Sharky's Machine (25 page)

Livingston grabbed a handful of Flowers’s shirt and coat, swung him out of the car, spun him around, and slammed him against the hood. He put the flat of his hand against Flowers’s head and shoved him hard into the window of the Lincoln.

The window cracked and Flowers’s eyes went blank. He sighed and dropped straight to the floor. Livingston dragged him by his shirt front across the floor and into the car elevator, dropping him face down on the metal floor. He pushed the up button and then jumped off the elevator and ran across the parking deck to the fire steps, taking them two at a time as he raced to the third floor.

The elevator shuddered, groaned, and started rising. On the third floor another black man was leaning against the fender of a cream-coloured Rolls-Royce. He was bigger, more dangerous, than Flowers, a blockhouse of a man in a dark blue suit. He was reading a racing form which he tucked under his arm as the elevator started up. He walked casually towards it. Behind him Livingston stepped through the third-floor door and leaned against the back of a parked car, holding his .38 in both hands and aiming it at the centre of the big man’s back.

The big man peered down into the slowly rising elevator and saw Flowers lying on the floor.

‘Hunh?’ he said. His hand slipped under his coat, reaching for his armpit.

‘Don’t do nothin’ stupid, nigger,’ Livingston yelled. ‘I got softnose loads in this piece.’

The big man turned towards him but kept his hand inside his jacket.

‘Bring it out slow and easy, motherfucker. You do anything sudden, I put a hole in your belly big enough to park that Rolls in.’

The big man continued to stare. His hand stayed inside the coat. Doubt troubled his eyes as he calculated the odds.

‘Don’t get fancy, man. I’m the heat and I don’t miss.’

The rear window of the Rolls glided silently down and a voice that was part silk and part granite said, ‘Okay, Steamboat, cool it. I’ll talk to the man.’

The back door of the Rolls swung open. The man called Steamboat uncoiled and withdrew an empty hand.

Livingston peered over the .38 into the interior of the Rolls. It was a study in gaudy opulence. The seats were upholstered in mauve velvet with gold buttons. The floor was covered in ankle-deep white shag carpeting. Built into the back of the front seat were two white telephones, a bar:

and an icemaker. A bottle of Taittinger champagne sat on the bar shelf.

The man who sat in the corner arrogantly sipping champagne matched the decor. He was shorter than Livingston’ and looked younger, but he was beginning to show the signs of good living. His afro flared out, encircling his head like a halo, and his moustache was full and trimmed just below, the corners of his mouth. He was wearing a dark-blue, pigskin jacket, rust-coloured gabardine pants, and a flowered shirt open at the neck, the collar flowing out over the lapels of the jacket almost to his shoulders. Gold chains gleamed at his throat, diamonds twinkled on his fingers, a gold Rolex watch glittered from under one cuff. His mirror-shined shoes were light tan with three-inch hardwood heels. A white handkerchief flopped casually from his breast pocket. He stared at Livingston through gold-framed tinted glasses, then looked down at the .38 that was pointed at his chest.

‘You mind, nigger?’ he said, nodding towards the gun.

Livingston appraised the back seat, lowered his gun, and laughed.

‘Shit,’ he said, ‘I could get you ten to twenty for what you done to this poor Rolls.’

‘Get on in, goddammit. All my fuckin’ heat’s runnin’ outa here.’

Livingston got in and pulled the car door shut.

‘Been a long time, Zipper.’

‘Ain’t that the truth. Last time I saw you, you was wearin’ a fuckin’ monkey suit, sittin’ in the front seat of a goddamn patrol car. Bi-i-ig shit.’

‘Last time I saw you,’ Livingston said, ‘you were in Fulton Superior Court apologizin’ for boosting car radios.’

‘That long ago, hunh? Shit, time do fly. You mind tellin’ me what the fuck all this Wild West shit’s about, comin’ in here, bustin’ up my people, wavin’ all that iron around? No need for that shit. You here to bust my ass?’

‘This is a social call.’

‘Shit. What d’ya do when you come on business, kill somebody?’

‘Flowers went for his piece, man. You think I’m gonna stand around, let some dumb nigger blow my ass off?’

‘He is a dumb fuckin’ nigger, no question about that. Good help’s hard to come by these days.’ He looked through the car window. Steamboat was standing by the front of the car, watching. ‘Now Steamboat’s a whole nother case, baby. You fuck with Steamboat, you better have your plot paid for.’

‘Used to tight, didn’t he?’

‘Light-heavy. Mean son-bitch. Cat’s never been knocked out. Too slow was his fuckin’ problem. He was instant death when he was in-fighting but the fast boys would lay out there, cut him to pieces at arm’s length. You just let that motherfucker get in one good shot, though. Shit, they’d think they was run over by a goddamn freight train. What you want, nigger?’

‘Told ya, man. It’s a social call.’

‘Un hunh. How long you knowed about this here travelin’ bookie parlour of mine?’

‘About three years.’

‘Aww, don’t shit me, nigger. We grew up on the same fuckin’ street, man, remember?’

‘Look here, brother, long as you keep your operation clean, I ain’t interested in bringing’ anything down on you. You ain’t connected. You strictly cash and carry, don’t take no markers, so nobody gets their head stove in, any of that shit. I ain’t in any rush to turn you up to some white dude on the Gamin’ Squad just so’s he can make some goddamn points. I’d rather know what you doin’, Zipper, have some motherfuckin’ stranger come in here bustin’ nigger ass all over town, you dig?’

Zipper thought it over, then smiled.

‘How about a little wine there, for old times’ sake?

‘Thanks anyway, man. It gives me heartburn.’

‘Heartburn! Man, that shit’s fifty dollars a bottle. Ain’t no fuckin’ heartburn in this shit.’

‘I’ll still pass. I got a partner downstairs starin’ down Cherry. I got to get back before they get bored, start hurtin’ ass.’

‘Okay, so get it on. What the fuck you doin’ here?

‘I need some information.’

Zipper sat up as though he had been slapped. At first he seemed surprised, then surprise turned to anger.

‘Shee-it.’

‘Listen here, motherfucker . .

‘Sheee-it, man. What you handin’ this nigger? Come in here, think you can . . . goddamn, hey, Zipper ain’t no fuckin’ stoolie. Zipper don’t rub ass with the heat. Man, you forgot where you came from.’

‘You ain’t changed a bit, sucker. Still put your fuckin’ mouth up front of your brains.’

‘Well, you changed, motherfucker. Shit, give a nigger a piece of goddamn tin and a peashooter, motherfucker thinks he’s Father fuckin’ Devine.’

One of the phones rang and Zipper snatched it off the hook. ‘Closed for lunch,’ he snapped. ‘Call back in ten minutes.’ He slammed the phone back.

‘Look, I ain’t interested in your goddamn bookmaking, I told you that. I got a problem and I think maybe you can help me with it. Now, the dude I’m lookin’ for is white.’

‘Shit,’ Zipper said, ‘I don’t do no business with honkies. Ain’t you heard? They’s a lotta fuckin’ rich niggers in Atlanta now.’

Livingston looked at the floor. ‘You tellin’ me you don’t do business with whitey, I’m tellin’ you I’m talkin’ to one lyin’ nigger. You takin’ layoff bets from half the highpocket white bookmakers in town, Zipper, and I know it.’

‘Layoff bets? Man, that’s different. I don’t see none of them turkeys. M’bagman picks up the takes, brings me the bread and the slip. Then be takes back what we lose. All I do, I count the money and put down the bets. I don’t know any of them motherfuckers personal.’

Zipper poured another glass of champagne, buffing while he poured.

Livingston looked around the back seat, stared out the window, finally lit a cigar. He said, ‘We gonna talk or are you gonna get that fuckin’ bard head of yours dragged downtown and let a couple of white cats play good guy-bad guy with your ass?’

‘I told you my position. Zipper don’t hand out no suit to the fuzz. I don’t care we was street brothers fifteen years ago.’

‘I ain’t here ‘cause we ran together,’ Livingston said. ‘I’m here ‘cause you got information I need. And I don’t have time to fuck around.’

Zipper looked at Livingston with contempt. ‘Know somethin’?’ he said. ‘You was one bad motherfucker. Nobody shit with you on the street, man. You bust ass. Now look at you. Two dollar fuckin’ suit, wash ‘n’ wear shoes, bookie goddamn haircut. And you want me to turn fuckin’ stoolie. I ain’t believin’ you, now.’

‘Listen here, Zipper, and listen good. I ain’t interested in your goddamn players. We’re talking about murder.’

Zipper looked startled.

‘That’s right,’ Livingston said. ‘Murder. Now you keep your fuckin’ yap shut until I finish. Cat I’m after is white. He’s an outfit hitman, can you dig that? Last night this son-bitch burned a very nice lady. He’s a fuckin’ lady-killer. And you givin’ me all this shit about protectin’ his ass?’

Zipper said nothing. He stared into his champagne glass. ‘This motherfucker woulda come into town a couple weeks ago. If he is a gamblin’ man, he’d be a big gamblin’ man. Sports, ponies, any national shit. Now you don’t know anything about such a cat, okay. But if you do, Zipper, I got to know about it, ‘cause man, we talkin’ about rough trade here.’

‘How come you so fuckin’ sure this dude gambles?

‘I’m not. It’s a hunch. But right now it’s all I got.’

The car was quiet. Zipper cleared his throat. Then the phone rang again.

‘Go ahead and talk,’ Livingston said, ‘I know you’re a bookie. What the shit you so shy about?’

Zipper yanked the phone off the hook. ‘Hello . . . Yeah, this Zipper. What it is?. . . It’s Dallas and seven. . . Well, that’s tough shit, turkey. That’s the fuckin’ spread and ain’t nothin I can do about it. . . . Listen here, motherfucker, I don’t make the odds. You don’t like it, put your fuckin’ money back in your goddamn shoe. Now, you want some action or don’t you? . . . Well, fuck you too, nigger.’ He slammed down the phone.

Silence again.

Finally Zipper said, ‘Only one possibility. Only one possibility. Cat can’t be your man. Can’t be.’

‘Who says?’

‘I say. He makes book in a fag bar out Cheshire Bridge Road.’

‘A fag bar?’

‘That’s right. This tough-nuts shooter you talkin’ about queer?’

‘Who is he?’

‘Shit, I told ya, nigger. I don’t have no truck with any of those fuckers personally. This joint, it’s called, uh.. . this stays with us, that right?’

‘C’mon, Zipper.’

‘This joint is called, uh, the Matador. Got this pansy. lookin’ bullfighter on the sign out front.’

‘I know the place.’

‘‘Bout five weeks ago my bookie friend out there, you know — he does nickel and dime shit out there, nothin’ big, mostly local games — anyways, he calls me, says, do I want to take a layoff on the Oakland and Miami game? Fucker took the spread for five grand and lost his ass. Next week he’s back again. Motherfucker doubles up, lays out ten grand on some NFL game and a basketball game, and splits. Been goin’ like that ever since. Five, ten g’s a clip. Right now I’m into him for about five thou.’

‘When’s the last time he bet?

‘Yesterday.’

‘Yesterday?’

‘You heard right, yesterday. He bettin’ on the playoff. Took Dallas and the points over Minnesota. Ten big ones.’

‘Zipper, I got to know who this player is.’

‘No fuckin’ way.’

‘Just the name, man.’

‘No motherfuckin’ way. Shit, I told ya. I don’t even know who it is. The bookie deals with the score and I deal with the bookie.’

‘Okay, who’s the bookie then?’

‘C’mon, goddammit. You lean on him, he’s gonna know I done it to him.’

‘I’ll cover your ass. Don’t you worry about that. I ain’t interested in the fuckin’ bookie. I want his mark.’

‘You got to cover my ass, Livingston. Tell you somethin’. You come clown on this little motherfucker, he gonna die on the spot.’

‘I’ll do it right, man. Who is it?

‘The bartender. Name’s Arnold.’

Livingston sighed. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘that was worse than pickin’ cotton with your goddamn feet.’

‘Just don’t fuck me over on this, hear? And don’t come back with any more of this snitch shit either. I done made my contribution for life.’

Livingston started to get out of the car. ‘Shit, motherfucker,’ he said, ‘my eyes couldn’t stand any more of this pussywagon.’

Zipper’s eyes flared. ‘Pussywagon, Pussywagon! Shit, you fuckin’ no-class nigger, this car cost fifty grand. Fifty fuckin’ thousand goddamn dollars. Ain’t no goddamn Detroit pussywagon. Shit, I don’t even scratch my balls when I’m in this machine. You hear me, Livingston?’

But the policeman was gone, down through the fire door towards the bowling alley below.

‘Pussywagon, my ass,’ Zipper growled, then he leaned out the door. ‘Steamboat!’

‘Yeah, boss.’

‘Take that fuckin’ dumbass to the Gradys and get his head stitched up and then fire his ass.’

At four A.M., Friscoe quit for the night. He drove home, grumbling to himself, angry because he had turned up nothing at all in six hours of hard work. His back ached and his eyes burned as he entered the house, passing up his customary raid on the refrigerator and going straight to the bedroom. He went into the bathroom and closed the door before turning on the light so as not to awaken Sylvia, splashed cold water on his face, and sat on the commode to take off his shoes. He sighed with relief as be dropped them on the floor, then went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, bone weary and almost too tired to get undressed.

His wife rolled over and said sleepily, ‘Barney?’

‘No,
it’s Robert Redford,’ he said wearily.

‘Oh, how nice.’

‘If he was as tired as I am, you could forget it.’

‘What time is it’?’

‘Past four. I’m dead. My feet feel like I just ran the Boston Marathon.’

‘You would’ve been proud of Eddie, Barney. He did just fine.’