arms and neck.
I’m cracking up, he thought. Standing in the doorway of the rubber room.
He remembered the joint he had lifted from the drawer earlier in the day. He put on his jacket and went out into the icy air. Leaning against the wall of the utility room, he lit up and took two deep hits, holding the smoke in his lungs as long as he could before exhaling. The high came quickly, soothing his tattered nerves. He closed his eyes, let the cold wind wipe his face.
He thought more about Domino, surprised that he felt no ill feeling towards her, that he did not condemn her open sensuality, her need to embrace pleasure, and he understood why. He had the same needs, the same desires, and for the first time in his life he accepted them without guilt.
He wanted Domino. Period.
‘So what?’ he said aloud and then chuckled.
He appraised the situation. She had done nothing illegal tonight. No money had changed hands. There wasn’t even any talk of money. Hell, there was hardly any talk at all. She had entertained a friend and how she entertained him was her business.
Unless, of course, the man below was the mark and tonight was part of the set-up. If so, the tapes would prove she knew him. Intimately. They would provide the connection.
He would have to identify the mark. He could call in Livingston, have him follow the guest when he left her apartment. But that would take time. So he would do it himself.
He returned to the dim interior of his listening post. The tape recorder to the master bedroom was spinning.
Jesus, he thought, they’re not going at it again!
He held one of the phones to his ear. There were two women speaking now.
He put the earphones on, pressed them to his ears, concentrating on the voices. One was talking, the other was singing. And the shower was going.
Of course, the television was on. Virginia Gunn, Channel Five, was giving the weather report. The shower stopped. He heard her come into the bedroom, heard the click of a remote unit, and the television went off.
Silence.
The recorder stopped.
The mark was gone. He had left while Sharky was out on the roof.
‘Shit!’
He went back out on the roof, knowing it was too late. He looked over the parapet, down at the parking lot, but there was no activity. He went to the other side of the roof and stared down into darkness. The wind rattled the treetops below him. Overhead the storm clouds moved silently away and the cold stars mocked him.
He went back to his solitary room, dropped wearily on the cot, then stretched out, and before he could decide on his next step, Sharky fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Eleven
Sharky was still asleep when Papa arrived to relieve him at 7:48 the next morning. He jerked awake when be beard the door open. Reaching under the blanket he bad used for a pillow and grabbing his 9mm automatic, he flipped the blanket off and sat up quickly.
Papa stopped short, appraised the situation through bored eyes and smiled.
‘Easy there, Roy,’ he said, ‘it’s only Gabby Hayes.’
Sharky sagged, letting his gun hand drop between his legs.
‘I musta died,’ he said.
‘Why not? Tough day,’ Papa said.
‘I was jumping outa my skin last night.’
‘Any action?’
Sharky put his gun under his arm. ‘Lots of action, very little dialogue. Nothing we’re interested in.’
‘Who was the trick?’
Sharky looked up at him and an embarrassed grin played on his lips.
‘You’re not gonna believe this,’ he said.
‘Fell asleep,’ Papa said. ‘Missed him.’
‘How the hell did you know that?’
‘Done it myself,’ Papa said smiling. ‘Fifteen years. I fucked up every way you can fuck up. Arch, too. Friscoe. Nobody hits a thousand. You got the tapes.’
‘Shit, if there’s twenty words on the goddamn tapes I’ll eat them.’
‘Answer me something, okay, Sharky’
‘Sure.’
‘Why we staked out? We got the tapes, why not check ‘em, you know, every three, four hours, see what’s
