Sharky's Machine

  DeLaroza popped the amyl nitrite tube and passed it back and forth between them, felt her instant response, the renewed assault on her senses. She was an errant star, lost in space, as it hit again and again and again. The mountain below his testicles swelled and slammed between his legs and he too convulsed and erupted….

  _____________________

  In his post on the roof Sharky heard them, felt the same urgent rush, the same mountain between his legs, the same volcanoes blowing apart, the same fervid explosion in his groin and, crying out, he came.

  _____________________

  DeLaroza lay beside Domino for only a few minutes, then got up, showered, and dressed. When he returned to the room she was still lying on the table, although she had covered herself with a robe. He was anxious to leave. With his orgasm DeLaroza had closed the book on Domino.

  He leaned over the table and she looked at him with smoky eyes, smiling. “Magnificent,” he said. “You exceeded your promise. I shall never forget tonight. When next we meet, it will be as old friends. The past is erased.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly, “for everything. For showing me the world and its treasures. You have been a dear friend. Joy geen.”

  “Goodbye to you,” he said and kissed her, knowing it was the last time he would ever see her. Then he closed the door. In his mind Domino was already dead.

  _____________________

  She lay alone for several minutes before the tears came and then she cried softly to herself, not so much because she would miss him, but because it was an ending and endings always saddened her.

  _____________________

  Sharky did not hear them. He had pulled off the earphones and dropped them beside him on the cot. The last twenty-four hours had burned him out. He had killed a man, been chewed out royally by The Bat, been transferred to Friscoe’s Inferno, assigned to this machine, bugged an apartment, and had not only been attracted to a suspect but joined her vicariously while she made love to another man.

  Great, Sharky. You aren’t even hitting the slow pitches.

  His nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Everything seemed amplified. The buzzing fluorescent tubes overhead, the humming motors, the wind whistling at the crack in the door, all agitated his skin. He scratched his arms and neck.

  I’m cracking up, he thought. Standing in the doorway of the rubber room.

  He remembered the joint he had lifted from the drawer earlier in the day. He put on his jacket and went out into the icy air. Leaning against the wall of the utility room, he lit up and took two deep hits, holding the smoke in his lungs as long as he could before exhaling. The high came quickly, soothing his tattered nerves. He closed his eyes, let the cold wind wipe his face.

  He thought more about Domino, surprised that he felt no ill feeling toward her, that he did not condemn her open sensuality, her need to embrace pleasure, and he understood why. He had the same needs, the same desires, and for the first time in his life he accepted them without guilt.

  He wanted Domino. Period.

  “So what?” he said aloud and then chuckled.

  He appraised the situation. She had done nothing illegal tonight. No money had changed hands. There wasn’t even any talk of money. Hell, there was hardly any talk at all. She had entertained a friend and how she entertained him was her business.

  Unless, of course, the man below was the mark and tonight was part of the set-up. If so, the tapes would prove she knew him. Intimately. They would provide the connection.

  He would have to identify the mark. He could call in Livingston, have him follow the guest when he left her apartment. But that would take time. So he would do it himself.

  He returned to the dim interior of his listening post. The tape recorder to the master bedroom was spinning.

  Jesus, he thought, they’re not going at it again!

  He held one of the phones to his ear. There were two women speaking now.

  He put the earphones on, pressed them to his ears, concentrating on the voices. One was talking, the other was singing. And the shower was going.

  Of course, the television was on. Virginia Gunn, Channel Five, was giving the weather report. The shower stopped. He heard her come into the bedroom, heard the click of a remote unit, and the television went off.

  Silence.

  The recorder stopped.

  The mark was gone. He had left while Sharky was out on the roof.

  “Shit!”

  He went back out on the roof, knowing it was too late. He looked over the parapet, down at the parking lot, but there was no activity. He went to the other side of the roof and stared down into darkness. The wind rattled the treetops below him. Overhead the storm clouds moved silently away and the cold stars mocked him.

  He went back to his solitary room, dropped wearily on the cot, then stretched out, and before he could decide on his next step, Sharky fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  11

  Sharky was still asleep when Papa arrived to relieve him at 7:48 the next morning. He jerked awake when he heard the door open. Reaching under the blanket he had used for a pillow and grabbing his 9 mm automatic, he flipped the blanket off and sat up quickly.

  Papa stopped short, appraised the situation through bored eyes and smiled.

  “Easy there, Roy,” he said, “it’s only Gabby Hayes.”

  Sharky sagged, letting his gun hand drop between his legs.

  “I musta died,” he said.

  “Why not? Tough day,” Papa said.

  “I was jumping outa my skin last night.”

  “Any action?”

  Sharky put his gun under his arm. “Lots of action, very little dialogue. Nothing we’re interested in.”

  “Who was the trick?”

  Sharky looked up at him and an embarrassed grin played on his lips.

  “You’re not gonna believe this,” he said.

  “Fell asleep,” Papa said. “Missed him.”

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  “Done it myself,” Papa said smiling. “Fifteen years. I fucked up every way you can fuck up. Arch, too. Friscoe. Nobody hits a thousand. You got the tapes.”

  “Shit, if there’s twenty words on the goddamn tapes I’ll eat them.”

  “Answer me something, okay, Sharky?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why we staked out? We got the tapes, why not check ’em, you know, every three, four hours, see what’s doin’?”

  “I figure if they go after the mark and somebody’s here, on top of it, we can maybe nail them while it’s happening. We’re four hours late, we could come in on our ass.”

  Papa nodded. “Okay, I buy it. Go home.”

  “Yeah. I feel like I was born in these clothes.”

  Sharky reached down to retrieve the used tapes. Then he noticed that the fresh tapes in the machines to her bedroom and the living room had advanced.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “I slept through something here.”

  He rewound them and listened. The machine to her bedroom had been activated by the television set, The Today Show. She was moving around in the background, opening and closing the closet doors, obviously getting dressed. The tape ended abruptly when she turned off the television. The radio had activated the machine for the living room. Once again he heard her in the background. A disc jockey’s fast patter was interrupted by music and traffic reports. Then:

  “Okay, all you pillow pounders, it’s Doctor Dawn here on Z-93 and it’s a c-o-o-o-old Friday morning out there. Seven twenty-nine and here’s one to get you on your feet. ELP, Emerson, Lake, and Palmer and—”

  The radio cut off. The tape went dead, then cut back on. She was opening the door, leaving the apartment. It closed and the latch clicked. The tape ended.

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Sharky said.

  “Early starter,” Papa said.

  “I don’t believe it. She got out on us.”

  “She’ll be back.”

  ?
??Yeah, but we should be on top of her right now. For all we know, she could be—”

  “Go home. Forget it for a while. See ya at six.”

  “Okay,” Sharky said. He wiped the sleep out of his eyes and stuffed the tapes in his pocket. “There’s some fruit in the bag there, also a book to read.”

  “Got my own,” Papa said, taking a worn copy of The Guinness Book of World Records out of his coat pocket.

  “You read that on stakeout?” Sharky said.

  “Easy to put down, if I gotta move,” Papa said.

  “You got a point there,” Sharky said, walking to the door.

  “Hey, Sharky?” Papa said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Car keys?”

  Sharky tossed them to him. “Maybe at six o’clock I’ll be back with the living,” he said and left.

  He flagged down a passing patrol car and had them drop him off at Moundt’s, thinking she might be doing some early morning shopping. The place was deserted. He had a cup of coffee and called The Nosh.

  “I got some weird tapes for you, pal,” he said.

  “X-rated?” The Nosh asked sleepily.

  “You better believe it.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Moundt’s, on Peachtree. I got to get home, get a shower, and change clothes. I don’t have a car.”

  “Can you give me thirty minutes? I need to walk through the shower myself.”

  “I’ll be here. Listen, on the front end of one of these tapes there may be something I can use, a name maybe. But there’s heavy interference from the record player.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” The Nosh said. “We’ll lift the music out.”

  “Beautiful,” Sharky said. “See you when you get here. Take your time.”

  _____________________

  It was almost dark and the damp, cold wind hinted of more rain. A man walked leisurely past the exit gate from the parking deck of the Lancaster Towers. He was wearing dark glasses and a long blue overcoat, his dark, close-cropped hair hidden under a plain cap, an undistinguished-looking man taking an early evening walk.

  A vintage Buick pulled up to a post near the exit gate and the driver slipped a plastic card in a slot in the post. The exit gate swung open and the Buick pulled out. The gate remained open for twenty seconds and then swung shut. The pedestrian was inside when it closed, standing in the shadows near the wall. He took off the dark glasses, studied the interior of the garage. It was empty. Burns smiled to himself. That was the most dangerous part of it, getting in without being seen.

  He walked briskly to the east tower elevators and pressed the up button, holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, prepared to fake a sneeze if someone was in the elevator. His right hand extended down through the vent in the right-hand pocket of the raincoat. He held a .22 Woodsman, pointing at the floor. The elevator doors opened. It was empty. He stepped in and pushed the button for the twelfth floor. He was lucky. It went straight up without stopping.

  He got out, looking up and down the hallway. Empty. He moved swiftly to 12-C and rang the bell. Nobody answered. He picked the lock, stepped into the apartment, and closed the door quietly behind him. He listened, the ugly silenced snout of the .22 poking between the buttons of his coat. He heard only the sound of his own breathing, nothing else. The apartment was dark and smelled musty. He moved rapidly from room to room, checking closets, even looking under the beds. He relaxed. It was empty. He holstered the .22.

  He felt a sudden urge to relieve himself and swore under his breath. Age and tension conspired against his kidneys. He went to one of the bathrooms and urinated.

  He returned to the living room and took a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket, pulled them on. He pulled an easy chair over to the large picture window facing the west tower. He propped open two slats of the venetian blinds with two wooden matches, making a small peephole about six inches long and two inches high, and leaned forward and peered through it. He had a perfect view of Domino’s apartment, two floors below in the opposite tower.

  He took off the raincoat and spread it out on the floor beside him. The coat had three special pockets sewn in the lining. From one he drew the twin-barreled carriage of a twelve-gauge shotgun, from the other its well-worn stock. He snapped them together, cocked both hammers, slipped his finger inside the trigger guard and barely touched the two triggers. The hammers clicked a fraction of a second apart. He slid the rubber buttplate back and removed two shells from a special pocket. He popped the shotgun open, loaded both barrels and snapped it shut.

  From the third pocket he took a small pair of opera glasses and a device that looked like two long tubes soldered together. He slipped them over the end of the short-barreled shotgun and tightened them in place with a thumbscrew. He laid the shotgun on top of the coat.

  He put the opera glasses on the windowsill and took a small plastic bag from his shirt pocket and laid it beside them. It contained two red pills. He went to the kitchen, got a glass of water, brought it back, and put it beside the pills. The excitement was starting. He scanned Domino’s windows with the opera glasses. It was dark. He smiled. Plenty of time. He put the glasses back on the sill, and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he waited.

  _____________________

  In his post on the roof Sharky too waited. He had returned at 5:30, clean, refreshed, wearing jeans, a turtleneck, a leather jacket, and sneakers.

  “Not back yet,” Papa reported, smacked him on the back and left. He settled down with his book, aware that he was rereading passages several times and concentrating more on the tape recorders than his book. He finally put it aside. He had been thinking about Domino all day. He had been thinking a lot about Domino.

  He could go down there when she came home and lay it all out for her, give her a chance to cooperate in exchange for immunity.

  And she would probably tell him to get stuffed.

  Or blow it out his ass.

  Or maybe tell him she didn’t know shit. And just maybe she didn’t. In which case she could blow the whistle on them to Neil and flush the whole machine.

  The thing was, at that moment, Domino was clean. They had absolutely nothing on her but an association with a man they knew was a shakedown pimp.

  Forget it, Sharky.

  The machine in the bedroom suddenly turned on and he grabbed the earphones. It was the phone ringing. After the third ring her recording machine came on.

  “Hi, this is Domino. I’ll be away from the phone for a little while. Please leave your name, a short message, and your phone number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Wait for the beep tone before you start. Goodbye and have a pleasant day.”

  A second later the beep sounded, followed by:

  “Hi, it’s Pete. Look, I’m running a little late. No problem. I’ll call you back in fifteen, twenty minutes. So long.”

  Pete? A new name for the catalogue. Perhaps the big man from last night. No, he thought. Different voice. Maybe it’s her trick for tonight. In which case, since it’s almost ten to eight, she’s cutting it a little thin.

  The machine in the living room turned on. She was coming in the door. She closed it, turned on the radio, and went into the bedroom. He heard the bed groan under her weight, heard Maria Muldaur’s voice:

  “… ’til the eve-nin’ ends,

  ’til the eve-nin’ ends …

  … Mid-night At The Oasis,

  Send your camel to bed….”

  The phone rang again. She caught it on the second ring. Eager Pete, he thought. But he was wrong.

  “Hello … hello … ?” A pause, then an exasperated, “Hello?” She slammed down the phone. Sharky lay on the cot, waiting for her trick to arrive.

  _____________________

  Burns cradled the phone gently and smiled, the mirthless, ugly grin of anticipation. He shook one of the reds out of the plastic bag and washed it down with water. He put his raincoat on, put the glass back in the kitchen, swung the chair back to its
original position. He sat down with the shotgun between his knees, waiting for the speed to start.

  It surged through his blood and his heart began pounding. His scrotum pulsated. He closed his eyes, taking the ride up, letting the red carry him along until his nerve endings were keening with excitement.

  He was ready, his senses sharpened, his guts buzzing with anticipation.

  He stood up and put his hand through the pocket vent and took the shotgun, aiming it at the floor. He buttoned the coat and started toward the door and stopped.

  Jesus!

  The fuckin’ matches.

  He went back, took the two matchsticks down, and straightened the venetian blinds.

  I’m gettin’ too old for this, he thought. Well, this is the last one. Just don’t get careless now. He hated the thought of giving it up. It was like having his last piece of ass, knowing it was all over. The speed raced along his nerves, like fire burning along a fuse. He shook his shoulders, closed his eyes, and let his head fall back for a moment. He was getting hard and he sighed with ecstasy.

  Oh, yeah. Jesus.

  Was he ready.

  He took the stairs to the third floor, walked across the connecting terrace. The wind rattled the plastic pool cover and he jumped, the shotgun coming up. His eyes burned fiercely, then he relaxed and kept moving. He entered the stairwell of west tower and listened.

  Nobody. Just the wind, moaning through the shaft. He climbed the stairs, thinking about what was coming, reached the tenth floor, and cracked the door. The hall was empty.

  He closed the door and ticked the steps off in his mind. He cocked the shotgun. Unbuttoned the bottom buttons of the raincoat. Double checked the location. Apartment 10-A was between the door and the elevators. On the right.

  Perfect. Twenty, maybe twenty-five feet, no more.

  He took several deep breaths. His pulse battered at his temples.

  Four apartments on the floor. The one across from her, 10-D, was being repainted for a new tenant. No one was home in either of the other apartments at the corners of the hall, he had called both numbers. He was lucky tonight. Tonight was definitely his lucky night.