He flagged down a passing patrol car and had them drop him off at Moundt’s, thinking she might be doing some early morning shopping. The place was deserted. He had a cup of coffee and called The Nosh.
‘I got some weird tapes for you, pal,’ he said.
‘X-rated?’ The Nosh asked sleepily.
‘You better believe it.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Moundt’s, on Peachtree. I got to get home, get a shower, and change clothes. I don’t have a car.’
‘Can you give me thirty minutes? I need to walk through the shower myself.’
‘I’ll be here. Listen, on the front end of one of these tapes there may be something I can use, a name maybe. But there’s heavy interference from the record player.’
‘Don’t sweat it,’ The Nosh said. ‘We’ll lift the music out.’
‘Beautiful,’ Sharky said. ‘See you when you get here. Take your time.’
It was almost dark and the damp, cold wind hinted of more rain. A man walked leisurely past the exit gate from the parking deck of the Lancaster Towers. He was wearing dark glasses and a long blue overcoat, his dark, close- cropped hair hidden under a plain cap, an undistinguished- looking man taking an early evening walk.
A vintage Buick pulled up to a post near the exit gate and the driver slipped a plastic card in a slot in the post. The exit gate swung open and the Buick pulled out. The gate remained open for twenty seconds and then swung shut. The pedestrian was inside when it closed, standing in the shadows near the wall. He took off the dark glasses, studied the interior of the garage. It was empty. Burns smiled to himself. That was the most dangerous part of it, getting in without being seen.
He walked briskly to the east tower elevators and pressed the up button, holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, prepared to fake a sneeze if someone was in the elevator. His right hand extended down through the vent in the right-hand pocket of the raincoat. He held a .22 Woodsman, pointing at the floor. The elevator doors opened. It was empty. He stepped in and pushed the button for the twelfth floor. He was lucky. It went straight up without stopping.
He got out, looking up and down the hallway. Empty. He moved swiftly to 12-C and rang the bell. Nobody answered. He picked the lock, stepped into the apartment, and closed the door quietly behind him. He listened, the ugly silenced snout of the .22 poking between the buttons of his coat. He heard only the sound of his own breathing, nothing else. The apartment was dark and smelled musty. He moved rapidly from room to room, checking closets, even looking under the beds. He relaxed. it was empty. He holstered the .22.
He felt a sudden urge to relieve himself and swore under his breath. Age and tension conspired against his kidneys. He went to one of the bathrooms and urinated.
He returned to the living room and took a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket, pulled them on. He pulled an easy chair over to the large picture window facing the west tower. He propped open two slats of the venetian blinds with two wooden matches, making a small peephole about six inches long and two inches high, and leaned forward and peered through it. He had a perfect view of Domino’s apartment, two floors below in the opposite tower.
He took off the raincoat and spread it out on the floor beside him. The coat had three special pockets sewn in the lining. From one he drew the twin-barrelled carriage of a twelve-gauge shotgun, from the other its well worn stock. He snapped them together, cocked both hammers, slipped his fingers inside the trigger guard and barely touched the two triggers. The hammers clicked a fraction of a second apart. He slid the rubber buttplate back and removed two shells from a special pocket. He popped the shotgun open, loaded both barrels and snapped it shut.
From the third pocket he took a small pair of opera glasses and a device that looked like two long tubes soldered together. He slipped them over the end of the short- barrelled shotgun and tightened them in place with a thumbscrew. He laid the shotgun on top of the coat.
He put the opera glasses on the windowsill and took a small plastic bag from his shirt pocket and laid it beside them. It contained two red pills. He went to the kitchen, got a glass of water, brought it back and put it beside the pills. The excitement was starting. He scanned Domino’s windows with the opera glasses. It was dark. He smiled. Plenty of time. He put the glasses back on the sill, and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he waited.
In his post on the roof Sharky too waited. He had returned at 5:30, clean, refreshed, wearing jeans, a turtleneck, a leather jacket, and sneakers.
‘Not back yet,’ Papa reported, smacked him on the back and left. He settled down with his book, aware that he was rereading passages several times and concentrating more on the tape recorders than his book. He finally put it aside. He had been thinking about Domino all day. He had been thinking a lot about Domino.
He could go down there when she came home and lay it all out for her, give her a chance to cooperate in exchange for immunity.
And she would probably tell him to get stuffed.
Or blow it out his ass.
Or maybe tell him she didn’t know slit. And just maybe she didn’t. In which case she could blow the whistle on them to Neil and flush the whole machine.
The thing was, at that moment, Domino was clean. They bad absolutely-nothing on her but an association with a man they knew was a shakedown pimp.
Forget it, Sharky.
The machine in the bedroom suddenly turned on and he grabbed the earphones. It was the phone ringing. After the third ring her recording machine came on.
‘Hi, this is Domino. I’ll be away from the phone for a little while. Please leave your name, a short message, and your phone number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Wait for the beep tone before you start. Goodbye and have a pleasant day.’
A second later the beep sounded, followed by:
‘Hi, it’s Pete. Look, I’m running a little late. No problem. I’ll call you back in fifteen, twenty minutes. So long.’
Pete? A new name for the catalogue. Perhaps the big man from last night. No, he thought. Different voice. Maybe it’s her trick for tonight. In which case, since it’s almost ten to eight, she’s cutting it a little thin.
The machine in the living room turned on. She was coming in the door. She closed it, turned on the radio, and went into the bedroom. He heard the bed groan under her weight, heard Maria Muldaur’s voice:
‘Til the eve-nin’ ends,
‘til the eve-nin’ ends.
Mid-night At The Oasis,
Send your camel to bed...
The phone rang again. She caught it on the second ring. Eager Pete, he thought. But he was wrong.
‘Hello . . . hello . . . ?’ A pause, then an exasperated, ‘Hello?’ She slammed down the phone. Sharky lay on the cot, waiting for her trick to arrive.
Burns cradled the phone gently and smiled, the mirthless, ugly grin of anticipation. He shook one of the reds out of the plastic bag and washed it down with water. He put his raincoat on, put the glass back in the kitchen, swung the chair back to its original position. He sat down with the shotgun between his knees, waiting for the speed to start.
It surged through his blood and his heart began pounding. His scrotum pulsated. He closed his eyes, taking the ride up, letting the red carry him along until his nerve endings were keening with excitement.
He was ready, his senses sharpened, his guts buzzing with anticipation.
He stood up and put his hand through the pocket vent and took the shotgun, aiming it at the floor. He buttoned the coat and started towards the door and stopped.
Jesus!