“Well,” Friscoe said, “that depends. On the one hand, we may come out with the roses. On the other hand, we may come out with our foot in a bucket of shit, pardon the French, ladies.”
“Somebody catch me up,” Sharky said. He was still feeling weak, like someone who has slept too long.
“Okay, I’ll do the honors,” Friscoe said. “First, see, we know we can pin Scardi to the Tiffany killing if we can collar him. Also The Nosh. Although we ain’t found him yet, I think we can peg that one on him too because of the m.o. By the way, I scored a few baskets myself last night. That fag movie actor was makin’ the bets at the Matador Club? Nailed his ass, too. Had him under the lights all fuckin’ night, pardon the French, ladies, and about nine this morning he starts singin’ like Frank Sinatra. What it was, see, he was puttin’ down bets for this guy Kershman who works for DeLaroza. A big shot. So we get our hands on this Kershman, we may be able to tie the can to DeLaroza’s tail. Incidentally, there’s another tie-in. The car you pinched to come back here with is registered to this Kershman.”
“You got a description?” Sharky said. “What’s he look like?”
Friscoe took out his notebook and flipped through several pages. “Here we go. Five-seven, two-ten, getting bald, slobby-lookin’ guy, according to this actor. The actor, Donegan, he does the gay joints, picks up fresh meat, and delivers it to this Kershman’s door, for which he gets paid more than you and me together. How do you like them apples?”
“I think we may have a little trouble as far as this Kershman’s concerned,” Sharky said. “If it’s who I think it is, he’s at the bottom of the lake with a hole in his head.”
“He was one of them?” Livingston asked.
“A guy who fits that description was running the show. A real pig.”
“Neat,” Friscoe said. “See, the problem is, right now we ain’t got diddly shit to tie this DeLaroza to anybody. Everything we got, okay? is circumstantial. We know he knew this guy and that guy and he was here and he was there and he owned this and that and the other things. But nothing we can hang our hat on. Unless we grab Scardi, see, and he sings, DeLaroza’s walkin’ free from where I’m sittin’. He’s, like, once removed from everything that came down.”
“Who owns the junk?”
“DeLaroza’s corporation. But he can always lay the whole thing off on Kershman. We need corroboration somewhere in here.”
“Who did you tell about me?” Sharky asked Domino.
For a long moment they stared at each other. Domino felt his eyes burning into her soul.
“Donald Hotchins.”
Sharky whistled. “So he’s in it, too. And he’s running for president?”
“Yeah,” Friscoe cut in, “but also, shit, pardon the French, ladies, see, that’s another thing, it’s like a goddamn Chinese wastepaper basket. Domino was with Hotchins the night Tiffany got snuffed. Obviously he didn’t know what was comin’ down at that point. He must’ve got into it, see, after he got back.”
“You were Hotchins’s mistress?” Sharky said to Domino.
“Kind of.”
“Neat company you keep.”
“The pits,” she said.
“Has anybody figured out why they were after you?” Sharky asked her.
Livingston said, “We got a couple of ideas. The way we put it together to here, Corrigon must’ve got on to DeLaroza some way. How, we don’t know. Domino thinks the hit may have happened in front of DeLaroza’s building and she saw Scardi putting Corrigon’s stiff in a car. It was Halloween night, so the time jibes.”
“I think it was more than that,” Domino said. “I think they were afraid of me because of my association with both of them.”
“So, where do we stand?” Sharky said.
“Where we stand, we ain’t got nothin’ on DeLaroza. We can put Scardi under if we can collar him. Hotchins? So far all he did was blow the whistle on you and fuck around a little. Sorry about that, little lady, but you know what I mean there. Anyways, we can’t get to DeLaroza right now and if we turn this case over to that retard Hanson, he’ll shit purple apples. The case’ll flush and DeLaroza and Hotchins’ll walk. We got to tie these three bastards together and make it stick.”
“We got a plan,” Livingston said. “Actually it was Domino who came up with it. DeLaroza has this amusement place inside his building. From what we hear it must be something. It’s been on the TV news all day today. Tonight’s the grand opening, a costume thing, see, with the big shots goin’ formal. Now, supposing Domino shows up there. She has an invitation, so getting in is no problem. And maybe when they see her, they’ll make a move against her.”
“This was your idea?” Sharky said.
Domino nodded.
“It’s too risky.”
“That’s what we all said.”
“Thing is,” Friscoe said, “if Kershman is out of it like you say—that leaves us in the shit pile with no fly-swatter. And if they get smart and get rid of Scardi, we can’t stick them for even runnin’ a stop sign. The best we can do, we go to Jaspers, lay it all out for him, give it to the Feds, and hope to hell they can make something out of it.”
“No way!” Sharky snapped.
“So, her idea’s the best thing we got goin’ there, Shark,” Friscoe said. “After tonight our string’s run out. We’re on borrowed time right now. Anybody tumbles to that junk, Abrams’s body turns up, school’s out.”
“So what are we gonna do,” Sharky said, “just stand around and hope they make a move?”
“We freak them,” Livingston said.
“How?”
“I’ll let them see me, then duck back in the crowd,” Domino said. “If I do it often enough, they’ll have to do something. I’ll be in costume and you’ll be in your Sunday suit with a little mask on. It’ll be kind of fun.”
“Fun! These people don’t play for fun.”
“Right,” Friscoe said. “And judging from some of their moves the last few days, they ain’t afraid to take big chances. Sharky, you stick to her like Elmer’s glue. We’ll have you wired, and Arch and I will be in the lobby if anything breaks loose. Papa’s gonna try crashing the gate so he can back you up. Anything happens, we’ll be in there like the fuckin’ Marines.”
“I don’t know …” Sharky said.
“Well, let’s make up our minds, troops, because we got about two hours to show time. After that, it’s give it to Jaspers and collect unemployment.”
29
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 curb 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 furor 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 toward Pachinko!
She appeared older than Hotchins, a stunning woman, tall and straight, although somewhat stern-looking and formal. She had silver-gray 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 seem to follow him 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. Traveling 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 toward 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.
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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 toward the bathroom.
“Keep away from me,” Scardi snarled. He stood near the dresser, his hand beside the .22, as Chiang pointed toward 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 cold 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 on 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 toward Scardi. His arm arced from the waist, swept up toward 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.