Sharky's Machine

Chapter Nineteen

There were only two things in Sergeant Herb Anderson’s entire life that he was proud of: a commendation he had won when, while off-duty, he had overpowered an armed robber sticking up a Seven-Eleven Market; the other was his son Tommy, an all-city football player who had already been offered three college scholarships and the season was only over a week.

The rest of his life had been a downhill slide. His other son, Harry, had been a problem since he was a child. The boy had been in and out of private schools all his life and as a result Anderson’s wife, Lucy, had gradually turned into a hypertense, morose hypochondriac, a woman who complained constantly of back trouble, headaches, female problems, and lumps in her breast which the doctor somehow could never find.

Anderson himself had changed through the years from a jovial man, well liked by the other members of the force, to a depressed and involuted misfit, a man harassed by financial problems and a son he both loved and despised, who worked long hours to escape the enervating atmosphere at home. It was his reputation as a tireless workhorse that had earned him a sergeant’s stripes.

He was grateful when Priest called him on Saturday morning, his day off, because it gave bun an honest excuse to escape the house and enjoy a lunch at the Regency.

The man Anderson knew as Priest was actually Gerald Kershman. It was Kershman who picked the busy bars in the better hotels, which were more popular with transients than with the local trade. He usually arrived fifteen minutes ahead of Anderson, seeking out the most secluded and the darkest corner in the room. Not that anyone would recognize Kershman or particularly remember him; it was his own paranoia at work. It was one of DeLaroza’s peculiar quirks, and he had many, that the corporation should always have a strong police contact in every city in which it did business. Kershman, for his own reasons, had been more than willing to oblige. He was called on to provide information from time to time, nothing particularly onerous, and yet Kershman, a man with many complexes, always became nervous when he met with Anderson. Ne didn’t like his hangdog attitude, the inevitable spots on his ties, and mostly the fact that, while Anderson was a fair police officer, he was not too sharp. It was a struggle for Kershman to conceal his contempt and his sense of superiority when he was around Anderson.

Kershman nursed a marguerita until Anderson arrived, a few minutes late and apologizing as usual. He ordered his usual Michelob draught and sat with a forced grin on hi face. Kershman avoided asking about Anderson’s family, a question that usually resulted in a fifteen-minute monologue that ended like a chapter from a soap opera. Kershman bad established himself as a correspondent for a European news syndicate, a perfect cover story for the kind of information he usually sought.

‘I’m in a bit of a jam,’ Kershman said, getting right to

‘What’s the problem?’ Anderson asked and his concern annoyed Kershman.

‘I heard there was a homicide in one of the fancy apartment houses out on Peachtree last night,’ Kershman said. ‘Thing is, there’s been nothing reported so far on it. Nothing on TV, the radio, in the newspapers. My problem is I queried our news office about it before really checking it out and they’re hot for the story. Now it looks like my tip may have been unreliable.’

‘Did you check the police reports?’

‘Yes. Nothing.’

Anderson frowned. Then shook his head as though disagreeing with his own thoughts. ‘There was this John Doe turned up in the city dump yesterday. Now, that would make a good story for you. No hands. His hands were cut off And he was shot in the face with a shotgun.’

Kershman listened intently to Anderson, making mental notes of everything he said. He always was prepared to tell DeLaroza more than he wanted to know rather than less.

‘This was definitely a woman,’ Kershman said.

‘I was around until four o’clock this morning. Lot of crazy things going on, but I would have heard if there was a killing in that neighbourhood.’

‘Well, if you could check around., discreetly. Perhaps, uh, there’s some reason the police are keeping it under wraps. I would prefer not to create any curiosity. I just thought I

might get something from the inside on it.’

‘I’ll go on down after we leave here, snoop around quietly. See if Twigs knows anything. He’s the county coroner.’

‘Remember, I don’t want to make any waves. This must be done carefully just in case they are working on something they don’t want the press to know about.’ He paused to sip the marguerita and then asked, ‘What crazy stuff was going on?’

Anderson chuckled. ‘Oh, Larry Abrams was screwing around with something half the night. A tape of some kind for the Vice Squad. He’s workin.g with a new man over there named Sharky.

‘What was on the tape?’

‘I don’t know. Neither does he. Know what he said? He said it sounded like a Chinese orgy.’

Kershman took another sip and. kept listening.

‘What made me think of it is that I picked up a post mortem tape for Abrams about two A.M. from Grady Hospital. It wasn’t the John Doe, because Twigs was complaining that Riley in Homicide was pushing him to do it before he went home.’

‘I see. Well, if you could just kind of check around, The thing is, I’m pushed for time. If there is something 1 can chase down, I’d like to know by this evening.’

‘I’ll do my damn best,’ Anderson said sincerely.

‘Was there anything else?’

‘Nope. Actually it wasn’t a very lively night. Oh, yeah, Abrams pulled a fingerprint report for somebody, too. I took it down to him. Funny thing, he got a positive make on the prints, but the subject’s been dead for a couple of months. Some truck driver from Nebraska.’

‘And who is this Abrams?’

‘A wiretap man, been in the OC six months or so. Nice little guy. Very talented. The Feds even borrow him every once in a while.’

‘Maybe he was doing this job for the government people,’ Kershman suggested.

‘No, I saw the tape. It had Sharky’s name on it.’

‘And what about this Sharky?’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t do something on him. He’s the narcotics cop who shot the pusher on the bus the other night.’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Kershman remembered seeing the headline, but he had not paid much attention to the story.

‘He was transferred into the Vice Squad because of it,’ Anderson said. ‘Now keep that under your derby, okay? It hasn’t been released publicly.’

‘1 won’t say a word,’ Kershman said.