He released the catch on the side of the guard bar and jumped out of the ball. Hotchins, confused and dizzy, tried to follow.
Something hit him in the chest, knocking him back into the car. The guard bar snapped back, trapping him inside. Hotchins looked down at his shirt front, saw the tiny hole there, reached up very slowly, and touched it.
Blood spurted from the hole and cascaded down his dress shirt.
The ball rolled out of the bunker, struck another bumper, and bounded away amid clanging bells. Hotchins sighed and fell over sideways in the seat.
DeLaroza dragged himself to his feet. His ankle was twisted, the knees torn Out of his tuxedo. He ran, limping, and ducked behind one of the bumpers.
Scardi was oblivious to the ball careening from bumper to bumper around him. it whisked past him, almost knocked him down. He had one purpose now. Nothing else mattered.
‘Howard, for God’s sake, listen to me!’ DeLaroza screamed. He was backing up, trying to keep the bumper between himself and Scardi.
‘Don’t call me that!’ Scardi cried out. ‘1 ain’t Howard. I ain’t Burns. Pm Scardi. I made you. You hear me, Younger? You was nothin’ but a dumb goddamn dogface. I gave you all this.’
He stepped from behind the bumper and fired at DeLaroza. The bullet hit the wall and one of the mirrors burst into dozens of reflecting shards.
DeLaroza turned and ran, aimlessly, dodging amid the grinning statues and flashing lights.
The pinball, totally out of control and roaring across the playing field, struck its last bumper, lurched over the floor, leaped the guard rail, and crashed through the wall.
The mirror exploded into millions of splinters. The wall shattered as the steel ball burst through it and rolled out at the foot of Ladder Street, struck one man and sent him reeling back up the steps, rolled over another, crashed into a shop at the bottom of the street and ripped through it, bursting out onto the main thoroughfare amid a shower of dolls, bracelets, and postcards.
The crowd scattered, falling over each other, as the antic pinball smashed through it, tossing people into the air like tenpins, ripping the marquee off the puppet theatre before it tore through the wall at the edge of the man-made lake and soared out over the water. It plunged down onto one of the sampans, split it in half, and bit the lake, sending a geyser twenty feet in the air, before it finally rolled to a stop.
DeLaroza limped towards the gaping hole in the wall. Scardi aimed and shot him in the thigh. He fell forward, hit the springs at the base of a bumper, and was thrown like a rag doll almost to Scardi’s feet.
The killer looked down at the battered DeLaroza. He calmly snapped a fresh clip into the pistol.
DeLaroza crawled to his knees. Across the floor he saw a man standing in the emergency doorway, watching the mad scene.
‘Help me,’ he yelled. ‘Please, help me.’
The man in the doorway yelled back to him.
‘My name’s Sharky. Hear that, DeLaroza? Sharky!’
DeLaroza moaned. He looked back at Scardi. The assassin was standing over him, grinning, aiming the pistol down at him. The gun thunked once, twice, three times, and the bullets tore into DeLaroza’s chest. He screamed once and slumped forward, his head resting on its forehead in front of his knees, like a man in prayer.
Grinning maniacally, Scardi leaned forward and shot him again in the back of the head.
‘Okay, Scardi, that’s enough,’ Sharky said.
The man clown turned towards him. Sharky stepped over the railing and started for him.
‘Drop the gun, Scardi,’ Sharky called to him. ‘Police.’
The word seemed to trigger Scardi’s dying energy. He scrambled through the ragged hole in the wall, crawling through broken glass and splinters of plywood, out into the main floor of Pachinko!
He got up and, half-running, half staggering, made for the opposite end of the atrium. The crowd scattered as he waved his gun madly at them, clearing a path for him. Ahead of him he saw the gates of Tiger Balm Gardens. He struggled towards them.
Sharky stepped through the hole and went after him, slowly, deliberately. There was no rush now. There was no place for Scardi to go.
On the stairs above him, Friscoe and Livingston saw Sharky stalking the frenzied killer.
Sharky saw them too and held his hand up at them.
‘He’s mine,’ he said coldly.
‘Scardi?’ Friscoe asked.
‘It’s Scardi,’ Sharky said, still following after him.
‘You gotta take him alive,’ Friscoe yelled. ‘We need him.’
‘Not anymore,’ Sharky said.
Scardi stumbled into the gardens, rushing blindly away from his pursuer. He slashed through the shrubs and flowers, scrambling up into the protection of the rocks and crevices. He fell against the side of the cliff at the far end of the gardens, looking back towards the street.
The tall guy in the tweed suit kept coming. And coming.
He was taking his time. Scardi fired a shot at him, half-heartedly, and it thunked harmlessly into one of the gates.
