Sharky's Machine

Chapter One

At 5:25, Sharky pulled his battered Volkswagen into an alley two blocks off Peachtree and a block behind the bus station and parked near a Dempsey Dumpster. He was five minutes early.

The cold December wind swirled dust along the alley and rattled litter against the buildings. It had dropped ten degrees since the sun went down. Sharky’s heater was shot and one of the windows would not close all the way. He breathed on his hands to keep them warm.

At 5:30, he got out of the car and stood with his back to the door, stamping his feet. He buttoned the top button of the plaid lumber jacket. Dirt hit his eyes and mouth and filtered through his beard.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, leaning forward and shaking the dust from the thick growth on his face, then turned suddenly towards the rear of the car. A newspaper whirled from behind it and flattened against the Dumpster.

Sharky was nervous. He reached inside the jacket, fingering the brown manila envelope stuffed into the waist of his Levis.

No sign of High Ball Mary.

He kept his eyes moving. If High Ball were setting him up, now would be the time. A quick shot in the head here in the dark and High Ball would be six hundred dollars richer. And there wouldn’t be much Sharky could do about it.

To his right, in the darkness against the building across the alley, Sharky sensed movement. Then he heard a low, deep chuckle.

‘Whatsa matter, honk, got the chills?’

The son of a bitch.

‘High Ball?’ Sharky said.

‘Who else, baby? Got the price?’

‘Think I’d be freezing my ass off out here if T was short? Let’s get back in the car and deal, I’ve had enough of this goddamn wind.’

‘I like it better in the open, man. Take a little taste o’ the lady here and you won’t give a shit how cold it is.’

Bullshit. I’m gettin’ outa the wind. You wanna freeze your balls off, stuff your lady.’

‘Ooo-weeee, ain’t we testy this evenin’

Sharky got back inside and turned the interior lights on so High Ball could check out the car. He lit a small A&C cigar and held his hands around its glowing end.

High Ball strolled across the alley, hands in the pockets of an expensive full-length fur coat. He was wearing a wide-brimmed Borsalino snapped dcwn over his forehead, yellow platform shoes, and cream-coloured wide-flare pants. He moved cautiously to the car, walking around the far side, leaning over with his hands still stuffed in the pockets, looking in the back seat. The gold earring that had earned him his nickname, Mary, glittered in the light from the dome. Finally he got in.

‘You think I got i. Edgar Hoover stashed back there?’

‘That fairy’s off, man. Where you been?’

‘The ghost lingers on.’

‘Turn the fuckm’ lights off, turkey. This ain’t a goddamn floor show.’

Sharky turned the switch and the lights died.

‘I tell you, honk, I’m gettin’ my coat dirty in this garbage can.’

‘It beats walkin’.’

‘You score with this skit, man, you can get yourself some uptown wheels.’

‘Where’s the merchandise? I get nervous sittin’ here.’

‘How about the green, baby? No green, no sheen.’

‘I ain’t showin’ you shit till I taste your stuff.’

‘Oh, ain’t we mean!’ Mary took a small glassine bag from his pocket and held it up by his fingertips. He shook the white powder in the bag. ‘Lookit here, turkey, how ‘bout that? And fifteen more where that came from. Sixteen grams, m’man, a generous o-z of super snow A hundred trips to the mooooon. Cut it three for one at least. Forty- eight bags at sixty per. . . lessee, that’s uh...’

‘Twenty-eight hundred and eighty geezoes, High Ball. Cut the bullshit and get it on. Open up.’ He felt the anxiety building in him as he wet his middle finger and dipped it into the bag, drew it away with several grains stuck to it, and tasted it. His jaw tightened from the bitter taste. Good skit.

A car entered the alley at the far end and rolled slowly towards them.

‘What the fuck’s this?’ High Ball growled. Fear and anger flooded his eyes. ‘What the fuck we got here?’

‘Cool it, for Chrissakes. It’s just a car.’

‘Crank up and move someplace. Too crowded here.’

The car moved past them.

‘Man, you’re on a string,’ Sharky said.

‘Fucker’s stoppin’.’

The car stopped, then backed up, pulling up In front of the Volkswagen and boxing it in. A large figure got out and loomed in the darkness, moving towards Sharky’s side of the car.

‘I’m takin’ the train, turkey,’ High Ball snapped. Sharky could feel the tension crackling in the air.

‘Stay cool, okay? I’ll handle it.’

‘You ain’t holdin’, man. I can’t stand a toss.’

‘I said I’ll handle it.’

The large man appeared at the window on Sharky’s side, a flashlight in his hand. Light flooded the interior of the car.

‘Goddamn,’ High Ball snapped.

‘What the hell. . .‘ Sharky started to say, then his eyes met those of the fat man at his window.

Tully! Jesus Christ, that stupid suit!

Tully’s eyes met Sharky’s.

‘Sharky!’ be bellowed, ‘Jesus, I didn’t...’

‘Shut up!’ Sharky yelled.

‘Motherfucker!’ High Ball screamed. ‘You wired me, you motherfuckin’ goddamn pig!’ The glassine envelope ‘flew out of his hand. White powder billowed like a cloud in the interior of the car. Mary was already going out the door. Sharky grabbed his collar, but the black man twisted away and slid out sideways, landing on the balls of his feet, a small pearl-handled .25 calibre revolver appearing suddenly in his fist. He was hissing like a snake. Hate turned his eyes red.

Sharky hit the door on his side with his shoulder and shoved hard. It flew open, knocking Tully backward into the street. Sharky rolled out as Mary fired his first shot. The gun popped like a firecracker and the bullet breezed past Sharky’s cheek as he fell, and hit the rim of the door, whining off down the alley.

Mary was already halfway to the corner when Sharky bounced back on his knees and reached under the front seat, feeling the cold grip of his 9mm Mauser automatic. He pulled it out and laid both arms across the front seat, steadying his gun,

‘Freeze, Mary...’

Too late. The wiry black man slid around the corner, his Borsalino flying off into the gutter. Sharky leaped across the front seat, yelling back at Tully as he did.

‘Call it in, call it in. . . you goddamn moron. He’s headed south on Spring towards Harris.’

Tully struggled to his feet, his face chagrined and confused as Sharky ran to the corner. Sharky stopped for a second and peered around. Mary, halfway to the next corner, slowed, aimed the .25, then realized it wouldn’t carry that far, and cut diagonally across the street. A car slammed to a stop as he raced· in front of it. Sharky went after him, cutting through the traffic. Cars screeched to a stop all around him.

Jesus, Sharky thought, five-thirty. The middle of rush hour. Neat. Real neat.

The pusher reached the corner and turned towards Peachtree Street. He fired an off-hand shot across his chest as be ran. The bullet smacked a telephone pole eight feet from Sharky. Sharky kept going, closing the distance on the pusher, who was hampered by his cumbersome shoes.

Half a block away five-thirty traffic choked the main thoroughfare. Pedestrians crowded the street corners, waiting for buses. Mary was panicky. He had to get lost in the crowd or get some transportation fast. He ran into the thick of it with Sharky closing in. As he started across Peachtree a black Cadillac drove in front of him, so close it brushed him. He jogged in place for a moment, then ran around the rear of the Caddy and dived headlong across the hood of the Buick behind it, sliding up against the windshield and falling on his hands and knees on the other side.

The astonished driver slammed on his brakes as Sharky ran up, jumped up on the hood in a sitting position, and swung his legs around, dropping to the other side.

The light had changed. Traffic was moving out. On the opposite side of the street a city bus began to pull out into the free lane in front of it. High Ball threaded through traffic, ran in front of the bus, slammed his hand against the grille, and reached the door. He aimed his gun through the glass at the driver.

‘Open up, motherfucker,’ he demanded and the driver opened the door.

Through the window on the driver’s side, Sharky saw the wild-eyed pusher waving his Saturday night special in the terrified driver’s face. Then Mary saw Sharky and fired a shot past the driver’s nose. It smacked through the window and hit the Street between Sharky’s feet, ricocheting into the fender of a nearby car.

Sharky aimed his automatic at the dealer and Mary dove out of sight towards the rear of the bus. Sharky pulled out his wallet and holding it towards the driver, flashed his shield. He ran to the door. The driver pushed the handle and the door hissed open.

‘On the floor,’ Sharky yelled and dove aboard. The driver rolled out of the seat as Mary fired another shot. It screamed off the chromium rod near the driver’s seat and went through the windshield with a splat.

Inside the bus, pandemonium. Women and children screamed, dropped behind seats, spilled packages. An elderly woman sat speechless in her seat, clutching a shopping bag to her bosom, staring straight ahead.

Sharky leaned against the wall between the front stairwell and the first seat as Mary fired another shot. He was gasping for breath. It had all happened too fast. Now he was in a box. A Mexican standoff in a crowded bus with a madman loose in the back. High Ball hunched behind the wall separating the seats from the stairwell at the rear exit. He shoved on the door but it was activated by stepping on the bottom step while the driver pressed a release button in front. Mary kicked frantically at the door, then turned and fired another shot towards the front of the bus. More screaming.

‘You goddamn pig motherfucker,’ Mary screamed, ‘I’m taking me some hostages! I’m killing me some fuckin’ kids back here, you don’t open the goddamn door.’

Sharky took a fast peek over the divider in the front of the bus and ducked back quickly as Mary’s gun roared and the bullet sighed overhead and cracked through the windshield. Everyone behind Mary was on the floor. There was no time to negotiate. Mary was in a killing mood and had to be stopped fast. Sharky bad soft-nosed loads in his pistol. There was little chance they would go through the pusher and hit someone behind him. He had to take the risk.

Sharky reached over to the bus driver’s coin changer and clicked a dozen tokens out of it. He knelt and threw them across the bus behind the driver’s seat. Mary took the bait. He stood and fired two more shots into the driver’s seat. As be did Sharky rose up, throwing both arms over the retainer, and squeezing off a single shot. It hit Mary in the cheek. The right side of his face burst open. Blood gushed down his face and onto his chest. The shot slammed him back against the wall at the rear of the stairwell.

The elderly lady, less than two feet away, continued to clutch her shopping bag and stare straight ahead.

Mary looked surprised. He shuddered as blood poured out of his face. He started to raise his gun hand again.

Sharky lowered his aim an inch or so and fired twice more. The automatic jumped in his hands. Two more holes appeared in Mary’s chest, less than half an inch apart. He moaned, turned sideways, and fell on his knees on the bottom step, his hands between his legs and his forehead resting against the door. Sharky stepped over the driver, who was huddled on the floor with his hands over his ears, and pushed the release button. The door opened and Mary pitched out head-first.

Sharky opened the front door and jumped out.

Two uniformed cops were eight feet away, leaning across the hood of a Chevrolet, their service revolvers trained on Sharky.

‘Hold it right there.’

Sharky held his ID. high over his head and strode towards the rear of the bus.

‘Sharky, Central Narcotics,’ he yelled. ‘Get an ambulance.’

‘I said, “Hold it right there,” ‘ the cop yelled again.

Sharky threw the wallet at him. It bounced off the hood of the car and spun around, opened at his shield.

‘I said, “Call a goddamn ambulance,”’ Sharky said and kept walking. He reached Mary’s still form lying face down in the street and stood over him, his gun aimed at the back of the dope dealer’s head. He slid the .25 away from the body with his foot, then slipped it under High Ball, and rolled him slowly over.

The dealer looked straight up at the dark sky. Blood rattled in his throat. The eyes turned to glass and rolled up in his head. Sharky stuck his gun in his belt and reached down, pressing his fingers into Mary’s throat. Nothing.

One of the two cops was shouting into his radio mike. The other joined Sharky and handed him his wallet. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked.

‘I just retired a junkman. Better have your partner call the ME too.’

People pressed in from all sides. Horns blared as the traffic built up. Inside the bus, passengers crowded to the windows, pressing their faces against the cold glass. The elderly woman suddenly opened her mouth and screamed over and over at the top of her lungs. A flashgun went off, blinding Sharky.

‘What the hell was that?’ he yelled.

‘Somebody took a picture.’

‘No pictures, goddammit! No pictures!’ Sharky barked.

‘Too late,’ the cop said.

More noise. More confusion. A siren was shrieking nearby.

Sharky leaned against the bus. He felt suddenly tired, disgusted, used up, sick to his stomach. ‘Ah, shit,’ he said, half aloud.

He leaned over 1-ugh Ball Mary’s body, his fingers feeling the coat lining. He felt the bags, then a zipper, and pulled it open. Inside, in small pockets sewn into the lining of the coat, were fifteen one-gram bags of cocaine.