by Jack Cuatt
The firm appears to be the building's sole occupant. Machine drives by once, recording all the necessary information. Shrubs and small trees fill wooden planters scattered across a brick courtyard out front. In back is a parking lot dotted with fragile fruit trees in ceramic pots. A pair of Mercedes and a sleek BMW sport coupe are parked in the back lot, surrounded by a chain-link fence threaded with wooden lattice.
Machine stops at the corner and takes a good look around. Most of the buildings in that street are stately brownstones. These have been the homes of the rich for almost two hundred years and many still cling to the old family homestead. At night these streets are heavily patrolled by the Christian Police and private security. Not as secure as New Town, but not the kind of street where a nighttime prowler will go unnoticed.
Machine turns left on Decatur and makes another left on Clark Street, traveling from wealth to poverty in only five hundred feet. Clark is a wide avenue lined with worn-out frame houses that runs directly behind Gibbons and Clark's. Gnarled oak trees overhang the eroding asphalt, all afflicted with some kind of yellow fungus. A few For Rent signs are stabbed into weedy lawns. Not many people are about, and not many cars either. A couple of rusted clunkers are perched on cinderblocks and a half-dozen gas-burners that still look serviceable are parked in driveways or at the curb. A few old folks are sitting on their porches as still as mummies. Near the corner, a group of skinny kids are squatting in the gutter passing a joint while, one trash-filled yard away, a base-head leans against a tree, watching. The base-head doesn't approach. The kids would be more likely to kill him than share their dope. No one pays any attention to the Granada. Poverty, hunger, drugs, and crime. This is what passes for middle class in Low Town.
Machine turns uptown.
At10:00 PM, he makes another pass in front of Gibbons and Clark's office building. The tinted windows shine black in the exterior floodlights. The parking lot is empty. Closed for the evening. He makes the turn on Clark Street behind the architect's office.
Some of the houses have lights on. A party is rattling the windows of an old stucco box with faded red trim near the middle of the block. Quite a few cars are parked on the dark street, most near the party house. Machine parks in the shadows of a rotten-limbed oak mummified in brown vines, and cuts the engine. Thumping bass and laughter from the party five houses away fills the car. He watches the mirrors and waits to see if anyone is curious enough to approach.
The house the Granada sits in front of is a large one-story Greek revival painted off-white. The porch railing sags, the windows are more cardboard than glass. A For Rent sign, faded and crooked, juts out of the yellow lawn.
Pulling on a pair of black leather gloves, he climbs out of the car, circles the oak, crosses the yard and walks briskly down a driveway littered with beer bottle caps and cigarette butts. Behind a leaning, almost paintless garage, he finds Gibbons & Clark's chain-link fence. Without hesitation, he digs his fingers and toes into the diamond pattern, pulls himself up and over the top, and drops lightly into a crouch on the other side.
The rear of the building is only thirty feet from the fence. Thirty feet of asphalt devoid of any cover, aside from twiggy trees and stunted shrubs. It will have to be enough. Machine takes a deep breath and darts into the open, keeping low. His sprint ends at the rear of the building where he sticks close to the wall as he moves to the building's rear door, the spot where the roof line is lowest. His eyes keep moving; his ears burn with the effort to hear.
Nothing.
Beside the rear door, a vented metal case covers an industrial air-conditioner. Machine climbs on top of the case, jumps and grabs the edge of the roof with his fingertips. Effortlessly, he pulls himself up and over and lies flat on the gravel surface, looking across the roof, checking for security measures. He sees nothing out of the ordinary. Prepared to bolt if he is wrong, he pushes himself up into a crouch. His shoes crunch gravel as he trots to the glass dome of a skylight, one of a half-dozen that dot this level. He kneels and cautiously peers over the edge.
An empty copy room, dark except for the tiny green and red lights of the copy machines. Not what he's looking for. He trots from dome to dome, taking the same careful look and moving on. Empty offices, a breakroom, bathrooms. No people. He pulls himself to the next higher level and repeats the procedure. And the next. On the third level, forty feet above the parking lot, he looks down through the tinted glass dome on a bank of steel flat files used to store oversized construction plans. The plans for Scarpo's home should be in one of those drawers. Now all he has to do is get inside.
As on all of the previous windows, a thin black cable is attached to the inside window frame. It's a cheap, closed-circuit alarm direct-wired through a CRT to the phone and the Jesus creeps. The doors and windows will be wired as well. Simple, but enough for this building. The contents, a few computers and other electronic office equipment, don’t have enough value to warrant the attention of a professional thief, and the alarms would keep Low Town’s boosters at bay. Machine had come prepared for stiffer security. If everything goes right, Gibbons and Clark won't even know they've been burglarized.
Taking a glass-cutting-wheel and a small suction cup from the chest-pack, he scribes a rough square into the skylight, gently applies the suction cup, and pulls. The cut glass comes free and he lays it on the roof beside him, the suction cup still attached. He puts the cutting-wheel back in the chest-pack and produces a device made of two magnets joined by a four-foot length of copper wire. He reaches through the hole in the skylight and places one of the magnets against the window frame and the other on the point where the alarm cable begins. That completed, he flips the metal latch, freeing the dome.
He takes a last look across the roof before he lifts the skylight. There's no movement, except the winking red taillight of a Cobra gunship in the distance, circling New Town. He props the skylight open on its folding metal arm, being careful not to interrupt the wire and magnet circuit, throws his legs over the sill and drops ten feet to the vault floor. His crepe-soled tennis shoes muffle the impact. He stays crouched, motionless for a moment, head cocked, hands forming knife edges, ready to attack, ignoring the Smith and the razor. He's not going to chop a night watchman. No straights, no kids, that’s the rule he’s followed for the five years he’s been in this business.
Nothing happens. He steps over to the metal flat files.
The drawers are labeled alphabetically by owner's name. In five minutes Machine has the Scarpo plans folded in rough quarters and stuffed under his jacket. He closes the drawer, steps beneath the skylight, jumps, catches the window frame, and chins himself over the edge. He rolls out flat on the roof, back in the cover of the night, and takes a fast look around. All’s quiet. He gently closes the skylight, reaches through the ragged square and removes the wire and magnets. He puts them back in the chest-pack before flipping the window's latch. With a small tube of epoxy, he smears the edges of the loose square of glass and the hole in the window. The epoxy is fast drying and clear. It gets gummy in the time it takes him to press the chunk back in place. It's dry in seconds. The crack is barely noticeable.
After replacing the glue and the suction cup, he zips his jacket, runs quickly to the edge of the roof and drops over the edge, landing almost inaudibly on the gravel roof of the next level. Two more drops and he's standing ankle deep in the ground cover growing close to the building. He takes a quick look around then sprints to the fence, leaps against the chain-link and drags himself up and over. He drops into the overgrown backyard of the empty house. Again, he listens and looks. Nothing moves. No police, No sirens. Just street noises and music and laughter from the party down the street.
He trots to the Granada and climbs behind the wheel. In ten minutes he’s pulling into Horace’s garage.
Back in his filthy hotel room, the sounds of an argument echoing down the hall, Machine spreads the plans out on the bed and looks them over, trying to find a way in. It doesn't take him long to determin
e there is none. Security is tight. The goons at the gates are window dressing; the real bitch is the fiber optic cameras and motion detectors embedded in the brick walls at waist height. No wonder Sunglasses knew Machine was by the creek. A kennel, shown in outline at the rear of the house is more bad news. Room for a half-dozen dogs. The only way in is through the front gate. Not really an option unless you're suicidal.
Machine folds the plans, tucks them under his jacket again and leaves the hotel. He drops the plans in the Granada before heading into the Zone on foot. He's got a lot on his mind.
19
Machine needs weapons. Inside Scarpo's compound a war crew awaits. He needs heavy artillery, artillery no longer at his disposal due to the burglary of the New Town storeroom. He has to find someone willing to sell.
On Washington Avenue the night is in full swing. The clubs are booming. Dealers rake in the cash; prostitutes work the cars. This evening’s entertainment comes with the arrival of the Jesus creeps in force. They're rousting the homeless and junkies again. Pushing them off the Avenue into the Bottoms. Harried forms rush past Machine. Rag-wrapped shadows hide in alleys and doorways. These sweeps usually occur when new labor is needed for the prison factories or the fields. The cops fill their quotas and get rid of a few junkies and street people at the same time.
On a corner two blocks from the Metro, twenty feet from the mirrored visor of a Jesus creep in full battle gear, Machine stops, leans against a shuttered store front and makes a call. Moses was a long-term and very profitable client to several arms dealers. Two are currently breathing and selling. He dials a number from memory, watching the creep in his peripheral. The number connects him, through several shunts, to a service run by a crew out of Baltimore. Reliable, devoted to the trade, impartial to sides.
A woman answers the phone.
“Piper Cable Systems,” she rolls her r's and breathes through her nose. A low renter with aspirations. “This is Jenna, how may I help you?”
“I'd like to speak to someone about your services,” Machine says, picking his words carefully. The last time he called they were a cellular phone dealership. The name changes, but the business remains the same.
“Have you done business with us before?” The woman asks.
“Yes.” Machine's eyes drift to a pair of cops patting down a crack dealer in front of Red Dog Liquors across the street.
“Your name please?”
“Jericho.”
Expert fingers tap a keyboard at the other end of the line, the clatter accompanied by the receptionist's low breathing.
“Jericho,” she sighs. “You have a credit for twenty thousand dollars. Will you be using it today?”
“Yes.”
“Are you interested in our basic or expanded service?”
“Expanded, but not the full treatment.” He gets the point across; he's interested in heavy gear, but not cases of it.
“Understood,” the woman acknowledges apologetically. “I'm sorry to inform you that we are currently unable to provide our expanded service due to product shortages.”
Despite his disappointment, Machine's curiosity is piqued by the words “product shortages.”
“Someone stocked up,” he says, attempting to lead the woman into conversation. In Low Town, information is life.
“I wouldn't know, Jericho. I answer the phone. That's my job.” Cold, professional.
“When are you anticipating being back on line?”
“Three weeks, maximum,” the sweet professional returns.
“Thank you, Jenna,” Machine says.
“Thank you, Jericho.” The line goes dead.
Machine pockets the phone. He has another call to make but he won't spend too much time on a phone from any single location. Safety dictates a change in cell towers. Seven blocks east, he stops under the marquee of a lap dancing joint advertising a weekend special of $29.95. The place's windows are painted black and covered with red Xs. He dials a number from his mental Rolodex: Sculli, Mike.
The phone buzzes at the other end as men drift under the ghostly marquee into the squalid theater with looks of glassy-eyed need. They are addicted to flesh the same way a junkie is addicted to crack or methamphetamine. The receiver clicks several times and the ring changes. Two more rings and the connection is made.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service,” the remote voice of an operator, digitally captured to replay a thousand times a day, informs him. “If you believe you have reached this recording in error, please try again.” A dial tone hums in his ear. No need to try again; he dialed the right number; it just isn't the right number anymore.
The teenager hangs up. That's it. The only option he has left is the Children of The Blood Militia, and they don't sell directly to bangers or mob crews. That's why they have guys like Sculli.
Machine stops at a noodle shop run by two old ladies in pink jumpers. Both the women are wearing canisters of mace around their necks. The lower halves of their faces are covered by dust masks stained nicotine yellow from one day’s use. A radio propped over the stove is tuned to the government news station. Machine listens as he eats soggy noodles out of a Styrofoam cup.
The Green River Battalion and the Children of The Blood Militia are skirmishing in the hills upstate. The Militia is intent on bringing the area into its sphere while recruiting as many Green River troops as possible. The smaller Green River Battalion has been forced into a guerilla-style campaign. Their spokesman has issued a statement that includes allegations of atrocities against women and children. A Militia spokesman had no comment when questioned. The Truckers' Union strike gets second billing. It's drawing to an ugly close. Rioting outside a factory where satellite haulers are manufactured resulted in thirty-three deaths. Only one was a police officer. He was shot in the back by his own comrades. The rest is Low Town stories. Incest, crack wars, dead kids, serial murders. Machine picks up on one new thing as he swallows his noodles, a not so oblique criticism of the Children of The Blood Militia's activities in Low Town and upstate. The Militia and the Christian Council have never been kissing close, but the Council has tolerated the Militia for decades. Now it appears the electorate is pushing for an end to the violence. It will never happen, Machine thinks. Low Town will always be Low Town.
Machine chews the last of his noodles. He doesn't care about the Children of The Blood Militia or the truckers' strike. He joins the flow of bodies on the Avenue, his mind returning to his own problems. Maybe Sculli isn't out of business; maybe he's just changed phone numbers or locations? An hour or two invested in finding him might pay off.
There is one place more likely than the rest for a gun-dealer after dark. Machine doubles back the way he came and heads for the Bottoms.
20
The Den of Thieves is a pit fighting ring on Washington Avenue at the farthest extremity of the Zone, sandwiched between a peep show and a roulette joint. The peep show has a narrow pink door flanked by pornographic posters outlined in twinkling Christmas lights. The gambling spot is owned by Kukov and has the reserved, seedy flavor of a Mafia hangout: faded linoleum floors, tube-steel chairs, rickety restaurant tables, and a low stage where no one ever sings. All the action is in the back; big money likes privacy when it loses. It likes it even more when it wins.
The Den of Thieves occupies a brick building with concrete cornices and a detailed frieze depicting nymphs and warriors in battle and love. Two limousines are parked at the curb, silhouettes of drivers behind the wheels. Dozens of other cars, most of them luxury status symbols, are parked in a vacant lot across the street. At the midpoint of the block a battered black Nova is parked, a bulky shadow behind the wheel, cigarette smoke rolling out the open driver's side window. Ten feet from the club's front door, a skinny derelict is leaning against the wall. A ratty blanket is spread over his thighs, an empty paper cup placed on the sidewalk in front of him.
“Spare change?” He mutters as Machine walks past him to the club's front door. Machine ignores
him.
A muscle-bound freak in a black tank top stands guard at the club's entrance. The standard fee for admittance is one hundred dollars. Steep, but that's where Victor Stark, the club's owner, makes his money. He doesn't make book on his fights, doesn't fix them either. His money comes off the gate and from private fights in the smaller arenas at the back of the building. Machine separates a bill from the roll in his right front pocket and passes it over. The doorman nods him through, into the smoky cacophony of the arena.
Stark was once a pit-fighter with a record of thirty kills in forty-five wins. He made a fortune betting on himself then used the cash to set up the Den. His refusal to take bets allows him to run the place as he sees fit though Kukov, as a silent partner, takes twenty percent of the gate.
The front door opens on a dim lounge. Tables and chairs fill a wide alcove and stools line a bar on the left. A few people are at tables drinking and watching the fights on closed-circuit television. Beyond the lounge, down three steps, is the arena. Tall steel grandstands are set up around a twenty-foot square pit cut in the concrete floor. The overhead lights are dimmed. A blazing bank of spotlights hangs by chains over the pit.
Half of the arena's seats are filled - five or six hundred people. The customers are all well-dressed, more women than men. The ringside seats are occupied by a who's who of the local power structure, legal and illegal. Waitresses in skimpy rhinestone outfits work the crowd with trays of drinks. Bookies take bets. Neither lack customers. Machine drops down the steps to the arena floor, circles the nearest grandstand and climbs metal stairs. His eyes rake the cheering, half-drunk crowd, looking for Sculli and not seeing him. At the top, he stops, head brushing the steel-trussed ceiling, and sits on the last row.