On the street below Friscoe and Livingston stamped their feet and tried to control their excitement, waiting for something to break loose. They anticipated the unexpected and it was about to happen.
Scardi was in position. Waiting.
So far, so good. The alley was almost empty. Twenty, thirty people milling about.
The crowd was moving up Prince Avenue, choking the street from storefront to storefront. He could see DeLaroza’s bald head and flaming red beard through the mass of people, moving towards him.
He checked the alley again. The people were beginning to move towards him, attracted by the noise of the approaching crowd.
At the far end of the alley a mime on stilts, dressed like Uncle Sam, stalked around the corner and started awkwardly towards him.
The wound was numb now. His chest no longer pained him. His life was ebbing away, trickling down his leg. He looked down at the clown suit, at the crimson stain, widening, seeping down over his hip towards his thigh.
He leaned closer to the wall, peering around the corner and over the stall of souvenirs. He slipped the last red devil in his mouth, waiting for its surge, suddenly feeling himself growing taller, more confident.
Come on, you bastard, just a little closer. He zipped down the clown suit and reached inside, felt the comforting grip of the Woodsman, drew it out, and folded his arms across his chest with the gun concealed, the snout pressed up into his armpit.
You pipsqueak little nothin’. A fuckin’ GI that I turned into a millionaire. What a fool, to think you could kill the old pro.
The speed surged through his blood, cleared his vision. He checked out the people in the front of the crowd, looking for tell-tale signs. Cops. Bodyguards. Security guards. He could always tell them by their eyes, by the way they checked everywhere.
His gaze fell on the woman in the gold gown. She was walking straight towards him. he stared into her face. There was something familiar there. Did he know her? Was it someone who could identify him? He panicked for a moment, then remembered the clown face. Nobody could see through that clown face.
And yet...
He concentrated on the face again. She was twenty feet away, bearing down on him. He dipped into his memory and then it began coming to him. Slowly. A photograph. That was it, a photograph. A photograph he had studied for hours.
And then it hit him.
Domino!
Domino?
No. It couldn’t be. She was dead. He had seen her face explode in front of his shotgun, seen her brains hit the wall. Domino was dead.
‘You’re dead,’ he muttered. He started backing away from her. ‘You’re dead,’ he repeated.
Domino saw him before Sharky did, a terrifying sight. His face bad dissolved, paint melting into a surrealistic glob of red and blue and chalky white. The ridiculous clown suit was stained blood red. His eyes were mad with fever. He was backing away from her. Saying something.
‘Sharky?’
‘I see him,’ Sharky said and stepped in front of her.
‘He’s saying something.’
The crowd pressed them towards him.
‘He’s saying. . . Jesus, he’s saying “You’re dead” over and over,’ Sharky said.
He looked hard into the crazed face, at the hawk nose, the pointed chin, the pig eyes. Then he saw the gun in his hand, the Woodsman.
‘Jesus,’ he yelled, ‘it’s Scardi!’
The clown turned and ran.
Sharky shoved Domino into the doorway of the store on the corner.
‘Stay here. Put on the mask, don’t let Hotchins and DeLaroza see you.’
‘But —‘
‘It’s Scardi, don’t you understand? He’s all we need.’ He yelled into the mike:
‘Papa, the store on the corner of the alley. Cover Domino!’
‘On my way.’
‘I’ve spotted Scardi!’
On the street the name shocked Friscoe and Livingston into action.
‘Shit,’ Friscoe cried out.
‘Let’s roll,’ Livingston said.
Scardi ran down the alley, shoving people aside, plunging between the stilted legs of Uncle Sam. The mime teetered and plunged forward into an awning over the petshop, crashed through it, and fell on top of several cages. They split open and the alley was suddenly alive with yapping Maltese and Pekingese dogs.
