Sharky's Machine (28 page)

‘I already got it on my list,’ Friscoe said. He dunked the last of a doughnut in his coffee, swished it around, and finished it noisily. ‘Well, kid,’ he said to Sharky, ‘it’s your fuckin’ machine. You call the shots.’

‘Okay, Arch and I’ll see what we can turn up at Fort Mac. Papa, maybe you could try to come at this Shoes from another angle, collar him without blowing the whistle on Cotter. Nosh, you stick with the tapes and see what else you can dig up on this Burns. All of us keep this John Doe in mind, Maybe there’s some talk out on the street about him.’

‘And I’ll take a shot at the local probation officers, see what that turns up,’ Friscoe said. Then he smiled for the first time since entering the Majestic.

‘What the hell,’ he said. ‘We got forty-eight hours left. It ain’t forever, but it ain’t Monday morning yet, either.’

Chapter
Eighteen

It took them thirty minutes to drive out to Fort McPherson, a tidy but sprawling army oasis within the city limits that was headquarters for the Third Army. Sergeant Jerome Weinstock was waiting for them in front of the spotless headquarters building, a tall, florid man in starched khaki whose appearance had changed from the cherubic innocence Sharky remembered to an authoritative scowl. He had put on twenty pounds and lost a lot of hair in the eight years since Sharky had served with him in Army Intelligence.

‘You like playing cops and robbers, Sharky?’ Weinstock asked as he led the way into the headquarters building and down a long, stark hallway to the military intelligence offices.

‘It has its moments,’ Sharky said. ‘What’s with the scowl, Jerry? I remember you as sweet, smiling Jerry Weinstock, the pride of Jersey City.’

‘I made top kick,’ Weinstock growled. ‘It’s part of the act. Only time I smile anymore is when I’m alone in the latrine.’ He looked at Sharky and winked, then said, ‘So what’s your problem? I don’t see you for eight years and then you call me in a panic at the crack of dawn on a Saturday.’

Sharky handed him a lift of the two fingerprints. ‘I need to match these prints to a face. They’d be inactive, probably dating back to World War Two.’

‘You’re playing a hunch, aren’t you, Sharky? That’s what it is. Shit, you haven’t changed a damn bit. And it can’t wait till Monday, hunh? Got to be right now, before the bugler’s even got his sock’s on.’

‘By Monday I’m dead.’

‘Always the same story. Eager beaver.’ Weinstock looked at Livingston. ‘This one’ll drive you apeshit. He never stops, he’s either coming or going all the time.’

‘So I’m learnin’,’ Livingston said.

A
nervous young recruit was waiting in the telex room, looking like he had dressed in his sleep. Weinstock handed him the two prints. ‘Send this to DX 10, attention Sergeant Skidmore. And come get us down in the coffee room when you get response.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the youth said. ‘Should I send it urgent?’

‘Willoughby, I seriously doubt that anybody in his right mind is using the twix before nine o’clock on Saturday morning. Just send it off. Skidmore’s waiting at Fort Dix for it.

‘Yes, sir.’

Weinstock turned and marched out of the room followed by the two detectives.

‘Skidmore? Is that old Jocko Skidmore? Sharky said.

‘The same,’ Weinstock said. ‘Had to get him outa bed, too. I’ll tell you something, Shark. If he didn’t remember you — and like you — we’d’ve been shit outa luck. Know what he said? He said, “That silly son of a bitch never did do anything at a civilized time of day.” To which I say, amen.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Livingston said. ‘I haven’t been to bed since I met Sharky.’

They drank coffee and made small talk about the old days, sitting in the coffee room in the basement for almost forty-five minutes before Willoughby appeared at the door.

‘It’s comin’ in now, Sergeant,’ he said.

Sharky bolted from his chair and took the steps two at a time, his heart racing in anticipation. This had to work. He needed more than just Shoes and Arnold the bartender, much more, to keep his machine rolling, to keep its adrenalin pumping. As he entered the room and saw the teletype message a shimmer of disappointment rippled through his chest. The report was short, no more than a few lines. Livingston rushed in behind him as he tore the sheet from the machine and read the peculiar print argot of the military:

POS ID, 2 PRINTS, ANGELO DOMINIC SCARDI. B

SIRACUSA, SICILY, 1916. EMGRTD Us, 1935.

VOLTRD CVL LSN SICILY INV, JUNE, 1943. CIV

ADV GELA-PACHINO-CALTAGIRONE, JULY,

43-MARCH 44. TRNSFD FIRENZE, ITALY, JNT,

MI/OSS OPSTITCH (TSEC), MARCH, 44-OCT 44.

RET US OCT SERV TERM OCT 21, 44. SKID,

‘Not too much,’ Weinstock said.

But Livingston was staring at the first line, his eyes bright with excitement. There it was. The name.

Angelo Dominic Scardi.

And what a name it was.

‘Shit, all we need’s right here on this first line,’ he said. ‘Angelo Scardi. Does that ring your bell, Sharky?’

‘No. Should it?’

‘Angel the Undertaker,’ Livingston said. ‘This guy was a top button for Genovese, Luciano, Costello, all the biggies. When Valachi spilled his guts to the Senate, Scardi’s name popped up all over the place. Then a couple of years later who should turn up doin’ the same number Valachi did for the Feds? Angelo Scardi.’

‘What happened to him?’ Sharky said.

‘He died of cancer about six months after testifying.’

‘How convenient,’ Sharky said. ‘And would you like to make a little bet that Howard Burns turned up in Nebraska just about that time?’

‘No bet. It fits, man. It fits like a glove.’ He turned his attention back to the report. ‘How the hell can anybody read the rest of this shit?’

Weinstock took the sheet from him. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘Let me translate for you. It says this Seardi was born in Siracusa, Sicily, in 1916. Came to the U.S. in 1935. In june, 1943, he volunteered as civilian liaison adviser to the Sicilian invasion forces and then worked with the Army in the GelaPachino-Caltagirone sector until March 1944. He was transferred to Firenze, Italy, and attached to a joint Military Intelligence—OSS operation — something called Opstitch — until be returned to the States in October ‘44. Service was term mated the same month.’

‘What the hell was he doing over there?’ Sharky said.

‘Beats the hell outa me,’ Weinstock said. ‘That’s the year I was born.’

‘Arch?’

‘All I remember is that he was a number one hitman for the Cosa Nostra and he blew the whistle on them.’

‘But it fits, damn it, it fits!’ Sharky said.

‘What’s so important about this guy if he’s been dead for seven or eight years?’ Weinstock asked.

‘Jerry, when this is all over, I’ll come out and we’ll spend a night at the noncom club on me and I’ll tell you the whole story. How about this Opstitch, what would that be?’

‘That translates Operation Stitch. With the OSS involved it was probably some cloak and dagger number. TSEC means it’s classified secret.’

‘You mean it’s still classified after thirty years?’

‘Could have been a royal fuck-tip of some kind. Nobody in the army wants to admit a screw-up, so they just keep the lid on. Or maybe they just never got around to declassifying it. You know the goddamn army.’

‘Who cares?’ Livingston said. ‘We got the name, that’s what’s important.’

‘It could relate, Arch. How could we find out about this, Jerry?’

‘Forget it. You got to go through the Adjutant General in Washington and probably the CIA to bust it out. That could be a lifetime project.’

‘Somebody must remember something about it,’ Sharky said.

‘We’re pushing for time, Shark,’ Livingston reminded him.

‘I know, but as long as we’re here, why not check it out?’

‘He’s havin’ another hunch attack, if you ask me,’ Weinstock said.

‘C’mon, Jerry, this is headquarters for the whole Third Army. Think! There’s probably a dozen guys on this base could help us.’

‘See,’ Weinstock said, ‘a goddamn bulldog. He gets something by the ass and he won’t let it go.’

Weinstock stroked his chin for a few moments. ‘Well, your best bet, I guess, is General Bourke. Hardy W. Bourke himself. He was in Italy during the war. If he don’t know, maybe he knows where you can find out.’

‘Can you call him, ask if he’ll see us?’

‘When, right now?’

Sharky patted him on the cheek. ‘Jerry, we’re fighting the clock. You’re a goddamn prince.’

Weinstock leered back at him. ‘No, you’re the goddamn prince, Sharky, ‘cause this little operation here this morning is gonna cost you one gallon of Chivas Regal.’

Sharky nodded. ‘Do it.’

Weinstock grinned. ‘Don’t have to call him. You’ll find him out on the golf course.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I would guess he’ll be somewhere around the third hole by now. And good luck. I hope he doesn’t hit you with his mashie niblick.’

General Hardy W. Bourke was built like a footlocker standing on end and had the face of an angry eagle. Sharky was leaning against a tree at the edge of the third tee when he rolled up in his golf cart and stepped out, a tough little man with pure white hair cut an inch long.

Sharky walked across the trim green tee as the boxy little man leaned over and placed his ball.

Excuse me, sir. Are you General Bourke?’

The general glared at him.

‘Yes. What is it?’

Sharky showed him his buzzer. ‘My name’s Sharky. Atlanta PD.’

The General looked at the badge, then at Sharky’s hair and snorted. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened?’

His partner, a tall, thin man whose fatigue cap covered a bald pate stepped up beside Bourke. ‘Something I can handle, General?’ he said.

‘It’s all right, Jesse. Something to do with the police.’

‘The police?’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt your game like this, sir, but it is important. We’re investigating a murder case and —‘

‘Murder! Good God, sir, one of my men?’

‘No, sir. No, not at all. Thing is, it relates to a military operation in Italy during the war and —,

‘Ah,’ Bourke said, obviously relieved. ‘Well, can’t this wait, young man? We should be back at the clubhouse in a few hours. We’re backed up here, as you can see.’ He pointed back to the number two green. A foursome was just putting out.

Bourke stepped up and planted his feet firmly in the grass, addressing the ball as if it were one of his junior officers.

‘Time’s pressing, sir,’ Sharky said.

Bourke sighted down his club. ‘If it’s waited for thirty years, it can wait until I tee off,’ he snapped. His club whipped back and slashed the air. The ball cracked off the tee, soared out about thirty yards, and hooked drastically, plunging into the rough a hundred or so yards away. Bourke turned towards Sharky, staring at him, his face contorted with disgust.

‘Did you see that?’ he bellowed.

‘Sorry, sir, I —,

‘Goddamnit to hell!’ the general screamed. He stared at

his club for a full thirty seconds, his face turning the colour of a carrot. Finally he threw it down in disgust.

‘All right,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve got two minutes. Get in the cart. You can help me find that goddamn ball. You can walk down there, Jesse.’

The cart purred down the fairway.

‘All right,’ Bourke said. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’

‘We’re interested in a military operation that occurred in December, 1944, near —,

‘What kind of operation?’ Bourke growled.

‘OSS, sir. It was —

‘Young man, I was a command officer assigned to Omar

Bradley. I don’t remember some goddamn spy operation that occurred thirty years ago. What do you think I am, a military encyclopaedia?’

‘No sir, but —,

‘There were probably a hundred OSS operations during the time I was in Italy. Quite frankly, I was too busy trying to win the war to be bothered with those spooks.’

‘Yes, sir. Perhaps if I told you —‘

‘Eureka! There it is. Right beside the fairway. What luck.’ He pulled up and got out of the cart and looked down the fairway towards the green. ‘A straight shot to the pin. Look at that. Bloody good shot after all.’ He looked at Sharky and winked. ‘Have to take that club over to Ordnance and have the boys take that hook out of it, eh? Heh, heh.’

‘General, is there anybody on this base who might remember the incident?’

Bourke looked at him for a few moments more, then turned to the caddy. ‘Gimme that five iron, caddy,’ he said. He held out his hand and waited for the caddy to put the club in it. ‘Martland, Martland’s your man. if anybody can help you, it’d be Martland.’

‘Martland?’

‘Colonel Martland. A bird colonel waiting for his star so he can retire. He was in intelligence and he was in Italy during the war. I believe be lives on K Street.’

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.’

‘Young fellow?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Colonel Martland has a mind like a razor, particularly about World War Two. In fact, he’s a goddamn bore about it. There’s one thing. He’s a little whacko, if you know what I mean. His wife died about two years ago and he’s been somewhat out to lunch ever since.’

‘Oh.’

‘He has his moments. I’m not saying he’s a goddamn loony bird. He’s just, uh. . . a little loose in the attic. What I’m saying, son, is it may take a little patience. So be kind to him, all right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And don’t get hit by any goddamn golf balls. I don’t want to be sued by the police department.’

It was a tidy street with tidy lawns trimmed neatly to the sidewalk and tidy white frame bungalows, each one a replica of the one next to it, each one sitting exactly the same distance back from the road. The only distinction among the houses was the landscaping, an obvious attempt by the officer tenants to bring some individuality to their homes.

A white Cadillac, several years old but in mint condition, sat in the driveway. They waited for several minutes after ringing the bell before the door was opened by a wiry little man, trim and erect, with pure white hair and a white moustache which might have been elegant had it not been trimmed slightly shorter on the right side than on the left. He was dressed in a tight-fitting Army jumpsuit with a white silk scarf at his throat. He was also wearing a baseball cap, tennis shoes, and held a riding crop in one hand.

‘Yes?’ he said, squinting out through the screen door, ‘Colonel Martland?’ Sharky said.

‘I am Colonel Martland.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m Detective Sharky and this is Sergeant Livingston.’

Martland stared from one to the other. ‘Yes?’

‘From the Atlanta Police Department, sir. Sergeant Weinstock called about us?’

‘Oh, yes. Weinstock. Of course. Well, won’t you come in’?’

He held the door and they entered a house whose walls were barren of paintings or photographs. There was little light inside. He led them into the living room, a room so bleak, so obvious, that Sharky immediately felt burdened by its sadness. Propped against the mantelpiece was an oil painting of a woman in riding clothes with a smoking volcano in the background. That and a chintz sofa were the only furnishings in the room. No tables, no lamps, no chairs, only unopened crates shoved into the corners.