That damned Chink.
The Chinese was holding a silver tray with a bottle of red wine, a glass, a corkscrew, and a note. He opened the door. The note was addressed to Howard and he took it to the bedroom to read it, keeping an eye on Chiang in the dresser mirror as he did.
The note said:
Have a pleasant evening. The wine is on me.
Victor.
Damned white of him. He returned to his task, leaning over the dresser, close to the mirror, as he completed his makeup. He kept watching the Chinese.
Chiang was twisting the corkscrew into the bottle of wine and as he popped the cork out, the bottle slipped from his grasp. He snatched it up quickly, but several ounces gurgled from the neck, splashing down over the carpet.
‘Shit! You clumsy fuckin’ slant-eye!’ Scardi snapped. Chiang entered the bedroom, bowing in apology and pointing towards the bathroom.
‘Keep away from me,’ Scardi snarled. He stood near the dresser, his hand beside the .22, as Chiang pointed towards the bathroom and rubbed his hands together.
‘You wanna towel, you ignorant gook? Go ahead. I ain’t cleaning up your mess for you.’
Chiang went into the bathroom, took a towel, and held it under the cold water and then began to wring it out. As he squeezed out the water he reached up into his sleeve with two fingers and drew out a thin steel tube about five inches long. It was no thicker than a pencil. He pressed a button in its base and a pointed shaft that looked like a short icepick shot from the handle. He held it under the towel and started back.
Scardi was still leaning over the dresser when he heard the faint click from the bathroom. He almost let it pass, but then it ran back through his mind, an instant replay of the sound, and the memory of it rushed back at him from the past.
A switchblade. The fuckin’ Chink had a switchblade!
He grabbed for the Woodsman as Chiang came out of the bathroom, let the wet towel fall to the floor as he entered the bedroom, and took a single swift step towards Scardi. His arm arced from the waist, swept up towards Scardi’s chest, the steel sliver gleaming in his fist. Scardi moved quickly, made a feinting move to the left, and then reversed himself and fell sideways, swinging the .22 up as he did.
The icepick was already committed. It missed its mark by six inches, plunging into Scardi’s side low, just under the ribs, and piercing up deep inside him. The point stopped an inch from Scardi’s heart.
Scardi screamed and jammed the pistol into Chiang’s neck. He fired and the bullet shattered Chiang’s Adam’s apple, ripped through his jugular vein and came out the back of his neck. A geyser of blood burst from the wound.
Chiang staggered backwards, but Scardi pressed after him, twisting the pistol slightly, jamming it back in the wound, and firing again. The second bullet tore up through the back of Chiang’s head and shattered his brain.
Scardi shoved the Chinese servant over backward on the bed, where he fell with his hands stretched out at his sides. Scardi shot him three more times, twice in the face and once in the heart.
The pain was like a hot needle deep inside Scardi’s chest,
He gasped for breath, reached down, felt the handle of the dirk sticking in his side, and pulled it out. He dropped the weapon on the floor and leaned forward, clutching his side, pressing in, trying to squeeze the pain away. He could feel at, feel the burning puncture sapping his strength.
He sat on the edge of the dresser, steadying himself with both hands. He examined the clown suit. He could hardly tell where the instrument had pierced the cloth. He went into the bathroom and unzipped the costume and examined the wound itself, a small, round hole beginning to swell at the edges. A pearl of blood appeared and winked obscenely at him. He carefully folded a washcloth and held it against the hole like a bandage and wrapped a. towel around his waist to keep it in place.
He went back to the dresser. Pain came at him in waves, burning inside him. Sweat had begun to erode his makeup. Red tears etched their way down his chalky cheeks into the corners of his mouth.
The bastard, that filthy bastard, to try this after all these years...
The fury raged inside him again, welling up, giving him new strength. His hate was a passion. For thirty years he had listened to DeLaroza bragging, flaunting their combined wealth, taking credit. For what? For what? The whole scheme had been his idea, not DeLaroza’s. Scardi had invented La Volte. Scardi had gone in, done the legwork, taken the chances in the beginning. Scardi had set up the dummy hit at the lake, put the fix on Corrigon, arranged to transport the gold across the Alps into Switzerland.
It wasn’t for me, he’d be nothin’. A fuckin’ bank clerk in Ohio someplace. Shit, he didn’t even know he was a fuckin’ thief until 1 saw it in him. A baby blue goddamn captain with no future.
He slipped the clip out of the .22 and replaced it with a fresh one. There were two more in the drawer and he put them in the pocket of the clown suit.
Got to stay up, he said to himself. Got to stay on my feet long enough to find that fat bastard. Try top the cross on me. Shit. Shit! I made him. Me, Scardi.
‘I made you, you fat gutless sonofabitch. . .‘ he screamed aloud.
He opened the small box on the dresser. Three red devils left. He popped two in his mouth and swallowed them without water.
An instant later they jolted him, setting all his nerves on edge, intensifying the pain in his chest beyond bearing. He put the back of his hand over his mouth and screamed again.
Then it was gone, replaced by the soaring rush of the speed. It cleared his vision, replaced the pain with a pure and driving hate. He snapped the silencer on the ugly snout of the Woodsman and slipped it inside the clown suit.
