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

by Jack Cuatt

  “I wouldn't come after you,” Machine replies, “but someone like me would.”

  “And what about them?” Wino says dryly. ”Kukov must have a hundred guys that would take on the job. What about when they come?”

  “Are you looking for protection?” Machine asks.

  “Fuck that,” Wino snaps, leaning forward and fixing Machine with an unblinking stare. “I want to know if you got my back. I want to be sure that you ain't going to drop in on us with a straight razor and a box of plastic bags.”

  “I never killed anyone that didn’t have it coming to him,” Machine answers coolly, meeting Wino's stare head-on.

  Wino holds Machine's gaze for a long moment before he finally nods slowly. “All right then,” he says. He pushes Tic-Tac's shotgun aside, but Tic-Tac's finger doesn't leave the trigger.

  “Guess I ain't gonna get to gauge you,” the big man growls in a basso rumble as Machine steps around the coffee table and sits down in a beige chair with busted out springs. Kyokuto drops onto a kitchen chair and remains quiet, letting his friends feel Machine out.

  “So, what are you planning to do, Machine?” Wino asks, draping his arms along the back of the sofa. His ropey forearms are covered with cigarette burns and bisected by deep scars and sloppy jailhouse tattoos.

  “I want to talk to a Colonel Bishop. I plan to snatch him, ask some questions, then kill him. Blood for Blood.” Machine says as he mentally replays what Crest said about the Militia ordering the skins to kidnap Machine. If they did that, it seems almost certain they also ordered the hit on Moses. But why? Something to do with Sculli? Or the two men the Ox killed at Horace's garage? Lots of questions, and no answers. Maybe this Bishop can supply some.

  “Sounds easy. What do you want from us?” Wino asks with a sarcastic smile.

  “Nothing for the moment. Maybe nothing ever. Kyokuto thought we might be able to help each other. And I owe Kyokuto.”

  Wino nods, but responds with a noncommittal, “Well when the time comes, we’ll see. I got no love for the Militia, but we're in this for the long-term. I won't let anything fuck that up. No cowboy shit.”

  “Agreed.” Machine nods and rises. He finds himself liking Wino and his straight-forward manner.

  With a sigh, Wino gets to his feet, all six foot two of him, a small, wise smile playing across his bony face. “Keep us posted,” he says, looking at Kyokuto.

  “Always do,” Kyokuto replies as he stands. He and Wino share a look. Something passes between the two men. Machine notices, but pretends not too. He crosses to the door, opens it, and steps out on the catwalk. Kyokuto follows.

  The two teenagers leave the warehouse the same way they came in. They exchange no words until they are far from the docks, walking east into the Zone.

  They stop down the street from the movie theater the Children of The Blood use as their Low Town command post. Brilliant blue tile surrounds a dazzling marquis that announces Jesus Is Watching, and He Hates Fags and Jews. A few Hammerskins in leather jackets and buzz-cuts are hanging around out front, passing out leaflets and making the straights uncomfortable, but there are no men in camo. No Militia regulars.

  “Militia are keeping low lately,” Kyokuto says as he lights a cigarette. “Word is that they're gearing up for a big push against the Green River crew. “What do you know about this Bishop?” Machine asks.

  “He's a Lieutenant Colonel in the Militia. He was part of Jason Jones’ crew during the Moral Revolution. They used to call him 'The Batter.' Likes to get his hands bloody. We’ve been watching him for months, hoping to take a shot at him.”

  “I need to find him.”

  “I can take care of that. I got a line on him. A whore my mom used to hang with is shacking up with one of Bishop's bodyguards. She likes to drink, smoke weed, and run her mouth. I supply the booze and the weed,” Kyokuto laughs, but Machine sees no humor in it.

  “My number is 666-7766,” he replies and starts to turn away without a farewell. Kyokuto stops him with a word.

  “Hey. We're working together on this, right?” he asks, watching Machine's face intently. “That's settled, right?”

  “Yes.” Machine turns and heads out into the street, stepping around a red pickup and wading out into the sluggish traffic.

  “I'll be in touch,” Kyokuto yells at his back.

  36

  Feeling stiff and unfriendly, Machine awakens early in the afternoon, having dreamed of his mother. The weight of grief is heavy, the need for revenge nerve deadening. A little more time is all he needs, he tells himself. Then it will be over. Then he can begin again, be what she would want. Silently he renews the promises that allow him to keep killing.

  The aches and pains pass with brief exercise, a wash, fresh bandages, and clean clothes. Only the Ghost's death can make the grief disappear.

  After dressing and wiping down the room, Machine leaves the hotel.

  It's the middle of the afternoon. Gray streets and a gray sky. It doesn't help his dismal mood. Outside the Metro he uses the prepaid to call the answering machine. No messages. He ends the call and dials Dino's Supper Club.

  “Dino's, may I help you?” A lazy voice intones in a fake Italian accent.

  “Put Fat Paul on.”

  “I'm afraid you have the wrong number, sir. There is no one here named Fat—”

  “Tell him it's Machine.”

  “Sir—”

  “Tell him.”

  A protracted sigh. “I'll check, sir. One moment please.” The phone shuttles to hold. Machine waits. A mangy yellow three-legged dog limps past, shuffling through the gutter, sniffing the mounded trash. The animal unearths a skinny derelict bundled in filthy rags under a faded “No Parking” sign. The wino shoves the dog away and rolls back over, muttering.

  “What?” Paul snaps in Machine’s ear.

  “I want to talk to Vlad. Today.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “I have nothing to say to you. Call Vlad, then call me back.” Machine breaks the connection before Paul can object further, then moves off in search of food.

  He tries the answering machine in New Town three times before there is a message.

  “Four o'clock.” Paul's voice, no salutation or farewell.

  Machine replaces the receiver. He has just enough time to pick up the Lincoln and drive out to the estate.

  37

  Machine takes the elevated highway to Kukov's estate. The washed-out winter countryside drifts by in his peripheral as he thinks over what he will say. He still needs Vlad's protection and assistance, so he must tread lightly.

  He exits at the White Settlement offramp and turns north. At the estate's gate, he stops and shows his face to Santo ‘Three Fingers’ Cantor, an old line gangbanger. Three Fingers is missing the thumb and index finger from his left hand, a souvenir of a drug deal gone bad. The fingers are buried inside a garbage bag filled with lime, along with the man who chopped them off.

  Finger's sallow face registers nothing, and his right hand stays under his coat. He nods at Machine and waves him through with his mutilated hand.

  Machine parks at the rear of the house and enters the mansion through the kitchen. The Filipino girl Paul had been harassing last week is at the stove. She looks up and sees the young killer, then looks down, blushing. In some way she reminds him of Marie.

  Marie. Thinking of her, here, in her father’s house, makes Machine feel more desperate and alone than ever. He has nothing to offer Marie but a life strewn with corpses. The same thing Moses gave Connie. He shies away from that. Reins it in and turns back to the business at hand. Vlad. He proceeds down the back hall to the office door, no butler or gangsters in sight.

  Machine knocks.

  “Come ahead!” A hoarse bellow rattles the door.

  Kukov is alone. He has his feet up on his desk, a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other. He's leaning so far back in his chair he looks like he's about to go over. When he sees Machine, his feet slap the floor and he rises, beami
ng, and rounds his desk, his hand extended, trailing a haze of cigar smoke. Vlad's capped teeth gleam in two neat rows. He glances at the stitched cut on Machine's cheek, but asks no questions.

  Machine takes the offered hand without enthusiasm.

  “How the fuck are you, Alex?”

  “Still looking for Connie's killer,” Machine replies, flatly.

  Vlad’'s smile stutters then comes back strong, but his eyes turn wary. He drops Machine's hand. The cuts in the teenager's palm, crisscrossed with black thread, are seeping fresh blood. Vlad doesn't notice.

  “Sit down.” He turns his back, grabs his highball and returns to the chair behind his desk.

  Machine takes one of the wing chairs facing Kukov’s desk.

  “You went a little overboard at Scarpo's the other night,” Vlad says with undisguised relish. “Boxed most of his crew. I could have used some of those guys. Hell, one of them was already working for me.” The old man laughs, dips the ragged end of his cigar in his drink and puts it back between his lips.

  “I don't know a Scarpo,” Machine replies.

  “Ah, Jesus,” Vlad rolls his eyes. “Just like your old man with that shit. Paranoia.”

  Machine shrugs.

  “I don't hold it against you,” Vlad adds. “Better that than bragging to every whore you fuck.” He leans back and puffs at his cigar, gazing at the teenage chopper affably, seeing a big fat dollar sign.

  “Have you found out anything for me?” Machine asks.

  “As a matter of fact,” Vlad props his elbows on his desk. “We're making progress. I've got a name. It's not much but it's a start. They call the guy ‘Ghost.’ It's just a tag, but it's something. Freelance hitter. Top shelf.”

  “I've heard the name,” Machine replies deadpan. “And some other things. I don't think Scarpo commissioned the hit. I think the Children of The Blood Militia were involved.”

  “The Militia?” Vlad responds incredulously, squinting against the cigar smoke. “How you figure that?”

  Machine shrugs, “Just what I've been hearing. This Ghost used to be involved with them.”

  “Who you listening to?” Vlad tries to sound indifferent, but his eyes are as intent and steady as a cobra's.

  Another shrug from Machine. “No one specific.”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me,” Vlad pronounces. “This Ghost is the hitter. Somebody paid him. We find the Ghost, put the boots to him, and he’ll give up the payer. The Militia don't come into it at all. We don't fuck with them; they don't fuck with us.”

  Machine shrugs again. He won't admit his father's dealings with Sculli, the Militia’s front man.

  “I don't want you stirring up any shit with the Militia,” Vlad’s voice rises, his smile gone, the cigar forgotten. “I got enough trouble with the Council right now. I don't need the Militia on my ass too. Understood?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Machine nods stiffly. If a ‘yes’ is what Vlad wants, a ‘yes’ is what he'll get. And fuck him when the time comes to live up to the promise.

  “I'm gonna find this guy, Alex. Take my word. Just give me time. I got a guy working on him right now. I might have something tomorrow,” Vlad’s affability returns. He leans forward, feigning earnest sincerity.

  “I hope so,” Machine say as he rises.

  Vlad leans back, surprised by the sudden move toward departure. “Why don't you hang around for dinner, Alex? The wife's out of town, we can talk over old times,” Vlad makes an unprecedented invitation. Machine would rather eat out of a Low Town trash can.

  “I have things to take care of in the city.” He bows out gracefully.

  “All right then.” Vlad sounds relieved, like he hoped Machine would say no. “Take care of yourself. I'll be in touch.”

  The boss doesn't rise or offer his hand. Thoughtfully, he watches Machine's back all the way to the door, then remains in that posture, eyes narrowed and far away, for a long time after the young chopper is gone.

  Machine leaves the house by the back door. Only one thing has come out of the trip, confirmation that the Ghost is the chopper. And that leads back to the Militia. He climbs into the Lincoln and turns down the drive. Fingers waves him through the gate. Machine barely notices the flat-faced old gangster.

  38

  It's dark when Machine arrives back in Low Town. He parks the Lincoln at Horace's and calls the answering machine at the apartment. One new call. Kyokuto.

  “The Yellow Jacket. I'll be there until you are.”

  The Yellow Jacket is a teen club on Washington, close to the Bottoms. No liquor is served at the bar, but any kind of alcohol or drug can be bought in the bathrooms or the courtyard out back. Half a dozen Crips are hanging out in front of the club passing a glass pipe when Machine arrives. A pair of kids, one male, one female, are standing just inside the door, blocking the aisle.

  “You all right, Sarah?” The boy asks, slurring, unable to keep his head straight on his neck. She nods, then closes her eyes and drops to the floor like a dynamited building. Her knees hit the concrete with a sound like gunshots. Machine steps over her and into the club.

  The throb of digital bass sets his teeth on edge. Smoke hangs in the air, turning it gray and hot. Colored spots in the ceiling create small pockets of light but leave the body of the room in shadows. Cigarette butts and spilled drinks create a gray-brown sludge on the concrete floor. There's a bar along one wall, three deep with New Town teenagers sipping spiked cokes and smoking crank, crack, and marijuana. A couple of dozen people are dancing, most of them alone, empty-eyed and smiling.

  Machine spots Kyokuto at the back of the room, near the double doors that open on the club’s rear courtyard. Kyokuto is smoking a cigarette, an open quart of beer on the table in front of him. A willowy blonde teenage girl is seated across from him, her back to Machine.

  Kyokuto says something to the girl as Machine threads a path through the crowded tables. The blonde stands, circles the table, kisses Kyokuto hard on the mouth and turns away. She gives Machine a smile as she breezes past him to join a table of giggling girls.

  Machine drops into a chair facing Kyokuto and the club’s two doors. He doesn't ask about the blonde.

  “About time,” Kyokuto snaps, pitching his voice to be heard above the music, but not so loud that it carries. “I called you three hours ago.”

  “I was busy,” Machine replies without apology or explanation, his eyes scanning the room, his hand near the Smith. Confined spaces make him nervous. He prefers the street.

  “Bishop's got a meeting at the Lexington tomorrow night. Something big.” Kyokuto informs him, obviously not happy. “I talked to Wino. We got your back, but we need to get our shit together. Plan this out. Tic-Tac and Wino are waiting for us at the warehouse.” Kyokuto drops his cigarette on the floor and grinds it under his heel.

  “All right,” Machine says, not sure if he's pleased or not. “I need to make a stop on the way,” he adds, hoping Greg and Jerry, the gun dealing brothers, followed instructions and dropped Tommy’s gear at the Low Town warehouse. Blood will flow if they haven't, but that won't equip Kyokuto and his crew. “We'll pick up my car first.”

  Kyokuto drops a ten on the table and the teenagers exit the club. The Crips are gone, but a dozen Hammerskins are standing at a bottle shop across the street tossing a blue head-rag back and forth. It won't be long now before the Crips are gone for good. The Hammerskins, backed by the Children of The Blood Militia, are just too strong.

  Horace is standing in the shadows at the front of the garage. Machine introduces Kyokuto. Horace takes in Kyokuto with a long, steady look and nods, but offers no greeting or comment. Machine leads Kyokuto up the ramp to the third floor as Horace wanders toward the back of the garage.

  “Whose piece of shit is this,” Kyokuto asks as Machine stops beside the Granada. “This bucket ain't got a mile left in it.”

  Machine ignores the remark, kneels under the front bumper, reaches past the flaking chrome, and flips the detonator off
.

  “Get in,” he says as he opens the driver's side door and drops behind the wheel. Kyokuto slides in beside him. After inserting the key in the ignition, Machine reaches under the dash and disables the second device before cranking the 350 cubic inch engine to life. The engine revs powerful and smooth. Machine backs out, drives down the dark ramp and heads toward the new city's walls.

  “What's this car got in it?”

  “About forty thousand dollars,” Machine replies without taking his eyes off the street.

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Fast?”

  “Yes.” Machine answers distractedly. He doesn't care about cars or engines; they're just tools to a chopper.

  They turn left on Decatur. Two rows of concrete bunkers, warehouse space for the businesses of Low Town, flank the street. It's a relatively safe area. Most of the buildings' owners live in the walled city and vote in the Christian Council elections, so the cops pay attention.

  A yellow tractor-trailer is parked at the end of the street. A half-dozen Hispanics in white coats are moving pallets and crates as a pair of Anglos in jeans and caps look on.

  Machine circles the block, turns down the alley, parks behind the warehouse and steps out of the car. Kyokuto doesn't need to be told to wait. He slides behind the wheel and props his arm on the window sill, one hand on the butt of the Browning tucked into his waist band.

  The building Machine approaches is wedged between a meat packing warehouse and an automobile chop shop, both owned by Vlad Kukov. No one knows that Moses owned the building in between. Machine unlocks the padlock and steps into the darkness and the stench of rotten meat and gasoline. He closes the door behind him and reaches for the light.

  A 200-watt bulb pops on and a tight smile spreads across Machine's face. Olive-drab crates and bundles are neatly piled in the center of the room. He heads for the stacks, already knowing what he wants.