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

by Jack Cuatt

  The Asian supports Machine as the latter drinks from the glass. The water is ice cold. The temperature shocks him into a clearer frame of mind. He feels a little closer to alive. He pushes the glass away.

  Machine's eyes narrow as the Asian teenager and the doctor walk to the doorway to confer. Bills change hands and a muffled argument takes place. When it ends, the doctor re-approaches his patient wearing a condescending smile and shaking his head.

  “I hope you continue to recover, young man,” he sighs dramatically. “And that you can manage to avoid a similar incident.” His smile broadens into a sneer. The Asian listens from his spot near the door, anger stretching his youthful features tight, hands clenched at his sides. “I understand the Hammerskins are looking for you as we speak,” the doctor continues. “I wish you luck.”

  Machine is wounded and weak, but he recognizes a threat when he hears it. He sits up and turns out of bed. His bare feet slap the floor and he lurches erect. The fat man takes three hurried steps back, and turns for the door, but the Asian blocks his retreat.

  Machine stays by the bed, unwilling to risk a step that would betray how frail he really is. “If they find me, I find you,” he says and pauses to let his point settle. “You've been paid?”

  The doctor's nods.

  “Get out.”

  The Asian steps aside and the doctor breaks for the bedroom door. Five seconds later the front door slams behind him and Machine slumps back on the mattress.

  The Asian walks toward the bed, chuckling almost grudgingly.

  “You scared the shit out of that base-head. He wanted more cash than I had. He won't say shit, though. He was just trying to scare somebody.”

  “Money in my bag,” Machine replies as he pivots his hips and lies back on the bed.

  The Asian says something Machine doesn't hear. The second his eyes close, he is asleep.

  31

  Machine awakens late the next day feeling almost rejuvenated. He sits on the edge of the bed, inspects his bandages, and tests his limbs. His hands, crisscrossed with gauze and tape, are steady. His legs feel weak, but not dead. His left arm and shoulder are still numb, but his eyes focus without uncertainty and stay open without conscious effort. Better. Not healed, but better.

  He climbs from the bed clad only in bandages and a pair of shorts that are not his and exits the tiny, windowless room.

  The Asian is out.

  The living room's windows overlook the Easter Industries plant and the river. The turgid brown waterway is ribbed by rusting bridges and spotted with drifting pockets of chemical waste. The waste pockets show up in rainbow colors and can strip the flesh off a corpse or an animal in fifteen minutes. The practice is a convenience for choppers and a gruesome toy for the emphysemic gangs of children who hang out near the Union Potomac switching yard. A stray dog and a pool of sludge are cheap entertainment for the violence- and poverty-jaded. Machine turns his back on the view and takes a slow turn of the apartment.

  It's small, three rooms and a narrow kitchen, more an aisle than a room. All the windows overlook the plant. The walls are moldering. Green wallpaper hangs in strips. There’s only one exit, the front door, and no real furniture, just some boxes and a tube-steel table with a peeling plastic wood-grained top. Two beanbag chairs and a television occupy the floor near the windows. Half-melted candles are scattered across the floor and the table top. Machine's clothes and weapons are nowhere in evidence. Very little light enters through the windows, and the smoke surrounding the plant makes it difficult to discern night from day. After some thought, he decides it is day. Satisfied on this point, he looks doubtfully at the bean bags, but decides against them. He settles for the taller of the three wooden crates arranged around the table and prepares to wait.

  Fatigue creeps into his legs and lower back. It's a reminder of the last few days. Of the Scarpo hit and the botched chop at Stanley's. He'll have to take it slow for a time.

  He waits a half-hour before the Asian steps through the front door carrying a paper sack from Rice Kitchen. He nods stiffly at Machine, crosses the room, puts the bag on the table, and quickly empties the contents. Machine maintains the silence as the Asian places orange juice, a cardboard box of noodles, and a plastic fork in front of him.

  “Eat,” he says. “You bought it.”

  Machine notes the hostile tone, the stiffness in gesture and attitude. The Asian seems annoyed by his presence, so why is he doing all of this? Why is he risking his life?

  “Where are my clothes and my gear?”

  “Clothes were ruined, but I bought you some new ones. They're across the hall,” the Asian says then turns abruptly to the front door, obviously grateful for the opportunity to exit. “I'll get them.”

  Machine watches the door and waits. The smell of food makes his stomach rumble. His saliva glands kick into overdrive.

  The Asian returns a moment later with a short stack of new clothes similar to Machine's ruined ones; black jeans and a matching jacket and T-shirt. On top of the pile are his wallet, the razor, his shoes, his belt, and the blood-smeared chest-pack.

  No 9mm.

  Machine stands and reaches for the bundle. “The pistol?”

  “Down the hall. Safer if the cops crash us.”

  “I want it.” He keeps his voice in the neutral zone. The Asian saved his life; it's important to remember that.

  “Eat first,” the Asian says as he drops on the crate opposite Machine and reaches for a box of noodles.

  Machine doesn't move. The loss of the Smith makes him feel more naked than clothes can fix. He forces himself to relax, drops the razor on the table, dresses quickly, sits down, and opens the noodles. Rising steam wreathes his face. He speaks as he spears a forkful of lo mein.

  “Why were you following me?”

  The Asian looks at Machine for a long moment before replying. Machine continues to eat, awaiting an answer.

  “I knew you'd ask that. To be honest, I'm not sure I'm going to tell you.”

  Machine spears another load of noodles and lifts them to his mouth.

  The Asian asks a question of his own, “Why don't you tell me why you were at the Roundup talking to the Mack?”

  Machine swallows. “If I answer your question you'll answer mine?” He stuffs another wad of noodles in his mouth. His appetite is growing with every bite.

  “That depends on the answers,” the Asian replies cautiously.

  Machine has told the story so many times, he doesn't hesitate to repeat it.

  “I was looking for a chopper.”

  “To work who?”

  Machine shakes his head. “He already did the work. On my mother.” He puts the last of the noodles in his mouth, chews and swallows. “Are you going to eat those?” he points at the Asian’s unopened box of noodles with his fork.

  “Go for it,” He pushes the box across the table with his left hand.

  “Who commissioned the work?”

  “I'm trying to find that out,” Machine says as he opens the noodles.

  “The word is you work for Vlad Kukov. True?”

  “The word? The word from who?” Machine chews and swallows, not really interested in the answer. Every gangster in Low Town knows that Red Sleeves, and Machine by extension, worked for Kukov.

  “Is it true?” The Asian persists. His hands slide out of sight, under the table.

  Machine stops eating, He grips the plastic fork tightly. He could drive the flimsy utensil through the Asian's eye and scramble his brain in a split-second. But killing the Asian isn’t an option. He owes the man his life.

  “He's helping me find the chopper. In exchange, I do what work he requires. Within reason,” Machine replies and resumes eating.

  “Within reason,” the Asian repeats slowly, tasting the words and not liking them. “What exactly is 'within reason'?”

  “No kids, no straights.”

  “Kukov agreed to that?”

  “It's not his choice.”

  “Right.”
The Asian grins sourly at that. What about those Hammerskins the other night? Was that for Vlad?”

  Machine hesitates a second before answering. He wonders how the Asian knows about the skinheads he had chopped the night before his own mother was murdered, but he doesn’t ask.

  “Yes,” he says as he uncaps his orange juice. He brings the bottle to his lips and drinks half of it before resuming with the noodles.

  “And you’re going to keep on working for him?” the Asian returns.

  Machine's expression remains blank. “Until I find the chopper, yes.”

  “And then?”

  “Then is then.”

  “And if Kukov ordered you to chop me?”

  “I'd decline.” Machine finishes the orange juice and sets the bottle down.

  A long moment passes before the Asian nods. “All right,” he says and puts his empty hands on the table. “Now ask your questions.”

  Machine relaxes a notch. “I already have.” he replies and forks more noodles. “Charlie Mack?”

  The Asian forces a smile. “I was at the Roundup gathering information on Charlie and his runners.”

  “For who?”

  The Asian teenager waves the question off with a flick of his fingers. “First let me answer the questions you already asked. You asked why I was following you. I saw you once with your father. Two-three years ago. You were pointed out to me. You were what, fourteen? And the baddest motherfuckers on the Avenue stepped aside for you. Say your name and people turned pale. Like you were some kind of boogeyman.”

  Machine toys with the noodles, feigning indifference. It was hard to believe he had been working that long. How many had he killed? He knows the number but never thinks of it. His ticket to hell has been punched so many times it’s a pile of confetti by now.

  “I was planning to fade you that night,” the Asian informs him with a thin smile. “I'm still not sure I won't.”

  Machine shrugs, unimpressed. “You know who I am. Who are you?”

  “My name is Kyokuto. Ex-gangbanger. I used to sling crack for the Playboy Gangster Crips, second avenue Crew,” he admits without pride or shame.

  “No more?”

  “No.” His eyes flash like sheet lightning. “I don't kill my own, not anymore.”

  “But you were looking to kill me.” Machine points out.

  “Nothing personal, Machine,” for the first time Kyokuto uses Machine’s street-tag. “I'm a soldier. You're the enemy.”

  More confusion. Machine is tired. He tries not to show it, but it's tough. “A soldier? What, the New Patriots? Democracy Now?” He names two of the most violent, left wing, anti-government terrorist groups.

  “None of the above.” Kyokuto's replies contemptuously. “We don't have a name. Rebels would be close. This city is a cesspool. We're going to clean it up.”

  Machine represses a shake of the head. This world, this city, is no place for idealists. Not live ones, anyway.

  “So why kill me?”

  “Kukov, the Children of The Blood Militia, and men like them, men like your father, are a cancer. They and the government conspire to oppress the majority. My crew does what it can to stop them.”

  “Crew?” Machine asks, remembering the bum with the shotgun and the driver of the black Nova outside the Den of Thieves.

  “There are three of us,” Kyokuto answers. “There will be more.” Quickly and guardedly, Kyokuto tells Machine about his crew. Someone called Wino leads the group. Wino's father and mother died in the prison factories. They were both writers of books branded as pornography and anti-God. Wino and his older brother were sent to the youth farm. Wino was released two years ago when he turned twenty-one. His brother is still in prison, serving a life sentence for three murders committed while inside. In the last three months, Wino's crew has chopped several dope dealers, a handful of pimps, and a half-dozen of the Militia in addition to the three Machine saw them blow away in front of the Den. All the work has been credited to the warring crime families or the Crips.

  By the time Kyokuto is finished talking, an hour has gone by and Machine is ready to drop. He hasn't said anything to interrupt, but the whole thing sounds like a good way to get dead.

  Kyokuto takes a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lights up. His knuckles are scarred and battered. There's a gunshot wound, a pale white circle, just above his right wrist.

  Machine stands. “So why didn't you kill me when you had the chance? Why did you bring me here, keep me alive?” he asks. His wounds throb and his eyes feel like they're packed in broken glass.

  Kyokuto lifts his shoulders and lets them fall. “You don’t seem like the typical gangster.”

  “I'm not a gangster,” Machine returns. “I don't kill the innocent.”

  “I'm willing to believe that,” Kyokuto concedes. He drags deeply on his cigarette, leans back, and blows smoke at the ceiling. “Until I know different.” He pauses, looking at the glowing ember of his cigarette.

  Machine has heard enough. “I'm going to bed,” he says, ending the conversation. “I'll be out of here tomorrow.”

  “What?” Kyokuto asks, surprised. “You’re not in shape to go anywhere.”

  “I have work to do,” Machine's tone makes it clear he won't be dissuaded. “You've done enough already.” He walks to the bedroom door.

  “One more question.” Kyokuto says.

  Machine turns back. His eyes rest on Kyokuto in the same way they would a chair or a napkin ring. Remote. Indifferent. Kyokuto feels the chill, but he presses on anyway.

  “How did you get those scars on your back?” He grimaces as he mentions them. The doctor, viewing the wounds dispassionately, had said an electrical cord was the most likely cause of the thick, overlapping scars.

  Machine doesn't react. No blink, no twitch, just a continuation of his soulless stare, but with his mind’s eye he sees Moses, the bloody wire in his hand, his eyes burning. It has been years. The wounds have healed, but the pain is not gone. The hatred still eats at his soul. Still directs his life.

  Kyokuto is embarrassed by the long silence. He's about to apologize when Machine answers.

  “Part of my education,” he says and starts to turn, but Kyokuto can't let it go, though he knows he should.

  “What did that teach you?”

  Again Machine is silent a long moment before replying. “That the flesh is weak, but I am stronger.”

  “That's it?”

  “No. It taught me that everyone is meat for the grinder. Everyone,” Machine answers. “It made me what I am.”

  “What are you?” Kyokuto blurts the question, then looks away, obviously wishing he hadn’t.

  “Death,” Machine answers flatly then, before Kyokuto can press him further, he turns, opens the bedroom door, steps into the dark room, and closes it behind him.

  32

  Machine awakens in the tiny bedroom, turns out of bed, stands, and stretches gingerly. He feels much better, though still weak. He exercises carefully in the dim little bedroom. A modified program, fifteen minutes of T'ai chi Chu'an followed by ten of calisthenics. The exercise is basic but efficient. He keeps it short, fearful of overexerting himself, of reopening his wounds. He might need the energy on the street. At best, he gauges he is at seventy to eighty percent of his true self, though the knife and shotgun wounds will hamper his endurance. Another round with the Hammerskins would do him in. As it is, he's lucky the wounds they inflicted were mostly superficial. The loss of blood was the most debilitating part of the injuries.

  He washes with two bottles of distilled water, dries with a threadbare towel and strips the damp bandages from his hands. He can't work with his hands covered. Dark stitches and scabs crisscross his knuckles and palms, matching a short row on his right cheek. No bleeding, but his fingers are stiff and swollen. Too bad.

  It's late evening when he exits the bedroom. Kyokuto is not in the apartment. Machine doesn’t wait for him to return, but Kyokuto's absence complicates things. He can't leave
for good without his 9mm, and he'd like to talk to Kyokuto again. Pump him. The Asian vigilante seems very well-informed about the city and the mob families. Maybe he knows why the Hammerskins tried to chop Machine at Stanley’s, or who paid for the work?

  Cursing himself for not demanding the Smith last night, for not taking it if necessary, Machine exits the apartment. He ducks out the side door into the alley and heads toward the street. He stops in the deep darkness at the head of the alley. The low rumble of a large gasoline engine drifts to him from the west. He drops to a crouch and presses himself to the cold bricks as the sound grows louder. Thirty seconds pass before a creep battle cruiser idles past the alley, its occupants hidden behind tinted glass. It continues down the street and out of sight. Machine listens to its engine fade to silence before trotting across the street and down the next alley.

  He checks every street and alley before committing himself, keeping to the darkest and most deserted until he is far from the Daylight Restricted Area, safely in the Zone, heading for Horace’s garage and one of the Škorpions, On the way, he stops and buys a quart of orange juice and two stale blueberry muffins at a food-cart run by a crippled old man dressed in greasy fatigues. As he eats, Machine leans against a boarded over abortion clinic and watches the New Towners cruise the stud-hustlers on Sixth Avenue. In the glow of neon Xs, pale older men and rough-looking young men barter in the street then duck into the ratty hotels that line the strip. In Low Town every vice has its own corner. None go wanting.

  Machine drops the orange juice container and the plastic wrap from the muffins on the sidewalk by an overflowing trash can and turns west, toward the Metropolitan Station, the location of the busiest cell tower in Low Town. A half block from it, he steps into the vestibule of a tenement and uses the prepaid to check his messages.

  As he waits through the shunting system, a blonde hooker walks past. WESTSIDE CFL is tattooed in blue on her right forearm. Crip for Life, Westside crew. Three of her fellow bangers, dressed in starched denim and blue head-rags, are standing near the alley, selling crack to a long line of buyers. The Crips' car, a dark blue Range Rover with blacked-out windows, idles at the curb, doors open, ready for a quick escape if the Hammerskins appear in force.