Sharky's Machine

Chapter Twenty-.One

DeLaroza was in a black mood and it got worse as he sat under the subdued lights in his office listening to Kershman’s succinct yet detailed report on what appeared to be several unrelated events at the police station. But the more Kershman talked the more the worms nibbled at DeLaroza’s insides.. Bits and pieces came at him. And as Kershman continued, the pieces seemed to start fitting together. The rambling report was beginning to make an uneasy kind of sense to him. A single thread seemed now to be weaving through the information.

A sheet of paper lay on the desk in front of him, covered with doodles, with names and words. As soon as Kershman finished. DeLaroza dismissed him and then sat and stared at the sheet, at the Freudian shorthand dictated by his subconscious.

Who were these two, Sharky and Abrams, and what were they up to? The questions hammered at his brain. He began circling words and phrases on the sheet.

Sharky.

Abrams.

Truck driver.

Nebraska.

Orgy.

Chinese orgy.

Wiretap expert.

Fingerprints.

He made a new list, arranging the words in what he felt was a chronological order. Sharky and Abrams. Wiretap expert. Orgy, Chinese orgy. Fingerprints, truck driver, Nebraska. And be added another: post mortem. And then ahead of the words ‘truck driver’ he added another word. ‘Dead.’

Finally at the bottom of his new list he added still another word, ‘Corrigon,’ for that had been the first upsetting news. He had hoped that Corrigon’s corpse would elude the police until after Burns was gone. It was an unfortunate stroke, but one which he did not consider serious. There was no way they could possibly connect all this to Corrigon, he thought. He scratched the name off.

The rest of it was serious. He tried to shrug off the feeling of danger that had turned the worms in his stomach to writhing snakes. The dead ‘truck driver’ from Nebraska had to be Burns, there was no question in his mind now that they knew it. Could Burns have made such an amateurish mistake as to leave fingerprints on the scene? And what about this wiretap of the Chinese orgy? He could not erase the memory of Domino that last night from his mind. Was it possible that this Abrams had bugged Domino’s apartment before she was killed?

He threw the pencil down. No, these were not unrelated bits and pieces. These two, Abranis and Sharky, were on to something.

His panic slowly turned to rage and then to quiet deliberation. Too many dreams were about to come true for him. Hotchins. Pachinko! His own final release from the self- imposed prison in which he had lived for thirty years. He had outwitted governments, the army, the FBI, the CIA, some of the keenest police minds in the world, and now, at this moment, he was threatened by two simple cops. Two cops? Ridiculous!

He sat that way for perhaps half an hour, almost transfixed as he stared at the doodles. A plan was formulating in his mind. It was daring and dangerous but it would work. He considered alternatives and mentally disposed of each one. The more he considered it, the more perfect the plan became. Finally he began to smile. He reached under the desk and pressed a button. A moment later Chiang loomed in the doorway of the office, his scar accentuated by the soft overhead lights, his sightless eye gleaming like a shining coin in the shadows that masked part of his face.

‘Get the car,’ he said. ‘We must go to the country airport and meet Hotchins.’

Chiang nodded and was gone. Ten minutes later DeLaroza climbed into the back seat of the Rolls and they pulled out of the indoor parking lot under the building. DeLaroza lowered the window between the front and back seats and spoke in Chinese to Chiang.

‘there is something that must be done,’ he said. ‘It must be done quickly but with great caution. The doctor will help you make the arrangements. The foreign devil, Burns, who was on the junk, has become a danger to me. He is insane. He makes threats. And be also makes mistakes. Also there are two policemen who threaten me.’

Chiang listened quietly. He asked no questions as DeLaroza outlined his plan. Nothing changed in Chiang’s face, not a muscle. It was as if DeLaroza were telling him the time. When he finished, Chiang nodded again.

‘Remember,’ DeLaroza said, ‘use the shotgun. It must appear like the work of the Gwai-lo. When that is done, then we must deal with Burns. Do not underestimate this man. He is sixty years old, but he is still very quick. He will kill without thinking; it is his nature. He trusts nobody and he is very suspicious. That part of it must be done with great skill.’

Chiang nodded. The silent Oriental was thinking about Burns, the Gwai-lo who killed without honour. The barest hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth.

DeLaroza settled back. He felt relieved. In his mind, the problem was resolved. Now he faced a bigger one. In fifteen minutes he would pick up Hotchins and tell him that Domino was dead. How he would do that already consumed his thoughts.