Sharky's Machine

Chapter Fifteen

It was the hour of the ravens and Sharky’s Machine prepared to invade the heart of darkness, seeking among the bookies, gamblers, pushers, strongarms, prostitutes, con- men, muggers and killers, those who could be cajoled or threatened into revealing the secrets of the night people.

Time. Time was against them. The hour was right, but the clock was their enemy. For though Friscoe had joined them (at first reluctantly, then after the discovery of the fingerprints, enthusiastically) they all knew the chase would end with Monday morning roll call. He would not be pushed farther than that.

‘Remember,’ a wise old cop told them, ‘never trust a snitch. They’re lepers. Give a squealer a piece of confidential info, he’ll try to sell it to your partner twenty minutes later. You got to catch ‘em with their hands full, get ‘em on the hook, or needing help, then you can maybe trust ‘em — for at least thirty seconds.’

The wise old cop was Friscoe, who operated on the theory that no matter how experienced his men were, no matter how much they knew, it never hurt to repeat good advice.

The plan was devised in Domino’s apartment: Work fast, dig up what you can, bring in any scraps you get, rendezvous at the Majestic Grill at seven in the morning to begin putting the pieces together.

‘Just don’t waste time,’ Friscoe said. ‘If you gotta lead and it starts to crap out, get off it, move to something else. What we ain’t got, we ain’t got time, see, to beat on any dead dogs. Let’s see what a night’s digging turns up. We ain’t got anybody on base by morning, I say we flush it.’

Barret and Grimm beaded to their respective laboratories. By ten P.M. Twigs had gathered up the remains of the victim in a body bag and moved it by freight elevator and his own station wagon to the morgue, where he eagerly went to work, prying into its vital organs.

Barret, alone in his lab working under a single lamp, pored over the scraps of physical evidence beginning with the little red pill.

The Nosh returned to the OC, there to wire the two fingerprints from the top and underside of the commode handle to the FBI in Washington and to begin filtering out whatever voices existed on Sharky’s tapes.

Friscoe hastily drafted a vice cop named Johnny Cooper and went in search of Tiffany Paris, hoping to begin an interrogation which might lift the veil of the mysterious Domino.

The apartment was sealed. Sharky would return later to check it out. For now, he would go with Livingston looking for information. The time was right.

Papa, who preferred to work alone, quietly went hunting. As did Sharky and Livingston, cruising the night haunts, searching out the weak among the vipers.

Disco music thundered at Papa as he entered Nefertiti, the city’s most hallowed night spot — at least for that week. Two leads had already gone down the toilet. Now he was looking for Leo Winter, a good old boy with an easy grin whose casual charm had dazzled more than one jury. There was only one problem -. Papa had nothing in his pocket. Right now Leo was clean. It would have to be a bluff and Papa was not the best poker player in the world.

The maitre d’, sartorially splendid in a cocoa-coloured tuxedo, stood at the inner entrance to the club, dwarfed by a tall image of the Egyptian queen that stared enigmatically down at the lobby through gleaming emerald eyes. He eyed Papa sceptically, starting at the black tie-up shoes, the rumpled suit, the faded blue shirt, and the outrageous tic which did not go with anything else he had on. His patronizing smile never went beyond his lips.

‘Sorry, sir, full up in there,’ he said. ‘Could be thirty, forty minutes before there’s any room in the bar. You might like to try a little place up the street —,

‘I got a reservation,’ Papa said and flashed his shield.

The maitre d’ looked distressed. ‘is there going to be trouble?

‘1 don’t know. Are you expecting some?’ Papa said and went into the club.

The interior was outrageous. The decor was Egyptian with music surging from enormous amplifiers hidden in two mummy cases at each end of the large room. Brass palm trees shimmered before its onslaught, hieroglyphics decorated the sconces, and the announcer worked the control- board with the frenzy of a concert pianist, his booth nestled between the paws of an enormous sphinx that dominated one end of the room. Spotlights roved the club, while the dance floor, illuminated from below, seemed to pulsate with the beat of the music.

The place was jammed but Leo Winter was easy to spot. He was on the dance floor, moving casually with the beat, dancing with a blonde whose gothic chest, wrapped in see-through cotton, jogged in rhythm with the music.

Winter, a triangle of a man with bullish shoulders, hardly any waist, and large hands, was dressed in a yellow leisure suit, brocaded at the collar and open to the waist, a gold chain with a charm the size of a manhole cover bouncing around his neck. As one record segued into another Winter and the woman returned to their table beside the dance floor. His eyes made an alert sweep of the room, passed Papa, then flicked back and lingered on him for a moment. The big cop jerked his head towards the door, turned, and went outside.

He stood near his car in the parking lot, outside the perimeter of light around the flamboyant entrance, with his hands stuffed in his pockets, protecting them against the frigid night wind that had chased away the rain. Winter emerged a few minutes later and joined him, the wind rippling through tight curls on his head. He held his jacket closed with one hand.

‘Hi, Cowboy,’ he said to Papa.

‘How’s it going, Leo?’ Papa said.

‘Right now I’m freezing my ass off. This gonna take long?’

‘Depends on you.’

‘Uh oh. I got some trouble I don’t know about?’

Papa shook his head. ‘Information.’

Leo’s attitude changed. His body tightened and seemed to grow an inch. He stood with one shoulder towards Papa, staring into the dark parking lot.

Papa said, ‘I’m gonna tell you something and you’re gonna forget it as soon as I tell you. Then I’m gonna ask you something. Then we’ll go from there.’

Leo continued to look into the darkness.

‘First off, you know a fancy pros calls herself Domino?’ Leo thought about the question, then said, ‘Is this a freebie or can we do a little trading?’

‘Leo, I got this big problem. I’m runnin’ outa time and I ain’t even got started good yet. Can we talk about Domino or not?’

Leo rubbed his shoulder with his free hand then shrugged. ‘I’ve seen her here and there.’

‘You know her pimp?’

‘You mean, do I know him or are we asshole buddies?

‘I mean, do you know him? That’s what I mean.’

‘I know him. We’re not thick.’

‘I got Neil. I need the rest of the name and an address.’ Leo looked down at his foot, tapping his toe gently against the car tyre. ‘This Neil, is he in trouble?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Bad trouble?’

‘If he’s in trouble, it’s bad trouble.’

‘You’re a regular encyclopaedia of facts there, Papa.’

‘If you ain’t wrap-around pals, what’s the difference?’

‘Yeah, I suppose there’s something to that. Okay, his name’s Dantzler. He lives out on Peachtree in The Courtyard.’

The name struck a bell. Papa’s mind dug back as he kept talking.

‘The apartments?’

‘Dantzler lives in a condo.’

‘How about Tiffany? What do you know about her?

‘You’re really fishin’, ain’t you, Papa. From here i’d say you don’t know shit for sure.’

‘If I did, would I be here?’

‘You got a point.’

‘So?’

‘So, Tiffany’s Dantzler’s old lady. She lives in the apartment complex out there, but mostly she uses her pad for tricks. Whenever Dantzler snaps his fingers, she’s up at his

place with her legs spread.’ -

Now Papa remembered why Dantzler’s address had ticked off his memory bank. It was the same complex as Tiffany’s. ‘You mean this Dantzler pimps for his own girlfriend?’

‘You got it. Real sweetheart, right?’

‘Okay, gimme the package on this shmuck.’

‘Dantzler’s a scam artist. Rich kid. His old man took a bath in real estate about ten years ago, got in the shower, and emptied his brains out with a .45. All Dantzler had goin’ for him was a shaky pedigree and a smooth mouth. A pretty boy, y’know? He played off his country club connections and worked some fast deals but he got in trouble with the state over some pyramid scheme he had goin’ and he dropped outa sight for awhile, When he came back up, he has this Tiffany in tow, and she’s a real piece, not just your everyday low-class honey, know what I mean?

‘And he was pimping for her?’

‘More than that. Dantzler’s living with her and pimping too, and she’s turning three, four-hundred a night tricks with his uptown friends and the fat-wallet out-of-towners. But she doesn’t quite have it, okay? Then a couple of years ago Dantzler pops Domino outa the closet. She was like a super version of Tiffany. More of everything and a class act, to boot. At first she was kind of shy and Tiffany got the soreass, but then this Domino sprouts wings, man, a real angel, and she kinda has a soft spot for Tiffany, so they end up tighter than a fat couple in a single bed. Domino won’t have anything to do with any of the other street people — didn’t want to and didn’t. But all of a sudden you see her everywhere, dressed like she come off a magazine cover. Let me tell ya, Papa — this lady, when she walks in a room even the clock stops tellin’ time. A very selective lady and smart as a kick in the ass. The way it comes to me, she doesn’t like the trade, she packs it in and goes home. Left more than one big spender with his thumb in his ear.’

‘But Dantzler was pimping for her?’

‘Sure. He’s got the connections. He’s got the ins.’

‘And Domino is independent?’

‘You know it. A no-shit lady. Even starts shaping up Tiffany. Tn fact, the way I get it, Tiffany’s got another old man on the side and this Domino covers for her all the time. J mean, shit, man, how long could anybody put up with that little mama’s boy?’

‘But Domino gives Dantzler a hard time, right?’

‘Hey, c’mon Papa, between the two chicks Dantzler must be knockin’ down fifteen, sixteen a week after the split and no tax. Does that sound like hard times to you?’ He paused for a minute, then said, ‘I thought you were gonna give me something I got to forget.’

‘Okay, here it is. Somebody put this Domino on ice about four hours ago.’

‘Hunhi’

‘Right in the doorway of her apartment. And from my end of the street it wasn’t no amateur hit.’

Leo looked hard at Papa and a scowl crossed his face. ‘Are you tellin’ me there was paper out on her? You tellin’ me that?’

‘I’m tellin’ you somebody staked out her apartment for several hours and then punched her out with a sawed-off shotgun. Does that sound like amateur night to you?’

Leo whistled softly through his teeth, then shook his head. ‘Bad news.’

‘If this goes any further there, Leo, I’ll be back out and step all over those pretty Mary Janes of yours.’

‘Did I tell you it stops with me? Did I tell you that or not?’

‘Just so it’s clear.’

‘You put me in a funny kinda box, Papa.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Let’s just say this was a local contract, okay? And it wasn’t run past me first. Then I would be very unhappy with some people. Like if a local shooter took this on, I would want to know it’s comin’ down. And if there was any hotshot freelancers around, I would know that, too. Now I’m not saying I’d have anything to dc with that kind of action, okay. What I’m saying is, there are courtesies and out of courtesy it would come to me and I would say no, or maybe I would say it ain’t any of my bi.asiness.’

‘What you’re saying is the shooter is an out-of-towner.’

‘What I’m saying is if the shooter isn’t an out-of-towner, it’s going to hit the fan. I mean there’s going to be a shit storm that’ll make Hurricane Alice lo.ok like somebody sneezed.’

‘Could you gimme a guess why it happened?’

‘Papa, I never got closer than ten feet to the lady. Couple of months ago I came up a heavy winner in a poker game and Dantzler lost his ass. I took his marker for five bills. I offered to trade it out for a night with Domino and she nixed it, not him. Maybe, you know, she thumbed her nose at the wrong guy.’

‘You hear anything about Dantzler and Tiffany juicing some tourist recently?’

Leo began to laugh. ‘Jesus, you sure want a lot for your nickel, don’t ya?’

‘Leo, how long we known. each other?’

‘Too long.’

‘Did I ever stand short on you?’

‘No, I can’t say that.’

‘So when I tell you time is short, I mean time is short. We do my problem, then we do yours. Now tell me about this shakedown.’

‘A few weeks ago Dantzler shows up with a new Ferrari. And he buys up my marker and generally settles up around town. So I ask him, “What did you do, hit a bank or something?” and what he says is this: “Tiffany and me found ourselves a turkey in a ten-gallon hat.” So I says, “Was Domino in on it?” And he says, “Don’t I wish I If I could get Domino in on it I could retire.” The figure I heard was fifty g’s. The way he was throwin’ money around, I believe it.’

‘So Domino was not in on it.’

‘I don’t know how to say it, but she was a very classy lady. I don’t think she’d get her hands dirty in that kind of action.’

‘Shit, she’s. . . she was a hooker, Leo.’

‘You asked me, I’m tellin’ you. If I was making book on this question, I would give odds she didn’t know a thing about it, and if she did, she would have given Dantzler the long goodbye.’

‘Could she maybe have found out about it and given Dantzler some trouble?’

‘I see where you’re goin’ with this. Let me tell you, this Dantzler’s got balls the size of a blackhead. Phony paper, pyramids, pimping, that’s his style. He don’t have the guts to step on an ant — or ask anybody else to. Anyway, even if he had it in mind, you know, he would have known to run it past me and I would have kicked his ass all the way to Alabama for even thinking about it. No, you can scratch Dantzler. He might be able to tell you why he thinks it was done, but he didn’t have a thing to do with it. That’s my opinion.’

‘So I end up exactly nowhere.’

‘No, you end up with a travellin’ hit man on your hands. If you want to come down on Dantzler, it’s going to have to be for something else.’

Papa nodded. ‘Okay. I want you to do this for me. I want you to listen around and if you hear anything, anything about this gambit., you give it to me. And if you hear anybody outside the Vice Squad askin’ questions about Domino or Dantzler or any of that crowd, you get on the horn to me.’

‘You want me to let you know if I get pneumonia from standing out here?’

‘You wanna run around half naked that’s your problem.’

‘Okay, but I got another problem.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I got married a couple of weeks ago. Maybe you heard.’

‘You got a problem all right but there ain’t anything I can do about it.’

Leo laughed again. ‘It ain’t her, it’s her brother. He got dumped for running a red light and they turned up two lids of reefer in the car. It was strictly for personal use. The kid doesn’t push dope.’

‘Two ounces for personal use?’

‘So he smokes a lot, what do I know? He’s twenty. You know how it is when you’re twenty. You don’t do anything in moderation.’

‘You need to have a heart-to-heart with the kid.’

‘I already did. What it is, they hit him with felony possession.,

‘Anything over an ounce, the law says you’re pushing.’

‘Look, the kid’s okay. Anyway, I only been married a month, I’d like to give the old lady a little delayed wedding present, know what I mean?’

‘This kid’s first time out?

‘He got caught in a little bust here about a year ago. A bunch of kids were selling tax-free cigarettes they brought in from North Carolina. They must have cleared all of twenty bucks.’

‘Careless son of a bitch, isn’t he?

‘He’s not real bright.’

‘Okay. I got a pal just off the Narcs. I’ll talk to him.’

‘Whatever you can do.’

‘I can maybe work it out for a suspended sentence. He’ll have to do about six months probation or so, cough up a couple of yards for the fine.’

‘That’s okay. Maybe a little probation’ll straighten him out. I can handle the fine.’

‘Okay, Leo, we got a deal Just keep in touch. Keep your ear close to the ground for the next forty-eight hours or so.’

‘That’s cool.’

‘And forget you heard anything about Domino from me or anybody else.’

Leo’s eyebrows rose. ‘Who’s Domino?’

A harsh chilling wind had replaced the rain, turning dirt in the gutters into dervishes as Livingston cruised down the dark streets. Beside him, Sharky stared silently through the windshield, his mind assaulted by nightmare demons — the what ifs and maybes, all the ways he might have prevented Domino’s death. In the brief time he had seen her, talked to her, listened to her make love to another man, in those few hours she had touched a place deep inside him nobody had ever touched before. He knew it was crazy. But it was a reality he could not escape and the reality tortured him.

‘Okay,’ Livingston said after several minutes of silence, ‘what the hell’s eatin’ you?’

The question shook Sharky back to the present.

‘All of it,’ he said. ‘The whole thing.’

‘Got to kick that monkey, m’friend.’

‘Yeah.’

They drove another block without words.

‘1 got this, this, uh, lump in my gut, like a bad meal layin’ down there,’ Sharky said. ‘Like maybe I’m missing something.’

‘Hunch, hunh?’

‘Maybe. Yeah, could be that.’

‘Really got to you, didn’t she?’ Livingston said. ‘Got to thinkin’ about it, right? Wonderin’ what a five-hundred- dollar piece was like.’

Sharky felt himself bristling. It wasn’t like that, he felt like saying, but then he began thinking about it, remembering how he had felt, listening to her making love the night before. He felt cold and he huddled deeper into his suede pullover.

‘Yeah,’ he said finally, ‘she really got to rue.’

‘I been in Vice a long time, Shark. Too long. Seen lots of fancy tricksters come and go. I done my share of wondering, too. All of us have. I mean, if you didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t be natural.’

‘It’s more than that.’

‘What? You talkin’ about duty, that kinda shit? Listen here, you’re a cop, you ain’t God. You make mistakes just like everybody else. Only trouble is, in our business a man can take an extra cup of coffee, fall asleep at the wrong moment, make a bad guess, it ends up disaster for somebody. You learn to live with it or get out. You’re gonna make a fuckin’ mistake now and then, you can’t afford to, but you’re gonna make ‘em anyway. Couple of years ago a friend of mine named Tibbets lost a material witness. They had this cat under protective custody in a house off Highland Avenue and it all started comin’ down on this guy, y’know, he got the shivers. So one night he goes to the can and hangs himself in the shower. Tibbets is twenty feet away watchin’ a ball game. He never got over it, started in drinkin’, two months later he blew his brains out. So what did that prove? We had already lost a witness. The court case went down the toilet. Then we lost a good cop and for what? We all human, baby. You start thinkin’ otherwise, you’re in deep trouble.’

‘Keep reminding me of that, will you?’

‘Okay. For now just put it aside. She’s dead, man. That boat’s sailed. What we need to be doin’ sight now is figure out where we goin’, not where we been.. Now would you like to hear a thought?’

‘Anything at all.’

‘These Mafiosi are usually big gamblers. It goes with the territory, y’know. Comes to me that maybe this shooter’s found himself some local action. There ain’t that many bookies around and if he’s a heavy player, maybe we can get a line on him.’

‘Terrific. Only trouble is, I wouldn’t know where to place a fifty-cent bet on anything right now.’

‘Well, I know a few bookmakers. What I’m gonna do,

I’m gonna quietly check with Whit Ramsey on the Gaming Squad, see if any new bookies are operatin’. Maybe we can shake somethin’ outa their pockets.’

‘Let’s get it on then,’ Sharky said. ‘Pull over to that phone booth. You can touch base with Whit, I’ll call Barret and see if he’s turned up anything at the lab.’

‘That’s cool.’

It took Sharky a minute or two to get the night operator and another minute to get George Barret on the phone.

‘Sharky, I haven’t got much, but I just thought you’d like to know you were right about that little red pill. It’s a red devil all right. Seventy per cent speed, thirty per cent nitro-glycerine.’

Sharky whistled through his teeth. ‘Jesus, that’s pure dynamite!’

‘I’d certainly agree with you. Blow a normal man straight through the roof. Whoever’s using these is flirting with a coronary.’

‘Anything else, George?’

‘Well, they’d be highly addictive, if that helps. I’d say two or three a day at least.’

‘Just a shit kicker, right? No medicinal value?’

‘I miss the point.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be the kind of thing maybe he’d have a prescription for?’

‘Not unless the doctor that prescribed them is a homicidal maniac. No, this is not the kind of thing you would find on the medicine shelf. It’s narcotics, period.’

‘George, you’re a winner. Got anything else?’

‘Really, sir. I’ve just gotten started.’

‘Talk to you later.’

He got back in the car. A moment later Livingston joined him.

‘Got anything?’ Livingston asked.

‘Yeah. You ever heard of red devils?

‘Some kind of upper, right?’

‘Upper is right. You could launch a rocket with one of them. Our shooter was probably using. And if he was, Barret says he’s more than likely addicted.’

‘You’re gonna have a hell of a time trackin’ down every pusher in town that might be peddlin’ this shit, ain’t you?’

‘Maybe not. I haven’t seen any red devils on the street in a year or two. Too expensive. They go down for about five bucks a pop.’

‘Jesus, you can do smack for that kind of money.’

‘Different kind of high. Point is, maybe they were specially ordered. That would narrow the field a bit. How about you?’

‘I got three names, M’man Ramsey says if these three juicers ain’t bookin’ him and he’s a big player, then he’s using a phone contact somewhere else. And I know one of these guys. We grew up together. I can always finger him, so I figure we try to run down the other two first, save old Zipper until last.’

‘Zipper?’

‘Got a scar down his back at least a foot long. I grew up in a rough neighbourhood.’

‘Okay, but first let me try one more call.’

Ben Colter had worked his way through Georgia State University playing ‘Melancholy Baby,’ ‘One for the Road,’ and other such classics for raucous salesmen and ageing divorcees in a red-and-black vinyl lounge called Mona’s Piano Bar. It was a job he had learned to hate passionately while staring out across the elongated piano six nights a week at faces he later said had only two expressions, drunk and desperate. The day he received his diploma he swore he would never again play the piano, not even in the solitude of his own home. The world Lad heard his last rendition of ‘My Way’.

Retirement from the keyboard, however, was not in the cards for Ben. After serving six months as a rookie on the APD and two years and three months as a patrolman, Colter was promoted to third grade detective and assigned to Captain Vernon Oglesby in Narcotics. Oglesby was a competent officer, but he had a flaw. He was intrigued by intrigue. Because he loved the drama of subterfuge, Oglesby had more men on the Street undercover than he had on straight duty. Any excuse at all and Oglesby would put another man out with phony I.D.’s and some new and flamboyant cover.

Colter was made to order for Oglesby. His presence on the Narcs summoned forth one of the captain’s most outrageous ideas. Colter’s past had caught up with him. He would form a trio and the Captain would arrange for the group to play at the Arboretum, one of the city’s more popular uptown bars, there to get the inside on the dope traffic among the better-heeled swinging singles.

Within four weeks, an appalled Colter found himself the leader of the Red Colter Trio, the other two members being a hastily drafted teenage drummer who thought he was Buddy Rich and a guitar player who, as one of the patrons once observed, probably could make better music picking cotton than guitar.

Nevertheless the trio was modestly successful and Ben Colter, to his joy, discovered a marvellous fringe benefit:

flesh. The ladies were young, liberated, and among the best looking in town. Hardly a night passed that the latent groupie instincts of some female patron were not vested in Colter’s corner. They always had a little Colombian weed and occasionally a snort of coke to share. Ben properly excused his transgressions as part of the job and one night he had experienced his first amyl nitrite popper, later likening the resulting orgasm to a combination of the Mount Vesuvius eruption and the San Francisco earthquake.

Almost as a side benefit of the job Colter became an expert on the latest hip talk, the ultimate styles, the fashionable drugs — pot, Quaaludes, coke, poppers — anything that stimulated bedtime organs, heightening the allure and dulling the uneasiness of the one-night stand. He also was compiling an impressive list of the uptown pushers, those who made their contacts at the crowded Arboretum Bar and delivered their dream cigarettes and nose candy in the seats of the Mercedes, Corvettes, and baby Cadillacs that nightly filled the parking lot.

On this particular Friday night Colter was feeling very lucky indeed. A young woman in a black skintight jumpsuit zipped down the front almost to her navel and bulging with incredible natural endowments was sitting just below the bandstand where for an hour or so she had been staring at I Colter without even blinking her eyes.

Colter was stirred. He was also encouraged by her escort, a thirtyish loudmouth who obviously thought he was still in a fraternity. His size indicated that he had probably played either guard or tackle, although what had once been muscle had long since congealed into blubber. For an hour he had been extolling the virtues of the Auburn University War Eagles while quaffing down one bottle of Bud after another, swallowing the contents in a single long, horrifying gulp until eventually the beer took its toll. The War Eagle rose, his face the colour of a bishop’s vestments, and headed unsteadily towards the men’s room.

Now is the time to strike, thought Colter, and abruptly ended his version of ‘Take the A Train’ while his two partners floundered hopelessly in mid-chord. As Colter hit the floor a waiter handed him a note.

‘Guy says it’s urgent,’ the waiter said.

The note said: ‘Sharky. P-929-1423.’

The P was a simple code for phone booth. The call was indeed urgent.

Colter smiled at the jumpsuit zipper and winked, then hurried across the room to the public phones.

Sharky answered on the first ring.

‘Sharky?’ Ben said.

‘Yeah. That you, Ben?’

‘Yeah, man. How ya doin’?

‘I’ve had better days.’

‘I heard what The Bat did to you for icing High Ball Mary. That dumb shit. For what it’s worth, Shark, I think we lost the best street man we had.’

‘Thanks, Ben. How’s it with you?’

Ben wasn’t listening. The girl in the jumpsuit was leaning over, saying something to one of the other girls at the table.

She’s comin’ over here, thought Colter. I know she’s comin’ over here. I gotta get off the phone.

‘Uh, what did ya say, buddy? It’s loud as hell in this place.’

‘I said, bow ya doin?’

‘Oh, yeah, man. It’s a drag, y’know, a real drag.’

She was getting up, looking his way. A bead of sweat popped out between Colter’s eyes.

‘Ben, I need some help.’

‘Okay, name it.’

Here she comes.

‘When’s the last time you saw any red devils on the Street?’

‘Red devils,’ Colter repeated and then looked frantically around for fear someone had heard him. ‘Red devils,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Shit, nobody buys red devils anymore. Who’s gonna lay out five bucks a pop, when you can get good uppers for two bits?’

She had caught the wind and was in full sail, coming straight at him, her course irreversible. He had to get off the phone. The sweat was now dribbling down the side of his nose.

‘What I need, Ben, is a line on a pusher, somebody out in your territory who maybe scored very big in red devils in the last two, three weeks.’

‘Two or three weeks,’ Colter repeated, watching the jumpsuit slink closer.

A customer reached out and took her by the arm. But she looked down, said something terminal, and he dropped his hand.

‘Red devils, hunh?’ Ben said. ‘Lemme see, that could be, you know, three or four shovers I know of. Gimme an hour, I’ll see if I can pin it down without blowing my cover.’

‘Thanks. Should I call you?’

‘Use the squad room drop. Give ‘em a number at. eleven o’clock. I’ll call in and get it.’

‘That’s cool, Ben. And thanks.’

‘Any time, buddy. Later.’

He hung up. She was three feet away, staring up at him with eyes that looked like they had dust in them.

‘Lining up your dance card for the rest of the night?’ she said. The voice was perfect.

‘I just broke all my plans until after the holidays,’ Colter said.

‘Aren’t I the lucky one?’

War Eagle came out of the men’s room with tears in his eyes, wiping his tie with a paper towel. A blast of heat and noise hit him like a tidal wave. His cheeks bulged and he turned and fled back through the door.

‘I bet you’re gonna need a ride home tonight,’ Colter said.

‘Nope,’ she said, ‘he is.’

‘I’ll call a cab.’

The Nosh leaned intently over the controls of his electronic magic set, a carefully organized series of tape recorders, filters, re-recorders, and other electronic hardware that looked like a small radio station. He was in his glory, punching buttons, twisting dials, hunched under padded earphones as he worked to lift the voices from one of Sharky’s tapes.

He looked up suddenly, startled by the appearance in the doorway of Sergeant Anderson. The Nosh felt sorry for Anderson, a man beaten down by life, his hair an ugly tangle of grey, his shoulders sagging under the weight of an unhappy marriage. Anderson seemed always to be around, offering help where it wasn’t needed and advice where it wasn’t wanted. The squad room was his home. He remained there, night after night, until he was too tired to stay awake or until he ran out of excuses to avoid going home.

The Nosh pulled off the earphones.

‘Give you a hand?’ Anderson said.

‘Nah. Thanks anyway.’

‘Coffee or something?’

‘Thanks anyway, Sarge.’

‘What you up to, anyway?’

‘Just giving Vice a hand. A little wiretap operation.’

The tape was still running and a cacophony of sound emerged from the loudspeaker. A combination of soft music and cries of passion.

‘What in God’s name is that?’ Andersen asked.

The Nosh giggled. ‘Sounds like a Chinese orgy,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll be around a while longer if you need anything.’ ‘Tell you what, Herb. I got a fingerprint report coming in on the telex from the Bureau. If you hear the bell ring, gimme a call, will ya?’

‘Glad to,’ Anderson said and smiled, grateful for something to do. ‘But they won’t come in with anything before morning, will they?’

‘I tagged urgent on it and I got a flash back. They’re gonna pull the package for me tonight, if there’s anything to pull.’

‘Okay,’ Anderson said. His curiosity was aroused, but before he could pursue the subject further, The Nosh said, ‘If you should run out of the house for anything, you might swing by Grady morgue. Twigs has a tape over there for me.’

The coroner had called a few minutes earlier to report that he had completed the autopsy on Domino. But, he had added, there was little in the post mortem that would help the Machine.

‘I’ll just go on over now,’ Anderson said. ‘I need a little air.’ And he left.

The Nosh slipped the earphones back on and was immediately lost in his electronic fantasy world. Somewhere in that Chinese orgy, he thought, there’s a word or two, something, that’ll make sense to somebody. All he had to do was lift them out, get rid of the background noise. Eagerly he returned to his dials.

Sharky was stamping his feet in a phone booth near the Peachtree-Battle shopping centre when the phone rang. He lunged for it.

‘That you, Sharky’?’ Ben Colter asked.

‘Right.’

‘I got lucky.’

‘Good! Give it to me.’

‘There’s a pusher named Gerald Lofton, a regular in the place. I got enough shit on this guy to bury him. But I can’t move on him yet. There’s a lot more where that came from. Anyway, right after you called, Lofton came in and we had a drink together and I moved the subject around to speed. I mentioned a friend of mine in Chicago told me something about red devils and was he hip to them and Lofton’s eyes lit up like a church steeple and he tells me red devils are dynamite but expensive. ‘Then he tells me a friend of his just moved — are you leaning on something?’

‘I’m leaning on something.’

‘Fifty pills. At ten bucks a jolt!’

‘Ten bucks!’

‘I say this buyer must work for the mint and Lofton tells me he don’t know who the big score was, but during the conversation he dropped the name of the connection.’

‘And...’

‘The pusher’s a first-class asshole who uses the name Shoes.’

‘Shoes? Like on your feet?’

‘Right. Shoes. Anyway this Shoes, you gotta watch him. What he does, he plays the redneck joints out near Inman Park on payday. Does some heavy over-the-counter trade in pills and even some nickel bags.’

‘The red-devil buy was made in Inman Park?’

‘No. He also has some select clientele out this way.’

‘What’s he look like?’

‘Hell, you won’t have any trouble there. Tall, all bones. Has long white hair, almost like a high yellow, only he’s white. Dresses like a cowboy. Also he never holds. He usually pays a teenager or some wino to carry the shit for him. He makes the deal, goes out in an alley, puts the stuff in a paper bag, and then the customer picks it up from the decoy. By that time Shoes is half a block away.’

‘Neat.’

‘Tonight’s a good night to dump him. It’s payday.’

‘Good.’

‘What’s comin’ down, anyway? I thought you got dumped off the dope squad?’

‘I did. This is something else. In fact you can do me a favour and forget we even talked.’

‘That’s cool. One more thing about this Shoes. He was dropped twice in New York state, both felonies. The last time he did a nickel-dime and went thirty-three months before parole. He’d put his own mother on ice to stay out of the slams. But Oglesby doesn’t want him busted right now. He’s hoping the son of a bitch’ll lead us upstairs.’

‘Thanks, Ben.’

‘Anytime, Shark. Everybody on the squad owes you one. You took a bad rap. Anyone of us woulda done the same thing in your boots. I guess we’re all just glad i1 wasn’t us The Bat dumped on.’

‘See you in the lineup, Ben.’

Sharky returned to the car.

‘We scored,’ he said to Livingston. ‘You know a pusher does the country-music scene name of Shoes?’

‘Nope.’

‘Tall. Beanpole. Mulatto-white hair. Dresses like a rodeo rider.’

‘Sounds like we could make him in the dark.’

‘He just dumped fifty red devils on somebody at ten bucks a hit.’

‘Holy slit!’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, you wanna take him first or visit my friend Zipper?’ Livingston had struck out on the first two bookies. He was obviously losing faith in his hunch. Sharky decided he deserved to run his string out first.

‘Let’s do your guy first. Mine’ll be around till they turn the streetlights off.’

‘You got it.’

He turned the red light on and went down Peachtree Street to Spring and then into the middle of the city with his foot on the floor. Sharky casually hooked up his safety belt as they screamed in and out of traffic past the Omni complex, a cluster of tall buildings that included a hotel and a sports arena. Livingston turned into the city Viaduct and went down to Hunter Street where he turned again. Six blocks later he pulled up to the kerb. A block ahead of them was a low, squat building joined like a Siamese twin to a three-storey indoor parking garage. A sign flashed on and off over the building, announcing that it was the Lucky Strike Bowling Alley.

‘We’ll hoof it from here,’ Livingston said. They got Out of the car and locked it. The street was filled with festive black men in fur coats and Borsalino hats with laughing ladies on their arms. Sharky and Livingston walked towards the bowling alley.

‘Let’s do this my way, okay?’ Livingston said. ‘1 grew up here. It’s my turf. I know every crack in the sidewalk.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘Here’s the set-up. A long mall with the bowling alley at the end. Twelve alleys all together. When you go in, there’s a lunch counter on your right and a concession stand on your left. The mother-fucker running the concession stand owns the place, but you’d never know it. He’s uglier than a cross-eyed kangaroo and twice as mean. What I need is for you to get his attention long enough for me to come in behind him and freeze him. He’s got buttons under the counter. If he gets nervous, he’ll blow the whole play on us. Go down in there, okay? Walk along the alleys until you’re right in front of the fuckin’ concession stand, then walk straight back to it and lose some time there. Buy a candy bar, anything. If he gets nervous, put him on ice. Stick that 9 mm of yours right up his nose, otherwise he won’t think you’re serious. When I make my play, gimme some room and do exactly as I say, okay?’

‘1 got it.’

‘Good. Let’s give it a try and see what happens.’

Sharky went down the mall and stopped behind the chairs of the middle alley. A tall teenage black gave him a dirty look, then went back to his game. Sharky moved slowly along the alleys, aware of the concession stand to his left but not looking directly at it. When he was in front of the stand, he turned and strolled straight back to it.

The man behind the counter was the size of a warehouse with arms like two sides of beef. Thick lips were wrapped around the short end of a cigar which had gone out hours before. An earring glittered in one ear. He wore a tweed cap pulled down over his forehead and a black tee-shirt with a black-power fist emblazoned in the middle of it.

He eyed Sharky as though he were a cockroach walking across the counter.

‘Alley’s full,’ he said as Sharky leaned on the countertop. ‘Got any Good ‘N’ Plenty?’ Sharky said. Behind the man with the earring, Livingston entered a side door and moved quietly towards the concession stand.

The black man leaned on the opposite side of the glass countertop. His eyes were not as bored as he wanted them to seem. One arm dropped to his side, dangling near a drawer under the candy shelf.

‘Nope. Try the drugstore for that fancy shit.’

Livingston reached the other side of the counter. ‘Easy, Cherry,’ he said. The owner’s face went blank, then be smiled, a gold tooth twinkling in the front of his mouth.

‘Yes, suh,’ he said without turning around. ‘How they hangin’, Sergeant?’

‘Hangin’ full, babe. What’s happenin’?’

‘Not a thing, not a thing. Just hangin’ around, right?’

‘Right. That’s my friend Sharky. Say hello.’

Cherry kept on smiling. ‘Hello, brother,’ he said.

Livingston walked to the side of the counter and lifted a hinged section of the countertop and stepped inside. He ran a nimble hand down one side of Cherry’s body and up the other, extracting a stubby .25 calibre pistol.

‘I got a permit for that, Sergeant.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ Livingston opened the drawer and ran his hand along the top of the space. He smiled. Cherry smiled.

‘Now how we gonna do this, Cherry?’ Livingston said. ‘You gonna keep that drawer closed and stay over there while I go upstairs, or am I gonna take this whole fuckin’ counter apart?’

‘Don’t do that, Sergeant.’

‘Then it’s cool, dig?’

‘Gotcha,’ Cherry said and moved away from the drawer with his hands resting on top of the counter.

‘Just stay right there. Sharky and I are gonna go over there by the Coke machine and have a chat.’

They went to the Coke machine and Livingston dropped in two quarters. He gave one of the soft drinks to Sharky.

‘See the door over there, about halfway down the first alley?’

Sharky looked over at the door. A red exit sign glowed over it.

‘Okay.’

‘I’m goin’ through that door. You stay here and make sure Cherry don’t break the rules. If he gets fancy, bust him up alongside the head and make it good. He’s got a head as hard as h bowling balls.’

‘Got it.’

‘Anybody gives you any shit, show them some bronze. Then wait for me.’

Sharky nodded. He went back to the concession stand1 and watched Arch Livingston walk to the red exit door, his hands loose at his sides, striding on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter.

Sharky smiled at Cherry. ‘Just you and me, pal,’ he said:

and Cherry said, ‘Right, brother. You and me.’

Livingston disappeared through the door.

Livingston stepped cautiously through the exit door into what was the second floor of the parking garage. The entrance was one deck below on a side street. A noisy car elevator dominated the core of the building, surrounded by numbered parking places. Most of them were full. From somewhere close by, Stevie Wonder’s plaintive voice’ lamented the sorrows of ‘Livin’ for the City’.

Livingston moved slowly along the rows of cars, holding his .38 down at his side. The music grew louder. He stopped behind a pale green Lincoln. A black man wearing a floppy white bat and a silver grey full-length suede coat sat in the front seat with the door open, beating his knees in time with the music, a .32 Special lying on the dashboard a few inches from his hands.

Livingston moved around the car until he was directly behind the gunman. It was then he recognized him as a young tough named Elroy Flowers. ‘Keep your hands on your knees and —,

He never finished. Flowers moved unexpectedly and with the agility of a greyhound, swinging both legs out of the door as he reached for his pistol. It was a mistake. Livingston slammed the car door, smashing Flowers’s ankles between the door and the jamb, and swung his pistol in a wide overhead arc down on top of Flowers’s head. The felt hat deadened the blow but not enough. The half-conscious gunman grunted, reaching out blindly with one hand and knocking the pistol to the floor of the car.

Livingston grabbed a handful of Flowers’s shirt and coat, swung him out of the car, spun him around, and slammed him against the hood. He put the flat of his hand against Flowers’s head and shoved him hard into the window of the Lincoln.

The window cracked and Flowers’s eyes went blank. He sighed and dropped straight to the floor. Livingston dragged him by his shirt front across the floor and into the car elevator, dropping him face down on the metal floor. He pushed the up button and then jumped off the elevator and ran across the parking deck to the fire steps, taking them two at a time as he raced to the third floor.

The elevator shuddered, groaned, and started rising. On the third floor another black man was leaning against the fender of a cream-coloured Rolls-Royce. He was bigger, more dangerous, than Flowers, a blockhouse of a man in a dark blue suit. He was reading a racing form which he tucked under his arm as the elevator started up. He walked casually towards it. Behind him Livingston stepped through the third-floor door and leaned against the back of a parked car, holding his .38 in both hands and aiming it at the centre of the big man’s back.

The big man peered down into the slowly rising elevator and saw Flowers lying on the floor.

‘Hunh?’ he said. His hand slipped under his coat, reaching for his armpit.

‘Don’t do nothin’ stupid, nigger,’ Livingston yelled. ‘I got softnose loads in this piece.’

The big man turned towards him but kept his hand inside his jacket.

‘Bring it out slow and easy, motherfucker. You do anything sudden, I put a hole in your belly big enough to park that Rolls in.’

The big man continued to stare. His hand stayed inside the coat. Doubt troubled his eyes as he calculated the odds.

‘Don’t get fancy, man. I’m the heat and I don’t miss.’

The rear window of the Rolls glided silently down and a voice that was part silk and part granite said, ‘Okay, Steamboat, cool it. I’ll talk to the man.’

The back door of the Rolls swung open. The man called Steamboat uncoiled and withdrew an empty hand.

Livingston peered over the .38 into the interior of the Rolls. It was a study in gaudy opulence. The seats were upholstered in mauve velvet with gold buttons. The floor was covered in ankle-deep white shag carpeting. Built into the back of the front seat were two white telephones, a bar:

and an icemaker. A bottle of Taittinger champagne sat on the bar shelf.

The man who sat in the corner arrogantly sipping champagne matched the decor. He was shorter than Livingston’ and looked younger, but he was beginning to show the signs of good living. His afro flared out, encircling his head like a halo, and his moustache was full and trimmed just below, the corners of his mouth. He was wearing a dark-blue, pigskin jacket, rust-coloured gabardine pants, and a flowered shirt open at the neck, the collar flowing out over the lapels of the jacket almost to his shoulders. Gold chains gleamed at his throat, diamonds twinkled on his fingers, a gold Rolex watch glittered from under one cuff. His mirror-shined shoes were light tan with three-inch hardwood heels. A white handkerchief flopped casually from his breast pocket. He stared at Livingston through gold-framed tinted glasses, then looked down at the .38 that was pointed at his chest.

‘You mind, nigger?’ he said, nodding towards the gun.

Livingston appraised the back seat, lowered his gun, and laughed.

‘Shit,’ he said, ‘I could get you ten to twenty for what you done to this poor Rolls.’

‘Get on in, goddammit. All my fuckin’ heat’s runnin’ outa here.’

Livingston got in and pulled the car door shut.

‘Been a long time, Zipper.’

‘Ain’t that the truth. Last time I saw you, you was wearin’ a fuckin’ monkey suit, sittin’ in the front seat of a goddamn patrol car. Bi-i-ig shit.’

‘Last time I saw you,’ Livingston said, ‘you were in Fulton Superior Court apologizin’ for boosting car radios.’

‘That long ago, hunh? Shit, time do fly. You mind tellin’ me what the fuck all this Wild West shit’s about, comin’ in here, bustin’ up my people, wavin’ all that iron around? No need for that shit. You here to bust my ass?’

‘This is a social call.’

‘Shit. What d’ya do when you come on business, kill somebody?’

‘Flowers went for his piece, man. You think I’m gonna stand around, let some dumb nigger blow my ass off?’

‘He is a dumb fuckin’ nigger, no question about that. Good help’s hard to come by these days.’ He looked through the car window. Steamboat was standing by the front of the car, watching. ‘Now Steamboat’s a whole nother case, baby. You fuck with Steamboat, you better have your plot paid for.’

‘Used to tight, didn’t he?’

‘Light-heavy. Mean son-bitch. Cat’s never been knocked out. Too slow was his fuckin’ problem. He was instant death when he was in-fighting but the fast boys would lay out there, cut him to pieces at arm’s length. You just let that motherfucker get in one good shot, though. Shit, they’d think they was run over by a goddamn freight train. What you want, nigger?’

‘Told ya, man. It’s a social call.’

‘Un hunh. How long you knowed about this here travelin’ bookie parlour of mine?’

‘About three years.’

‘Aww, don’t shit me, nigger. We grew up on the same fuckin’ street, man, remember?’

‘Look here, brother, long as you keep your operation clean, I ain’t interested in bringing’ anything down on you. You ain’t connected. You strictly cash and carry, don’t take no markers, so nobody gets their head stove in, any of that shit. I ain’t in any rush to turn you up to some white dude on the Gamin’ Squad just so’s he can make some goddamn points. I’d rather know what you doin’, Zipper, have some motherfuckin’ stranger come in here bustin’ nigger ass all over town, you dig?’

Zipper thought it over, then smiled.

‘How about a little wine there, for old times’ sake?

‘Thanks anyway, man. It gives me heartburn.’

‘Heartburn! Man, that shit’s fifty dollars a bottle. Ain’t no fuckin’ heartburn in this shit.’

‘I’ll still pass. I got a partner downstairs starin’ down Cherry. I got to get back before they get bored, start hurtin’ ass.’

‘Okay, so get it on. What the fuck you doin’ here?

‘I need some information.’

Zipper sat up as though he had been slapped. At first he seemed surprised, then surprise turned to anger.

‘Shee-it.’

‘Listen here, motherfucker . .

‘Sheee-it, man. What you handin’ this nigger? Come in here, think you can . . . goddamn, hey, Zipper ain’t no fuckin’ stoolie. Zipper don’t rub ass with the heat. Man, you forgot where you came from.’

‘You ain’t changed a bit, sucker. Still put your fuckin’ mouth up front of your brains.’

‘Well, you changed, motherfucker. Shit, give a nigger a piece of goddamn tin and a peashooter, motherfucker thinks he’s Father fuckin’ Devine.’

One of the phones rang and Zipper snatched it off the hook. ‘Closed for lunch,’ he snapped. ‘Call back in ten minutes.’ He slammed the phone back.

‘Look, I ain’t interested in your goddamn bookmaking, I told you that. I got a problem and I think maybe you can help me with it. Now, the dude I’m lookin’ for is white.’

‘Shit,’ Zipper said, ‘I don’t do no business with honkies. Ain’t you heard? They’s a lotta fuckin’ rich niggers in Atlanta now.’

Livingston looked at the floor. ‘You tellin’ me you don’t do business with whitey, I’m tellin’ you I’m talkin’ to one lyin’ nigger. You takin’ layoff bets from half the highpocket white bookmakers in town, Zipper, and I know it.’

‘Layoff bets? Man, that’s different. I don’t see none of them turkeys. M’bagman picks up the takes, brings me the bread and the slip. Then be takes back what we lose. All I do, I count the money and put down the bets. I don’t know any of them motherfuckers personal.’

Zipper poured another glass of champagne, buffing while he poured.

Livingston looked around the back seat, stared out the window, finally lit a cigar. He said, ‘We gonna talk or are you gonna get that fuckin’ bard head of yours dragged downtown and let a couple of white cats play good guy-bad guy with your ass?’

‘I told you my position. Zipper don’t hand out no suit to the fuzz. I don’t care we was street brothers fifteen years ago.’

‘I ain’t here ‘cause we ran together,’ Livingston said. ‘I’m here ‘cause you got information I need. And I don’t have time to fuck around.’

Zipper looked at Livingston with contempt. ‘Know somethin’?’ he said. ‘You was one bad motherfucker. Nobody shit with you on the street, man. You bust ass. Now look at you. Two dollar fuckin’ suit, wash ‘n’ wear shoes, bookie goddamn haircut. And you want me to turn fuckin’ stoolie. I ain’t believin’ you, now.’

‘Listen here, Zipper, and listen good. I ain’t interested in your goddamn players. We’re talking about murder.’

Zipper looked startled.

‘That’s right,’ Livingston said. ‘Murder. Now you keep your fuckin’ yap shut until I finish. Cat I’m after is white. He’s an outfit hitman, can you dig that? Last night this son-bitch burned a very nice lady. He’s a fuckin’ lady-killer. And you givin’ me all this shit about protectin’ his ass?’

Zipper said nothing. He stared into his champagne glass. ‘This motherfucker woulda come into town a couple weeks ago. If he is a gamblin’ man, he’d be a big gamblin’ man. Sports, ponies, any national shit. Now you don’t know anything about such a cat, okay. But if you do, Zipper, I got to know about it, ‘cause man, we talkin’ about rough trade here.’

‘How come you so fuckin’ sure this dude gambles?

‘I’m not. It’s a hunch. But right now it’s all I got.’

The car was quiet. Zipper cleared his throat. Then the phone rang again.

‘Go ahead and talk,’ Livingston said, ‘I know you’re a bookie. What the shit you so shy about?’

Zipper yanked the phone off the hook. ‘Hello . . . Yeah, this Zipper. What it is?. . . It’s Dallas and seven. . . Well, that’s tough shit, turkey. That’s the fuckin’ spread and ain’t nothin I can do about it. . . . Listen here, motherfucker, I don’t make the odds. You don’t like it, put your fuckin’ money back in your goddamn shoe. Now, you want some action or don’t you? . . . Well, fuck you too, nigger.’ He slammed down the phone.

Silence again.

Finally Zipper said, ‘Only one possibility. Only one possibility. Cat can’t be your man. Can’t be.’

‘Who says?’

‘I say. He makes book in a fag bar out Cheshire Bridge Road.’

‘A fag bar?’

‘That’s right. This tough-nuts shooter you talkin’ about queer?’

‘Who is he?’

‘Shit, I told ya, nigger. I don’t have no truck with any of those fuckers personally. This joint, it’s called, uh.. . this stays with us, that right?’

‘C’mon, Zipper.’

‘This joint is called, uh, the Matador. Got this pansy. lookin’ bullfighter on the sign out front.’

‘I know the place.’

‘‘Bout five weeks ago my bookie friend out there, you know — he does nickel and dime shit out there, nothin’ big, mostly local games — anyways, he calls me, says, do I want to take a layoff on the Oakland and Miami game? Fucker took the spread for five grand and lost his ass. Next week he’s back again. Motherfucker doubles up, lays out ten grand on some NFL game and a basketball game, and splits. Been goin’ like that ever since. Five, ten g’s a clip. Right now I’m into him for about five thou.’

‘When’s the last time he bet?

‘Yesterday.’

‘Yesterday?’

‘You heard right, yesterday. He bettin’ on the playoff. Took Dallas and the points over Minnesota. Ten big ones.’

‘Zipper, I got to know who this player is.’

‘No fuckin’ way.’

‘Just the name, man.’

‘No motherfuckin’ way. Shit, I told ya. I don’t even know who it is. The bookie deals with the score and I deal with the bookie.’

‘Okay, who’s the bookie then?’

‘C’mon, goddammit. You lean on him, he’s gonna know I done it to him.’

‘I’ll cover your ass. Don’t you worry about that. I ain’t interested in the fuckin’ bookie. I want his mark.’

‘You got to cover my ass, Livingston. Tell you somethin’. You come clown on this little motherfucker, he gonna die on the spot.’

‘I’ll do it right, man. Who is it?

‘The bartender. Name’s Arnold.’

Livingston sighed. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘that was worse than pickin’ cotton with your goddamn feet.’

‘Just don’t fuck me over on this, hear? And don’t come back with any more of this snitch shit either. I done made my contribution for life.’

Livingston started to get out of the car. ‘Shit, motherfucker,’ he said, ‘my eyes couldn’t stand any more of this pussywagon.’

Zipper’s eyes flared. ‘Pussywagon, Pussywagon! Shit, you fuckin’ no-class nigger, this car cost fifty grand. Fifty fuckin’ thousand goddamn dollars. Ain’t no goddamn Detroit pussywagon. Shit, I don’t even scratch my balls when I’m in this machine. You hear me, Livingston?’

But the policeman was gone, down through the fire door towards the bowling alley below.

‘Pussywagon, my ass,’ Zipper growled, then he leaned out the door. ‘Steamboat!’

‘Yeah, boss.’

‘Take that fuckin’ dumbass to the Gradys and get his head stitched up and then fire his ass.’

At four A.M., Friscoe quit for the night. He drove home, grumbling to himself, angry because he had turned up nothing at all in six hours of hard work. His back ached and his eyes burned as he entered the house, passing up his customary raid on the refrigerator and going straight to the bedroom. He went into the bathroom and closed the door before turning on the light so as not to awaken Sylvia, splashed cold water on his face, and sat on the commode to take off his shoes. He sighed with relief as be dropped them on the floor, then went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, bone weary and almost too tired to get undressed.

His wife rolled over and said sleepily, ‘Barney?’

‘No, it’s Robert Redford,’ he said wearily.

‘Oh, how nice.’

‘If he was as tired as I am, you could forget it.’

‘What time is it’?’

‘Past four. I’m dead. My feet feel like I just ran the Boston Marathon.’

‘You would’ve been proud of Eddie, Barney. He did just fine.’

‘Jeez, I completely forgot. Did you explain? Did it embarrass him I had to leave like that, right in the middle of Prokofiev?’

‘He understood. Nobody saw from the stage; they were very busy.’

The lieutenant pulled and tugged at his clothes until they lay in a pile at his feet, then he fell back on the bed in his:

undershorts.

‘Jesus, Syl, there’s got to be an easier way to make a living.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘It never ends. You clean up one, there’s two more in its place.’

She rose on one elbow and rubbed his temple with two fingers.

‘You been saying that since the day we got married,’ she said.

But Friscoe did not hear her. His breathing had already, settled into a steady drone. Sylvia got up and puffed the covers over him and went into the bathroom.

A moment later the phone rang.

Before she could get back to it, Friscoe, from years of experience, reached out and answered it without opening his eyes.

‘Barney?

‘Umm.’

‘Is that you, Friscoe?

‘Uh.. . yeah.’

‘It’s Max Grimm. You awake?’

‘Almost. . . uh, you finish the autopsy?

‘Oh, on the girl? Abrams got that hours ago. I’ve got something else you ought to know about. Are you listening?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘You remember, I told you Riley had a couple of John Does down here in the icehouse?’

‘Right.’

‘Well, I just finished the post mortem on one of them.’

‘Christ, what the hell time is it?’

‘Who knows? I been going so long I can’t stop now. Anyway, this p.m. I just finished? They found the corpse out in the city dump yesterday afternoon. A real messy thing. Face blown off, both hands are missing.’

‘Hands missing?’

‘Yeah, cut off at the wrist. No clothes, no I.D., nothing.’

‘Twigs, I got one too many bodies on my hands already.’

‘Listen to me. Like I say, his face was blown off, nothing left, no way to identify him, okay?’

‘Um hmm.’

‘But that isn’t what killed him. He was drilled through the right eye. A single .22 calibre long rifle-bullet, with the end dum-dummed. It flattened out and laid up against the back of the skull on the inside.’

‘So?’

‘So the bullet was soaked in garlic.’

And at almost the same moment that Twigs was telling Friscoe about the stiff in the icehouse with the .22 calibre garlic-soaked bullet in its head, Anderson brought the telex message to Larry Abrams, who was sitting half asleep at his table, staring at the tape he had been studying for hours.

The teletype message woke him up.

‘Here’s that FBI report you were lookin’ for,’ Anderson said. ‘Looks like a dead end.’

‘What do you mean?’ The Nosh said

‘Read it.’

The bureau had made a positive T.D. on the two prints. They belonged to a fifty-nine year-old white male from Lincoln, Nebraska named Howard Burns. But The Nosh did not read any further. His eyes jumped to the bottom line of the report and he stared in disbelief.

According to the FBI report, Howard Burns had been incinerated in an automobile accident on the outskirts of Omaha two months earlier.