Sharky's Machine

  “We can’t keep killing.”

  “Hah, that’s my line. One goes, then another, then another. It don’t stop. You take out the pimp, it’ll be somebody else. Whyn’t you leave it alone, keep yourself in the background? You got it made. All the power. All the money. The heavy friends. You’re gonna blow it. You’re gonna get us both killed.”

  “You are getting melodramatic, my friend. That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s experience. Which you ain’t got and that’s what scares me shitless.”

  “You are safe, Howard, believe me.”

  “You listen to me, see, because I been around a long time. I know how this system works. You gotta hit the pimp. Your people, well, okay, I can’t go whackin’ off half the population of China. But the pimp goes. You don’t like it, that’s too bad. I cover my own ass.”

  “You can do it again, this soon?” DeLaroza said and there was a look of shocked disbelief on his face.

  Burns smiled. He poured another glass of wine, plopped in another ice cube. “You think it’s real tough, don’tcha? That’s funny.” He closed his eyes, remembering the way the room looked and her, her head haloed by the lamp, the perfect target. “I forgot how good it was,” he said. DeLaroza’s arms went numb. Burns kept talking. “Up close like that, I was Dominic Scardi again, not some name I don’t even know. You get your balls off thinking about all the people you control, all the money, all that power. Well so do I, baby. I get off too because I got power, right here in this hand, in this fuckin’ finger I got it. I hold the vote. Yes, they live. No, they go down. You think that ain’t power? When you see it in their eyes? You know what, partner? I had to change my underwear when I got back here. That’s right. I shot off in my drawers. I always do. You take a little pill, it makes it even better. Works in two ways. It keeps you on top, see, keyed up, y’know. But it also makes coming that much better.”

  He reached in his pocket for the other red devil. His fingers searched the corners of his pocket. It was gone. But where? He had had them both in the apartment. He tried to think back, remember where he had seen it last.

  “Is something wrong?” DeLaroza asked. “Did something go bad tonight?”

  “Go bad. Did it ever go bad with me?”

  “No, I can honestly say no to that.”

  “You there, you’re a little off your feed. Kinda sends you up when it happens, don’t it?”

  “No.”

  “Who ya shittin’, Victor? You ain’t cut for the real messy stuff. Anyways it’s my thing, right? You make the money, I clean the cat box.”

  DeLaroza turned toward the door. “I guess I better get back downstairs.”

  “Don’tcha wanna hear about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Boom, boom, just like that. The first shot took her straight on. Gorgeous. She saw it a second before she got it. The second one caught her as she was going down. Three feet, four feet—”

  God, I hate him, DeLaroza thought. He was a pariah, a killing machine, enshrouded by death, and the carrion smell of his flesh filled the room.

  “—quick and easy. I don’t torture people there, Vic. It ain’t my style. But the second before I squeezed it off, that’s when it felt best. Waitin’ just for that fraction of a second when they’re between heaven and hell. You think that ain’t power?”

  DeLaroza said, “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Burns’s lip curled back revealing his yellowing teeth. Suddenly there was hate burning in his eyes, too. “Ya know somethin’, Vic old boy? I was thinkin’, on the way back over here with that Chink friend of yours. All these years I been hearin’ about what a hot shit you are. Big brain. You been pullin’ the strings, playin’ the big cheese all over the world. You had me believin’ all that shit, y’know. But if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be nothin’. Just another dumb yokel kissin’ ass someplace to get a five dollar raise. And when your eyes turned white, when you needed somebody pull the ol’ trigger, you hadda come cryin’ to me. When the tit was in the wringer, who did the dirty work? Me. And don’t you forget it.”

  “I never—”

  “Don’t say nothin’, pal. Just put it in your scrapbook. Oh yeah, only one other thing, buddy-boy. There was a cop in the place.”

  “A cop?”

  “Take it easy. Don’t panic. He was on the premises somewhere. I don’t know exactly where. He was on top of me, just like that. I can’t figure it out exactly. The shots, you couldn’t hear twenty feet away. But he come into that stairwell three, four floors above me, like a bat outa hell.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t the security guard?”

  “Maybe, but that ain’t what he said. He said police. ‘Stop, police!’ That’s the words he used. And he wasn’t wearing no uniform. I still can’t figure it out. Anyways he was yellin’ and runnin’, and I kept on rollin’, out on the terrace there. I was reloaded already when the motherfucker came out. He was ten feet from me once. A young guy in a suede jacket carrying some kind of 9 mm piece. All he hadda do was turn around once there, and pow, right in the gut. He was in a hurry though. I walked away from it clean. Nobody saw nothin’, nobody heard nothin’, just this fuckin’ pig.”

  Worms crawled deep in DeLaroza’s gut. Burns was paranoid and it crept over him, suffocating him like a blanket.

  “Pachinko! opens Monday night. Tuesday you go to Vancouver on my JetStar. That night you’re on your way to Yokohama. Do not worry about the pimp. I’ll take care of that.”

  “Did you take care of that bet for me?”

  “Ten thousand on Dallas.”

  “How about the spread?”

  “Seven points.”

  “Good. So, the wine’s beginning to get to me. Don’t catch your asshole on the doorknob, okay?”

  “Yes,” DeLaroza said, and after he had left the apartment he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, breathing like a man who had just run a very long way.

  15

  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, conmen, 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 got a 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 headed 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-colored 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 skeptically, starting at the black tie-up shoes, the rumpled suit, the faded blue shirt, and the outrageous tie 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?”

  “I 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 controlboard 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 toward 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 toward 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 tire. “This Neil, is he in trouble?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Bad trouble?”

  “If he’s in trouble, it’s bad trouble.”

  “You’re a regular encyclopedia 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 sta
rts shaping up Tiffany. In fact, the way I get it, Tiffany’s got another old man on the side and this Domino covers for her all the time. I 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.”

  “Hunh!”

  “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 do 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 business.”

  “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 look like somebody sneezed.”