Sharky's Machine (16 page)

‘He was about, uh, three feet taller than me, so I went to the Y and I took boxing lessons for six months and then I beat the living bejesus out of him.’

She was laughing hard now and she shook her head. ‘Did you really?’ she said, ‘did you really do that?’

‘I really did it. Acceptable?’

‘Oh, yes. Oh, absolutely. If it’s a lie, don’t change it.’

It was a lie, although a bully named Johnny Trowbridge had hit him with a brick and be had taken boxing lessons and a year later he’d kicked the shit out of Johnny Trowbridge. But his nose bad been broken in an alley behind the bus station when he was a rookie cop. A drunk had scaled the lid of a garbage can straight into his face with uncanny accuracy.

She sighed. ‘I’m so glad we got that settled.’

‘What?’

‘The business about your nose.’

‘Does my nose bother you?’

She shook her head very slowly, staring at it. ‘No. It gives you character.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Eat your soup before it gets cold.’

Upstairs on the roof the tapes were whirring, recording their conversation. He could envision the rest of the machine listening to it in Friscoe’s Inferno. He knew what The Nosh would think. But how about Friscoe? Livingston? Papa? And The Bat! The Bat would have a coronary. He would sit in his office and his face would turn red, then blue, and he would clutch his heart and make a face like a fish out of water, and he would fall dead on the floor. I may have to erase this tape.

He raised the spoon to his lips, sipped the soup. It was unreal. Fantastic. Soup wasn’t the right word for it. It was nectar. He held it in his mouth a moment, savouring it, before he swallowed.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘It’s . . . incredible.’

‘Incredible good or incredible bad?’

‘Good? Hell, it’s . . . historic.’

‘Historic’! What a wonderful choice of words.

‘Of course I’m not an expert. Is your friend Chinese? ‘No, but he lived in the Orient for years.’

Is he the mark? Is the dinner tonight part of the set-up?

Sharky decided not to push it. ‘Do you pick up strays in the supermarket very often?’ he asked.

‘Only in Moundt’s. .1 would never pick up a stray in just any market.’

He laughed.

‘Actually I felt kind of sorry for you. You looked so forlorn, wandering around, trying to decide what to buy. I can usually spot a bachelor in the market. They can never decide between what they want and what they need. In the end it’s a disaster.’

She leaned forward and stroked the broken place on his nose again. He felt chills. It was like school days again. He was reacting like a kid. But he liked it. You can keep your finger there for the rest of the night, he thought. You have fingers like butterfly wings.

‘You know something,’ she said. ‘I don’t know your name.’

‘That’s right, you don’t.’

‘What is it?

‘Sharky.’

‘Sharky what? Or is it what Sharky?’

‘Just Sharky. How about you?’

He reached out and ran his finger down between her eyes, felt the tip of her nose.

‘D-D-Domino.’ My God did I stutter?

‘Domino?’

‘Um hum, just Domino. Like just Sharky.’

He smiled and nodded and took his hand away and she wanted him to leave it there. ‘That’s fair enough,’ he said.

It went on that way. Small talk and jokes. And occasionally they touched, no — brushed, as if by accident. They flirted with subjects, never getting too personal, keeping it light.

‘Did you ever play football?’ she asked. ‘You look like you played football.’

‘I thought about it in college, but I wasn’t good enough.’

‘Where did you go to college?’

‘Georgia.’

‘What did you study?

‘Geology.’

‘Geology?’ she said, surprised.

‘Sure, geology.’

‘Why geology?’

‘I like rocks,’ he said.

‘Okay, so why aren’t you a geologist?’

‘Well, it was like, uh, there wasn’t a lot happening in geology when I finished.’

‘You spent all that time and then just. . . forgot it?’

‘It made my father happy. He took out an insurance policy when I was born, and when I graduated from high school, he handed me the cheque. It was a dream of his, that the kid should go to college. So he deserved it.’

You’re a nice man, Sharky, she thought. Naive, maybe, but what’s wrong with that? ‘That’s a generous thought,’ she said.

‘Look, T like my old man. He was always good to me. It was something I could do back, make him happy. What the hell.’

‘I liked my old man, too,’ she said, without thinking, then wondered whether she should have brought it up.

‘What was he like?’

She could make up a story. She was used to that. Something glamorous, something they wanted to hear. She didn’t.

‘He was a mining engineer. Well, actually he was a roustabout, you know. He loved brawling and whoring and drinking with the boys. Mister Macho, that was old Charlie. The word was invented for him. Itchy Britches, mom called him. We went wherever the action was. I grew up in one temporary town after another. They were always either too muddy or too dusty. Mom still says the saddest thing about losing Dad was that he died so ingloriously. He really would have liked to go out in a blaze of glory like Humphrey Bogart in some old movie. Instead, he died in a miserable little town called Backaway in Utah. He came home one afternoon, got a beer and the paper, sat down in his favourite chair, and died.’

She seemed weighed down by the memory. Sadness crossed her face, very briefly, like shadows on a cloudy day, then it passed.

‘Well,’ Sharky said, ‘I’m sure he would have been proud of you. it looks like you’re doing pretty well.’

She closed the subject quickly.

‘I’m independently wealthy,’ she said, smiling. ‘A rich aunt.’

Sharky laughed and raised his glass.

‘Okay, here’s to rich aunts.’

She sat with her chin in her hand and stared at him again, then shook her head. ‘I just, uh, I don’t believe it. I mean, a geologist working as an elevator man?’

‘I’m not an elevator man. I’m an engineer. An elevator man is an old guy with spots on his uniform who never stops in the right place. You know, he’s always too high or too low.’

She was laughing. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You always have to step up or step down.’

‘Besides,’ Sharky said, ‘I once knew a dentist who quit and became a mechanic.’

‘A mechanic?’

‘You know, in a garage. It’s what he got off on.’

‘And you get off on elevators?’

‘Well, you know, I’m not going to do this for the rest of my life. It keeps me off the Street.’

She felt warm towards him. Secure, comfortable. And she wanted him, wanted his arms around her, stretched out on the floor listening to DuLac, free and easy, just letting it happen. it was something that had been missing from her life for a long time. She had given up on it. It’s a silly notion, she thought. A nowhere notion. But it was a nice feeling.

And Sharky felt the same way. I want you, he thought. Here. Now. But he let it pass. Even a one-time shot wouldn’t work. No future. in a week he might be putting her in the slams. And yet, he didn’t want to leave it.

‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’ll come back again before I leave, okay? Maybe I’ll be lucky, catch you on a day when you’re having a whale stew or barracuda steak.’

This time she didn’t smile.

‘How about just plain steak?’ she said. ‘I can handle that.’

‘Any time,’ he said.

‘Then come back,’ she said and touched his cheek.

And Sharky realized that for a few minutes he had forgotten why he was there because he wanted to come back.

Chapter Ten

Chiang drove the black Cadillac Seville up into the plaza and circled it slowly, observing the entrance to the apartment and the location of the security guard, then he turned back into Peachtree Street, went half a. block to a side street, and parked. He sat immobile, staring straight ahead, awaiting his instructions.

DeLaroza looked at his watch. Seven forty-five. Three hours, he figured. Domino could perform a miracle in three hours.

DeLaroza’s mind was still in a turmoil. The day had been eventful, exhausting. But now his thoughts were on Domino.
I want you to
think
about it all day long,
she had said,
it
wilt
be much sweeter that way.
And he had. Images of her had flashed continually through his mind, images of other times, when he had introduced her to a world reserved for the gods and the very rich.

Burns was right. He was concupiscent, a man driven by his lust as others are driven by fame.

Now it would end. But not before tonight.

They walked back to the apartment and DeLaroza stood in the shadows while Chiang entered, standing in front of the night guard, his bulk concealing the front door as he haltingly tried to explain that he was lost. The guard, confused by his broken English, concentrated on every word while DeLaroza slipped into the building and trotted to the stairwell. He did not want to risk being seen on the elevator. He walked up to the tenth floor, preparing himself for her pleasures as he climbed the steps, cleansing his mind.

Gowmanah

remembering her in Paris, flaunting h r sensuality until even the fag couturier was bewitched by her

gowmanah

remembering her at Quo Vadis, where even the arrogant waiters stopped and looked when she made her entrance

gow,nanah

remembering her in the bathhouse in Tokyo and the four geishas, flocking around her, bathing her, caressing her breasts while he sat forgotten in an adjoining tub

gowmanah...

The pressures of time slipped away. DeLaroza was prepared for whatever Domino had to offer.

She too had prepared herself for his arrival. It was to be her game, her rules tonight. She answered his first ring and DeLaroza stepped back in awe when she opened the door.

Her eyes were sketched into delicate almonds by the subtlest of eye-liners. A dust of shadow accentuated her high cheekbones. Her black hair was pulled to one side and pinned behind her ear by an azalea blossom. Her formfitting gown of white gauze was split almost to the hip on each side and trimmed in gold. She wore no shoes, no jewellery.

The scent of flowers surrounded her. Behind her the room shimmered in the glow of candles, revealing freshly cut daffodils and the coffee table bearing wine and other delights. A recording whispered Chinese love songs. She stepped back into the cool, dim fragrance and he could see her body through the thin cotton. Her skin seemed to glow in the dark, to provide its own radiation. The chocolate points of her breasts held the gauze at bay and he could see the thick black triangle of hair where her trim legs joined.

She put her hands together and bowed her head.

‘Welcome, Cheen Ping,’ she said, ‘to the lair of the Third Dragon.’

Sharky listened, heard the doorbell ring, heard her open the door but her remarks were lost among the tinkling bells and the Oriental music on the stereo. What was that? Something about dragons? There was movement, a rustling as though she perhaps had removed his coat.

‘Dor-jeh.’ A deep voice. Mature. But what was he saying? ‘There will be only three courses to dinner,’ she said and her voice was soft. Melodic. Almost.. . subservient? ‘And before each you must satisfy your innermost desires so that you may enjoy the meal to its fullest.’

God damn! Sharky lit a cigar, held it between his teeth, and pressed the earphones so he could hear better. Was this the same woman he had followed to Moundt’s? Who had joked with him about being an elevator man? Served him soup and wine and seemed hypnotized by his broken nose?

‘Only two courses, Ho Lan Ling. I am afraid three might be more than enough.’

He heard her laugh. Well, shit, Sharky said half aloud, they’re off and running in Peking!

She led DeLaroza to one of the Savoy chairs, stood behind him, began massaging his temples. Her touch was so light he hardly felt it. She pressed her thumbs in the middle of his forehead, held the first three fingers of each hand just inside the depression of his temples, and began rotating them in circles, widening the circle until her fingers moved over his eyelids. He sat with his hands resting on the arms of the chair. Her fingertips relaxed him. His head grew light under her touch. He eased into the chair. The music filled his head.

She poured him a glass of dry white wine and offered him a white pill on a satin pincushion. He washed the pill down with the wine, watched her do the same. She opened a long, shallow antique box, removed a pipe from it. Its porcelain stem was eight inches long and the rosewood bowl was well worn and scorched black. Then she took a piece of what appeared to be black putty and rolled it between her thumb and forefinger into a perfect ball. The Quaalude began to work on him, he felt his organs being stroked as though her hands were inside him. The room was a warm, protected place for him. She knelt beside him, humming in harmony with the music, put the ball in the bowl of the pipe, and held a match to it. As it glowed red, she offered him the pipe and he took it, drawing deeply, feeling the smoke burn his throat and lungs. He took it deep, holding it in until he thought his chest would burst. She turned the stem to her own mouth, drew deeply herself, closing her eyes, letting her head fall back. Then she offered the pipe back to him.

The first rush of opium engulfed him.

His body began to vibrate. He seemed to be sinking into the pillows.

The music engulfed him.

His skin was caressed by invisible feathers. His groin began to swell.

Domino lay back in a bed of pillows she had arranged at the foot of the chair, the Quaalude and opium etching her desire, defining her prurience. She felt another presence outside of herself, like a second skin, shimmering, protecting her and caressing her. The dress slipped down between her legs, rested against her hair and she felt its weight along her vulva. Her thighs began to tighten and relax. Tighten and relax.

The chimed music filled her head, flowed down through her throat and filled her chest. Her nipples grew until she thought they would pierce the gauze that enslaved them. The music began to flow again, down through her stomach, deep inside, and finally into her vagina. Her body spasmed, very lightly, and again. She stared at DeLaroza through eyes already fogged with passion. Her mouth was open. She was beginning to breathe in a long pattern, inhaling to the count of seven, holding to the count of seven, exhaling to the count of seven. It enhanced the music inside her. She put her hands on her stomach, searched lazily, lightly, for her navel, found it and brushed her fingertips around and into it. She looked at DeLaroza and the swelling, between his legs excited her even more. She crossed her chest with her hands and began moving them up her sides, exploring her armpits while the palm of her hands grazed her nipples. She rose to meet the hands but they were elusive, rising as she rose. Her nipples swelled to meet them finally — the touch. The thrill shot through her, like electricity, firing sparks into her breasts, her stomach, her neck, into her vagina, her rectum. She caressed her neck, slid her fingers under the gauze dress, savoured the roundness and then felt the dimpled ridges of her nipples. She held them gently between her fingers, began to squeeze them. DeLaroza now was breathing with her, his erection straining against his zipper.

She took one hand from under the dress and moved it down between her breasts to her stomach, slid it over her thigh, reached the bottom of the skirt, and pulled it up, slowly. Her hand disappeared under the skirt, slipped along her thigh, brushed over her hair and moved back down.

She began to rock up and down to the rhythm of her breathing, rising up to meet her hand as it grazed her thick patch. She let her hand slip between her legs, her finger probing, closed her eyes, stretched her head back, and gasped, then began rocking and breathing faster and faster and faster....

Sharky listened to the sounds. First her singsong humming, then the breathing. He tried to picture the man. Deep voice. Probably large, not fat, but large. The voice was mature. A man in his forties, possibly early fifties. And there was a trace of accent or perhaps the lack of an accent. An Americanized foreigner. German?

Then he envisioned Domino. Naked.

The Big Man was touching her, kissing her, possibly going down on her. The Big Man’s hands caressed her, stroking her tits. He was touching her now, his hand stroking the dark fur between her legs. Now she rolled him over and got up on her knees and straddled him and he was hard and he reached out for her.

Only it wasn’t the Big Man anymore, it was Sharky, reaching out for her, touching her.

He pulled the earphones off and dropped them on the bed. His pulses were jumping in his wrists. He wiped sweat oil’ his forehead with a corner of the blanket. He felt guilty, embarrassed, humiliated. And then he began to question his feelings. Guilty? Of what, getting a hard-on listening to a beautiful woman screwing another guy? Hell, who wouldn’t? Embarrassed? For whom, by ‘whom? There was nobody else there but him. And why should he be humiliated? They were not even aware he was listening; they certainly were not trying to humiliate him. He lit another cigar. And thought again about Domino.

As Domino began rocking faster, she began chanting, at first very faintly.

‘Hai. . . hai. . . hai .. . hal...’

She felt her lips swell and open, her fingers slide down across her trigger, felt it harden and grow under her touch, just as DeLaroza was growing. Her finger slid inside her, was entrapped by the moist muscles which tightened around it, held it, then released it. She rocked faster, increasing the tempo of her cries.

‘Hai...hai...hai...’

DeLaroza gripped the arms of the chair until his knuckles were swollen white. His pulse thundered in his temples and the muscle under his testicles jerked in spasms.

He was hypnotized by her fingers, grazing, brushing, their whispered touch urging her lips up through the forest of her sex. Her cries urged blood up into his swollen penis. He slid down in the chair. His legs stiffened.

She was rocking in a frenzy, her redolent musk torturing his nose, her hair weaving frantic patterns across her face as her head jerked back and forth.

‘Hai . . . hai . . hal . . . haihaihaihaihaihai. H-h-haaaaiii.’

She stiffened, her head thrust back among the pillows. Her body jolted in the spasms of orgasm. DeLaroza was on the edge of madness. He too began to spasm and as he did, she rose slowly, tantalizingly to her knees before him, shuddered, zipped down his pants, freeing him, and, with a tiny animal cry, let her face fall across his lap. Her mouth enveloped him, her tongue brushed him, the moist membranes of her mouth closed on him, and an instant later he too exploded.

The meal was prepared by the chef of the finest Szechuan restaurant in the city, who arrived at precisely nine o’clock, assisted by two busboys, and moved silently into the kitchen, where he set up and awaited her command. Domino sat at the head of the table. She was no longer the servant, now she ruled like an empress, clapping her hands once at the beginning of each course and twice when they were finished, the busboys appearing and disappearing as silently as time passing. DeLaroza sat at the opposite end of the table, eating slowly, savouring every bite, smiling, and nodding approval after each course. They ate in silence, in the manner of Chinese royalty, devoting their full attention to the food.

It was spectacular. The courses were small, to prevent overeating. And while Domino bad prepared only one course, the shark’s fin soup, she had planned the entire meal, selecting the most succulent dishes from the menu of the Princess Garden restaurant in Hong Kong. It was truly a meal fit for an emperor: t’ang-t’su-au-pien, a salad whose main ingredients were fresh lotus roots, sesame seed oil, and soy sauce; chow fan, a mound of rice concealing bits of egg, shrimp, ham, peas, and onions, all deep-friend in peanut oil; hasi-tan, a side dish of deep-fried bamboo shoots and water chestnuts served over noodles; and Peking duck, basted in salad oil and roasted until the skin crackled, th n served as three different courses. First, the skin was presented, dipped in thick soybean paste, sprinkled with onions, and wrapped in Chinese pancakes. Next the bones were offered, boiled into a gravy with cabbage and mushrooms and served with the chow fan. Finally, the meat itself, juicy, spicy, hot, and sliced into thin strips. The dessert — sliced bananas dipped in batter and deep-fried, then immersed in ice water that froze the outer crust into a glaze while the bananas remained steaming hot — was the perfect conclusion.

When the meal was over and the chef and his assistants had departed as silently as they had come, she served absinthe, smuggled in from Ecuador, and they smoked a joint of pure Colombian grass the colour of cinnamon. It warmed and mellowed them, stirring the libido again. They stared dreamily across the table at each other. Not a word had passed between them for more than two hours.

Finally she left the table and went back to the massage room. DeLaroza lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair, fully content, awaiting whatever surprises she would offer next.

His thoughts began to wander. To Hotchins. To the campaign.

To Burns.

The thought of Burns chilled him and he closed his eyes, summoning his mantra to purge the devils from his mind.

Gowmanah

thinking about her, lying before him among the pillows

Gowmanah

stroking herself, turning herself on, performing for him...

Gowmanah

visualizing her undressing, revealing her immaculate body...

Gowmanah

and it was simple. Once again, Eros commanded his mind.