Machine's Work: A Hyper-Violent Crime Thriller (Assassination City Book 1)

by Jack Cuatt

  The priest looks back as he starts the engine. Machine remains as he was, staring down. The priest shivers, puts the car in gear and drives away from the field of stones huddled in the grove of oaks.

  Machine is glad to be alone. The grave digger will be back soon; his mud-clotted shovel leans against a huge gas-powered backhoe parked behind the trees. Machine strips off his jacket and drops it on the grass beside his mother's grave. The wind gusts suddenly, carrying the scent of cold water and wood smoke, rattling the limbs of the trees. Somewhere nearby a chainsaw's whine rises and falls.

  Slowly, head down, Machine walks to the backhoe and retrieves the shovel. He strips the felt from the mound of dirt beside his mother's grave and looks down a long moment on the glistening brushed-steel casket before he stoops, digs deep into the pile and dumps a spray of damp soil across the coffin. His eyes and lungs burn. He takes another shovelful. And another. Overhead, the clouds thicken. Lightning races through the pendulous gray mass. The crackle of thunder sounds like distant gunshots. Slowly the grave fills. This is something he must do. The last thing he will ever do for his mother. His final act as a son.

  The wind grows colder and the chain saw goes silent. As the last of the earth is placed atop the low mound, the first raindrops slant down, dimpling the bare soil's surface, drumming on the lid of Moses' coffin. Lightning flashes again, blue-green in the twilight. The rolling boom of thunder is only a second behind. The rain intensifies.

  Water courses under Machine’s clothes and over his pale skin as he stares at the six feet of earth that hold his mother down. In the drone of the rain, he can hear her voice. An imagined sound. Machine turns away and walks down the leaf covered slope through the trees. He has his hand on the Caprice's door when a small red convertible turns in at the cemetery’s front gate and speeds toward him. The top is up, but he can see the driver clearly. It’s Marie Kukov, dark hair pulled back from her face and hanging loose down the back of a white silk blouse.

  Machine’s breath catches in his throat. She is more beautiful than he remembered.

  Marie brakes the car hard, throwing up a spray of gravel, parks beside the Caprice and jumps out of the convertible. She rushes to Machine, her cheeks streaked with eyeliner. The rain plasters her hair to her face and her blouse to her body.

  “Oh, Alex,” she says as she grabs his hands and looks up at him, her face clouded with grief. “I’m so sorry. I heard the news on the radio and came as quickly as I could.” She drops his hands, throws her arms around his neck and draws him close, crushing him to her.

  Machine feels the hot sting of tears in his eyes and his throat contracts so tightly it’s hard to breathe. The tears slide down his face as the rain beats down on his shoulders, but he is unashamed. He could show this grief to no one but Marie. Only with her and his mother has he ever felt safe enough to let slip the death-mask he presents to the world.

  “How did it happen?” Marie asks, drawing away from him only slightly, tilting her chin up, still clinging to his neck.

  “They killed her. And Moses. Gunned them down.”

  “Who?” Marie asks.

  “I don’t know yet. But I will find out,” he adds fiercely. Suddenly the tears are gone and the rage is back, almost overpowering, blotting out all else.

  Marie’s lips compress and she draws away from Machine. Her arms fall from his neck and she hugs herself, shivering.

  “Let’s sit in my car,” she says then turns without waiting for an answer. She climbs behind the wheel and Machine slides into the seat beside her. For a moment the two sit silently, staring out at the rain, at the wet gray tomb stones.

  “So, you’re going after them,” Marie says slowly, without turning to look at Machine. “Is that what Connie would have wanted?”

  Machine’s facial muscles stiffen and the light in his eyes dims. When he looks at Marie his expression is remote.

  “It’s what I have to do,” he says.

  “Have to,” Marie repeats the words softly, her emotions tightly under control. She seems to roll the words on her tongue, disliking the taste. “You don’t have to do this. You want to. Not for Connie, but for yourself. To make it easier to bear her death. Killing her murderer is the last thing Connie would have wanted. She would have forgiven him.”

  “She never got the chance,” Machine replies acidly. “He blew her head off.”

  Marie turns in her seat and faces Machine. She searches his face. “So you’re going to keep on killing. Follow in Red Sleeve’s footsteps. Be a chopper just like your father was, like my father is.” Marie mentions her father with obvious loathing. Her hatred for Vlad is an old story for Machine. It was one of the things they had in common; a parent straight out of a nightmare.

  “I never killed anyone that didn’t have it coming,” Machine replies defensively. “I’ve never harmed an innocent person.” He looks down at the floorboard. “No straights, no kids,” he adds, the words of his mantra. The thing that has separated him from Moses.

  “That’s where all this is heading,” Marie says as tears bloom in the corners of her eyes. The words choke in her throat. “You’re going to end up dead in a gutter somewhere. I’ll be out here, alone, putting you in the ground.” She swipes at her eyes with her fingertips, turns her head and stares through the rain streaked side window at the dripping trees.

  Machine says nothing. He follows her gaze and together they watch the empty cemetery for a drawn out ten minutes, each wanting to say something that will make the situation right, but knowing that there is nothing to say. Machine finally breaks the silence.

  “I can’t walk away. I can’t.”

  A moment passes before Marie replies; when she does she doesn’t look at him. “I wish you would realize that there’s a whole world outside of Low Town. It doesn’t have to be this way. You could do something with your life.

  “Afterwards…” Machine begins but doesn’t know how to finish.

  “Afterwards, you call me,” Marie finishes, turning to face him again.

  Machine looks at her as he reaches for the door handle. “You’ll be the first,” he promises.

  Marie reaches across the front seat and touches his cheek with her fingertips. “You’re so beautiful,” she says. “And so cold.”

  Machine grabs her hand and draws it to his lips. “Not as beautiful as you,” he whispers as he slides out of the car. He closes the door.

  Machine watches Marie exit the cemetery, then looks up the hill toward his mother’s grave. Finally he climbs into the car and starts the engine. The time for grief is over.

  The chopper is coming.

  11

  When Machine arrives back at the Kukov estate, Fat Paul is sitting in a wing chair in the bunkhouse's living room. The Kukov family underboss rises as Machine comes in.

  “Vlad wants you to ride with Butch Dancer and Vincent Lacosta to pick up the cut from the DWU,” Paul explains, self-consciously smoothing the shiny lapels of his suit.

  Machine listens and nods, his teeth clenched. The look in his eye makes Paul nervous.

  “No trouble's expected. Vlad just thinks it’s a good idea for you to get to know some of the fellas,” Paul hurries to add, backing toward the front door, nodding his head stupidly.

  Machine nods again so Paul will leave. When the underboss is gone, Machine walks over to the garage. ‘Get to know some of the fellas,’ he thinks sourly. Machine doesn’t make friends. And he doesn’t shake down union stewards or shop owners. It looks like he needs to have another talk with Kukov, make it clear what he’s willing to do. But now isn’t the time. He checks the Smith, locks a round under the hammer, and heads for the garage,

  Vincent and Butch are waiting in a blue Chrysler. Butch, sandy-haired with a fat round face atop a long, skinny neck and a grand impression of himself, is behind the wheel. He has the stereo cranked to nine and is bopping his head along with disco retreads. On the front seat beside Butch, Vincent Lacosta looks like the poster boy for mob enforcers; dark
and quiet, carefully dressed and well-groomed. Machine climbs into the backseat. No one says anything. They exit the estate and take the elevated highway to the outskirts of Low Town, Butch driving at thirty miles over the speed limit. They take the first exit into the city. From there, Butch keeps to the back streets until they reach the docks near the Easter Industries plant.

  The union's offices are in a run-down gray building three blocks from the docks. Close enough to smell diesel and chemical smoke. The area is mostly warehouses, shipping companies, and diners only open in the daylight hours. Two flat-faced ex-freight handlers dressed in silk suits are waiting in the building's glass-enclosed lobby, a briefcase on the floor between them. Not very discreet. Machine stays in the car as Butch and Vincent go inside.

  A pretty blonde receptionist turns from her computer as Butch leers his way in the door. Butch says something and her mouth falls open then snaps shut. She looks down and starts tapping her keyboard. Behind Butch, near the door, Vincent watches with a disgusted grimace on his face.

  The flat-face twins step forward with the briefcase. Butch snatches it, gives the cringing receptionist a wink and a grin and follows Vincent back out to the street.

  The pair return to the car. The disco frenzy resumes as they start the return trip.

  Six blocks from the union building, Butch pulls over on a deserted side street lined with garbage choked lots and crumbling ruins. He kills the engine and the radio and turns to Vincent, speaking hurriedly in low tones, his muddy eyes bright.

  “I got an idea. You know Scarpo's boys are gonna be at the track. Devil's Brew is fixed to win, I got the word. They're at the hundred dollar window right now. We can hit that fuckin' sheeny's place and be gone before anybody knows shit. Vlad'll fuckin' love it. We'll teach that motherfucker the last lesson of his life.”

  Vincent shakes his head, but he doesn't meet his partner's eyes. He looks at the dashboard as he explains, “Butch, we have to take the money back to the house. If anything happens and we lose the cash, Kukov'll box us both. It's a stupid risk.”

  Butch's expression gets ugly in an instant. “Fuck you. Who'd Paul put in charge?”

  Machine silently watches the show from the back seat.

  “You ain't got to be like that, Butch. What the fuck are you trying to prove?” Vincent asks, cold and murderous.

  “I'm takin' care of business. Spencer's gonna pay or pray. Get the fuckin' Buddha out of the trunk.”

  Vincent gets out and slams the door hard enough to rock the car. Butch mutters something as he leans over and pushes the trunk release in the glove compartment.

  Vincent is back in a moment. He drops into the front seat, and slams the door again.

  “I got the motherfucker,” he says slapping the shotgun's butt on the floorboard between his feet. The blue steel barrel juts up between his knees.

  “You don't have to make so much fucking noise,” Butch grumbles.

  Vincent looks out the windshield and makes no reply.

  Butch starts the car then glances in the rearview mirror, into Machine's eyes. “We won't need you on the street, Machine,” he says.

  Machine makes no reply. He looks briefly at Butch and then beyond him, to the street. He doesn't care if Butch gets killed, as long as Butch leaves him out of it.

  Butch’s expression makes it clear he doesn't like the attitude, but he doesn't say anything. He's been around long enough to know Machine is a cold blooded killer, a cemetery filler. The disco comes back on as Butch guides the car back onto the street.

  The car rolls downtown through the ash-colored afternoon. The streets are coming alive with pedestrians and cars. It's after four; the night is beginning. Not many battle cruisers out. It's still the day shift for the Jesus creeps. They arrive in force as the sun goes down.

  Butch slows as they pass Shaky's Liquor, a bottle shop on the corner of Washington and Tatum. He pulls to the curb a half-block beyond the liquor store. Down the street a hobo is being heckled by two street kids. He curses the kids as they pelt him with refuse from the gutter. The old bum hurries off, pushing a rusty shopping cart. The kids follow, laughing.

  Inside the Chrysler, the three men sit, silently listening to the engine tick. Butch looks apprehensively across the street. Machine follows his eyes to the barred windows of a pawn shop at the middle of the block. “Herman Spencer's Pawn World” is painted in red letters across the barred plate glass window.

  Machine knows Herman. He's a bookmaker and loan shark who’s worked for Kukov since the early days. He wonders what Herman has done. Certainly the old man isn't stupid enough to turn on Kukov. Maybe he's skimming?

  Butch turns in his seat, throws his arm along the back of it and looks at Machine. “I need you to do something,” he says apologetically.

  “What might that be, Butch?” Machine asks with unsuppressed sarcasm, eyes half-closed.

  “Take the car up the street and turn around. Pull up about a block from Herman's and wait there with the motor running. When you hear us start shooting, tear down here and stop out front. We'll jump in and you head for the turnpike.” Sweat is beaded on Butch's forehead despite the cold.

  “Think you'll be in shape to jump, Butch?” Machine asks with a splintery smile.

  Butch's teeth clench, but he keeps his cool. He needs Machine. “Will you do it?” he asks.

  Machine decides, like Vincent, to let Butch hang himself. He shrugs. “Sure.”

  “Cool,” Butch sighs, relieved.

  All three leave the car, Vincent moving awkwardly in an attempt to keep the shotgun under his overcoat. Victor and Butch immediately fade against the shuttered front of an abandoned dry cleaning store as Machine gets behind the wheel and restarts the car.

  For a moment, he watches the nervous gangsters through the side mirror. Butch slips his hand under his jacket and brings a Glock 17 into view. He works the slide, trying to look hard, trying to convince himself. Machine shakes his head then pulls into the sparse traffic.

  Vincent and Butch hesitate a moment before stepping into the street. They dodge through traffic, Butch carrying the Glock close to his body, half concealed in the folds of his overcoat. Vincent is a step behind Butch instead of up front where the shotgun would be most effective. The few Low Towners on the street recognize the pair as gangsters and hurry off, ducking down alleys or into buildings. Ducking is a way of life in Low Town.

  Machine turns in at an abandoned gas station. A few stew bums are sitting on the curb, passing a bottle. They're too involved in a wine argument to notice the Chrysler make a u-turn through the littered parking lot and merge smoothly back into traffic.

  Butch and Vincent are at the pawn shop. The two have stopped short of the barred front window. They'll have to pass it before arriving at the door. A little planning would have foreseen that. The shotgun appears in Vincent's hands as the two break into a trot. If Herman sees them he'll know what's going on. In the cluttered store he probably has a dozen holes his grizzled little frame can squeeze into, every one equipped with some kind of firepower.

  Machine suddenly finds himself rooting for Herman.

  Butch hits the door and rushes through, raising the Glock and firing in the same instant. Vincent is right behind him. The door bangs closed. Gunfire. Lots of it. A half-dozen shots from a pair of handguns are followed by the boom of the twelve-gauge going to work.

  Machine moves down the block at twenty miles an hour. He pulls to a stop out front and peers through the dirty window. He can see Vincent just inside the door, feet spread, brow furrowed, working the slide on the twelve-gauge. The shotgun blasts fire. Pistol fire from the back of the store shatters the window and bullets whine into the street. Someone fires a ragged burst from a full-automatic, lighting the store up like a string of firecrackers. Suddenly Butch runs into view. He races past the front counter, his left shoulder slumped, arm dangling, firing wildly over his shoulder. He shoves past Vincent and staggers onto the sidewalk. He lunges for the car, leaving a blood trail o
n the concrete, and collapses on the front seat beside Machine, bleeding and cursing, tears in his eyes.

  Machine pulls his 9mm and cocks the hammer. He doesn’t give a damn about Butch or Vincent, but he will protect himself.

  Vincent hits the door, still firing the shotgun as a metallic green Nova screeches around the corner at the end of the block and speeds head-on toward the Chrysler. Machine knows few of Scarpo's soldiers, but he immediately recognizes the Nova's driver as Ricky 'The Bat' Bugolna, one of Scarpo's capos. The car’s two passengers, one in front, one in back, paw for weapons as the vehicle accelerates at the Chrysler.

  Vincent's shotgun roars again as he backs onto the sidewalk. He turns and bolts across the sidewalk. He hits the back seat, throwing the shotgun in ahead of him.

  It's too late to get out of the Nova's way. Machine calmly opens the door, steps out of the car and props his arm on the door frame. Patiently, the Nova screaming closer by the second, he takes aim on the interior of the car and squeezes the trigger. The silenced 9mm bucks and shivers in his hand as he sends three whispering three-round bursts through the safety glass. The blizzard of bullets punches through the Nova's shatterproof windshield and plow into the interior, ripping through seats and flesh. Ricky catches one in the throat and his mind isn't on driving anymore. His hands leave the steering wheel to clasp the ruined flesh as another Hydra-Shok smashes his right cheekbone into splinters. He slumps over the steering wheel, dead but still holding the car on course. The man sitting beside Ricky, a skinny guy in a black three piece suit, takes three shredders high in the chest. His face bounces off the dash and he flops back in the seat, his shirt front a bloody wreck.

  Machine lowers his aim and fires six more shots into the Nova's engine compartment before the Smith's slide locks open on an empty clip. Smoothly, he ejects the spent clip to clatter on the pavement, replaces it with one from his jacket pocket, flips the slide release, and squeezes the trigger, the movements so fast and efficient there’s barely a pause in his rate of fire. This is what he was born to do. The only thing he knows how to do.