Sharky's Machine

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Enormous arc spotlights swept back and forth in front of Mirror Towers, their beams reaching up into a clear, star-filled sky. Live TV cameras rested on tripods beside a red carpet that stretched from the kerb in front of the building to the blazing entrance to Pachinko!

Celebrities had started arriving at six for a private cocktail party in DeLaroza’s penthouse. The regular guests had begun arriving even earlier and now they began filing into the four elevators for the trip to the magic gates of the amusement atrium.

Newsmen crowded around Donald Hotchins as he got out of the black limousine. His wife, Elena, remained in the back seat as usual, waiting for the furore to die down. She hated the public spectacle, hated the press, hated everything about politics.

Hotchins seemed the perfect politico, his longish blond hair flopping casually over his forehead, his broad smile radiating sincerity. He seemed even taller and more handsome than usual in the elegance of a tuxedo.

As he got out of the car into a volley of popping flashbulbs and a phalanx of microphones, all thrust in his face, DeLaroza moved through the crowd of reporters to shake his hand.

‘Is it true, Senator, that you’re going to make an announcement later this evening?’ one of them asked.

‘Well, why don’t we wait for a little while and see? Hotchins said, still grinning. ‘By the way this is Victor DeLaroza. You ought to get to know him. You’ll be seeing a lot of him in the future.’

‘So you are going to be making a statement then?’ someone else asked.

‘Wait another hour or so,’ Hotchins said good-naturedly. ‘I’ve never missed a deadline yet.’

The press contingent laughed and moved back as the senator helped his wife from the sedan. She smiled coolly at DeLaroza, who nodded back, and then led the Hotchinses along the red carpet towards Pachinko!

She appeared older than Hotchins, a stunning woman, tall and straight, although somewhat stem-looking and formal. She had silver-grey hair and the kind of features the magazines sometimes call handsome. She was wearing a glittering white gown and a full-length lynx coat.

As they approached the entrance Hotchins saw through the crowd a woman standing near the doorway, her face inscrutable behind a waxen full-face mask with high, bright-red cheekbones and a thin slash of mouth. She was wearing a gold full-length mandarin dress with a blazing red sun in the midsection and her eyes seemed to follow hun through the slanted cutouts in the mask. He looked back as he entered the building. There was something disquieting about her.

‘So that’s the pair,’ Sharky said, as the Hotchins party boarded one of the bullet-shaped elevators to be whisked up to DeLaroza’s penthouse.

‘He looked back at me,’ Domino said, her voice muffled by the mask. ‘I was afraid for a minute he might have recognized me.’

‘Maybe the gown attracted him,’ Sharky said. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

‘It came from Hong Kong,’ she said.

‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’ They entered the lobby and mingled with the crowd waiting for the elevators to Pachinko! They were a strange couple, Sharky in his tweed suit and black eye mask, Domino in the shimmering gold gown, with the eerie waxen disguise covering her entire face.

‘You sure you want to go through with this?’ Sharky asked.

‘Too late to stop now,’ she said. ‘Besides, I have a little getting even to do myself.’

The elevator opened at the top of Ladder Street and Sharky and Domino stepped out into a carnival of sight and sound.

Several hundred visitors had already arrived and the enormous atrium was crowded. Jugglers roved the steps of Ladder Street, tossing fire sticks back and forth. Music seemed to swell from every doorway. Travelling hucksters offered postcards and trinkets. The smell of barbecuing chicken and ribs drifted up from the food stalls.

‘Look for Papa. He should be close to the top of the steps,’ Sharky said.

The place made him nervous. Too big. Too many people. It was more dangerous than he had imagined.

Papa was standing in front of the first food stall, nibbling a rib. He was not wearing a mask.

‘Have any trouble getting in?’ Sharky asked him.

‘Naw. I could crash a kindergarten party and get away with it.’

‘Where’s your mask?’

‘There’s some things even I won’t do for the department.’

‘The place is bigger than I thought,’ Sharky said.

‘Worry you?’

‘A little.’

‘Not me. Easier to keep an eye on her. Harder for them to spot you.’

‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘You feeling okay?’ Papa asked.

‘I’m fine.’ Only Domino knew that they had stopped at Grady Hospital on the way to the opening, where Twigs had given Sharky a shot of speed. ‘You gonna become a junkie now that you’re off the Narcs?’ Twigs asked him. ‘I just want to stay awake tonight,’ Sharky had answered. The stuff was good. He felt strong and alert and his maimed finger was just a dull ache at the end of his arm.

‘You got everything down pat?’ he asked Domino.

‘Sure,’ she said.

‘Remember, if I tell you to do anything, do it. Don’t ask questions, I may not have time to explain.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said and threw a mock salute.

‘And knock that shit off too, pardon my French, ladies.’

‘I think Friscoe’s cute,’ she said.

‘He’s as peaceful as a split lip,’ Papa said.

‘We’ll go to the bottom of Ladder Street, check out the radio mikes. Could be a lot of interference in here. Put your hearing aid in your ear.’

‘It’s uncomfortable,’ Papa said.

‘Put it in anyway. Let’s. be ready when they get down here.’

Friscoe and Arch were outside, standing apart from the crowd in a doorway to keep out of the wind gusting from the plaza. Sharky’s voice came over the walkie-talkie loud and clear.

‘This is Vulture One to Vulture Two. You read?

‘This is Vulture Two,’ Papa answered. ‘Loud and clear.’

‘Vulture One to Nest. We coming in okay?’

‘You’re coming in clear,’ Friscoe answered. ‘What’s it look like up there?’

‘Bigger than the Astrodome,’ Sharky answered. ‘The place is unbelievable.’

‘Well, enjoy. It’s colder than.. uh, it’s very cold down here.’

‘Okay, let’s stay loose. They ought to be here any minute.’

In the crowded penthouse Hotchins eased DeLaroza out on the balcony.

‘What about Domino?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. I have not heard from Kershman all day. But then, it has been quite a day, eh? Besides, this Sharky was proving more stubborn than we planned.’

‘I’m worried. If she’s in police custody they probably know everything by now.’

DeLaroza smiled confidently. ‘Do not fall apart now. What does she know? Nothing. Relax. Enjoy yourself Within an hour we will have disposed of another problem — and given the police their killer at the same time.’

‘I hope there are no more mistakes,’ Hotchins said.

‘I don’t make mistakes,’ DeLaroza said vehemently. ‘I correct them.’

‘I hope you do,’ Hotchins said, and went back to the party.

DeLaroza walked along the balcony to his bedroom and took the private elevator down to his office. Chiang was waiting for him.

‘You know how to accomplish this?’

Chiang nodded.

‘Remember. He is fast and deadly. Forget his age. He hears like a rabbit and strikes like an asp. When you move, do it quickly. You will not have a second chance.’

Chiang nodded again.

‘Do not move the body until everyone has left. It would be dangerous with all these people about.’

‘Hai.’

‘Joy shan.’

‘Dor-jeh.’

He moved silently out of the room. DeLaroza returned to the party and began herding the guests towards the door.

‘All right,’ he said. It is time for Pachinko!’

In the guest suite Scardi was painstakingly painting a clown face over his own features. He had been cooped up too long, first on the junk, then in this fancy prison cell. He had to get out, hear people, feel like part of the human race again. This would be perfect. He was wearing an outrageous clown Suit, red-and-white striped with large red wool buttons. With his face painted no one could possibly recognize him and so he felt safe going to the opening.

He had finished applying the white chalk base and the blue mouth and was painting large, round eyes when the door chimed.

It startled him. He slid open the top dresser drawer and eased out the .22 Woodsman. He held it down at his side as he went to the front door and peered through the viewer.

That damned Chink.

The Chinese was holding a silver tray with a bottle of red wine, a glass, a corkscrew, and a note. He opened the door. The note was addressed to Howard and he took it to the bedroom to read it, keeping an eye on Chiang in the dresser mirror as he did.

The note said:

Have a pleasant evening. The wine is on me.

Victor.

Damned white of him. He returned to his task, leaning over the dresser, close to the mirror, as he completed his makeup. He kept watching the Chinese.

Chiang was twisting the corkscrew into the bottle of wine and as he popped the cork out, the bottle slipped from his grasp. He snatched it up quickly, but several ounces gurgled from the neck, splashing down over the carpet.

‘Shit! You clumsy fuckin’ slant-eye!’ Scardi snapped. Chiang entered the bedroom, bowing in apology and pointing towards the bathroom.

‘Keep away from me,’ Scardi snarled. He stood near the dresser, his hand beside the .22, as Chiang pointed towards the bathroom and rubbed his hands together.

‘You wanna towel, you ignorant gook? Go ahead. I ain’t cleaning up your mess for you.’

Chiang went into the bathroom, took a towel, and held it under the cold water and then began to wring it out. As he squeezed out the water he reached up into his sleeve with two fingers and drew out a thin steel tube about five inches long. It was no thicker than a pencil. He pressed a button in its base and a pointed shaft that looked like a short icepick shot from the handle. He held it under the towel and started back.

Scardi was still leaning over the dresser when he heard the faint click from the bathroom. He almost let it pass, but then it ran back through his mind, an instant replay of the sound, and the memory of it rushed back at him from the past.

A switchblade. The fuckin’ Chink had a switchblade!

He grabbed for the Woodsman as Chiang came out of the bathroom, let the wet towel fall to the floor as he entered the bedroom, and took a single swift step towards Scardi. His arm arced from the waist, swept up towards Scardi’s chest, the steel sliver gleaming in his fist. Scardi moved quickly, made a feinting move to the left, and then reversed himself and fell sideways, swinging the .22 up as he did.

The icepick was already committed. It missed its mark by six inches, plunging into Scardi’s side low, just under the ribs, and piercing up deep inside him. The point stopped an inch from Scardi’s heart.

Scardi screamed and jammed the pistol into Chiang’s neck. He fired and the bullet shattered Chiang’s Adam’s apple, ripped through his jugular vein and came out the back of his neck. A geyser of blood burst from the wound.

Chiang staggered backwards, but Scardi pressed after him, twisting the pistol slightly, jamming it back in the wound, and firing again. The second bullet tore up through the back of Chiang’s head and shattered his brain.

Scardi shoved the Chinese servant over backward on the bed, where he fell with his hands stretched out at his sides. Scardi shot him three more times, twice in the face and once in the heart.

The pain was like a hot needle deep inside Scardi’s chest,

He gasped for breath, reached down, felt the handle of the dirk sticking in his side, and pulled it out. He dropped the weapon on the floor and leaned forward, clutching his side, pressing in, trying to squeeze the pain away. He could feel at, feel the burning puncture sapping his strength.

He sat on the edge of the dresser, steadying himself with both hands. He examined the clown suit. He could hardly tell where the instrument had pierced the cloth. He went into the bathroom and unzipped the costume and examined the wound itself, a small, round hole beginning to swell at the edges. A pearl of blood appeared and winked obscenely at him. He carefully folded a washcloth and held it against the hole like a bandage and wrapped a. towel around his waist to keep it in place.

He went back to the dresser. Pain came at him in waves, burning inside him. Sweat had begun to erode his makeup. Red tears etched their way down his chalky cheeks into the corners of his mouth.

The bastard, that filthy bastard, to try this after all these years...

The fury raged inside him again, welling up, giving him new strength. His hate was a passion. For thirty years he had listened to DeLaroza bragging, flaunting their combined wealth, taking credit. For what? For what? The whole scheme had been his idea, not DeLaroza’s. Scardi had invented La Volte. Scardi had gone in, done the legwork, taken the chances in the beginning. Scardi had set up the dummy hit at the lake, put the fix on Corrigon, arranged to transport the gold across the Alps into Switzerland.

It wasn’t for me, he’d be nothin’. A fuckin’ bank clerk in Ohio someplace. Shit, he didn’t even know he was a fuckin’ thief until 1 saw it in him. A baby blue goddamn captain with no future.

He slipped the clip out of the .22 and replaced it with a fresh one. There were two more in the drawer and he put them in the pocket of the clown suit.

Got to stay up, he said to himself. Got to stay on my feet long enough to find that fat bastard. Try top the cross on me. Shit. Shit! I made him. Me, Scardi.

‘I made you, you fat gutless sonofabitch. . .‘ he screamed aloud.

He opened the small box on the dresser. Three red devils left. He popped two in his mouth and swallowed them without water.

An instant later they jolted him, setting all his nerves on edge, intensifying the pain in his chest beyond bearing. He put the back of his hand over his mouth and screamed again.

Then it was gone, replaced by the soaring rush of the speed. It cleared his vision, replaced the pain with a pure and driving hate. He snapped the silencer on the ugly snout of the Woodsman and slipped it inside the clown suit. Then he took his invitation and headed for Pachinko!