Sharky's Machine

  She stopped several feet in front of his desk, stared down at him, turned slightly, raised her chin, and arched her back and glared at him over her shoulder.

  Incredible, he thought.

  She had high cheekbones and a full, almost arrogant mouth. Her thick black hair was bobbed at shoulder length and had been tousled just enough by the wind. Her neck was long and slender and the hollow place in her throat, between her collarbones, was as soft and delicate as the petal of a flower. She was slender, long-legged, narrow-waisted, and her breasts were as firm and as perfect as an artist’s sculptured fantasy.

  She wore a Halston dress, its simple, straight lines flattering every curve, every line, its muted rose-gray accentuating the shades of coloring in her skin, her hair, and her eyes. She was young. Haughty. Superior. Elegant. Untouchable. And totally desirable.

  “Well?” she said and raised an eyebrow.

  He leaned back in his chair and, with a flourish of his hands, said, “Você é bela.”

  She raised the other eyebrow and half closed her eyes. “Muito obrigada.”

  “Pardon me,” he said. “Of course, you are fantastic. muito prazer em revê-la.”

  She looked perplexed and shook her head. “Now you lost me. You know how limited my Portuguese is.”

  “It means simply, ‘I am glad to see you,’” he said.

  “That’s all, hunh? Just glad to see you?” She struck another pose. She unbuttoned the top button of the dress. Then the second. The dress opened slightly. He watched her breathe. She was superb. He had known women in every country, of every race, he had known legendary beauties, the whores of the world, and had once lived for a short time in a very famous house in Bangkok where he had made love to two, sometimes three women at a time. None of them could match her beauty, her intelligence, or her incredible talents.

  He laughed out loud.

  “Is something funny?”

  “Just a thought,” he said.

  “I’ll give you ten dollars for it.”

  He laughed harder. “What extravagance! It is not worth more than a penny.”

  She reached into her purse, took out a penny, and tossed it into his lap.

  “There.”

  “All right. I was thinking, I have worked hard all my life; I have built corporations on every continent. I have made millions and millions of dollars, created cartels. I have done all this and I was thinking, I could have become just as rich running a whorehouse with you in Hong Kong.”

  She threw her head back and laughed until small tears appeared at the corners of her eyes. She walked close to him, her perfume flirting with his nose. He wanted to reach out, to touch her, but he did not rush things. She touched his cheek.

  “Victor, you are the most fascinating man I have ever met,” she said warmly.

  “And the most generous?” he asked.

  “Well,” she said, “there was this gentleman from Kuwait …”

  Victor DeLaroza scowled.

  “He was extremely grateful …”

  The scowl deepened. “Oh?”

  “But not nearly as much fun as you are.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Did he ever take you to Paris for the weekend? Shopping?”

  “No, he never did that.”

  “And did he ever arrange for the most famous couturiers in the world to open their salons especially for you?”

  “No, he never did that either.”

  “Did he ever take you sailing on a Chinese junk?”

  She was laughing again. She shook her head. “Unh unh.”

  DeLaroza leaned back and grinned. “You see, gratitude has its limitations.”

  “My gratitude to you has none,” she said and reaching down, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, slipped her hands inside, and caressed his chest, her fingers pinching his nipples. He closed his eyes, reached out to run his fingers along her satin-sheathed thigh, but it was gone. She had already moved away, as elusive as a dragonfly. She crossed to the windows and looked back at him.

  “And now you make toys,” she said.

  “You always say the word toys with a very patronizing attitude,” DeLaroza said. “I do not just make toys. I create masterpieces. Do you know I once made a tiny Rolls Royce, it was a foot long, a perfect replica. The wheels moved, the pistons worked, the engine worked, even the radio worked. It was exact to the most infinitesimal detail. The gentleman I made it for sat on the floor in this office and clapped his hands together like a child when he came to get it. It cost twelve thousand dollars, a fourth of what the real thing costs. He paid for it in cash.”

  She shrugged. “Big deal,” she said.

  He mimicked her. “Big deal. That is all you have to say, ‘Big deal’? It was a very big deal to him. And to me. Besides, everyone loves a toymaker. It carries with it a unique kind of respect. Who can fault a man who spends his life making children happy?”

  The question hung in the air. Domino did not hear it. She was looking at the ground, twenty stories below, at two boys rough-housing in the plaza, their arms wrapped around each other as they battled back and forth. She shuddered again.

  “Is something wrong?” DeLaroza asked.

  “It’s nothing. I just remembered something. It’s really quite silly.”

  “It could not be that silly, to have such an effect on you.”

  “You remember the last time I was here? Halloween night?”

  A small fear crept into his chest.

  “Of course. I never forget one of your visits.”

  “As I was leaving, these two men were on the other side of the plaza. I saw them from inside the building. One was very drunk. He was so … so limp … and the other one was trying to get him in the car …”

  DeLaroza was no longer listening. The fear grew and crept deeper into his chest. He pressed his knuckles together until they were white. Good God, he thought, did she see something? Was this the beginning of blackmail? His eyes narrowed for just a moment. Old paranoias swept over him, rising up again from the past, nightmare creatures nibbling at his heart. He suddenly felt cold and alone.

  “… Guess I just felt sorry for him. I had a feeling I had seen him before. He was wearing this old leather jacket, way out of style.”

  “Did you tell anyone about this?” DeLaroza asked casually.

  “What’s there to tell? That I saw a drunk being shoved into a car?”

  “Then why does it bother you so?”

  “I wish I knew. It’s like … like some kind of instinct. I can’t put my finger on it. Am I being silly? Do you think I’m silly?”

  “I think,” said DeLaroza, “that you are far from silly.” He shrugged off the feeling. This was not the time to deal with it. “Look at you,” he said, “when you came in here you were, uh—how do you say it?—acima … high. Up. Now you seem so sad.”

  She turned back to him and smiled again. “It’s all gone. And you’re right, I am up. What did you call it?”

  “Acima.”

  “Acima. That’s me.”

  “And why? Do you have some special new trick for me?”

  “No. It’s something more selfish.”

  “So? Everyone has the right to be selfish at times. What is it?”

  “I knew you’d understand. You particularly would understand.”

  “Hmm. What is this all about?”

  She came back across the room and sat on the corner of his desk.

  “Victor … I think I’ve fallen in love.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then said, “Think?”

  “I didn’t plan on it. It just sneaked up on me. It surprises me. But then, of course, I adore surprises.”

  “And you have not been in love before?”

  “Oh, many times,” she said and laughed. “But not recently.”

  “Then I am happy for you. And who is the lucky gentleman. It is a man?”

  “Oh, yes, a very special man.”

&
nbsp; “Aha, and do I know him?”

  “Of course.”

  DeLaroza took out a large Havana cigar and started to peel away the cellophane. He needed time to sort out his thoughts. He found her news upsetting. She took the cigar away from him, snipped off the end and lit it, twirling it between her fingers so it burned evenly. Then she handed it back to him.

  “Obrigado,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He took a deep drag and blew the smoke out slowly. His face had grown sad.

  “Have I upset you?” she asked.

  “No. I am concerned, not upset. You know, of course, that he is going to make his announcement Monday night at the opening of Pachinko!”

  “Yes.”

  “To continue this love affair at this time could be very risky.”

  “Love affair?” she said. The words hung in the air as though she were listening to them in instant replay. She frowned.

  “Well,” he said, “call it what you wish. Infatuation?”

  “Trite. Trite words and trite phrases.” She was scowling at him.

  DeLaroza chuckled. “Far be it for me to accuse you of being trite, my dear,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It is just that I know both of you so well,” DeLaroza said. “I’ve known Donald for sixteen years and you … for two….”

  “Almost three.”

  “Yes, almost three.”

  His gaze moved past her, settling on the foliage outside his office. Three years. At their first meeting he had acted on what he thought at the time was an impulse. A very lucky one, he had come to realize, although totally out of character for him. The first time he had ever seen Domino she was standing in a fleamarket in Buckhead, staring intently at an antique Morris chair. A stunning woman, though her clothes were not quite right, her hair a little too long, and yet … And yet.

  He had ordered Chiang to turn the Rolls around and go back. He had found her, still contemplating the chair.

  “The chair is overpriced,” he had told her. “You should be able to purchase it for half what they are asking.”

  She smiled at him. “I’m not very good at that kind of thing,” she had told him.

  “Then I shall act as your agent in the matter.”

  Her education had begun that day. Now even he had to marvel at what Domino had become. And now, too, in retrospect, he understood that meeting her that day had not been mere impulse. Domino had fit his plans perfectly.

  “Hello,” she said.

  DeLaroza looked back at her. “Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking about the fleamarket.”

  She laughed. “I still owe you twelve dollars for the Morris chair,” she said.

  “I consider that one of my better investments.”

  “You were saying?”

  “Uh … what was I saying?” He was slightly embarrassed that he had forgotten his point.

  “You were saying that you know both of us very well.”

  “Oh, yes. Perhaps love was too strong a word. There is a need there, for both of you.”

  “Of course. I guess it really isn’t fair to say we don’t love each other. I love Donald. And I love you.”

  “You love power, my dear. It is your passion.”

  “Maybe I’m just turned off by the lack of it.”

  “My point is, after Monday night you will become a luxury Donald can no longer afford.”

  A half-smile played briefly over her face.

  “You know I’m really surprised that you’re sharing the spotlight of your beloved Pachinko!—even with the next president of the United States.”

  DeLaroza looked away from her. She was quite astute. Pachinko! was DeLaroza’s grandest achievement, an amusement park like no other in the world. It had taken years to conceive and build it. But Donald Hotchins’s announcement at the opening of the park was part of his plan. Even Domino was part of it. DeLaroza did nothing without a plan. He finally waved a hand in the air.

  “It will be a delicate situation,” he said. “I hope you can handle it. I admit if anyone can, you can. But the Chinese have a saying: The peacock should not strut when the tiger is about. There will be many tigers about, waiting for him to make a mistake so they can devour him. It could destroy him.”

  “Then I’ll have to be very clever.”

  “You can be that.”

  “I’m sorry. Am I hurting you? I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Of course not. I know you would never hurt anyone knowingly. It is just that I seem to have—how do you say it?—bit off my nose?”

  “Cut off my nose to spite my face. It’s a stupid saying.”

  “Yes, but true. I will not see you again, will I? That is what you are really saying to me, is it not?”

  “Of course I’ll see you. We’ll all be good friends.”

  “Not business acquaintances.”

  The remark stunned her, as if he had slapped her. “Is that what it’s been to you?” she said. “I hoped it was more than just business. You’re very special to me. Don’t you know that?”

  He watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling, swirling in and out of the pools of light from the recessed lamps. “Yes,” he said finally, “I do.” She reached out and touched his hand with her fingertips. “You are quite something,” he said. “You have what we call in Brazil beleza inexplícada. A quality that cannot be described.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Does he know about you? All about you?”

  “No. Is that really necessary?”

  He shook his head. “But if he should find out?”

  “Someday I’ll explain it all to him.”

  “No, no, you will not, my love. It is a thing you will never be able to do. But that is your problem.” Then: “So this meeting was all for talk, eh? Conversation. I will be disappointed this last time.”

  She moved closer to him, so close he could feel her warmth. She leaned over him and her breasts touched his chest. She brushed her lips across his eyelids. It made him tremble.

  “No,” she said. “You’re very special to me. You’ve been very good to me and I know what makes you happy, Victor. I want our last private meeting together to make you happier than you’ve ever been before. A very special night. Tonight you will come to my apartment at eight o’clock and I’ll give you your farewell present, mui bita?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I understand.” He sighed, staring at her open blouse, at the tinted edge of her nipples, feeling her perfume hypnotizing his senses. Her fingers moved lightly across his neck and drew his head to her, his cheek against her breast.

  “And why are we waiting until tonight?” he asked, his voice trembling.

  “Because,” she said, and her voice was a husky, inviting, ageless whisper, “I want you to think about it. All day long. It will be much sweeter that way.”

  He closed his eyes, turning his head so her dress fell away from her breast, and he was tasting the tartness of her hardened nipple.

  “You are a masterpiece,” he whispered. “On Ipanema, you would steal the beach away from the sea.”

  “You should have been a poet, Victor,” she said softly.

  “You are a poet, my dear.” But even at that moment the old fear crawled back inside him again and the horror of what had to be done was like an angry voice hissing in his ear. And he could not ignore it.

  4

  The Vice Squad was located deep in the bowels of the main station house, a windowless, airless, cramped, messy space hardly big enough to accommodate the sixteen men who called it home. It was a forgotten hole, away from normal traffic, a place nobody had to pass or see or contend with. Prison-gray pipes rattled overhead. The place was too hot in the winter and frigid in the summer.

  Barney Friscoe sat in a closet of an office, a short, chunky lieutenant with eternal five o’clock shadow and thinning brown hair, dressed in chinos, Adidas, a Wings Over America tee-shirt, and a yellow windbreaker. His cluttered desk looked like a combat zone.
As Sharky entered the cubbyhole, he stood up, peering over the reading glasses that were perched halfway down his nose and smiling in a row of crooked, off-color teeth. He offered Sharky a hairy paw.

  “Welcome to Friscoe’s Inferno,” he said. “You’re Sharky, right? One o’clock, right on time. I hardly recognize you without all that hair on your face. Grab a chair there, throw that shit on the floor. You had lunch?”

  Sharky shook his head, nodded yes to the question, and moved a pile of debris from one of the two battered chairs in the small room.

  “Jesus,” Sharky said, “what’d you do to deserve this?”

  “Dirtiest digs for the dirtiest squad. Oh, well, nobody gives a shit. We don’t spend any time around here anyhow.” He waved outside the office at the bullpen where half a dozen desks were jammed together in a space hardly big enough for four. On the corner of one was an antiquated coffeemaker. Sugar and powdered milk formed pools around it and a dirty communal spoon lay forgotten nearby.

  There were two men in the outer office. One of them, a hard-looking black man in his forties with a deep scar over his left eye and streaks of gray in his tight-cropped afro, wore a tan corduroy three-piece suit. The vest was open and his tie was pulled down to his collarbone. He stared coldly at Sharky then turned back to a battered Royal typewriter and began pecking out a report with two fingers. The other, an older man built like a refrigerator, was on the phone.

  “That’s Livingston and Papadopolis out there,” Friscoe said. “Livingston’s the one with the tan.”

  “He got something against me?” Sharky asked.

  “Not that I know of,” Friscoe said. “The Bat sent your sheet down. Looks like you got the shit stick handed to you. That was a nice machine you had workin’ there until that dimwit Tully fucked it up for you. He was down here a while. You cut off his head, he wouldn’t be any dumber than he is with it on.”