Read Online Sharky's Machine by William Diehl - Free Book Online Page A

jawline. His black hair was streaked with grey. Cold, lead eyes hid behind glasses set in gold frames. His attire was as rigid as a uniform, dark blue suits, white shirts, drab ties, black lace- up shoes. His Timex watch had a grey cloth band. He wore no other jewellery.
    To Sharky’s knowledge, Jaspers had no friends in the department. His only confidant was the new police commissioner, Ezra Powers. Jaspers was a ruthless officer with little regard for his men, a rigid and stern disciplinarian, quick to demote or suspend the men in Central District, which was his command. Five years earlier when Sharky was assigned to a blue-and-white, his partner had been Orville Slyden, who had been flopped from detective third grade to patrolman and given six-and-six, six weeks’ suspension and six weeks at reduced pay, for taking a handout. Later Slyden had been proven innocent, but Jaspers refused to restore him to rank. It was the captain’s contention that anyone even suspected of such an infraction did not deserve to be a detective. It was Slyden who had given Jaspers his nickname, The Bat. ‘He’s a fuckin’ vatnpire,’ Slyden had said and the name had stuck, although nobody ever called Jaspers that to his face.
    Jaspers’s predecessor had been a thoughtful and highly respected man who had risen slowly and painfully through the ranks. He had committed suicide after learning he had terminal cancer. According to a persistent rumour of the House, Jaspers had loaded the gun for him.
    The office was barren. A spotless desk ‘with nothing on it but a telephone and a letterbox. A table behind the desk contained a police squawk box, nothing else. Two uncomfortable chairs. A single photograph on the wall of Dwight Eisenhower shaking hands with Jaspers, who wore the uniform of an army major. Neither of them was smiling. There were no ashtrays; Jaspers did not approve of smoking or drinking.
    He did not look up when Sharky entered the room; he jabbed a linger towards one of the chairs and continued reading a file that lay in front of him. Sharky sat down. Another five minutes died. Finally Jaspers closed the cover of the file and took a newspaper out of his desk drawer. He held it up with a flourish for Sharky to read. Jaspers thrived on these little dramatis momenta. The headline read:
    UNDERCOVER COP KILLS DOPE PUSHER ON CROWDED CITY BUS’
    Beside the story a photograph showed a scruffy, bearded, and weary Sharky, gun in band, leaning over High Ball Mary.
    ‘I saw it,’ Sharky said.
    ‘When you blow your cover, you certainly do it extravagantly,’ Jaspers said. His voice was a dry, brittle rasp.
    ‘Well, I had a little bad luck.’
    ‘You had a lot of bad luck.’
    ‘The way it happened, I was —‘
    ‘I know the way it happened. Anybody who can read knows the way it happened.’
    ‘The story in the paper isn’t quite —‘
    ‘I read your report, what there was of it.’
    ‘Yes, sir, uh, about that. . . Lieutenant Goldwald thought we should leave out some. . .‘
    ‘I know what Goldwald thought. I’ve already finished with Goldwald.’
    ‘Could I just give you my end of it? Sir.’ Sharky said.
    ‘No. I know all I need to know. I know you went into this meet with, uh, what was his name? Uh...’
    ‘Creech. Percy Creech. A/k/a High Ball Mary.’
    ‘Yes, Creech. You went in there solo. No back-up. No surveillance team. Six hundred dollars of department money in your pocket. You set up this buy with a very dangerous pusher and kept the details to yourself. A real grandstand play, Sharky. And then to get involved in a chase through the most crowded section of town. At rush hour. A shoot-out on a crowded city bus filled with women and children. Just what else would you like to add to that?’
    ‘Everything was rolling smooth until that goddamn Tully...’
    ‘I’m not interested in Tully,’ Jaspers snapped, cutting him off. ‘Tully was an accident. Accidents happen. You should anticipate, anticipate,