Sharky's Machine

Chapter Twelve

It was another country, another world, a place ripped from the past and sown with the fantasies of a mastermind.

The gardens, a tiny paradise stitched with walkways and encompassing almost three acres, stunned the eye with colour. Purple, yellow, and fuchsia azaleas were in full bloom, surrounded by hundreds of small pink and red camellia blossoms. Beds of iris, their praying flowers streaked with lavender and pastel blue, lined the pathways and grottoes, and small lotus trees and lush green moss covered the cliffsides and stream-fed alcoves.

Only a chest-high fence which prohibited pedestrians from straying off the path tainted the landscaped beauty. There was good reason for the fence. At the far end of the garden, hidden from the bountiful and lush sprays of colour by a sixty-foot-high cliff, was an arroyo, a tortured place that split the cliff in half. It was foreboding, a stark and shocking sight compared to the beauty of the gardens. There were no flowers here. Steam rose from between the rocks. A chill breeze blew down through its crevices.

Halfway up the cliffside, almost hidden by red clay banks, boulders, and scattered foliage, was a dank and ominous cave.

Within its depths yellow eyes glittered evilly, accompanied by a sibilant warning, an intermittent hissing that sounded like air rushing from a giant punctured tyre. The creature lurking in the cavern was more sensed than seen. But its presence feathered the nerves.

One heard the other creature before seeing it, a half- growl, half-cry that drove icicles through the heart. A moment later it appeared, moving cautiously around the edge of the cliff, a towering myth, at once terrifying and majestic, like some primordial sauropod. It was a dragon, a golden dragon, each scale of its lutescent skin gleaming as it reared back on its hindlegs, stretching a full forty feet from its fiery mouth to the tip of its slashing, spiny tail. Green eyes flashed under hooded lids. Five ebony claws curled out from each padded foot. As it opened its fanged jaws a stream of fire roared from its mouth and rolled upward.

The dragon moved like a cat on the prowl, sensuously, slowly, sensing its prey nearby.

The yellow eyes inside the cave followed the dragon’s every move. It began to hiss again, a dangerous sound that reverberated off the cavern walls.

Then it moved. Slowly ft slithered from its hiding place and emerged, an enormous two-headed snake, its sinuous muscles sheathed in blood-red skin, the nostrils flat and piglike in its ugly snouts, its forked tongues flicking from two moist mouths as it slid up through the rocks seeking a vantage place high in the grim landscape.

It moved with chilling grace towards its adversary, eyeing the dragon through glistening black beads.

It began to coil, its thirty-foot body curling into a tight spiral. Then it struck, the vicious twin heads streaking from between the rocks, swooping down, its mouth yawning malevolently, then snapping shut, the fangs sinking deep into the neck of the dragon.

The dragon screamed in outrage and pain, twisted its head, and spat an inferno that engulfed the hissing serpent. The viper’s body surged forward, wrapping itself around the neck of the dragon while one of its two heads snapped back and struck again. The dragon’s shriek joined the hissing of the serpent. The two unearthly creatures were locked in a nightmare embrace.

High above them, from a soundproof booth overlooking the primeval battle, his face shimmering in the red glow of the flames below, DeLaroza looked like a vision from hell. The eerie reflection sutured his features with fleeting scars. His eyes flashed with joy and he clapped his hands together. He was, in that instant, an incarnation of the devil.

‘Incredible, absolutely incredible I’ he cried out. ‘Nikos, you have outdone yourself.’

Seated beside him in front of a large electronic control board, the creator of the scene smiled. His name was Nikos Arcurius, a wiry little man, trim yet powerfully built, his biceps hard and veined, his black hair frosted white at the sideburns, his brown eyes twinkling with the rush of achievement.

The dragon and the snake, coiling, hissing, spitting fire, fought on.

‘Enough,’ DeLaroza said. ‘Save the climax until Monday night.’

Arcurius leaned over the control board and pressed buttons, twirled dials, and the two mammoth creatures slipped apart. The snake retreated back to its cave and the dragon, like a regal legend come to life, stalked back to its hiding place among the rocks.

‘It is a masterpiece,’ DeLaroza said with awe. He laid his hand on the shoulder of his collaborator. Arcurius leaned back in his chair and surveyed the atrium and then nodded. It was true; it was a masterpiece.

Arcurius was Greek. Abandoned by his parents, he had grown up a street thief and pickpocket. When he was thirteen his quick hands had earned him a two-year sentence in Da Krivotros, a dismal island prison known as The Boxes because of the rows of solitary cells where even the slightest infraction of prison rules resulted in weeks in squalid isolation.

Thrown in with hardened criminals, Arcurius had earned their respect by putting his nimble fingers to a new use, carving puppets in the prison shop. He earned cigarette money and other favours from the prisoners by putting on Sunday shows in the visitors’ compound for the wives and children of other prisoners. He was back on the street by the time he was sixteen, first joining a travelling circus, then trying to make a living as a puppeteer in Athens, but by the time he was twenty he was on the run again, fleeing from one country to the next, always with the law snapping at his ankles.

The salvation of Nikos Arcurius came when he signed on as a crewman on a steamer going from Marseille to New York to escape the local gendarmes. In New York his fortunes finally changed. Starting as an apprentice, he moved up quickly to become one of Broadway’s most innovative set designers and while still in his twenties Arcurius was lured to Hollywood. There, on the vast sound stages of the big studios, his imagination flourished.

And it was there that he had met a visitor from Hong Kong. Victor DeLaroza was drawn to him not only by his enormous talent but by the candour with which he spoke of his early life.

‘These fingers,’ he once told DeLaroza, wiggling all ten in the air, ‘belong to the second best pickpocket in Athens. The best one was never caught.’

DeLaroza quickly realized that Arcurius’s real genius lay not only in design but in production as well. He put Arcurius to work developing a new concept for toys and together they had revolutionized the industry. The Greek had an uncanny ability for breathing life into DeLaroza’s wildest fantasies, designing and building toys of remarkable realism. Small transistor cards hidden inside dolls whose skin felt almost real caused eyes to blink, mouths to open and close, and activated tape loops through which the lifelike creations spoke simple sentences. His animals were marvels of innovative miniaturization. One, a small horse, performed four different gaits, its ingenious insides set in motion simply by the snap of a finger.

DeLaroza’s exhaustive marketing skills had turned Arcurius into a household word and his creations, called Arcurius, into the most popular toys in the world, several of them so remarkable that even though mass-produced, they had already become collector’s items.

Then DeLaroza had conceived an idea so exciting, so challenging, that be and Arcurius bad devoted five years to designing it, another four to building it, and spent more than ten million dollars on the project.

Now, the result of their combined genius sprawled below them. It was to be the instrument by which DeLaroza would emerge from his self-imposed world of secrecy.

Now, with Corrigon out of the way — and tonight, Domino — DeLaroza felt secure at last. Publicity releases would now begin revealing his contributions for the first time. Now he felt he could face cameras for the first time, unafraid.

Now he himself would introduce the world to his grandest accomplishment.

Pachinko!

The most outrageous, the most breathtaking, the most stunning madness of all.

Pachinko!

The ultimate playground.

In the heart of the glass tower DeLaroza had gutted six floors and replaced them with a towering atrium that began five storeys above the ground. it was encircled by a narrow, eight-foot balcony from which spectators could view Pachinko as if they were standing on a precipice looking down on it. Behind them the city of Atlanta could be seen, sprawling out behind floor-to-ceiling windows.

The panorama was staggering. Within the great space, nearly the size of four football fields, DeLaroza and Arcurius had recreated their own version of Hong Kong. A bustling, vibrant, ebullient amusement park and bazaar, as startling as it was ambitious, had been built in the middle of a skyscraper.

The journey to Pachinko! began on the first floor where an imported Chinese arch led to four bullet-shaped glass elevators that travelled up the exterior of the building. The arch was guarded on either side by two ten-foot temple dogs, their red tongues curling humorously beneath gleaming, dangerous eyes. A blazing Art Deco sign over the arch announced Pachinko! always with the exclamation point. A booth in front of the gate converted American dollars into reproductions of Hong Kong dollars, the medium of exchange for special attractions in the complex. One elevator lifted spectators who simply wanted to observe the spectacle to the special balcony where, for another dollar, they could watch the revellers below. Four other elevators opened on the eleventh floor, the entrance to Pachinko!, where two ancient stone posts imported from Macao stood on either side of a long, rambling stairway that led to the main floor, six storeys below. The stairway was a replica of Hong Kong’s bustling Ladder Street, a narrow confined alley teeming with shops, cubbyholes and snack-food stalls, and intersected by several other avenues.

DeLaroza surveyed his version of the city. Looking down on the exciting maze below him, he envisioned it crowded with tourists and sightseers, entertained by strolling magicians and acrobats while a travelling Chinese band provided the background music. It was a splendid bazaar, with banners floating over more than thirty shops where everything was sold, outrageously expensive antiques, cheap souvenirs, Suits custom-made by Kowloon tailors, Oriental rugs, postcards, imitation Buddhas, cameras, the finest jade. Food stalls offered snacks of sizzling ribs and Peking chicken. Cats strolled the steps.

On the main floor the Greek had created a shallow lake with a small version of the Tal Tak floating restaurant in one corner, its cuisine presided over by Wan Shu, one of Hong Kong’s finest chefs, its garish decks reached by small sampans which carried diners from the main promenade, a winding path where theatres offered karate, judo, and weaponry exhibitions, excerpts from Chinese opera, and puppet shows for the children. There were three night clubs and two other fine restaurants, a recreation of the Man Mo Temple, known as the Place of a Thousand Buddhas, a sixty-foot model of the Shinto Pagoda, an opium den, and a sampan ride through a tortuous series of tunnels under Ladder Street where like-real Arcurius played out some of the most dramatic moments from the turbulent history of Hong Kong. The main street terminated at one end at the gardens with their abundance of rare flowers and beautiful young Chinese guides, who would escort visitors through the enchanting maze, explaining the icons of Chinese mythology found in its grottoes and pavilions. As they ended the tour the guides recounted the legend of Kowloon, the Ninth Dragon, and his battle with T’un Hai, the two-headed snake of the Underworld. Throughout, DeLaroza had insisted on historical, mythological, and architectural integrity.

The grand opening, now only three days away, would attract all three major television networks, radio, magazine, and newspaper reporters from all over the world, leading politicians and British and Chinese dignitaries, all to be flown in on special junkets. Photographs and visitors had been barred from the amusement complex until opening night, for DeLaroza knew that the reaction would be much more excited if an aura of mystery were created about Pachinko So it had remained an enigma, a giant surprise package to be unwrapped the following Monday night.

What better time for Donald Hotchins to make his announcement?

Julius Lowenthal stood a few feet from DeLaroza, his eyes saucers of amazement as he stared down through the glass front of the soundproof control booth at Pachinko! DeLaroza turned to him, towering over the weary Washington lawyer.

‘Well, sir,’ DeLaroza said, ‘what do you think of our toy, eh?’

‘Toy?’ Lowenthal said incredulously.

DeLaroza chuckled. ‘Perhaps I should say “playground”. Until tonight no outsider has seen it. I have forbidden photographs and all but the most general description.’

Lowenthal shrugged his shoulders in an almost helpless gesture. ‘I, uh. . . I’ve lost my tongue,’ he said. ‘I’m speechle€s.’

‘You do not approve?’

‘Oh, my God, of course. It’s monumental. A monumental undertaking.’

DeLaroza took him lightly by the elbow and led him out of the booth and along the balcony towards Ladder Street.

‘I’m flattered that you let me take a look,’ Lowenthal said.

‘The least I could do,’ DeLaroza said. ‘Once again I must apologize for Donald’s absence. It is an old and personal political commitment. He will be back tomorrow and you two can get back to business.’

‘I’ve been around politics long enough to understand these things,’ Lowenthal said.

‘Good. Besides, this will give us a chance to know each other a little better, yes?’

‘Of course.’

But Lowenthal doubted it. He had been close to many rich and powerful men during his career but had never really known any of them well, for they were guarded people. Secrecy went with power and money — it was a thing he bad learned early on. But he had to admit that DeLaroza was perhaps the most shielded of all. There was nothing but the skimpiest of’ dossiers on DeLaroza. No pictures, no stories. Lowenthal knew that he had come to America sixteen years before and had become a naturalized citizen four years ago. He had managed Hotchins’s campaign finances almost from the beginning and done it impeccably. There was little else available. His holdings and personal worth were unknown, his companies privately held. If this was to be an opportunity for anyone to get to know anyone, it was DeLaroza who would find out about Lowenthal and Lowenthal knew it.

Oh, well, he thought, what’s to know about me? He had no secrets at all.

‘You’re taking quite a gamble,’ be said as they approached the long, winding steps of the Ladder Street bazaar.

‘I suppose so,’ DeLaroza said.

‘And if the public doesn’t bite?’

DeLaroza paused a moment, then said, ‘1 never consider failure. There is a Chinese proverb — The fish that fears it will be eaten becomes dinner for the shark.’

Lowenthal smiled. ‘And you don’t fear the shark?’

DeLaroza looked at him and smiled faintly. ‘No,’ be said, ‘I do not fear the shark.’

They turned into Ladder Street and tarted the long walk down to the main floor, DeLaroza stopping occasionally to chat with shopkeepers. Along the way, they passed two jugglers tossing fire sticks back and forth as though they were playing catch.

‘What’s the story behind the dragon and the snake?’ Lowenthal asked.

‘Ah, my favourite legend, although I must say there are many Oriental myths which stir the imagination. The guides in the garden explain it quite poetically. My chef has prepared for us a potpourri of the menu, a preview of its delights. I will have one of the young ladies tell you the story while we eat.’

At the foot of Ladder Street, an elderly Caucasian gentle. man with soft, gentle features and snow-white hair sat on a wall playing the violin. He nodded to DeLaroza as the two men passed him.

‘That is Mr. Reynolds,’ DeLaroza said. ‘He has journeyed all over China with a travelling band, played first chair in the Vienna Symphony, played ragtime music with the greats in New Orleans, and he once taught at the Boston Conservatory. I have known him for many, many years and I have no idea how old he is. He is not interested in age. For him, every day is a new experience. He is the leader of our Chinese band.’

‘Where did you find him?’

‘He found me,’ DeLaroza said cryptically and ended that part of the conversation. ‘The restaurant is over there. On the other side of the pond. It is a replica of Tai Tak, the finest restaurant in all Hong Kong — at least my favourite. But first let me show you one more thing. I think this may excite your imagination more than all the rest of this.’

They walked up a curving pathway to the end, near the outside wall of the building. Lowenthal saw the looming figure before they reached it, seven feet tall, his eyes gleam. ing slits, his moustaches plunging down to his chest, his fingernails curved like talons.

‘Meet Man Chu, the war lord,’ DeLaroza said proudly. The giant turned its head and glared down at the two men. For an instant Lowenthal almost held out his hand to shake its menacing fist.

‘It’s almost real,’ Lowenthal breathed in wonderment.

‘The definitive Arcurius,’ DeLaroza said. ‘Nikos does not make toys or robots; he makes people and creatures. Sometimes I find myself talking to them as though they were alive.’

‘What is this?’ Lowenthal asked.

‘The pièce de résistance. A thrill ride like no other in creation. This is where the park gets its name. Pachinko.’

The robot stood in front of a hollow stainless-steel ball large enough to seat two people. The door in the front of the hall opened towards the floor.

‘Step inside,’ DeLaroza said. Lowenthal got into the ball and settled into the soft leather seat. DeLaroza closed the door. The top half was open so that the rider had a clear view out of the round car.

‘Now imagine Man Chi, here, firing this ball into that tunnel in front of you. You drop down a chute to the floor below, which is an enormous pinball field. Bumpers, lights, tunnels, mirrors. The car rolls freely on ball bearings, it never turns upside down and the speed is electronically controlled by an operator who sits in the middle of the pachinko board. Once it leaves the chute here, it is on its own. Only the speed is controlled, so it does not fly out of control. Otherwise it bounces from bumper to bumper up to thirty miles an hour at times before it drops through another chute and arrives on the first floor . . . where your attendant hands you your car keys.’

Above the entrance tunnel was a large replica of the pachinko board itself, an electronic grid on which a blip followed the course of the ball, lighting up the bumpers and registering the score on a digital counter.

DeLaroza helped Lowenthal from the ball. ‘Now come along,’ he said.

He led the way from the entrance to the ride, along a narrow alley and through a fire door. A flight of steps led down to a second door, which opened onto the field itself. Its walls were mirrored. Strobe lights flashed intermittently and the bumpers gleamed gaudily. It was the bumpers that intrigued Lowenthal, for they were like a vast field of strange statues, each in the shape of a Chinese deity.

DeLaroza strode out on the board, and was immediately dwarfed by the jazzy hardware of the giant pinball machine. He pointed first to this bumper, then that, talking continually.

‘This is Shou-Hsing, the god of long life. I call him the laughing god. That one, the serene one, is Lu-Hsing, the god of salaries. Over there, that fat one? Who else but the god of wealth, Ts’ai-Shen? And this lady here, this is Kuan-Yin, goddess of mercy and compassion. Forty-two bumpers in all, enough to satisfy even the most masochistic thrill-seeker. The ball makes one complete revolution of the board here at thirty miles an hour before it rolls through that chute up there. The box in the centre is the control- board. One man can control three balls. On opening night, of course, we will shoot them through one at a time.’

He turned and looked at Lowenthal. It was indeed a fitting climax for Pachinko!

‘Well,’ DeLaroza said grandly, ‘now what do you think?’

Lowenthal held his hands out at his sides, palms up. ‘What can I say? It is the definitive fantasy. Congratulations.’

Obviously pleased, DeLaroza led him back to the main floor of the park.

‘And now,’ he said, ‘we shall enjoy the crème de la crème. Wan Shu is waiting. Now that we have excited your emotions, we shall do the same for your palate.’