Sharky's Machine by William Diehl

all was darkness and silence except the relentless wind crying across the open plaza.
    The last thought the man in the leather coat had was that the scream he heard was his own.

BOOK ONE

Chapter One
    At 5:25, Sharky pulled his battered Volkswagen into an alley two blocks off Peachtree and a block behind the bus station and parked near a Dempsey Dumpster. He was five minutes early.
    The cold December wind swirled dust along the alley and rattled litter against the buildings. It had dropped ten degrees since the sun went down. Sharky’s heater was shot and one of the windows would not close all the way. He breathed on his hands to keep them warm.
    At 5:30, he got out of the car and stood with his back to the door, stamping his feet. He buttoned the top button of the plaid lumber jacket. Dirt hit his eyes and mouth and filtered through his beard.
    ‘Shit,’ he muttered, leaning forward and shaking the dust from the thick growth on his face, then turned suddenly towards the rear of the car. A newspaper whirled from behind it and flattened against the Dumpster.
    Sharky was nervous. He reached inside the jacket, fingering the brown manila envelope stuffed into the waist of his Levis.
    No sign of High Ball Mary.
    He kept his eyes moving. If High Ball were setting him up, now would be the time. A quick shot in the head here in the dark and High Ball would be six hundred dollars richer. And there wouldn’t be much Sharky could do about it.
    To his right, in the darkness against the building across the alley, Sharky sensed movement. Then he heard a low, deep chuckle.
    ‘Whatsa matter, honk, got the chills?’
    The son of a bitch.
    ‘High Ball?’ Sharky said.
    ‘Who else, baby? Got the price?’
    ‘Think I’d be freezing my ass off out here if T was short? Let’s get back in the car and deal, I’ve had enough of this goddamn wind.’
    ‘I like it better in the open, man. Take a little taste o’ the lady here and you won’t give a shit how cold it is.’
    Bullshit. I’m gettin’ outa the wind. You wanna freeze your balls off, stuff your lady.’
    ‘Ooo-weeee, ain’t we testy this evenin’
    Sharky got back inside and turned the interior lights on so High Ball could check out the car. He lit a small A&C cigar and held his hands around its glowing end.
    High Ball strolled across the alley, hands in the pockets of an expensive full-length fur coat. He was wearing a wide-brimmed Borsalino snapped dcwn over his forehead, yellow platform shoes, and cream-coloured wide-flare pants. He moved cautiously to the car, walking around the far side, leaning over with his hands still stuffed in the pockets, looking in the back seat. The gold earring that had earned him his nickname, Mary, glittered in the light from the dome. Finally he got in.
    ‘You think I got i. Edgar Hoover stashed back there?’
    ‘That fairy’s off, man. Where you been?’
    ‘The ghost lingers on.’
    ‘Turn the fuckm’ lights off, turkey. This ain’t a goddamn floor show.’
    Sharky turned the switch and the lights died.
    ‘I tell you, honk, I’m gettin’ my coat dirty in this garbage can.’
    ‘It beats walkin’.’
    ‘You score with this skit, man, you can get yourself some uptown wheels.’
    ‘Where’s the merchandise? I get nervous sittin’ here.’
    ‘How about the green, baby? No green, no sheen.’
    ‘I ain’t showin’ you shit till I taste your stuff.’
    ‘Oh, ain’t we mean!’ Mary took a small glassine bag from his pocket and held it up by his fingertips. He shook the white powder in the bag. ‘Lookit here, turkey, how ‘bout that? And fifteen more where that came from. Sixteen grams, m’man, a generous o-z of super snow A hundred trips to the mooooon. Cut it three for one at least. Forty- eight bags at sixty per. . . lessee, that’s uh...’
    ‘Twenty-eight hundred and eighty geezoes, High Ball. Cut the bullshit and get it on. Open up.’ He felt the anxiety building in him as he wet his middle finger and dipped it into