Sharky's Machine (5 page)

‘Yes,’ Halford whispered, ‘it must be her.’

Madame Kwa smiled. ‘You have made the choice of the wise men,’ she said. ‘The gods will envy you.’

‘How do I talk to her?’ Halford asked.

‘It will not be necessary. She will communicate with you, Colonel, and you will have no trouble understanding.’

Burns stood in the shadows at the end of the alley watching the house on Bowring Street. He had disposed of the attaché case in a convenient storm sewer. He waited until he was certain the street was empty and then crossed swiftly to the mahogany door, which was propped open by a stick.

He moved the stick, stepped quickly through the door, let it click shut behind him, and stood with his back against the wall, waiting until his eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the garden. It was empty. He moved swiftly across the stream and stood in the shadows under a cherry tree thirty feet from the corner room of the north wing of the house. Again he waited.

The room was small and comfortable, its floor covered with a llama rug, its walls decorated with yellow and red striped satin. It contained a large wooden tub big enough for two people and a massage table covered with a mat of goose feathers. Beside it was a smaller table covered with urns of oils, powders, and creams. There were no lights, only scented candles.

Heth Led Halford by the hand to the room and she slid the door shut behind them.

‘You wait,’ she said in her tiny, melodic voice.

She walked across the room to the door leading into the garden. But a foot or two from the door she stopped. Her hand reached out and, like a hummingbird poised before a honeysuckle bush, it fluttered for a fraction of a second before it found the door and slid it open.

Halford was stunned. Now he understood her vulnerability, the sadness in her incredible eyes, why Madame Kwa had said, ‘She is special to all of us.’

Heth was blind.

‘You see,’ she said turning in his direction, ‘gar-den.’

Emotions he had forgotten swept over him, desire, feeling, longing. He walked across the room and held her face between his fingertips.

‘Yes, I see,’ he said gently. ‘I see for both of us.’

Heth smiled and her fingers moved over his body, as soft as cobwebs swaying in the wind.

Thirty feet away, Burns watched front the shadows, saw Halford framed in the doorway, watched as he touched the girl’s face, saw her respond, her fingers moving over his body, the buttons on his shirt opening as if by magic as she removed his clothing.

The girl was great.

She led Halford to the tub and her hands moved down, unbuckling his belt, unlacing his shoes. She knelt before him and removed his shoes and pants and, reaching up, slipped her hands inside the waistband of his shorts. Her fingertips flirted with him, touching and yet not touching. She finished undressing him, leaning forward and breathing softly on him, letting her lips brush against him. She began an almost imperceptible chant in Japanese. She touched his face, felt the rigid line of his jaw, his quivering lips, and slipped two fingertips inside his mouth, tapping his tongue. Her own tongue flittered over his chest and sucked at his nipples. She took his hand in hers, helped him undress her, guided them over her breasts, her stomach, and down to hair as soft as rabbit’s fur.

His fears vanished. He was hypnotized, overcome by a sensuality more complete than any he had ever known. His manhood was restored.

Burns moved silently across the garden and stood near the door, heard her soft chant, the sounds of water splashing, the murmur of soft laughter. He took the Cotton swabbing from his pocket, wrapped a strip around one hand, held it in place with his thumb, and slipped on one of the surgical gloves. He repeated the action with the other hand. He unzipped his pants and took out the nylon cord, wrapped it several times around each hand, and tested it again, pulling it taut. The knot was centred perfectly. He eased himself to the door and looked in.

They were out of the tub. Halford lay on his back on the table, facing away from Burns, who stood watching, behind him.

Heth covered her hands with warm oil and began massaging Halford, her strong fingers kneading the muscles in his legs and chest. She stroked his arms and placed them at his sides. Then she got up on the table, straddling him, settling down on him, moving against him, leaning over him. Her butterfly tongue teased his stomach, moved lower, and her mouth enveloped him.

Halford was unaware of the new presence in the room, an obscene presence moving stealthily across the llama rug, the nylon cord dangling between latex-sheathed fists.

But Heth was aware. Her keen ears amplified each creak in the floor, the rustle of clothing, a different rhythm of breathing in the room. She reached out to the smaller table. Her fingers found a short silk string with twelve knots tied in it, each about an inch apart. She slipped her hand under Halford and began to insert the string. Halford, lost in fantasy, hardly felt it. His pulse was hammering, his breath was laboured and quick.

The tempo increased. Faster. Faster. Faster.

Halford gasped. His blood, charged with lightning, surged through his body. His head rose off the table. His body went rigid. At that moment Heth ripped the string from inside him and Halford cried out. He exploded.

As he did, Heth dropped her legs over the side of the table and clamped them under it. Her arms enveloped it and she grasped one wrist with the other hand.

Halford was caught in a human vice.

Burns dropped the nylon cord around his throat. His hands snapped apart.

The knot in the cord bit deep into the hollow in Halford’s neck. Ecstasy turned to pain. His temples erupted. His breath was cut off, trapped in his throat. His tongue shot from his mouth.

Burns snapped the cord again, tighter this time.

Halford began to shake violently. Spasms seized his body. It began to jerk against Heth’s. She tightened her grip. He tried to scream, but the cry was crushed in his throat. He looked up, saw the grotesque inverted face above him. He tried to utter one last word, a syllable, distorted and guttural, which died in his mouth:

Wh-a-a-a-r-r-ghh...’

And then his windpipe burst. He shuddered convulsively. His breath surged from him like wind squealing from a punctured balloon.

He went limp.

Heth released her death grip. She lay across Halford’s body, her arms and legs dangling over the sides of the table. Tears burned her cheeks.

Burns stepped back, unwound the cord from one hand, and pulled it free. He dropped it on the table beside Hal- ford’s body. Sweat bathed his face. His breath came in short gasps.

The girl struggled to a sitting position. She cried soundlessly.

Burns reached behind him and took the pistol from his belt. The girl made no move. She was looking towards him but not at him. It was then that Burns too realized she was blind, understood what Wan had meant when he had said it would not be necessary to kill two; There was no way the girl could identify him. He hesitated for a fraction of a second but then, like a programmed machine committed to one last act, he stepped behind her and held the pistol at arm’s length an inch from her head. She followed the sound, turning her head, as if to look back over her shoulder.

‘The door,’ he said in his brittle voice. She took the bait, turning back instantly.

The gun jumped in his hand, thunked, and her head snapped forward. He held her hair in his other hand and pulled her head instantly back up. Thank. He lowered her across Halford’s body.

Burns laid the pistol beside the nylon cord, walked quickly out of the room, crossed the garden, and went out through the gate. He stripped off the gloves, wrapped them in the cotton swabbing and walked back down the alley towards the storm sewer.

A moment after the door clicked shut, two figures emerged from the shadows of the garden and entered the room.

Burns was the first passenger on the plane. He walked to the rear cabin, found a pillow, sat down, buckled his seat belt, and settled back. By the time the flight for Tokyo roared down the runway and eased into the night sky he was deep in an untroubled sleep.

Chapter Three

ATLANTA, 1975

The face was malevolent, its mouth wrinkled and shrivelled with age and frozen in an evil leer, its taunting eyes flickering feebly as they stared through the window of the pub. Outside a cold fall wind raced across the courtyard that separated the two-storey shopping mall from the mirrored skyscraper, sweeping leaves before it as it moaned through the open plaza. They skittered along the pavement, dancing past the grinning apparition and swirling away into darkness.

A few blocks away the chimes of the cathedral began tolling midnight, striking the last seconds of All-hallow Eve. Pursued by the clock, ghosts arid goblins, saints, sinners, black magicians, and lords of the underworld raced across the moon-mad sky, and fire-eyed birds darted to the safety of skeleton trees. The last chord sounded. The piazza was quiet. A blanket settled over the city. Devilment ended. Halloween was over.

But not quite.

Evil muses were still at play, concocting one last monstrous trick.

The door of the pub called Kerry’s Kalibash opened and a man in a scarred leather jacket stepped out into the chilly night air, carrying with him briefly the sounds of merriment, of laughter and music and ice rattling in glasses. The door shushed shut behind him. The man was tough- looking, with grey hair and dull eyes. He stood, shoulders hunched, and stared across the plaza at the twenty-storey building watching the blinking lights of a jet jog across the mirrored facade. It was a stunning structure, floor after floor of mirrored windows reflecting the distant skyline. The man turned as he stared up at the penthouse where lights glowed mutely.

He had followed the woman there. Somewhere in this building was the man he had wondered about, hated, for thirty years. As he watched, there was a movement in the shrubs near the pub behind him. He seemed hypnotized by the soaring building, by the kaleidoscope reflected in its face, by the bullet-shaped elevators that shot up and down the outside wall. A couple left the pub, laughing and wrapped in each other’s arms, and walked towards the parking lot.

The hidden figure froze against the wall. Son of a bitch, he thought, too open, too dangerous. Not neat and planned like Hong Kong. But it had to be done now.

The couple vanished into the parking lot. The figure moved again. He came straight towards the back of the man in the leather jacket. As he approached him he raised his left arm. He was holding a pistol with the ugly black cylinder of a silencer attached to the end of the barrel. The gun was only a few inches from the back of the man’s head when the gunman said softly:

‘Corrigon.’

The man in the leather jacket whirled and stared straight into the barrel of the pistol, now only two or three inches from his eye. A strange look crossed his face, a crooked grin of recognition and relief.

He saw the weapon only an instant before it flashed, before he heard the curious little pwuit the silencer made, before he felt the brief, fiery pain tear into his head, rip through his brain, and explode against the back of his skull.

His fingertips went numb. Then his hands. Then his arms. He lost the feeling in his legs and feet. His mouth filled with bile. He was falling and didn’t know it. Streaks of light cascaded down towards him from the building, showering past him like antic stars. Then they diminished and died. He heard a scream, a tight and anguished cry trapped in an agonized throat. Then all was darkness and silence except the relentless wind crying across the open plaza.

The last thought the man in the leather coat had was that the scream he heard was his own.

Chapter One

At
5:25,
Sharky pulled his battered Volkswagen into an alley two blocks off Peachtree and a block behind the bus station and parked near a Dempsey Dumpster. He was five minutes early.

The cold December wind swirled dust along the alley and rattled litter against the buildings. It had dropped ten degrees since the sun went down. Sharky’s heater was shot and one of the windows would not close all the way. He breathed on his hands to keep them warm.

At
5:30,
he got out of the car and stood with his back to the door, stamping his feet. He buttoned the top button of the plaid lumber jacket. Dirt hit his eyes and mouth and filtered through his beard.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, leaning forward and shaking the dust from the thick growth on his face, then turned suddenly towards the rear of the car. A newspaper whirled from behind it and flattened against the Dumpster.

Sharky was nervous. He reached inside the jacket, fingering the brown manila envelope stuffed into the waist of his Levis.

No sign of High Ball Mary.

He kept his eyes moving. If High Ball were setting him up, now would be the time. A quick shot in the head here in the dark and High Ball would be six hundred dollars richer. And there wouldn’t be much Sharky could do about it.

To his right, in the darkness against the building across the alley, Sharky sensed movement. Then he heard a low, deep chuckle.

‘Whatsa matter, honk, got the chills?’

The son of a bitch.

‘High Ball?’ Sharky said.

‘Who else, baby? Got the price?’

‘Think I’d be freezing my ass off out here if T was short? Let’s get back in the car and deal, I’ve had enough of this goddamn wind.’

‘I like it better in the open, man. Take a little taste o’ the lady here and you won’t give a shit how cold it is.’

Bullshit. I’m gettin’ outa the wind. You wanna freeze your balls off, stuff your lady.’

‘Ooo-weeee, ain’t we testy this evenin’

Sharky got back inside and turned the interior lights on so High Ball could check out the car. He lit a small A&C cigar and held his hands around its glowing end.

High Ball strolled across the alley, hands in the pockets of an expensive full-length fur coat. He was wearing a wide-brimmed Borsalino snapped dcwn over his forehead, yellow platform shoes, and cream-coloured wide-flare pants. He moved cautiously to the car, walking around the far side, leaning over with his hands still stuffed in the pockets, looking in the back seat. The gold earring that had earned him his nickname, Mary, glittered in the light from the dome. Finally he got in.

‘You think I got i. Edgar Hoover stashed back there?’

‘That fairy’s off, man. Where you been?’

‘The ghost lingers on.’

‘Turn the fuckm’ lights off, turkey. This ain’t a goddamn floor show.’

Sharky turned the switch and the lights died.

‘I tell you, honk, I’m gettin’ my coat dirty in this garbage can.’

‘It beats walkin’.’

‘You score with this skit, man, you can get yourself some uptown wheels.’

‘Where’s the merchandise? I get nervous sittin’ here.’

‘How about the green, baby? No green, no sheen.’

‘I ain’t showin’ you shit till I taste your stuff.’

‘Oh, ain’t we mean!’ Mary took a small glassine bag from his pocket and held it up by his fingertips. He shook the white powder in the bag. ‘Lookit here, turkey, how ‘bout that? And fifteen more where that came from. Sixteen grams, m’man, a generous o-z of super snow A hundred trips to the mooooon. Cut it three for one at least. Forty- eight bags at sixty per. . . lessee, that’s uh...’

‘Twenty-eight hundred and eighty geezoes, High Ball. Cut the bullshit and get it on. Open up.’ He felt the anxiety building in him as he wet his middle finger and dipped it into the bag, drew it away with several grains stuck to it, and tasted it. His jaw tightened from the bitter taste. Good skit.

A car entered the alley at the far end and rolled slowly towards them.

‘What the fuck’s this?’ High Ball growled. Fear and anger flooded his eyes. ‘What the fuck we got here?’

‘Cool it, for Chrissakes. It’s just a car.’

‘Crank up and move someplace. Too crowded here.’

The car moved past them.

‘Man, you’re on a string,’ Sharky said.

‘Fucker’s stoppin’.’

The car stopped, then backed up, pulling up In front of the Volkswagen and boxing it in. A large figure got out and loomed in the darkness, moving towards Sharky’s side of the car.

‘I’m takin’ the train, turkey,’ High Ball snapped. Sharky could feel the tension crackling in the air.

‘Stay cool, okay? I’ll handle it.’

‘You ain’t holdin’, man. I can’t stand a toss.’

‘I said I’ll handle it.’

The large man appeared at the window on Sharky’s side, a flashlight in his hand. Light flooded the interior of the car.

‘Goddamn,’ High Ball snapped.

‘What the hell. . .‘ Sharky started to say, then his eyes met those of the fat man at his window.

Tully! Jesus Christ, that stupid suit!

Tully’s eyes met Sharky’s.

‘Sharky!’ be bellowed, ‘Jesus, I didn’t...’

‘Shut up!’ Sharky yelled.

‘Motherfucker!’ High Ball screamed. ‘You wired me, you motherfuckin’ goddamn pig!’ The glassine envelope ‘flew out of his hand. White powder billowed like a cloud in the interior of the car. Mary was already going out the door. Sharky grabbed his collar, but the black man twisted away and slid out sideways, landing on the balls of his feet, a small pearl-handled .25 calibre revolver appearing suddenly in his fist. He was hissing like a snake. Hate turned his eyes red.

Sharky hit the door on his side with his shoulder and shoved hard. It flew open, knocking Tully backward into the street. Sharky rolled out as Mary fired his first shot. The gun popped like a firecracker and the bullet breezed past Sharky’s cheek as he fell, and hit the rim of the door, whining off down the alley.

Mary was already halfway to the corner when Sharky bounced back on his knees and reached under the front seat, feeling the cold grip of his 9mm Mauser automatic. He pulled it out and laid both arms across the front seat, steadying his gun,

‘Freeze, Mary...’

Too late. The wiry black man slid around the corner, his Borsalino flying off into the gutter. Sharky leaped across the front seat, yelling back at Tully as he did.

‘Call it in, call it in. . . you goddamn moron. He’s headed south on Spring towards Harris.’

Tully struggled to his feet, his face chagrined and confused as Sharky ran to the corner. Sharky stopped for a second and peered around. Mary, halfway to the next corner, slowed, aimed the .25, then realized it wouldn’t carry that far, and cut diagonally across the street. A car slammed to a stop as he raced· in front of it. Sharky went after him, cutting through the traffic. Cars screeched to a stop all around him.

Jesus, Sharky thought, five-thirty. The middle of rush hour. Neat. Real neat.

The pusher reached the corner and turned towards Peachtree Street. He fired an off-hand shot across his chest as be ran. The bullet smacked a telephone pole eight feet from Sharky. Sharky kept going, closing the distance on the pusher, who was hampered by his cumbersome shoes.

Half a block away five-thirty traffic choked the main thoroughfare. Pedestrians crowded the street corners, waiting for buses. Mary was panicky. He had to get lost in the crowd or get some transportation fast. He ran into the thick of it with Sharky closing in. As he started across Peachtree a black Cadillac drove in front of him, so close it brushed him. He jogged in place for a moment, then ran around the rear of the Caddy and dived headlong across the hood of the Buick behind it, sliding up against the windshield and falling on his hands and knees on the other side.

The astonished driver slammed on his brakes as Sharky ran up, jumped up on the hood in a sitting position, and swung his legs around, dropping to the other side.

The light had changed. Traffic was moving out. On the opposite side of the street a city bus began to pull out into the free lane in front of it. High Ball threaded through traffic, ran in front of the bus, slammed his hand against the grille, and reached the door. He aimed his gun through the glass at the driver.

‘Open up, motherfucker,’ he demanded and the driver opened the door.

Through the window on the driver’s side, Sharky saw the wild-eyed pusher waving his Saturday night special in the terrified driver’s face. Then Mary saw Sharky and fired a shot past the driver’s nose. It smacked through the window and hit the Street between Sharky’s feet, ricocheting into the fender of a nearby car.

Sharky aimed his automatic at the dealer and Mary dove out of sight towards the rear of the bus. Sharky pulled out his wallet and holding it towards the driver, flashed his shield. He ran to the door. The driver pushed the handle and the door hissed open.

‘On the floor,’ Sharky yelled and dove aboard. The driver rolled out of the seat as Mary fired another shot. It screamed off the chromium rod near the driver’s seat and went through the windshield with a splat.

Inside the bus, pandemonium. Women and children screamed, dropped behind seats, spilled packages. An elderly woman sat speechless in her seat, clutching a shopping bag to her bosom, staring straight ahead.

Sharky leaned against the wall between the front stairwell and the first seat as Mary fired another shot. He was gasping for breath. It had all happened too fast. Now he was in a box. A Mexican standoff in a crowded bus with a madman loose in the back. High Ball hunched behind the wall separating the seats from the stairwell at the rear exit. He shoved on the door but it was activated by stepping on the bottom step while the driver pressed a release button in front. Mary kicked frantically at the door, then turned and fired another shot towards the front of the bus. More screaming.

‘You goddamn pig motherfucker,’ Mary screamed, ‘I’m taking me some hostages! I’m killing me some fuckin’ kids back here, you don’t open the goddamn door.’

Sharky took a fast peek over the divider in the front of the bus and ducked back quickly as Mary’s gun roared and the bullet sighed overhead and cracked through the windshield. Everyone behind Mary was on the floor. There was no time to negotiate. Mary was in a killing mood and had to be stopped fast. Sharky bad soft-nosed loads in his pistol. There was little chance they would go through the pusher and hit someone behind him. He had to take the risk.

Sharky reached over to the bus driver’s coin changer and clicked a dozen tokens out of it. He knelt and threw them across the bus behind the driver’s seat. Mary took the bait. He stood and fired two more shots into the driver’s seat. As be did Sharky rose up, throwing both arms over the retainer, and squeezing off a single shot. It hit Mary in the cheek. The right side of his face burst open. Blood gushed down his face and onto his chest. The shot slammed him back against the wall at the rear of the stairwell.

The elderly lady, less than two feet away, continued to clutch her shopping bag and stare straight ahead.

Mary looked surprised. He shuddered as blood poured out of his face. He started to raise his gun hand again.

Sharky lowered his aim an inch or so and fired twice more. The automatic jumped in his hands. Two more holes appeared in Mary’s chest, less than half an inch apart. He moaned, turned sideways, and fell on his knees on the bottom step, his hands between his legs and his forehead resting against the door. Sharky stepped over the driver, who was huddled on the floor with his hands over his ears, and pushed the release button. The door opened and Mary pitched out head-first.

Sharky opened the front door and jumped out.

Two uniformed cops were eight feet away, leaning across the hood of a Chevrolet, their service revolvers trained on Sharky.

‘Hold it right there.’

Sharky held his ID. high over his head and strode towards the rear of the bus.

‘Sharky, Central Narcotics,’ he yelled. ‘Get an ambulance.’

‘I said, “Hold it right there,” ‘ the cop yelled again.

Sharky threw the wallet at him. It bounced off the hood of the car and spun around, opened at his shield.

‘I said, “Call a goddamn ambulance,”’ Sharky said and kept walking. He reached Mary’s still form lying face down in the street and stood over him, his gun aimed at the back of the dope dealer’s head. He slid the .25 away from the body with his foot, then slipped it under High Ball, and rolled him slowly over.

The dealer looked straight up at the dark sky. Blood rattled in his throat. The eyes turned to glass and rolled up in his head. Sharky stuck his gun in his belt and reached down, pressing his fingers into Mary’s throat. Nothing.

One of the two cops was shouting into his radio mike. The other joined Sharky and handed him his wallet. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked.

‘I just retired a junkman. Better have your partner call the ME too.’

People pressed in from all sides. Horns blared as the traffic built up. Inside the bus, passengers crowded to the windows, pressing their faces against the cold glass. The elderly woman suddenly opened her mouth and screamed over and over at the top of her lungs. A flashgun went off, blinding Sharky.

‘What the hell was that?’ he yelled.

‘Somebody took a picture.’

‘No pictures, goddammit! No pictures!’ Sharky barked.

‘Too late,’ the cop said.

More noise. More confusion. A siren was shrieking nearby.

Sharky leaned against the bus. He felt suddenly tired, disgusted, used up, sick to his stomach. ‘Ah, shit,’ he said, half aloud.

He leaned over 1-ugh Ball Mary’s body, his fingers feeling the coat lining. He felt the bags, then a zipper, and pulled it open. Inside, in small pockets sewn into the lining of the coat, were fifteen one-gram bags of cocaine.