Sharky's Machine

Chapter Eleven

Sharky was still asleep when Papa arrived to relieve him at 7:48 the next morning. He jerked awake when be beard the door open. Reaching under the blanket he bad used for a pillow and grabbing his 9mm automatic, he flipped the blanket off and sat up quickly.

Papa stopped short, appraised the situation through bored eyes and smiled.

‘Easy there, Roy,’ he said, ‘it’s only Gabby Hayes.’

Sharky sagged, letting his gun hand drop between his legs.

‘I musta died,’ he said.

‘Why not? Tough day,’ Papa said.

‘I was jumping outa my skin last night.’

‘Any action?’

Sharky put his gun under his arm. ‘Lots of action, very little dialogue. Nothing we’re interested in.’

‘Who was the trick?’

Sharky looked up at him and an embarrassed grin played on his lips.

‘You’re not gonna believe this,’ he said.

‘Fell asleep,’ Papa said. ‘Missed him.’

‘How the hell did you know that?’

‘Done it myself,’ Papa said smiling. ‘Fifteen years. I fucked up every way you can fuck up. Arch, too. Friscoe. Nobody hits a thousand. You got the tapes.’

‘Shit, if there’s twenty words on the goddamn tapes I’ll eat them.’

‘Answer me something, okay, Sharky’

‘Sure.’

‘Why we staked out? We got the tapes, why not check ‘em, you know, every three, four hours, see what’s doin’?’

‘I figure if they go after the mark and somebody’s here, on top of it, we can maybe nail them while it’s happening. We’re four hours late, we could come in on our ass.’

Papa nodded. ‘Okay, I buy it. Go home.’

‘Yeah, I feel like I was born in these clothes.’

Sharky reached down to retrieve the used tapes. Then he noticed that the fresh tapes in the machines to her bedroom and the living room had advanced.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said. ‘I slept through something here.’

He rewound them and listened. The machine to her bedroom had been activated by the television set, The Today Show. She was moving around in the background, opening and closing the closet doors, obviously getting dressed. The tape ended abruptly when she turned off the television. The radio had activated the machine for the living room. Once again he heard her in the background. A disc jockey’s fast patter was interrupted by music and traffic reports. Then:

‘Okay, all you pillow pounders, it’s Doctor Dawn here on Z-93 and it’s a c-o-o-o-old Friday morning out there. Seven- twenty-nine and here’s one to get you on your feet. ELP, Emerson, Lake, and Palmer and —‘

The radio cut off. The tape went dead, then cut back on. She was opening the door, leaving the apartment. It closed and the latch clicked. The tape ended.

‘I’ll be a son of a bitch,’ Sharky said.

‘Early starter,’ Papa said.

‘1 don’t believe it. She got out on us.’

‘She’ll be back.’

‘Yeah, but we should be on top of her right now. For all we know, she could be —,

‘Go home. Forget it for a while. See ya at six.’

‘Okay,’ Sharky said. He wiped the sleep out of his eyes and stuffed the tapes in his pocket. ‘There’s some fruit in the bag there, also a book to read.’

‘Got my own,’ Papa said, taking a worn copy of The Guinness Book of World Records out of his coat pocket.

‘You read that on stakeout?’ Sharky said.

‘Easy to put down, if I gotta move,’ Papa said.

‘You got a point there,’ Sharky said, walking to the door.

‘Hey, Sharky’ Papa said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Car keys?’

Sharky tossed them to him. ‘Maybe at six o’clock I’ll be back with the living,’ he said and left.

He flagged down a passing patrol car and had them drop him off at Moundt’s, thinking she might be doing some early morning shopping. The place was deserted. He had a cup of coffee and called The Nosh.

‘I got some weird tapes for you, pal,’ he said.

‘X-rated?’ The Nosh asked sleepily.

‘You better believe it.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Moundt’s, on Peachtree. I got to get home, get a shower, and change clothes. I don’t have a car.’

‘Can you give me thirty minutes? I need to walk through the shower myself.’

‘I’ll be here. Listen, on the front end of one of these tapes there may be something I can use, a name maybe. But there’s heavy interference from the record player.’

‘Don’t sweat it,’ The Nosh said. ‘We’ll lift the music out.’

‘Beautiful,’ Sharky said. ‘See you when you get here. Take your time.’

It was almost dark and the damp, cold wind hinted of more rain. A man walked leisurely past the exit gate from the parking deck of the Lancaster Towers. He was wearing dark glasses and a long blue overcoat, his dark, close- cropped hair hidden under a plain cap, an undistinguished- looking man taking an early evening walk.

A vintage Buick pulled up to a post near the exit gate and the driver slipped a plastic card in a slot in the post. The exit gate swung open and the Buick pulled out. The gate remained open for twenty seconds and then swung shut. The pedestrian was inside when it closed, standing in the shadows near the wall. He took off the dark glasses, studied the interior of the garage. It was empty. Burns smiled to himself. That was the most dangerous part of it, getting in without being seen.

He walked briskly to the east tower elevators and pressed the up button, holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, prepared to fake a sneeze if someone was in the elevator. His right hand extended down through the vent in the right-hand pocket of the raincoat. He held a .22 Woodsman, pointing at the floor. The elevator doors opened. It was empty. He stepped in and pushed the button for the twelfth floor. He was lucky. It went straight up without stopping.

He got out, looking up and down the hallway. Empty. He moved swiftly to 12-C and rang the bell. Nobody answered. He picked the lock, stepped into the apartment, and closed the door quietly behind him. He listened, the ugly silenced snout of the .22 poking between the buttons of his coat. He heard only the sound of his own breathing, nothing else. The apartment was dark and smelled musty. He moved rapidly from room to room, checking closets, even looking under the beds. He relaxed. it was empty. He holstered the .22.

He felt a sudden urge to relieve himself and swore under his breath. Age and tension conspired against his kidneys. He went to one of the bathrooms and urinated.

He returned to the living room and took a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket, pulled them on. He pulled an easy chair over to the large picture window facing the west tower. He propped open two slats of the venetian blinds with two wooden matches, making a small peephole about six inches long and two inches high, and leaned forward and peered through it. He had a perfect view of Domino’s apartment, two floors below in the opposite tower.

He took off the raincoat and spread it out on the floor beside him. The coat had three special pockets sewn in the lining. From one he drew the twin-barrelled carriage of a twelve-gauge shotgun, from the other its well worn stock. He snapped them together, cocked both hammers, slipped his fingers inside the trigger guard and barely touched the two triggers. The hammers clicked a fraction of a second apart. He slid the rubber buttplate back and removed two shells from a special pocket. He popped the shotgun open, loaded both barrels and snapped it shut.

From the third pocket he took a small pair of opera glasses and a device that looked like two long tubes soldered together. He slipped them over the end of the short- barrelled shotgun and tightened them in place with a thumbscrew. He laid the shotgun on top of the coat.

He put the opera glasses on the windowsill and took a small plastic bag from his shirt pocket and laid it beside them. It contained two red pills. He went to the kitchen, got a glass of water, brought it back and put it beside the pills. The excitement was starting. He scanned Domino’s windows with the opera glasses. It was dark. He smiled. Plenty of time. He put the glasses back on the sill, and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he waited.

In his post on the roof Sharky too waited. He had returned at 5:30, clean, refreshed, wearing jeans, a turtleneck, a leather jacket, and sneakers.

‘Not back yet,’ Papa reported, smacked him on the back and left. He settled down with his book, aware that he was rereading passages several times and concentrating more on the tape recorders than his book. He finally put it aside. He had been thinking about Domino all day. He had been thinking a lot about Domino.

He could go down there when she came home and lay it all out for her, give her a chance to cooperate in exchange for immunity.

And she would probably tell him to get stuffed.

Or blow it out his ass.

Or maybe tell him she didn’t know slit. And just maybe she didn’t. In which case she could blow the whistle on them to Neil and flush the whole machine.

The thing was, at that moment, Domino was clean. They bad absolutely-nothing on her but an association with a man they knew was a shakedown pimp.

Forget it, Sharky.

The machine in the bedroom suddenly turned on and he grabbed the earphones. It was the phone ringing. After the third ring her recording machine came on.

‘Hi, this is Domino. I’ll be away from the phone for a little while. Please leave your name, a short message, and your phone number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Wait for the beep tone before you start. Goodbye and have a pleasant day.’

A second later the beep sounded, followed by:

‘Hi, it’s Pete. Look, I’m running a little late. No problem. I’ll call you back in fifteen, twenty minutes. So long.’

Pete? A new name for the catalogue. Perhaps the big man from last night. No, he thought. Different voice. Maybe it’s her trick for tonight. In which case, since it’s almost ten to eight, she’s cutting it a little thin.

The machine in the living room turned on. She was coming in the door. She closed it, turned on the radio, and went into the bedroom. He heard the bed groan under her weight, heard Maria Muldaur’s voice:

‘Til the eve-nin’ ends,

‘til the eve-nin’ ends.

Mid-night At The Oasis,

Send your camel to bed...

The phone rang again. She caught it on the second ring. Eager Pete, he thought. But he was wrong.

‘Hello . . . hello . . . ?’ A pause, then an exasperated, ‘Hello?’ She slammed down the phone. Sharky lay on the cot, waiting for her trick to arrive.

Burns cradled the phone gently and smiled, the mirthless, ugly grin of anticipation. He shook one of the reds out of the plastic bag and washed it down with water. He put his raincoat on, put the glass back in the kitchen, swung the chair back to its original position. He sat down with the shotgun between his knees, waiting for the speed to start.

It surged through his blood and his heart began pounding. His scrotum pulsated. He closed his eyes, taking the ride up, letting the red carry him along until his nerve endings were keening with excitement.

He was ready, his senses sharpened, his guts buzzing with anticipation.

He stood up and put his hand through the pocket vent and took the shotgun, aiming it at the floor. He buttoned the coat and started towards the door and stopped.

Jesus!

The fuckin’ matches.

He went back, took the two matchsticks down, and straightened the Venetian blinds.

I’m gettin’ too old for this, he thought. Well, this is the last one. Just don’t get careless now. He hated the thought of giving it up. It was like having his last piece of ass, knowing it was all over. The speed raced along his nerves, like fire burning along a fuse. He shook his shoulders, closed his eyes, and let his head fall back for a moment. He was getting hard and he sighed with ecstasy.

Oh, yeah. Jesus.

Was he ready.

He took the stairs to the third floor, walked across the connecting terrace. The wind rattled the plastic pool cover and he jumped, the shotgun coming up. His eyes burned fiercely, then he relaxed and kept moving. He entered the stairwell of the west tower and listened.

Nobody. Just the wind, moaning through the shaft. lie climbed the stairs, thinking about what was coming, reached the tenth floor, and cracked the door. The hail was empty.

He closed the door and ticked the steps off in his mind. He cocked the shotgun. Unbuttoned the bottom buttons of the raincoat. Double checked the location. Apartment 10-A was between the door and the elevators. On the right.

Perfect. Twenty, maybe twenty-five feet, no more.

He took several deep breaths. His pulse battered at his temples.

Four apartments on the floor. The one across from her, 10-D, was being repainted for a new tenant. No one was home in either of the other apartments at the corners of the hail, he had called both numbers. He was lucky tonight. Tonight was definitely his lucky night.

He went through the door and walked to the elevators, pushed the down button and waited. One of the elevators arrived. He stepped in, pushed all the buttons between ten and the ground, and stepped back Out. The doors closed. He pushed the down button again. The other elevator arrived and he repeated the manoeuvre.

He held his thumb across both hammers of the shotgun to make sure it did not discharge accidentally and walked to the door of 10-A.

He rang the bell and then swung the barrels of the shotgun up through the opening of the raincoat.

They were playing a golden oldie, ‘Long Time Comin” by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young when the doorbell rang.

‘Coming,’ she said. There was gaiety in the voice. She sounded happy. Was it part of the act?

Sharky heard her take the chain off the door, turn the latch.

The two muffled shots came almost as she opened the door.

Thumk thumk.

Almost together and no louder than a fist hitting a refrigerator door.

There was a cry, not loud, like an animal whimpering.

A sound like gravel hitting the wall.

Something fell, heavy, on the floor.

He heard the door close.

Shotgun. A silenced shotgun.

He forgot the earphones. They ripped from his head as he bounded for the door. He had his automatic in band before he reached the stairwell. He bulled into the stair- shaft without precaution. Below him, several floors down, someone was running, taking the steps two or three at a time.

‘Hold it!’ he yelled. ‘Police, hold it!’

lie followed the sound, taking the steps six at a time and hanging onto the railing to keep from falling. Several flights below him he saw a shadow flee across the wall. He kept going. A door opened and slammed shut.

What floor? What fucking floor?

lie reached four, flattened himself against the wall, pulled the door open, and held it open with his foot as he swung around and leaped into the hail.

Empty.

He went to three, swung the door open and went through head first and low, almost on his knees, the 9mm held in front of him in both hands. He was outside on the terrace and he jumped quickly into the shadows, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness.

He listened. The wind flapped the plastic pool cover. He started moving through the shadows towards the door on the other side of the pool. His reflexes were ready, but his mind was jumping back and forth. What had happened on the tenth floor. Was she all right? What the hell was going on?

He remembered his walkie-talkie. As he ran to the east tower he pulled it out of the case on his belt.

‘Central, this is urgent. Contact Livingston, Papadopolis, and Abrams and tell them Zebra Three needs them at base immediately.’

The walkie-talkie crackled. ‘Ten-four.’

He reached the other door, pulled it open and waited a second, listening, before he went through.

Nothing.

He waited and listened.

Nothing.

He went back on the terrace, checked it quickly, and then returned to the west tower. Both elevators were on the bottom floor. He went up the stairs. His mouth was dry and he was gasping for air when he reached ten. His heart felt as though it was jumping out of his skin. The hallway was empty. He went to 10-A and rang the bell, then pounded on the door. He stepped back and smashed his foot into the door an inch or two from the knob.

The door opened halfway and hit something.

He went in and slammed it shut with his elbow.

The first thing he saw was a scorched pattern of tiny holes near the ceiling. Blood was splattered around the holes. The second pattern had chewed a piece out of the corner of the entrance hall where it led into the living room.

A small marble-topped table lay on its side, a vase of freshly cut flowers spilled out on the floor.

She lay beside the table. Her face was gone. Part of her shoulder was blown away. The right side of her head had been destroyed. She was a soggy, limp bundle, lying partly against the wall in front of the door, blood pumping from her head, her neck, her shoulder. A splash of blood on the wall dripped down to the body. Her hands lay awkwardly in her lap.

Sharky clenched his teeth, felt bile sour in his throat, and swallowed hard and cried out through his clenched tee&

‘No. Goddamnit, no!

‘No.’

‘No!

‘Go-o-od damn it.. . no!’