Sharky's Machine

by William Diehl

  They all looked it over, reading the lines, the background information on the questionably deceased Howard Burns. Born in Newark, raised in Philadelphia, worked as truck driver and then in the navy yard there during World War II, returned to trucking after the war, left Philadelphia in 1960, worked at various trucking jobs until 1968 when he purchased the Interstate Van Lines in Lincoln. It was sketchy, but a resume nevertheless.

  “What do you see here that’s strange?” Sharky asked The Nosh.

  “Well, he’s got no criminal record. So why the package?”

  They reread the telex.

  “He’s right,” Friscoe said. “Why would they have his prints on file?”

  Sharky tapped on his coffee cup with a spoon, lightly, a rhythmic tattoo that accompanied his thoughts.

  “It’s a cover,” said Friscoe. “It fits. It’s hand in glove. It makes sense. It’s the only way it makes sense. This shooter has a Mafia pedigree. We figure he had to be a capo, right? An old-line hitman. So what’s he doin’ running a truck company?”

  “A cover,” The Nosh said.

  “Damn right,” said Friscoe. “This shooter, whoever the fuck he is, he did a turn for the Feds and they fixed him up. He musta been in hot with the mob so the Feds give him Howard Burns and a whole biography to go with it.”

  “And then something happened and he had to drop out again, only this time he did it so even the Feds thought he was gone for good,” Sharky said.

  “And showed up here,” Livingston said, “not two weeks later.”

  “Okay,” Friscoe said, “now I got a little something. What I got is dessert, buckos. Something that makes it all go down, so it ain’t so hard to swallow. You remember Twigs tellin’ us Riley had a coupla John Does to keep him busy down in the ice house?”

  They nodded.

  “Well one of these John Does was dug outa the city dump yesterday. And it wasn’t no accidental John Doe. What I mean is somebody went to a lotta trouble to make him into a John Doe, like blowing up his face with a shotgun and removing both his hands.”

  “Jesus!” Papa said.

  “Yeah, ain’t it a pretty picture? What makes it … the reason, see, why we’re maybe interested in that what really put this stiff on ice was a .22 bullet that was soaked in garlic.”

  He leaned back, satisfied at having brought something to the party at last.

  “And,” he added, “the illustrious Mr. Grimm says this stiff got kayoed around the end of October sometime.”

  More silence, then a babble, everyone talking at once. Sharky held up a hand. “Hold on, hold on. Shit, we sound like a bad church choir here. Let’s add it up, see what we got. Barney, sum it up for us.”

  “Okay, we got a Mafia shooter goes underground with the help of the Feds. On October twentieth subject the same wraps a tree around his car and goes up in smoke. His wife I.D.’s him with dental plates and plants him. Ten days later this Burns or whoever pops outa the toaster in Atlanta and puts the freeze on victim number two, fixes up the stiff so it can’t be identified and plants him in the city dump.”

  “How come Victim Two?” Sharky said.

  Friscoe shrugged. “Somebody burned up in the car on the outskirts of Omaha.”

  Sharky whistled between his teeth. “I missed that one.”

  “Okay. So then six, seven weeks more pass by and this same Howard-Whoever-the-Fuck-He-Is-Burns comes outa the woodwork again and dumps Domino. The question is, why? Why? That may be the toughest donkey of all to pin a tail on.”

  “Why don’t we just take it to the Bureau? Tell them this Burns dummied up his own death, came here, and wasted two people already,” Sharky said.

  Friscoe shook his head. “I veto that one. For a lotta reasons. First place the Feds don’t really give a shit about our problems unless there’s something in it for them. Right now this is a local problem, so they don’t stand to make any brownie points by bustin’ their ass tryin’ to help us. Also, if this son of a bitch was in the Feds’ alias program, it’ll take an act of fuckin’ Congress to get anything out of them. All they’ll do, is come in here hot-shittin’ around and the next thing you know, Riley, D’Agastino, the fucking Bat, everybody in the goddamn world’ll be in on it. We took it this far, let’s take it all the way. What the hell, we got our nuts in the door jamb anyway.”

  Sharky had been toying with an idea. Now he threw it out to the machine. “This is a long shot, okay. I know that going in. But just supposing this shooter was in the service in World War Two. He’s the right age for it. His prints could be in the inactive file.”

  “Wouldn’t the bureau have cleaned that package, too?” Livingston asked.

  “Why?” said Sharky. “They didn’t need to. The Bureau created Howard Burns. But, when I was in military intelligence there was a couple of times when we turned up an I.D. in the old files. The FBI doesn’t have it all.”

  “I say we try everything,” Papa said. “You never know when something’s gonna work.”

  “And you got the kalibash to get in there, right Sharky?” Friscoe said.

  “I’ve got a couple of good pals out at Fort McPherson in the intelligence unit there. What’ve we got to lose?”

  Friscoe rubbed his hands together. His weariness was temporarily replaced by a surge of adrenaline. He had expected a few bunts, but the four of them had actually hit a couple of long balls.

  “Okay,” he said, “tuck this in the back of your minds while you’re out there. This John Doe, here’s what Twigs gave me on him. And remember, Riley’s workin’ on him, too. And Riley ain’t gonna stop until he knows chapter and verse on him. Anyways, John Doe was five-ten, a hundred and fifty-five to sixty-five pounds, black hair going gray, in his late fifties. A very hard guy in good physical condition. Has two old scars down here, just under his ribs, one in front, one in back. Twigs says it’s an old gunshot wound, could go back thirty years.”

  Sharky said, “Same age as the shooter.”

  “Just about,” said Friscoe. “Also he was suffering from some respiratory ailment. Bad lungs caused by inhalation of hemp.”

  “Hemp?” Livingston said. “You mean rope?”

  “I mean hemp, which is what rope is made out of.”

  “He worked in a hemp mill?” Sharky said.

  “Yeah. And the most common place to find a jute mill is in prison. So we could be looking for an old con here.”

  “We could check the county and federal probation officers. Maybe if this guy was paroled he had to register here.”

  “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 Colter. 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.”

  18

  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, st
ark 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 socks 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 a 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 adrenaline 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 GELAPACHINO-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 Scardi was born in Siracusa, Sicily, in 1916. Came to the U.S. in 1935. In June, 1943, he volunteered as civilian liaison advisor to the Sicilian invasion forces and then worked with the Army in the Gela-Pachino-Caltagirone sector until March 1944. He was transferred to Firenze, Italy, and attached to a joint Military Intelligence-OSS operation—something called Opstitch—until he returned to the States in October ’44. Service was terminated 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-up 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 toward 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 color 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.