasn't here then.' "How do you know this place is from way back then?' asked Kurtz. "It could have been abandoned a year ago. Vandals work fast.' O'Toole nodded. "But the rust and...it just seems old. From the seventies at least. Maybe the sixties.' Kurtz shrugged and handed the photos back. "People used to go up to Crystal Beach, on the Canadian side.' O'Toole nodded again. "But that was right on the lake, right? No hills, no woods?' 0"Right,' said Kurtz. "And it wasn't abandoned like that. When the time came, they tore it down and sold the rides and concessions.' The parole officer took off her glasses and stood. "Thank you, Mr. Kurtz. I appreciate your help.' She held out her hand as she always did. It had startled Kurtz the first time she'd done it. They shook hands as they always did at the end of their weekly interviews. She had a good, strong grip. Then she validated his parking ticket. That was the other half of the weekly ritual. He was opening the door to leave when she said, "And I may really give Mrs. DeMarco a call about the other thing.' Kurtz assumed that "the other thing' was the parole officer's wedding. "Yeah,' he said. "You've got our office number and website address.' Later, he would think that if he hadn't stopped to take a leak in the first- floor restroom, everything would have been different. But what the hell--he had to take a leak, so he did. It didn't take reading Marcus Aurelius to know that everything you did made everything different, and if you dwelt on it, you'd go nuts. He came down the stairway into the parking garage corridor and there was Peg O'Toole, green dress, high heels, purse and all, just out of the elevator and opening the heavy door to the garage. She paused when she saw Kurtz. He paused. There was no way that a probation officer wanted to walk into an underground parking garage with one of her clients, and Kurtz wasn't keen on the idea either. But there was also no way out of it unless he went back up the stairs or--even more absurdly--stepped into the elevator. Damn. O'Toole broke the frozen minute by smiling and holding the door open for him. Kurtz nodded and walked past her into the cool semi-darkness. She could let him get a dozen paces in front of her if she wanted. He wouldn't look back. Hell, he'd been in for manslaughter, not rape. She didn't wait long. He heard the clack of her heels a few paces behind him, heading to his right. "Wait!' cried Kurtz, turning toward her and raising his right hand. O'Toole froze, looked startled, and lifted her purse where, he knew, she usually carried the Sig Pro. The goddamned lights had been broken. When he'd come in less than half an hour earlier, there had been fluorescent lights every twenty-five feet or so, but half of those were out. The pools of darkness between the remaining lights were wide and black. "Back!' shouted Kurtz, pointing toward the door from which they'd just emerged. Looking at him as if he were crazy, but not visibly afraid, Peg O'Toole put her hand in her purse and started to pull the Sig Pro. The shooting started. Copyright 2003 by Dan Simmons Excerpted from Hard as Nails by Dan Simmons All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
