by Jack Cuatt
Good enough.
He exits the apartment and takes the elevator up to the Lincoln.
Machine drives to the Gemstone Building and parks on the top level, close to the exit, facing out. It's never very hard to find a good parking space in New Town; most people stick to the underground trams.
The Gemstone Building is zoned multipurpose. Offices, shopping and dining, movie theaters, and coffee houses. Philly's is on the seventh level down.
Machine descends on an otherwise empty elevator, thinking dispassionately about the coming work. The exit will be the hard part; getting out of the building and back to the Lincoln.
He gets off the elevator and turns north, not that direction means much underground. Plush carpeting covers a wide aisle separating twin rows of shops and restaurants. A motorized walkway is at the hall's center. Nature murals cover every blank surface. Mountains and seashores. Piped in music and processed air. Everything is impeccably clean, antiseptic and flavorless. And so are the people Machine passes. Pale-pink and well dressed. Mostly office workers. Machine, in his single-breasted suit, fits right in.
Philly's is flanked by Zorba's Holiday, a Greek restaurant, and the Hot Wok, a Chinese place filled with paper lanterns and plastic greenery. All three restaurants are pricey by Low Town standards, but just run of the mill in New Town. Machine steps off the moving sidewalk a hundred feet from Philly's and takes his time approaching the restaurant.
A red canopy extends into the aisle. Philly's plate glass windows are tinted and red curtains further obstruct the view. Machine stops under the canopy and pretends to read the menu as he looks through the plate glass and memorizes the restaurant's layout.
Along the left wall, the bar is narrow, dark and clubby. It is elevated three feet above the dining room and separated from it by a wrought iron railing. Rows of colored bottles and polished glasses refract dim light from the recessed bulbs in the ceiling. The other three walls are lined with booths covered in red vinyl. Neat rows of round tables fill the rest of the space. The kitchen and bathrooms are at the back, screened by a video partition playing taped footage of the canals of Venice. It’s lunch time; the restaurant is crowded with straights in business clothes. Through the glass Machine can hear the muted chords of recorded piano.
He turns away, steps over to the Hot Wok and disinterestedly reads the menu before drifting away down the corridor, his mind occupied with Philly's floor plan.
The germ of an idea begins to take shape.
Two hundred feet from Philly's, Machine takes a right down an intersecting hallway and passes under a decorative arch formed of rainbow-colored neon. Grocery stores, sundries and fast-food outlets line the aisle. Only the fast-food places are busy this early in the afternoon. Office workers move fast, headed to a late lunch or back to the office. Bored salespeople linger in shop doorways.
Machine stops at a stationers shop and purchases four dozen pencils and three packets of notebook paper. At a drugstore down the corridor, he buys a liter of red-tinted lamp oil and three large boxes of matches. The total spent is under twenty dollars. He uses his lowest-level access card for the last time. Four stores down from the drugstore, he wipes it clean and ditches it in a trash can. One less thing to tie him to the work.
With a plastic bag under his arm, he browses the wide aisle, spending a half-hour looking through store windows while trying to keep his face turned away from the security cameras. At 1:30 PM he drops the ruse and heads for Philly's.
Machine steps over Philly's threshold at 1:40 PM. The lunch rush is over but about half the tables are still occupied.
An effeminate maître d' rushes forward, all smiles and bows. Machine asks for a table near the back. The maître d' nods happily and leads him to a table three feet from the video partition and hands him an oversized plastic menu. Machine nods his thanks and the Maître d' hurries away to attend to three elderly executives wandering toward the exit.
A waiter cruises by several minutes later, balancing a mound of dirty dishes one-handed. He takes Machine's order: iced tea and the Chicken Fresco salad. The tea sounds good; the chicken is the first entree his eyes fall on. He has little intention of eating. The stack of dirty plates sways menacingly as the waiter careens off in the direction of the kitchen.
Kukov’s renegade soldier, his two associates and the briefcase are late and the Chicken Fresco salad is early. Machine picks at the spicy, underdone chicken, swallowing it without tasting it. He's on his second glass of tea, about to ask for the dessert menu, when three hard-faced men walk in. In Philly’s middle class dining room, the three are as out of place as grackles in a canary cage. The goon on the left is as described, square-headed and stocky. His associate is thin and bony, the jagged scar on his right cheek is livid pink. But the man in the middle is a surprise; it's Mike Sculli.
There's no doubt. Pointy beard, narrow face, dark hair, and a mole high on his forehead. Sculli is five-foot-eight with the build of an emaciated scarecrow. He's dressed well and carrying an elegant alligator-skin briefcase. Grinning and joking.
But Sculli was never a Kukov soldier. He was a front man for the Children of The Blood Militia. His only association with Kukov, that Machine is aware of, is the fact that Sculli was seen with Moses a couple of weeks before Moses and Connie were killed by the Ghost.
Is that why Sculli has to die? Once again, Machine wonders what Moses was up to in those missing weeks.
The maître d’ escorts the three to a table near the bar and, judging by the bowing and scraping that follows, is handed a nice tip by Sculli.
Sculli sits with his back to the bar, facing the dining room, the front door on his right. The muscle sit facing him. The maître d' departs, leaving the three men hidden behind laminated menus.
After the initial glance, Machine averts his eyes and sips his tea. He debates what to do next, caught between the work he has promised to do and his desire to talk to Sculli. He'd like to beat a few facts out of the gun dealer; if he kills Sculli he'll never get that chance. And if he doesn't kill him? He'll still never get a chance. Sculli's going to the Jesus creeps.
That makes up Machine's mind. The work goes on as planned. The Ghost will tell Machine all he needs to know, if Vlad ever finds him.
The waiter brings Machine the check without being asked. As he returns to the kitchen, Machine rises and heads for the bathroom behind the video partition, carrying the shopping bag in his left hand. He closes the men's room door, shoots the dead bolt and goes to work.
It's a small bathroom; a urinal, toilet, sink, and paper towel and soap dispensers. Machine sets the shopping bag down on the floor and drags the plastic trash can over. Hurriedly, he rips handfuls of towels from the dispenser and dumps them into the can. When the container is a quarter full, he opens the shopping bag, slits open the packets of paper and pencils and dumps them into the barrel. All but one book of matches follow. He shakes the can, mixing the contents, then pours a quarter of it onto the tile in front of the door, just outside its swing. Finally, he takes the liter bottle of lamp oil from the bag and douses the pile, the trash can's contents, the walls, and the toilet stall. Soon the room drips with amber fluid. The stench of petroleum is nauseating.
Machine steps to the door, opens the remaining book of matches, strikes one and drops it into the trash can. It ignites with a rush of flame three feet high. Matches start popping, their movement making the fire leap. Oily black smoke quickly fills the room. He strikes another match, unlocks the bathroom door, jerks it open, and drops the match onto the floor. The walls and floor go up in a ‘whoosh’ of flames.
“Fire,” he yells as he kicks the burning trash can through the doorway into the hallway, following close behind it, stepping through the flames. Smoke pours down the narrow passage and into the dining room. Machine ducks beneath the dense cloud, hauls out the Smith, and kicks the trash can down the hall, into the dining room.
People start screaming as the can rolls across the carpet, spilling burning paper and
popping matches. China, silverware and chairs go flying as the dining room fills with smoke.
‘BEEEEEEEEP!’ a smoke alarm's shrill klaxon adds to the confusion as he hops over a strip of burning carpet and strides toward Sculli's table, shoving people aside, weaving through the tables, the Smith held low at his side. A mad rush for the front door begins. People get trampled as the strongest shove through the door and spill out into the corridor. Sculli and his bodyguards remain in their chairs, glaring at the herd rushing the exit, too tough to run. What’s a little fire to a gangster?
Machine is ten feet from the table when the fire-sprinklers go off. A veil of water drops from metal heads inset in the ceiling. Sculli jumps up, throwing his hands over his head, cursing, pissed but not scared. He looks like a drowned rat with his tiny beard and mustache. His companions are a little slower to rise, but they’re just as pissed. They pick at their sodden clothes as Sculli glares at the crush of people at the exit and curses again. That’s when he spots Machine.
Sculli knows who Machine is; knows what Machine is. He instantly realizes that the young chopper isn’t there for the Chicken Fresco salad. He dives under the table. The two gangsters aren’t stupid either. When Sculli hits the floor, they leap into action. Scarface lurches to his feet, his hand snaking under his jacket, but Machine is already on top of him, the Smith already aimed at his temple. Machine squeezes the trigger, the Smith coughs and brains and blood splatter the tablecloth, plates and silverware. Scarface flops face-first into his salad as Machine pivots and aims at the remaining bodyguard. Blockhead is already on his feet, but he’s having trouble with the pistol strapped under his arm. It’s tangled in the wet material of his jacket. His eyes go wide as Machine puts two rounds through his chest that knock him to the floor.
Machine glides around the table, crouching low. Apparently Sculli isn't strapped; at least he hasn't started blasting yet. He flips the tablecloth up and spots a flash of polished black leather heading out the other side. Sculli is on the move. The gun dealer rolls out from under the table and rises into a sprinter’s crouch, but the movement jostles Scarface’s chair, toppling the dead gangster out of his seat. The fish-eyed corpse flops on top of Sculli, knocking him flat and pinning him to the floor.
As Sculli tries to wriggle free, Machine stoops to retrieve the briefcase sitting beside Sculli’s chair then circles the table. He stoops and presses the 9mm against the side of Sculli's head.
Machine has a dozen questions for Sculli that desperately need answering, but there’s no time. The Jesus creeps and the fire crews will be here at any moment. But, he hesitates to pull the trigger.
“Who’s the Ghost?” he asks.
Sculli looks up at Machine out of the corner of one wild eye, his face pressed into the carpet. He tries to shake his head.
Outside the restaurant Machine hears sirens approaching.
“Ghost?” Mike gasps out the single word. He’s having a hard time catching his breath. “Ghost?” He says again and tries to shake his head, which is impossible with the Smith tucked behind his ear.
“Did you set Red Sleeves up?”
“No! Your father fucked us all! He put the Militia onto both of us!” Mike yells. “You don’t have to do this! We can make a deal!” he pants the words out, shaking all over. But Machine isn’t listening. He’s heard those words too many times from too many people. What’s the point in making a deal with a dead man? His mind is chewing on what Mike said about the Militia. One more confirmation that it was the Children of The Blood Militia who had killed Moses and Connie. But that confirmation only brings more questions. Questions that Machine has no time to ask. The sirens are closing in.
“We can work something out!” Mike says and tries to rise. But that can’t happen. Machine has taken this work and it doesn't matter that Paul lied about who the real target was, Machine still needs Vlad’s help. Only Vlad has the kind of contacts that can track down this Ghost.
“Nothing personal, Mike,” Machine says and pulls the trigger.
The concussion blasts a four-inch hole in Sculli's skull. His forehead ricochets off the floor, his body tenses then sags.
As Machine holsters the 9mm, something catches his eye. Scarface's silk jacket has been thrown open by the fall. Hanging from the inside pocket is the gold badge of a Christian Police Detective. Sculli wasn't going to the cops after leaving Philly's, he met the cops here. A set up? Have Paul and Vlad turned on Machine? He’s not stupid enough to believe it isn’t possible, but he can't afford to dwell on it. The professional in him knows what to do: get gone.
He strips his suit coat and shirt in one motion, trusting the sprinkler's rain and the lingering smoke to give him cover, then balances on one leg and pulls the slacks off, takes a baseball cap from his waistband and slaps it on. A teenager in jeans and a blue windbreaker stoops to pick up Sculli's briefcase.
Machine heads for the door where the kitchen help, dressed in dripping service whites, are struggling with the few remaining customers to be next out the door. Machine moves close, but stays out of the fray. When the last two people wriggle through simultaneously. he is right behind them.
A crowd of wet, angry straights are milling about, complaining and wringing out their clothes. No one pays any attention to Machine. He heads for the moving walkway, steps onto the rubber panel and keeps walking, adding to its speed. Behind him the fire trams arrive at Philly's in a babble of sirens and bells. Machine doesn't look back. He steps off the conveyor belt at the first elevator, forty feet from Philly's, and pushes the “up” button. As he waits for the elevator to arrive, he wipes his face clean of running water and makeup with a handkerchief and tries to press some of the water out of his clothes.
The elevator arrives half-full of New Towners.
Machine gets a unanimous curious look as he steps on board.
“Fire sprinklers,” he says, looking no one in the eye. “A Taste of Philly's had a fire.”
Some of the passengers smile self-consciously then look away. Some keep staring at the damp teenager. All of them shift their bags and give him room to drip. The elevator's doors close.
Five minutes after killing Sculli, Machine exits the elevator at the top floor of the parking garage. Leaving a spotty trail on the concrete, he crosses to the Lincoln.
This is it, he decides. No more work for Kukov. Machine has paid the price of finding the Ghost. Paid the price and then some. He will collect what he's owed and that will be the end.
He climbs behind the wheel. The butt of the Smith is wet against his lower back but a little water isn't going to keep it from firing in the next half hour. Time enough to stop by the apartment for dry clothes. He hadn't planned on the fire or the sprinklers.
He starts the Lincoln, puts the car in gear and turns up the exit ramp. On Beltway, he turns north.
“Two cops,” he mumbles under his breath.
Bad news.
42
Machine parks the Lincoln and enters by the service door. In the corridor, a young black woman carrying a load of towels passes him. She doesn't look at the damp teenager. Low Towners know to keep their heads down and their mouths shut. She disappears through a door marked LINEN as the service elevator arrives. Machine climbs in and presses ten.
The plush corridor outside of his apartment is empty. He walks to his door, uses his key and steps into the dim foyer.
It strikes him immediately, the smell of expensive cologne, faint, but detectable over the stale, un-lived-in smell the apartment has acquired. Someone is here, or has been here recently.
Machine makes no sign that he has noticed anything amiss. Let them think he's an easy mark until they aren't capable of thinking anymore. The razor drops into his hand as he closes the door behind him. He turns on the foyer light, but not the living room’s. A narrow yellow jetty falls bright across the living room carpet to the kitchen counter, deep shadows on either side. Shadows that seem to absorb the light. He steps forward, takes a quick step left and heads for h
is bedroom door, staying close to the wall. With the fingertips of his right hand, he touches the butt of the Smith, cursing himself for not changing clips. Eleven rounds left, one under the hammer. Hollow-point Hydra-Shok. Enough.
Machine's eyes quickly grow accustomed to the gloom. He notices that the bookcase has been turned out of place. Someone has found the safe, but it’s the dark shape behind the chair in the far corner of the living room that arrests his attention. His legs keep working, hands swinging casually at his side. His right hand swings farther than the left, a seemingly casual movement until it darts under his damp jacket and grabs the Smith.
Machine spins toward the shadow, drops to one knee, aims at the center of the chair and pulls the trigger three times, his finger working so fast the sound is a single whisper. Flame leaps from the barrel of the Smith as the Hydra-Shoks rip through the back of the chair. Blood splatters the wall, the shadow roars in pain, and the chair comes flying out of the corner at Machine.
He tries to get out of the way but the combination of abuse his body has taken slows him down. The chair catches him at the knees and knocks him flat on his back.
And then the shadow is firing back.
Three silenced rounds light up the room like a strobe light, plowing into the chair and sending it tumbling away from Machine. But the shooter doesn't follow the bullets in as Machine would have done, he charges for the hall door, dripping blood, his right arm hanging limp, firing wildly over his shoulder, blasting the walls, furniture and ceiling until the pistol’s slide locks open on an empty clip. The guy ditches his gun. He’s got his good hand wrapped around the doorknob, but he can't get a grip. His blood slicks the brass fixture and face plate. He panics, spins and faces Machine.
Machine is on his knees by then, hunkered behind the sofa, the Smith tracking in on the shooter, lining up on a spot just below the collar of the man’s leather jacket.