by Jack Cuatt
Machine gets more than his share of stares from the few straights using the sidewalk or driving through. Long looks of curiosity, not fear. There's a lot of freaking in the streets of Low Town; Machine isn’t special. He ignores them and they forget him after a chuckle. He trots up the brownstone's steps, the briefcase swinging lightly in his left hand.
The house's narrow door has a peephole at eye level. Machine raps hard on the steel reinforced panel and drops the razor into his hand. He wants to play it cool until he gets inside, if possible, but he’ll carve his way through the door if he has to. Three minutes pass before someone yells from the other side.
“Whattaya want?”
Machine knows an eye is at the peephole. He doesn't recognize the smoke-hardened voice.
“Delivery,” Machine yells back. He lifts the case to be seen through the peep hole. The door opens a crack and a hood with a smashed-in face appears in the gap. Barrel-bodied, with a thick neck and a fat gut, he might be twenty-five. Machine has never seen him before. A lucky break.
“What the fuck are you delivering?” the guy asks, fixing his eyes on Machine’s pink hair.
“East side drop got popped by one of Scarpo's boys,” Machine replies. The east side drop is Charlie Mack's old joint, the Roundup. Machine is taking a chance, hoping the soldier is stupid enough not to check it out with a phone call.
“What the fuck has that got do with you?” Smash-face barks, opening the door a little further.
“I got the cash. I'm supposed to give it to Fat Paul.” Machine acts agitated, insulted, ready to leave.
Smash-face thinks about that for five seconds before he grins and jerks the door open.
“Well, come right in, sunshine.”
Kyokuto catches his breath as the safe-house's door opens wide and Machine steps through. For a moment, he almost pities the people inside, then he just wishes them dead as quickly as possible.
Machine pockets the razor as he shuffle-steps through the door. He glances down the hallway then quickly up the stairs to the second floor. There's no one but Smash-face in sight.
“Now, give me the case before I bust you up,” Smash-face says, rolling his shoulders and grinning, getting himself juiced up for a little bone work.
Machine gives it to him. He swings the briefcase up in a vicious arc and slams the gold-capped corner into Smash-face’s groin. The briefcase connects with a meaty thud, Smash-face’s eyes almost jump out of his head, and he doubles over just in time to catch the next swing of the briefcase square in the face. His nose sprays blood and his legs fold up. He hits the floor, head sagging, out cold.
Machine looks up the stairs and down the hall again. Nothing. He stoops down, flips the razor open and cuts the man’s throat quickly and without remorse, like swatting a fly. Machine leaves no one a shot at his back. More blood and a gurgling moan and Smash-face is on his way to the next world. Machine pockets the razor, draws the silenced Škorpion, and flips the fire select to full-automatic. With the machine-pistol pointing where his eyes look, he steps quietly to the foot of the stairs, his ears straining for sound.
A subdued murmur of conversation drifts down the steps. The ground floor is silent.
The stairs are lit by tarnished brass fittings that curve out of the wall. The banister is elaborately carved mahogany. The building was posh when first constructed, but it's a hole now. Dust floats on the stale, nicotine-reeking air and everything is gray from lack of care. Machine cautiously climbs the steps, placing each foot softly, the Škorpion on point.
“Hey Chris,” a hoarse voice booms over the drone of conversation.
“You gonna play these fucking cards or what?”
Machine stops. He has to answer.
“I'm comin',” he yells through his nose, trusting distance to make up for his lack of mimicry skills.
“Well hurry the fuck up,” the voice demands.
Machine keeps climbing. He reaches the second floor. The hallway is empty. There are four doors on either side of the corridor, all closed except for the last on the right. Machine doesn’t hesitate; he approaches the open door at a brisk walk.
He spins into the room, the Škorpion at shoulder height, left hand steadying the right.
His eye registers the details in a millisecond. Three Kukov family soldiers are playing cards on a folding table in the far corner of the room. On a sagging blue sofa, directly in front of the door, between Machine and the card players, Paul is seated with a newspaper spread across his thighs and a cigar between his teeth. A gas heater glows red in the corner. The room is stuffy, almost tropical.
Fat Paul moves fast for a big man. He spots the pink-haired freak with the machine-pistol and hits the floor. The card players are a beat behind. Cards and chips go flying as they shove back their chairs and paw for their side-arms.
Machine strides into the room, heading right at the card players. He squeezes the trigger with every step, sending four three-round bursts of 7.65mm Hydra-Shoks buzz-sawing into them. Splinters fly from the table, poker chips jump and scatter and the three soldiers dance, arms and legs jerking spastically as the shredders chew through them. Blood, bone, and gristle splatter the walls and the trio hit the floor in a tangled pile. Machine fires two more bursts into their limp forms to make sure they’re down forever then ejects the low clip. He slaps a fresh one into the Škorpion and flips the slide release. A gun smoke haze hangs at eye level, twisting rhythmically, half obscuring the mess of ripped, motionless flesh, jumbled arms and legs in the corner of the room. Machine turns his back on the dead and crosses to Fat Paul, still prostrate on the floor, his arms covering his head,
Machine kicks the fat gangster in the gut. A rib snaps with a brittle crack and Paul gasps and rolls over, his diamond pinky ring winking in the light from the overhead fixture.
“Hello, Paul.” Machine says.
“Don't fuckin' do it!” Paul sprays spit. “Don't kill me, please. I can pay!” His eyes pop wide as he recognizes Machine. “Machine. Oh, Jesus. I—”
“Anyone else in the building?” Machine cuts him off.
Paul shakes his head and Machine believes him. The fat man doesn’t have the guts to lie.
“Oh, Jesus,” Paul says, wheezing the words out. He’s having a hard time breathing.
“Don't bother Jesus this late in the game, Paul. You choose your backers at the beginning, not the end.”
The fat man rolls over and sits up, working his face into a remorseful grimace, thrusting his hands up in the air. He looks like a fat ape. He opens his hands, palms out. “I didn’t—” he can't make his lips work. “I— I— I'll make this right,” he sputters, “I'll talk to Vlad. He'll listen to me. Shit got out of hand. He should never have ordered the hit on you. He—” The fat man's chest heaves. He winces and gingerly touches his side. “He should have talked to—”
“There’s nothing to talk about. You set me up.” Machine says down the Škorpion's barrel. “Had my mother killed.” He stops right there, his teeth clenched, the black wave rising in his spine, flooding his brain. It’s all he can do not to shoot Paul. He has to remind himself that he needs the fat man. He takes a deep breath and gets control. “But I'm not going to kill you, Paul. I want to know about this Ghost. The chopper you hired to kill my parents.”
“We didn't do it! We didn't have anything to do with that! I’ve done some smoking evil type shit, but not that!” The words jump all over each other. Paul is playing for his life and knows it. “I swear on all I own! I—”
“You sanctioned it. Gave him the time and place. You and Vlad were the only ones who knew we would be there. And you wanted the money, Thirty million dollars.” Machine takes a quick step to the door and looks down the hallway. Nothing and no one.
“Sure, we wanted the money. But killing Sleeves wouldn’t get it back. We needed him alive—”
Machine turns back to Paul. “Keep lying, Paul. You’re going to talk your way right into a closed casket. No misunderstandings. Two in the face.�
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Paul's panicky eyes circuit the room and come to rest on the pile of bodies lying around the card table. He looks away fast, swallows hard, and stares at the floor, hair hanging across his face, covering his eyes.
“We didn't hit Connie. I swear it. Maybe Vlad...maybe he ordered it without telling me. Maybe…” Paul shakes his head stupidly, all out of words.
Machine lets it drop for the moment. He needs to get moving before any more of Kukov’s men show up. And he can’t leave Kyokuto parked on the street for long in this neighborhood; the creep presence is too high.
“Do you want to live, Paul?” he asks.
“Yes.” Paul nods so hard spit flies from his chin. “Yes.”
“Help me and you might, get clever and you won't. Understood?”
“Yes,” Paul gasps through a nose clogged with tear-snot. His world has crash-landed on his shoulders, but he's happy at the promise of a longer life. “Anything.”
“Get your coat and car keys. We're going for a drive,” Machine slips the Škorpion under the chest-pack and takes the razor from his pocket. He flicks the blade open so the fat man can see it. He doesn’t need a gun to handle Paul.
Paul's eyes lock on the gleaming blade. “A drive?” He shudders and his shoulders slump. “You said…you said I could help.”
Machine points to the door. “Move.”
Paul knows to get out front and not act stupid. Moses' favorite weapon had been a straight razor. He bragged that his son was better with it, that Machine had used the razor for teething. Paul believes it. He'll act as instructed. All he cares about is being alive at the end of the day. He stands shakily, wipes his palms on his pants and heads for the door.
Machine stops him in the doorway, presses the razor against his throat and frisks him quickly. Paul is a convicted felon; he never carries, but it's best to play it safe. Nothing.
“Downstairs,” he says and gives Paul a nudge. At the bottom of the steps, Paul sucks in his breath on sight of Chris covered in blood, then looks quickly away, shivering. He reaches for the front door’s knob.
“You're forgetting something, Paul,” Machine says.
Paul doesn't reply. He stares straight ahead.
“The money. The morning's receipts.” Machine won't leave money for Vlad's crew to find.
“That's Vlad’s money,” Paul says, reflexively invoking the name that has been his umbrella for twenty years. He realizes his mistake instantly. “I didn't—”
“Vlad isn't going to need it,” Machine promises. “Where is it?”
“In there,” Paul nods stiff-necked at the closet door on the left. “The key's in my coat pocket.”
“Get it out, Paul. Our relationship is based on trust. I trust you not to act stupid and you trust me not to cut your head off and kick it down the front steps.”
The big man blanches. With a trembling hand, he reaches in his coat pocket and produces a ring of keys between his index finger and thumb.
“Open it.” Machine keeps Paul between himself and the door.
Paul unlocks the door and shoves it open. “The duffel,” he says, pointing at a red bag lying on the floor of the otherwise empty closet.
“Get it.”
Paul stoops awkwardly and picks it up.
“We're going to your car,” Machine informs him. “Walk casual and get behind the wheel. Head for the river. Understood?”
Paul nods.
“Face the door.” The fat man complies and Machine moves close behind him, slightly to the right. “Out,” he tells Paul.
Paul nods, pulls the door open, and steps out on the stoop.
Machine follows warily. If Paul is going to get brave it will be now, here on the street. But Paul very much wants to live. He walks slowly down the steps and across the sidewalk to the Cadillac parked at the curb.
Machine does not look at Kyokuto sitting behind the wheel of the Lincoln. He won’t give away his back up.
“Get in on the passenger side,” he orders, eyes panning the street. Only a few people in sight, none paying any attention to Paul and Machine.
Paul slithers across the Cadillac's seat. Machine slides in right behind him.
Paul's hand shakes as he puts the key in the ignition. The engine roars.
“The river,” Machine reminds him.
Paul shifts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb.
Kyokuto trails the Cadillac from a safe distance, watching Machine's back.
“Slower, get in the right hand lane,” Machine directs as they come within a mile of the river. Paul wordlessly complies, jowls glistening with sweat, breathing heavily through his mouth, mustache puffing in and out.
Kyokuto passes the Cadillac, gives Machine a wave through the Lincoln's tinted glass and speeds on. Kyokuto will park the Lincoln in an alley near the docks, go to the warehouse on foot, and open the roller door before Machine crosses Shoreline. It's bad enough that they're going to the warehouse in full daylight; the risk of two parked cars waiting in front of the roller door is too much.
“Slower,” Machine commands and Paul eases off the gas. The Cadillac rolls quietly at twenty miles an hour through the deserted streets of the Bottoms. “We're headed for the warehouse. I understand you know the way,” Machine adds.
Paul swallows hard, starts to say something, then decides against it. He sweats, and breathes even faster, eyes on the road, brain working through the possibilities, trying to foresee every contingency.
It takes ten minutes to reach the docks, Machine pointing out the way. When they reach the green metal building, the roller door is already half open. The Cadillac glides under and Paul parks. He cuts the engine at Machine's order.
“Out,” Machine says as the metal door ratchets closed behind them. Machine climbs out the passenger door, letting Paul use the driver’s side. Paul clambers out, then stares at the pavement and waits for Machine to direct his next move.
Machine pockets the razor and draws the Colt .45. Paul looks at the automatic and pales. He looks away. His eyes come to rest on Tic-Tac's garbage bag shroud. Paul knows what's under the plastic. He shifts his stare to a spot on the wall and wipes his damp palms on his lapels, but he can't stop his eyes from returning to Tic-Tac's corpse.
“Enjoy the view, fat man? Think of it as your future,” Kyokuto says as he approaches, staring at Paul hard enough to raise blisters on the underboss’ face.
Paul looks at Kyokuto then turns desperate eyes on Machine. What he sees in the teenage killer’s face only frightens him more. He looks at the floor again.
“We're going upstairs,” Machine tells Kyokuto. “Eyes up.”
Kyokuto nods his reply without taking his eyes off Paul.
“See you soon, you fat motherfucker,” Kyokuto hisses as he fades into the darkness, the Browning in his hand.
Machine gives Paul a nudge in the right direction and follows the fat man up the stairs.
48
Upstairs, alone with Fat Paul, Machine directs the gangster to the kitchen table, points to a chair, then sits down himself, opposite Paul.
Machine feels dead inside. Void. He had trusted Kukov and Paul, in a way. Had worked for them. Made them stronger, more powerful. Murdered for them dozens of times. His thoughts twist and chew on themselves. Images from his past. Dismembered limbs. Bloody hatchets. Rubber-coat work. His father’s face speckled with blood, laughing as he worked the blowtorch or the chainsaw, asking; “Where's the dope? Where's the cash? Where’s your husband? Where’s your son?” Red Sleeves always got answers, and Machine was right there with him.
Answers are what Machine needs from Paul. And there’s only one way to be sure you’re getting the truth; make them bleed.
“Put your right hand on the table,” Machine says as the straight razor butterflies open in his hand.
“I don't—” Paul stammers, his eyes locked on the razor.
“Put your hand on the table,” Machine repeats.
Paul's hand twitches and jerks as he plac
es it flat on the table, fingers touching, his two-carat pinky ring sparkling. His mustache puffs in and out as he sucks in air.
“Where is the Ghost?” Machine asks.
“I don't know, Machine! I swear on all that's holy! I swear.” Paul inches his hand back, leaving a sweaty smear on the table.
“Don't move it unless you're tired of having it,” Machine says, staring Paul straight in the eye.
“Machine—”
“The Ghost, Paul.” Machine leans across the table and places the razor's blade behind Paul's pinky ring, right above the finger's first joint. He lets it rest there, barely touching.
“Machine, I—” Paul sputters, shivering. “I—”
Machine chops through the joint.
Paul screams and jerks his hand back, splattering the table with crimson. His pinky and the ring remain on the table. Machine flicks them onto the floor with the razor’s blade.
“Put it back on the table,” Machine says.
“Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!” Paul sobs hoarsely, tucking his bleeding hand under his arm, jerking with hiccoughing sobs. “Ahhh fuck!”
“Put it back on the table.”
“Machine!”
Machine’s only reply is a dead-eyed stare.
Paul's mutilated hand shakes and hesitates, but he slides it across the table. Blood pools under his palm. White bone gleams.
“I don't know nothing about it! Vlad must have done it on his own! He must have!”
Machine places the bloody razor over the knuckle of Paul's third finger. “The Ghost.”
Paul's eyes squeeze shut. His mouth works but no words come out.
Machine wants to slice down. To hear Paul scream. But Paul is a coward; he has nothing to tell. Maybe Vlad did order the hit without Fat Paul knowing? Machine will ask Vlad.
Machine wipes the razor on Paul's sleeve and straps it back to his forearm with the Velcro.
Paul doesn't move his hand. He doesn’t dare. The blood pool grows on the plastic veneer. Machine reaches into the chest-pack, hauls out a wad of gauze and throws it into Paul's lap.