by Jack Cuatt
The answering machine picks up. He has one message.
“It's me.” The message is thirty-seven hours old. Charlie Mack.
Machine ends the call and dials the Roundup. The doors should be open by now.
The phone is answered on the second ring. The sounds of music and laughter throb through the line.
“Roundup!” A voice bellows.
“Charlie there?”
“Who's asking?”
“Machine.”
The line goes quiet, though he can hear the man breathing. Finally the phone clatters down. It takes a few minutes, but finally Charlie is on the line, sounding agitated.
“Where you been?”
“You called?”
A moment of silence and then Charlie says, “Lee Park in fifteen.” Click.
Machine stays where he is for a moment, considering his options, unhappy that the meeting had been called so spontaneously; it leaves no time to pick up a weapon. But he has to comply. Charlie must have something for him. A bullet or information, that's the question.
Machine crosses the Avenue and heads east, into the Bottoms, the darkest part of the Zone.
Lee Park is a dark, brooding square of dead vegetation forty feet down a foggy street strewn with trash drifts. The storm drains are clogged with debris and the intersections are knee-deep in green water. When it rains, the avenue becomes a swiftly moving river. There isn’t an electric light for blocks, just tall, brooding buildings deep in darkness.
A half block from the park, Machine steps into the recessed doorway of the old First National Bank and looks the park over from a safe distance. Office buildings, shedding windows like dead scales, loom over the one-block square of dead grass dotted with deader trees, muddy fountains, and warped sidewalks. Shadows drift through the trees. A lighter flares, a weak pin-point of light, then is extinguished. Junkies smoking or cooking smack. Machine glances at his watch. He’s late. He trots across the street and turns down the opposite sidewalk.
He’s crossing into the park when a low throbbing rumble, pumping steadily and drawing nearer, rattles the plate glass that covers the decaying old office towers. Machine recognizes the sound instantly, turns back and darts into an alley. The roar swells until it fills his brain and vibrates his spine and a Cobra gunship roars down the center of Lee Avenue, flashing past the alley, ten feet off the ground, stirring up a cyclone of soot and trash in its wake. The noise fades just as fast. Machine steps from cover and watches the chopper rise up over the rooftops and disappear. He starts for the park again. A low concrete wall separates the untended park from the street. Machine hops over it and jogs into the underbrush of scraggly trees, bushes, and weeds, trusting his eyes to find gaps in the growth as he needs them.
The darkness is almost complete in the gloomy pocket created by the skyscrapers that surround the park. BIC lighters, burnt matches and crack vials litter the ground under the trees. A junkie living room, no residents in evidence. The long, greasy grass wets the legs of Machine's jeans. He crosses the baseball diamonds and soccer fields, three feet deep in weeds. Rusted chain-link backstops and soccer goals stick up through the grass like dinosaur bones.
Four sidewalks form an ‘X’ that divide the park into four triangles. At the park's center the paths intersect at a statue of General Grant covered in bird shit and graffiti. Machine spots Charlie pacing in front of the statue, alone.
Machine crouches, leans against the trunk of a tree and watches Charlie and the rest of the park, looking for the heroin dealer's crew. Low voices drift out from the trees that border the baseball diamond, junkies on the nod or on the prowl, but there is no sign of Charlie's crew. That isn't possible. Charlie goes nowhere without Big Tina. Machine does another slow pan while Charlie fidgets and paces.
Nothing.
This smells like a trap: Charlie standing alone in the middle of the park? But Machine has to take the chance. He has to know what the heroin dealer has to say. He steps out of the brush and walks toward Charlie.
Charlie sees him coming and stops pacing. “You're late,” he snaps, barely looking at Machine. His bloodshot eyes are too busy jittering over the perimeter.
Up close, the dope dealer looks gray, nervous, twenty years older than his thirty-plus. There's a twitch under his left eye. The bulge of a shoulder rig under the Mack's right arm makes Machine even more wary. Charlie never goes strapped; he pays people to do that.
Machine palms the razor, wishing it was a gun. “Where's your set?” he asks, ignoring Charlie's complaint.
“I came by myself,” Charlie replies, stepping close. His breath is rank. “Just me and the Nina,” he adds, patting the bulge under his arm.
“What did you find out?” Machine gets straight to business; the sooner he's away from Charlie the better.
“Weird shit, Machine. I asked around, but nobody's talking.” Charlie rubs his chin with the back of a delicately boned hand revealing the butt end of a car antennae taped to his forearm. Not a bad choice for close work. A street gladiator weapon from the old days.
“Scarpo had an open contract on your pops 'til four weeks before he got dusted at the Metro. He pulled it. That means either he changed his mind or he hired a chopper and wanted everyone else out of the way.” Charlie pauses and watches a pair of base-heads sitting under the trees across the playing fields. A lighter flares and a ragged shadow hits the pipe.
“That doesn't help me much. Anything else?”
“Yeah, Scarpo got worked four nights ago.” Charlie eyes Machine, smiling faintly. Gold flashes. For a brief moment he looks a little more like the Mack.
“I know.” Machine says neutrally, not giving away anything. “What else?”
Charlie's smile evaporates. “I don't know. I asked a few questions. Discreetly, I thought. Only people I could trust. I didn't push. Didn’t press. But I got a call at the house two nights ago. Some white-boy's got my private number. Tells me, 'Mind your own fucking business, nigger;' those were his exact words.” Charlie's nervous red eyes cruise the park again before he resumes talking, speaking so low Machine has to strain to hear. “I don't scare easy, so I put the question about your chopper to an ex-Hammerskin that’s got a little problem with the China white. Used to brand dope dealers, now he sucks their dicks.” Charlie spits on the sidewalk. “Freak's into me for a yard and a half.
“He starts telling me this shit about an army of kids like the guy I'm describing. Crazy shit. I say I'm looking for one man and he ain't a kid. The freak smiles like he's shot half a bag of dope and says I'm wrong. Starts talking about the Children of The Blood Militia, an Aryan state, guns, and assassinations. Motherfucker's tripping like a sherm-head,” Charlie tapers off, chewing his lip.
“Tell me,” Machine demands impatiently.
Charlie nods. “I figured to let him sleep it off, get back with him the next day, when he'd have his shit together. The next morning I take Big Tina and Jamie over there thinking I'd wake his ass up and get some straight answers. But somebody beat me to him. Went to work on him with a soldering iron and a pair of pliers. They didn't leave much to look at.”
“That doesn't mean it was related to you,” Machine points out. “Maybe he was into someone else for cash. Maybe they got tired of waiting.”
Charlie is shaking his head before Machine finishes talking. “There was a note stuck to his right cheek. It said 'Mind your own fucking business, nigger.’ It was pinned there with one of my fucking tie tacks.” Charlie shivers. “The cocksucker was in my bedroom. My kids play in there.” He's really shaken. “I got Sol, Big Tina, and Jamie watching my house right now. That's why I'm solo.”
Machine is silent for a moment, thinking, trying to fit this piece into the puzzle. Charlie has definitely found something, but does it have anything to do with Moses and Connie Slaski's murder?
“Is that everything?”
Charlie gets a pained look on his face. “No. The junkie said I was looking for Ghost, and that I would never find him.”
“Not a ghost,” Charlie replies impatiently. “Just Ghost. Like a name.”
“Ghost,” Machine repeats.
“That's it,” Charlie replies. “Ghost. And that's as much as you'll get from me. This nigger intends to mind his own fucking business from here on.”
Machine nods slowly. “All right.” He can't make Charlie work for him; threats will get him no further with the aging dealer.
“If you hear anything==“
Charlie gasps then lunges at Machine, a shocked look on his face. He clutches a double handful of Machine's shirt. Charlie lurches again, and again, his eyes growing wider and wider.
Machine reacts instinctively; he grabs Charlie by the lapels, shoves the dealer away and brings the razor up and ready. Charlie pirouettes then hits the concrete on his face. His right cheekbone crunches but it doesn't disturb the heroin dealer; he's already dead. Three bullet holes are spaced a neat three inches apart across the back of his overcoat.
Machine dives as more bullets plow into Charlie's flesh. He hits the concrete and rolls to his feet behind the statue's marble dais, facing the direction the shots are coming from. The rifle is silenced, probably using low velocity rounds. A professional. And Machine is unarmed. Charlie has a weapon under his jacket, but Charlie is in the open…
Six bullets, Machine thinks as his eyes search the featureless faces of the buildings across the park. Charlie didn't need that much killing. The shooter was cautious. And very accurate. Any one of those six shots would have been fatal.
Six for Charlie and none for Machine? It doesn't make sense. A clean job would have taken Machine as well. If a man is talking too much, you kill the listeners, too. Standard procedure. For some reason, the killer was after Charlie and only Charlie.
And that means it's safe to leave cover and get out of the park before the cops arrive. In theory.
Machine stays put and counts to fifty, his eyes raking the park's perimeter. But he can’t stay there forever. He has to move. He rises into a sprinter’s crouch, drops his head and makes a run for the scrub, covering thirty feet of ground in a matter of seconds. The bandaged wounds to his abdomen break loose and hot blood courses down his ribs and stomach, but he doesn’t slow. He crashes into the brush at the edge of the playing fields, shielding his face with his arms. The damp grass tugs at his shoes and branches whip at his legs, chest, and arms, but no shots are fired. No one pursues.
After twenty feet, Machine slows to a fast walk. He reaches the low wall separating the park from Lee Avenue in under a minute, hops over it and moves fast to the cover of the buildings. He doesn’t stop until he is far from the park.
Machine's heart is pounding. The sprint has tested his body and found it lacking. His wounds pulse with heat. He crosses the street, turns right, and circles back toward Washington. When he reaches the strip, he buys a new prepaid phone at a porno bookstore. A shriveled old man sits behind the counter surrounded by an array of pink plastic genitals. He stares at Machine's back as the teenager steps into the fetish aisle and dials the Roundup Saloon.
“Roundup!” Someone shouts over the babble of music, laughter, and the crash of a tray of glasses hitting the floor. The Roundup is in full swing while its owner is on a fast freight to hell.
Machine talks fast. Just the facts. “Charlie's dead. Lee Park. Someone put six bullets in his back. A professional.”
“Motherfucker!” the voice surges through the phone. “Who is this?”
Machine hangs up and exits the store. It's started to drizzle again. Umbrellas and colorful ponchos give the street a festive appearance belied by the junkies, pimps, and whores. Machine heads for Horace's garage, for fresh clothes, bandages and one of the Škorpions. Low Town is no place to be without a gun.
33
Aftercollecting the Škorpion, Machine heads for Kyokuto's flop. He ignores the alley door and climbs the fire escape to the second floor, every muscle on fire. He steps through a glassless window into an empty second floor apartment then takes the building's main stairs to the third floor.
Kyokuto is sitting at the table facing the door, eating a hamburger and French fries with a pistol in his free hand.
“Hey,” he says through a mouthful of burger as he sets the pistol aside and points at a fast-food bag sitting on the corner of the table.
Machine takes a crate and helps himself to a burger, fries, and a bottle of water. Everything is greasy and lukewarm.
“I want my nine,” he says as he unwraps the burger.
Kyokuto reaches under his jacket, takes out the silenced Smith and its holster and lays them on the table. He places the extra clips beside the 9mm.
Machine picks up the Smith, ejects the clip and checks it. It's still full. He locks it back into the grip, flips on the safety, stands, straps the shoulder rig on under his jacket then holsters the Smith. He returns to his burger.
Kyokuto watches the procedure in silence. He waits for Machine to fill his mouth before commenting.
“Nice gun.”
Machine doesn't reply. He chews and swallows, still considering Charlie's story.
For the first time Machine feels like he might be getting somewhere. Everything points to the Hammerskins; first they try to chop Machine at Stanley's then Charlie gets warned off after talking to an ex-skinhead. But the Hammerskins didn’t chop Charlie. They're not that smooth. The killer was a professional. And a professional hit means mob or Children of The Blood Militia…
Finnegan had said a deal went sour between Mike Sculli and Moses. Sculli was a gun dealer who fronted for the Militia. And the Hammerskins and the Militia go hand in hand… Were they behind the work at the Metro?
“Been out long?” Kyokuto asks casually, interrupting Machine's train of thought.
“Not long,” Machine replies and takes another bite of the burger, trying to pick up the puzzle again, but Kyokuto keeps talking.
“I thought you might be gone for good.”
“You had my weapon.”
“See any Hammerskins?”
“Not many.” Machine takes a long swallow of the bottled water.
“I wouldn't worry if you do,” Kyokuto says, smiling.
“Why is that?”
“They’re not after you anymore. They got pulled off, paid off, and told to fuck off.”
“Comforting,” Machine acknowledges. “Who paid them? And why did they pull the contract?”
Kyokuto shrugs. “My ties don't run that deep with the skinheads, as you might imagine.” He gestures to his olive complexion. “All I know is what I said.”
“How did you find out that much?”
“A guy I used to bang with in the Crips is hanging with the Hammerskins now. He keeps me posted. He's not a racist, just an opportunist,” Kyokuto explains with a sarcastic smile.
“So the skinheads were paid for the work?” Machine asks and gets a slow nod for a reply. That means it wasn’t the Militia who commissioned the hit on Machine. The Militia don't pay Hammerskins to do wetwork; the Hammerskins beg for the Militia's sanction. Only outsiders pay.
“One of them made it out,” Machine says.
“Crest. I saw him running down the stairs, scared as a motherfucker.”
“You know him?”
“Of him. He's nothing to worry about.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“Just talk?” Kyokuto asks incredulously and swallows the last of his water. “You're not planning to work him?”
Machine shrugs. “Talk first.”
Kyokuto shrugs. “I'll find him for you.”
“Good.” Machine reaches for his French fries. They're greasy and heavily salted. After one bite he leaves them where they are.
“Charlie Mack got worked tonight,” he says. “In Lee Park.”
“No shit?” Kyokuto asks, only half-interested. “Somebody did the world a favor.” He fishes out a pack of cigarettes, puts one between his lips and lights up.
“I
was there,” Machine continues, “talking to him at the time.”
“No shit?” Kyokuto repeats, leaning forward, interested now. “You chop him?”
“No,” Machine sighs. “If I did the work, I wouldn't be talking about it. He was helping me. He found out something that got him killed.” Machine drains the last of his water. “A junkie that gave Charlie information was chopped, a warning to Charlie to mind his own business. He met me anyway.”
“What'd he tell you?”
Machine lays it out for Kyokuto: everything Charlie had said. Kyokuto listens attentively. He doesn't interrupt. Conspiracies are very entertaining.
“I'm sorry I didn't leave you your nine,” he apologizes as Machine finishes. Machine hadn't complained, merely mentioned that he had gone unarmed.
“I have it now,” Machine replies, neither accepting nor rejecting the apology. He dislikes any show of sentiment. People do what they do for a reason. Kyokuto hadn't trusted him to have the weapon. No apology required.
“I've never heard of a Ghost,” Kyokuto says. “Sounds like bullshit.”
“It's all I have.”
“I'll put the word out.”
“Be careful who you put it to,” Machine warns, glad that Kyokuto is willing to help. The more people he has looking, the better his chances of finding this ‘Ghost.’
“What Charlie said about the Militia maybe being involved, you believe that?”
Machine shrugs. “I intend to find out.”
“Hey,” Kyokuto brightens. “Let’s go up to the roof and get some air.” He stands without waiting for a reply and starts for the door.
Machine reluctantly follows. He wants to get back to the street, back to work.
“Is it safe?” He asks as Kyokuto opens the door.
Kyokuto looks over his shoulder, “No problem. You can hear the gun ships from ten miles away and they're the only thing high enough to see the roof.”