Sharky's Machine

by William Diehl

  He was close to exhaustion. His bones ached; his lungs hurt when he breathed; his vision was fuzzy, his mouth dry and hot. He went into the kitchen, found a Coke in the refrigerator, and sat down at the kitchen, table to drink it. He decided to start in the kitchen as long as he was there.

  He took a legal pad and a felt-tip pen out of the small briefcase he had brought with him and wrote the word kitchen on the top line. Under it he would list anything that seemed incongruous with its surroundings.

  The room was neat, tidy, sparkling clean. The countertops were bare except for an antique wine rack in one corner, some appliances, and a paper sack with two wineglasses and a corkscrew beside it on the counter near the sink. He checked the garbage pail. It was clean enough to cook in. Next he checked the paper bag, using his pen to spread the top open. There was a bottle of wine inside and a sales slip. The wine had been purchased the previous day from Richard’s Fine Wines. It cost eighteen dollars.

  He started his list:

  Counter: paper sack.

  Bottle of Lafite-Rothschild wine, value $18.

  Two wine glasses.

  Corkscrew.

  During the next two hours Sharky carefully analyzed each room in the apartment. As the list grew his adrenaline started pumping again, warming the aches away, providing a second wind. When he was finished, he went back to the kitchen and started a new list under the heading Significant. When he finished the list, he sat back and smiled. His eyes had lost the dull, glassy look of fatigue. He smacked his hands together and said, “God damn!” aloud and reached for the phone, pacing the length of the cord while it rang half a dozen times.

  “Yeah,” Livingston said hoarsely. For a moment he was completely disorganized. He could not remember what day it was or where he was.

  “It’s Sharky.”

  Livingston opened and closed his eyes several times and cleared his throat.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you get over here?”

  “Where, man?”

  “Domino’s apartment.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, uh, what time is it?”

  “Hell I don’t know, it’s … a quarter to six.”

  “Shit, I’ve only had two hours sleep.”

  “Arch, get over here fast.”

  “You got something?”

  “I got enough to wake you up real good, man. Get it over here fast as you can.”

  Livingston was awake now. “On my way, baby, on my way.”

  He jumped off the bed. He was wearing shorts and a tee-shirt. He pulled on a pair of corduroy Levis and slipped on a plaid shirt and strapped his hip holster to his belt. On the way out the door he grabbed a fur-lined jacket. It took him fifteen minutes to get to Domino’s apartment.

  “Okay,” he said as Sharky opened the door, “what you got up your sleeve now?”

  Sharkey led him into the kitchen. He had made a pot of coffee and he pushed Livingston into a chair, shoved a cup of coffee in front of him, and sat down with his legal pad.

  “What I did,” he said, “I washed the place from top to bottom and I made a list of everything that was even slightly out of the ordinary. Stuff like keys on the living-room table, suitcase on the floor, bottle of wine on the kitchen cabinet, everything. Then I went back over the list and made a second list, only this time I only put down stuff that seemed to relate.”

  “Uh huh,” Livingston said.

  “Okay, here’s what I got:

  “Item: An eighteen-dollar bottle of wine on the kitchen counter still in the bag, two wine glasses, and a corkscrew. The wine was purchased yesterday. There are six bottles of wine in that rack over there, including a bottle of Lafite-Rothschild.

  “Item: Keys on the coffee table in the living room. Six keys altogether. Two go to a General Motors car, two look like regular house keys, and one is a safe deposit box key. The other one was not on the key ring. It fits the door to this apartment.

  “Item: A beat-up Samsonite one-suiter on the floor beside the bed, pushed back against the wall. The stuff in it is messed up, all pushed over to one side. It contains a tennis dress, sweat socks, underwear, no toilet articles, no make-up.

  “Item: The luggage in the closet is all Gucci. Worth a fortune. Not a scratch on it.”

  Livingston looked up, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. Sharky went on.

  “Item: A blue and white windbreaker hanging in the closet.

  “Item: One yellow negligee on bed, spread out very neat.

  “Item: One small leather case filled with make-up on the table and a Lady Schick electric razor. In the bathroom there’s another electric razor. An Osterman, also for a lady.

  “Item: No purse on the premises, no bank book, no address book.”

  Livingston lit a small Schimmelpenninck cigar and twisted the legal pad around so he could read it. “Well, that’s a nice job, considering you musta done it in your sleep, but what’re you drivin’ at?”

  Sharky chuckled. “Okay, follow me on this. If Domino was going on a trip, why did she go out and spend eighteen bucks for a bottle of wine when she had one in her wine rack? And why was she getting ready to open it? You don’t open a bottle of wine like that unless you plan to drink it all. So why open it if she was going to leave? Second, there’s the suitcase. Look in the closet. She has three pieces of gorgeous luggage in there. Why would she carry that old beat-up job in there? Also look around here, Arch. The place is neat, neat, neat. Look in the suitcase. All the clothes are shoved to one side. But the negligee is spread out very prim and proper. Also the traveling case of make-up and the electric razor. Why two razors? And the windbreaker in the closet? It’s the only jacket in there. All the rest of them are in the hall closet. Don’t you see it, Arch? She wasn’t packing to go anywhere, she was unpacking. She took the make-up case and the electric razor out of the bag, that’s why the clothes were mussed up. And she put her windbreaker in the closet. She was planning to put the negligee on, not pack it. The apartment key wasn’t on her key ring because it wasn’t here. It was loaned to her … by Domino. Domino has a Mercedes, these keys are for a GM car. Don’t you see it, Arch. Domino was out of town and the dead lady was staying in her apartment. Scardi killed the wrong person.”

  Livingston looked down at the list. He was still skeptical. “You’re reaching, baby. I mean, some of this makes sense but …”

  “No purse. No bank book. No address book. Where are they? They’re not here, because Domino took hers with her and the woman Scardi killed didn’t bring hers.”

  “You’re moving too fast for me.”

  “I had to make sure, Arch, so I went down to the parking lot and I started checking those GM keys in every General Motors car down there. I checked fourteen before I found the one the keys fit. A seventy-five Riviera. This was under the seat. She must have forgotten it.”

  He slid a woman’s wallet across the table to Livingston who opened it and stared at the license behind the plastic window.

  “Je-sus Chee-rist,” Livingston said softly.

  “I’ve never seen her before, but I’ll bet you have.”

  Livingston looked at the photograph on the driver’s license and nodded.

  “Tiffany Paris,” he said.

  “Scardi hit the wrong woman, Arch.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he was after Tiffany all the time.”

  “It’s possible, except for one thing. Scardi’d been snooping around here for a couple of days. It took him a while to luck into the Jackowitz set-up. So unless Tiffany made her plans several days ago to spend Friday night here, he wouldn’t have known she was going to be here. And if he didn’t know she was going to be here, he was after Domino.”

  Livingston jumped up and began pacing the room. “Sure, it makes sense that way. Domino left here yesterday morning. Then Scardi went into the Jackowitz place and started watching the apartment. When Tiffany came in, he came across and cut down on her the minute she opened the door. She was backlit. And she and Domino are about the same height.
”

  “And the same coloring.”

  “And if Scardi hit the wrong woman, he’ll be back when he finds out. He’s gonna finish it up right. I mean, his kind don’t fuck up a job and walk away from it.”

  “Remember the ears in the box he gave Luciano?”

  “What we gotta do, we gotta find the lady and stash her someplace safe, someplace they can’t find her. Then stake this apartment out and hope he comes back again.”

  “Or track him down first.”

  They both heard the sound at the same time, a grating of metal on metal. Someone was putting a key in the lock. Sharky vaulted out of his seat, pulling his automatic from under his arm, rushing from the kitchen toward the door. Livingston was right behind him, clawing for his .38. Sharky was six feet from the door when it swung open. He stopped, dropped into a crouch, and aimed the gun with both hands.

  The door opened and he was face to face with Domino Brittain.

  She looked at him, down at the gun, back at his flattened nose, and she raised an eyebrow.

  “Something wrong with my elevator?” she said.

  _____________________

  Sharky lowered his gun and sighed with relief. She did not move. She stared back and forth at the two detectives until Sharky took out his wallet and held it toward her, letting it flop open to his shield and I.D.

  She looked at it, then leaned forward for a better look and stared over the top of it at him.

  “A cop?” she said.

  Sharky nodded.

  “You’re a cop?”

  Sharky nodded again.

  “A real … live … cop.”

  “Detective,” he said, somewhat embarrassed.

  “Detective.”

  “Uh huh.”

  She looked at Livingston.

  “Him too?”

  “That’s Arch Livingston, my partner.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Livingston said, but she had already turned her gaze back to Sharky. She shook her head.

  Livingston sidled up to Sharky.

  “You two know each other?” he said with more than a little surprise in his tone.

  “We met.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “You better believe we will.”

  Domino stepped inside the room, but she could not see the wall, the open door blocked it. “Would one of you gentlemen like to get my bag?” she said, pointing to the Gucci sitting in the hall. “And then maybe we can talk about what you’re doing in my apartment playing cops and robbers.”

  Livingston took the bag and leaning close to Sharky, said, “She’s a cool one, buddy. But I guess you knew that already, right?”

  “I said later,” Sharky muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  Domino was standing very close to Sharky, and she looked at him and said, “Now what was this about working on the elevators?”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s a pretty good act.”

  He wanted to keep up the banter. He liked it and he liked her and he was grateful that she was still alive, grateful to be close to her again. He knew too that she was smart enough to sense it. But he had to change the subject and he dreaded what was coming.

  “Domino,” he said seriously, “who stayed here last night?”

  “Are you grilling me?—is that what they call it?” She was still trying to keep the conversation light and Sharky was having difficulty making the transition. She looked past him, at the open door, and began to sense that something bad had happened here and then he stepped back and pushed the door shut and she saw it, the splattered blood stains, the pockmarks on the wall, and it began to register, first in her widened eyes, then her strangled cry. “Oh, my God!”

  “Was it Tiffany Paris who stayed here last night?” Livingston said.

  “I-I-I-I …” she stammered.

  “Easy,” Sharky said.

  She thrust her fist against her teeth and turned away from the ghastly wall. The blood drained from her face and for a moment Sharky thought she was going to faint. He put his arm around her and as he did she began nodding very slowly.

  “Arch,” Sharky said, “there’s some brandy in the dining room.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have warned you but … I, uh … didn’t know what to say. Tiffany was here last night, right?”

  “Y-y-y-yes.” She looked up at him and her face began to go, first at the corners of her mouth, then the tears welling in her eyes. She started to ask a question, but the words caught in her throat and she choked. Livingston brought a pony of Courvoisier and handed it to her, but she did not take it, she kept searching Sharky’s face, hoping her fears were wrong.

  “I’m sorry,” Sharky said, “she’s dead.”

  The tears came and she began to sag, weak-kneed, against him and he led her to the couch and sat down beside her. She covered her face with her hands, her fingers pressing against her eyelids, trying to control her feelings. Finally she broke down and began to sob.

  “H-h-h-ow … d-d-did … ?” she said and then stopped speaking. Sharky handed her the brandy. “Here,” he said, “try this.”

  She took a sip and gagged.

  “I h-h-hate brandy,” she said.

  “Look,” Sharky said, “I know how you must feel right now, but this is very important. When did Tiffany first know she was going to be staying here?”

  Watery, bloodshot eyes peered over her trembling hands.

  “I … decided on the spur of the moment to go to Savannah and … see some friends so I … told her she could … stay here for the night.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “What time?”

  “I had an early hair appointment at Raymond’s on Piedmont Road and I called her after I was through. I guess it was about … ten-thirty. We met at Houlihan’s for lunch and I gave her the key. Then I had to leave to catch my plane.”

  “So she had no idea you were leaving town until ten-thirty yesterday morning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That does it,” Livingston said. “We gotta get her outa here and fast. I’m gonna make a phone call.” He went into the bedroom.

  “What’s he talking about?” Domino asked.

  “Are you okay now?”

  “I guess. I don’t know. Why … what happened to Tiff?”

  “She was shot. About eight o’clock last night.”

  Domino stared back toward the door, the full horror of what had happened working on her features. “What happened? Was it a hold-up?”

  “No, it wasn’t a hold-up and it wasn’t an accident. But … we think the killer made a mistake.”

  The horror in her face turned to shock. “Mistake?”

  “We think … we’re almost positive … that he was after you.”

  “Me!”

  “She was shot by an ex-Mafia assassin named Scardi. Angelo Scardi. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head and then said, “Mafia?”

  “How about the name Howard Burns?”

  “No, no. Neither of them. I’ve never heard either of those names before. What do you mean, Mafia?”

  “This Scardi was a Mafia killer. Someone hired him to kill you. He came here last night and got Tiffany by mistake.”

  She was more controlled now, the shock and horror replaced by confusion and doubt. “Why?”

  “We were hoping you could answer that.”

  “Well, I can’t answer it,” she said and anger crept into her tone. “And I don’t think you know … how do you know that?”

  “This Scardi’s a real pro. He’s been planning it for several days. Don’t you see? If Tiffany didn’t know she was coming here until yesterday, it had to be you he was after. And he’ll try again. He’s not the kind who’ll settle for a mistake. That’s why we’ve got to get you out of here.”

  She shook her head violently. “No,
I won’t be forced out.”

  “Forced out? We’re not forcing you out; we’re trying to save your life.”

  Sharky understood her dilemma. Too much had happened for her to fully comprehend or accept.

  “Just trust us, please. Believe me, you’re in great danger as long as you stay here.”

  “Trust you?” she said. “You’ve already lied to me … that ridiculous story about the elevator. Now all this.”

  “I’m sorry about that. There won’t be any more lies, believe me. Now will you please throw some clean clothes in your bag so we can get out of here?”

  “I want to call somebody,” she said.

  “What do you mean, call somebody?”

  “I mean, call somebody I know. I don’t even know you. I don’t know him. One minute you tell me you’re one thing, the next minute you’re something else. Now you want to drag me off somewhere. For all I know, you two may have killed Tiffany. Or maybe she isn’t even dead. God, I don’t know what to think.”

  Domino’s confidence was returning, the self-assurance, the impudence. Her shoulders seemed straighter, she held her chin up high, but with all the straining for composure there was still fear in her eyes. And Sharky’s relief at finding her alive was beginning to turn to anger. He was tense and frustrated and his nerves tingled with lack of sleep. He recognized a volatile situation building up and he had to move to stop it. He stood up and taking her by the arm led her to the window and pointed to the other tower.

  “See that apartment up there on the corner? That’s where he waited. He’s like a cobra. No conscience. He’s killed fifty people. Fifty people! He killed a man and cut off his hands so we couldn’t identify the victim. He found out those people were out of town and he broke into that apartment and he sat there all day, very patiently, waiting for your lights to come on and when he saw them he came over here and he rang the bell and when Tiffany opened the door he blew her head off with a double-barreled shotgun. She was dead when she hit the floor. We couldn’t even identify her. We thought it was you. Now pretty soon he’s gonna find out, see, that he made a mistake and when he does he’s gonna come back, because that’s what he’s all about. He’s out there someplace, in the dark, waiting. Maybe he knows already. Maybe he’s up on the roof, watching us right now. Or waiting in the back seat of your car. Or maybe just outside the door there—”