Sharky's Machine

of hemp,

‘Hemp?’ Livingston said. ‘You mean rope?’

‘I mean hemp, which is what rope is made out of.’

‘He worked in a hemp mill?’ Sharky said.

‘Yeah. And the most common place to find a jute mill is in prison. So we could be looking for an old con here.’

‘We could check the county and federal probation officers. Maybe if this guy was paroled he had to register here.’

‘I already got it on my list,’ Friscoe said. He dunked the last of a doughnut in his coffee, swished it around, and finished it noisily. ‘Well, kid,’ he said to Sharky, ‘it’s your fuckin’ machine. You call the shots.’

‘Okay, Arch and I’ll see what we can turn up at Fort Mac. Papa, maybe you could try to come at this Shoes from another angle, collar him without blowing the whistle on Cotter. Nosh, you stick with the tapes and see what else you can dig up on this Burns. All of us keep this John Doe in mind, Maybe there’s some talk out on the street about him.’

‘And I’ll take a shot at the local probation officers, see what that turns up,’ Friscoe said. Then he smiled for the first time since entering the Majestic.

‘What the hell,’ he said. ‘We got forty-eight hours left. It ain’t forever, but it ain’t Monday morning yet, either.’

Chapter Eighteen

It took them thirty minutes to drive out to Fort McPherson, a tidy but sprawling army oasis within the city limits that was headquarters for the Third Army. Sergeant Jerome Weinstock was waiting for them in front of the spotless headquarters building, a tall, florid man in starched khaki whose appearance had changed from the cherubic innocence Sharky remembered to an authoritative scowl. He had put on twenty pounds and lost a lot of hair in the eight years since Sharky had served with him in Army Intelligence.

‘You like playing cops and robbers, Sharky?’ Weinstock asked as he led the way into the headquarters building and down a long, stark hallway to the military intelligence offices.

‘It has its moments,’ Sharky said. ‘What’s with the scowl, Jerry? I remember you as sweet, smiling Jerry Weinstock, the pride of Jersey City.’

‘I made top kick,’ Weinstock growled. ‘It’s part of the act. Only time I smile anymore is when I’m alone in the latrine.’ He looked at Sharky and winked, then said, ‘So what’s your problem? I don’t see you for eight years and then you call me in a panic at the crack of dawn on a Saturday.’

Sharky handed him a lift of the two fingerprints. ‘I need to match these prints to a face. They’d be inactive, probably dating back to World War Two.’

‘You’re playing a hunch, aren’t you, Sharky? That’s what it is. Shit, you haven’t changed a damn bit. And it can’t wait till Monday, hunh? Got to be right now, before the bugler’s even got his sock’s on.’

‘By Monday I’m dead.’

‘Always the same story. Eager beaver.’ Weinstock looked at Livingston. ‘This one’ll drive you apeshit. He never stops, he’s either coming or going all the time.’

‘So I’m learnin’,’ Livingston said.

A nervous young recruit was waiting in the telex room, looking like he had dressed in his sleep. Weinstock handed him the two prints. ‘Send this to DX 10, attention Sergeant Skidmore. And come get us down in the coffee room when you get response.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the youth said. ‘Should I send it urgent?’

‘Willoughby, I seriously doubt that anybody in his right mind is using the twix before nine o’clock on Saturday morning. Just send it off. Skidmore’s waiting at Fort Dix for it.

‘Yes, sir.’

Weinstock turned and marched out of the room followed by the two detectives.

‘Skidmore? Is that old Jocko Skidmore? Sharky said.

‘The same,’ Weinstock said. ‘Had to get him outa bed, too. I’ll tell you something, Shark. If he didn’t remember you — and like you — we’d’ve been shit outa luck. Know what he said? He said, “That silly son of a bitch never did do anything at a civilized time of day.” To which I say, amen.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Livingston said. ‘I haven’t been to bed since I met Sharky.’

They drank coffee and made small talk about the old days, sitting in the coffee room in the basement for almost forty-five minutes before Willoughby appeared at the door.

‘It’s comin’ in now, Sergeant,’ he said.

Sharky bolted from his chair and took the steps two at a time, his heart racing in anticipation. This had to work. He needed more than just Shoes and Arnold the bartender, much more, to keep his machine rolling, to keep its adrenalin pumping. As he entered the room and saw the teletype message a shimmer of disappointment rippled through his chest. The report was short, no more than a few lines. Livingston rushed in behind him as he tore the sheet from the machine and read the peculiar print argot of the military:

POS ID, 2 PRINTS, ANGELO DOMINIC SCARDI. B

SIRACUSA, SICILY, 1916. EMGRTD Us, 1935.

VOLTRD CVL LSN SICILY INV, JUNE, 1943. CIV