box. He looked back over his shoulder. The Chin was walking on the roof in the other direction, maybe sixty feet away. Sharky slid up to the box and flipped open the lid.
The Chin came after him like an antelope.
Sharky did a two-second inventory. Blankets, life preservers, flare gun, water bottles, radio . . . flare gun! He grabbed it and snapped it open. It was loaded.
The Chin leaped off the roof and landed running.
Sharky had to slow him down. He swung the pistol over the edge of the box and aimed at the biggest target he saw, the Chin’s chest. The Mauser roared and Sharky heard the bullet thud home. The Chin was knocked sideways. He fell, sliding past Sharky into the stern railing.
Sharky’s hand was shaking, his eyes were fogged with pain. He saw the Chin Jump to his feet and be pointed the bulky flare pistol at him and fired. The flare spiralled out of the short barrel with a chunk. The Chin twisted as he fired and the blazing flare streaked across his chest, scorching his shirt, and ripped into the valve of one of the gas tanks. The nozzle blew off, releasing a flood of gasoline. The gas hit the blazing flare and burst into flames. The Chin, distracted by the sudden fire, turned for an instant and as he did Sharky fired again. The second flare bit the Chin in the chest, shattered his ribs and lodged there, knocking him backwards to the railing. He floundered there with the phosphorous flare shell sizzling in his chest and then plunged backwards into the lake. Sharky looked down into the dark water at the flare, still burning fiercely, its bubbles boiling to the surface, bursting into puffs of acrid smoke, as the Chin sank deeper into the lake, the glowing shell growing smaller and smaller.
A moment later the tank went.
The explosion knocked Sharky halfway across the deck. A ball of fire roared out of the ruptured tank and swept up into the mast and furled sails of the junk. The sails burst into flames.
Sharky ran from one side of the junk to the other, looking over the side. The motor launch was lashed to a floating pier.
The keys. Fat Boy had to have them. He raced to the cabin and leaped down the stairs. Kershman was still lying on his back, his crazed eyes staring at the ceiling. Sharky ran the fingers of his good hand through the pockets and found not one but two sets of keys.
The other gas tank blew up. Fire spewed out along the deck and poured through the hatchway. Sharky ran down through the main cabin and up the bow hatchway. He went over the side and dropped down to the pier.
The junk was burning like a piece of scrap paper. Bits of flaming sailcloth drifted out over Sharky’s head and hissed into the lake. He tried the keys and finally found one that fitted and cranked up the launch, jamming the throttle forward and twisting the wheel away from the blazing junk. The launch roared out into the lake, tearing the pier to pieces as it went.
Sharky did not look back. He flipped on the night lights and headed off into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The high energy from the fight and the cold wind biting at him kept him alert. He found the main body of the lake and drove maniacally down its winding byways, keeping in the centre of the lake to avoid debris along the shoreline. It was almost an hour before he saw the green light blinking on the end of the marina dock.
He pulled alongside and got out, tying the front of the launch down. It was easy to find Fat Boy’s car, at that time of the. year there were only half a dozen cars in the lot. He cranked it up and sat huddled in the front seat. A wave of dizziness shook him.
He drove the seventy miles back to Atlanta in less than an hour.
All the lights in the house seemed to be on. Livingston had the front door open and was standing just inside it, his gun out, before Sharky got out of the car.
‘Hold it right there,’ he yelled.
‘It’s me — Sharky.’
‘Sharky! Goddammit to hell, where you been? Where’s The Nosh? What —,
Sharky reeled into the light from the doorway and Livingston swallowed the rest of the sentence.
‘Jesus Christ, what happened to you?’
‘You’re not gonna believe me when I tell you. Is she all right?’
‘Sure she’s all r……
Sharky stormed past him and into the house. Domino was coming out of the bedroom, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep.
‘Oh, thank God,’ she said and then her face registered the shock as she saw his burned-out eyes blazing with pain and fury, his cheeks mottled with a two-day growth of beard, his shoulder ravaged and bleeding, the torn edge of a bloody rag hanging from his fist.
He stood in front of her, his body shaking from hypertension, fatigue, and anger.
Livingston kicked the door shut and put away his gun.
‘What the hell happened, Shark?’ he asked.
‘The Nosh is dead,’ Sharky said. ‘They got him the same way they got Tiffany. Sawed-off shotgun...’
‘1 gotta call Friscoe right now. They been lookin’ for you two all night.’
‘Don’t call anybody yet.’
‘Where have you been?’ Domino said. Tears were building up in her eyes.
