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. Then he took his invitation and headed for Pachinko!
Chapter Thirty
Scardi picked his spot carefully, with the same instincts, the same planning, that had kept him alive for forty-five of his sixty years in a business where death was as common as winter flu.
Several factors dictated his choice of position. First, accessibility to the victim. He wanted a clean head shot.
The .22 Woodsman had a specially designed eight-inch barrel with a Colt-Elliason rear sight and a ten-shot clip. The weapon was deadly up to seventy or eighty yards. With the silencer Scardi knew he could probably get off two, possibly three shots undetected. One would be sufficient, two ideal.
Second, he checked the pedestrian traffic patterns, looking for a place he could get in a clean shot without a lot of people around.
Finally, he looked for an escape route. It would be tough, escaping from Pachinko!, since it was accessible by elevator only. But there had to be a fire escape, a stairwell somewhere.
His modus operandi did not include trapping himself.
He stood on the balcony overlooking Pachinko!, orientating himself, studying every inch of the place through pain-clouded eyes.
He was standing with his back to the western wall of the building, looking down into the atrium. To his left was Ladder Street, winding down six storeys to the park’s main floor, where it became the main thoroughfare of Pachinko!, ending at the gardens. To his right were the shallow pond and the Tai Tak Restaurant. In the far corner to his left was the entrance to the pinball ride and in the far corner to his right Tiger Balm Gardens. Below him was the entrance to the underground Arcurion tour of historic Hong Kong.
There were three side streets in Pachinko! One was Prince Avenue, which ran perpendicular to the main street, starting at the foot of Ladder Street, and terminated at the giant figure of Man Chu, the robot who operated the ride. A second Street, Queen Street, paralleled Prince Avenue near the gardens. A narrow alley connected them, the stores on its eastern side built up to the far wall of the atrium.
The alley was virtually empty. Few of the guests who jammed the spectacular complex had discovered it yet. Only two stores on the alley had been completed. One was a petshop about halfway between Prince and Queen. The other was on the western corner of the alley and Prince Street, a trinket shop with a stall in front.
Perfect.
Scardi guessed Hotchins and DeLaroza would come down Ladder Street, turn into Prince, and go to the pinball ride. They would pass within fifteen feet of the alley. From the corner, hidden by the trinket stalls, Scardi could get off a couple of good head shots and escape down the alley.
And then what?
He continued to study the far side of the atrium floor. Then he saw the fire door. It was located on Queen Street between the alley and the wall.
The fire door provided his escape route. Scardi also reasoned that there would probably be an access door from the playing field of the ride to the fire stairs. If necessary he could enter the main floor of the ride and escape through the tunnels that led to the first floor. A risky trip, particularly for a wounded man, but an out nevertheless in case the stairway itself was blocked by police or security guards.
The wound burned deeply, but Scardi went over the plan two more times in his head before he was satisfied.
Scardi smiled. He was satisfied. It was a daring plan, but he had pulled off worse. And even if he didn’t, he was certain now that he could put a bullet in DeLaroza’s brain before he died himself.
Hotchins had been introduced with glowing platitudes by the state’s senior senator, Osgood Thurston. Hotchins’s speech was short and to the point, a straightforward declaration that he was running for president and running to win, for the guests had come to play, not to listen to political speeches. The press would have its chance at him:
later at the press conference.
Five minutes, that’s all it would take.
He was halfway through the announcement when he saw her the first time. A face in the sea of masks, staring up at him, smiling cryptically.
He floundered, lost his place as panic seized him. He smiled at the crowd, regained his composure, and when he looked back she was gone.
A moment later he saw her again, this time staring enigmatically from between the posters in a display in front of one of the booths.
Again, a few moments later, from farther down in the crowd.
He went on, losing track of what he was saying, flashing that smile, inventing lines, frantic to get it over with. For sixteen years he had savoured the anticipation of this moment. Now it was here and be was seized with terror.
Domino was out there, in that crowd of masked revellers, taunting him.
He finished with relief, backing away from the podium, his bandwagon supporters crowding around him, raising his anus over his head. Lowenthal, Thurston, three governors, the mayor, five congressmen, a dozen state legislators, several bankers, and two of the nation’s most powerful labour leaders.
The crowd was cheering wildly as the band struck up a furious version of ‘Georgia On My Mind’. Flashbulbs and strobes blinded the dignitaries, and movie and television cameras swept the crowd, capturing its lusty reaction to their favourite son’s entry into the campaign.
Only DeLaroza read the fear in Hotchins’s eyes.
He pulled him aside after the furore had died away.
‘What is the matter with you?’ DeLaroza demanded.
‘She’s down there,’ Hotchins said. He was trembling.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘She’s in that crowd. She’s leering at me!’
‘Who?’
‘Domino. She’s here. In this place.’
‘You are going to pieces. She would never take such a chance.’
‘I’m telling you, Domino is out there. She’s trying to rattle me and she did it.’
‘Listen to me,’ DeLaroza said, ‘we have only to walk down that stairway and over to the entrance of the ride and get in that steel ball and then you will be finished here. I assure you, she will not be at the press conference.’
‘I’m not going down there.’
‘You are most certainly going down there. The cameras, the reporters, the public, they are all waiting for us. Everyone who sees you on television riding in an amusement park will identify with you. It is something everyone can relate to. You are not backing out now.’
He grabbed Hotchins’s arm and led him down Into the crowd, bodyguards and security men forming a wedge through the mob, leading them down through the noisy bazaar.
They had gone a few steps when Hotchins saw the sketch. He pulled free of DeLaroza and rushed to the artist.
‘Who is that?’ he demanded, pointing to the easel ‘When did you do this sketch?’
‘Just before the speeches,’ the young artist stammered.
‘Where did she go. Which way?’
The artist waved his arm towards the crowd.
‘Out there somewhere, sir. She said she’d come back later and pick it up.’
‘What was she wearing?’ DeLaroza demanded.
‘Wearing?’
‘What kind of clothes was she wearing?
‘Uh.. . I was concentrating on her face, y’know. Uh, gold gown. That was it, a gold gown. Big splash of red right here in the middle.’
Hotchins remembered the woman at the entrance, the eyes following him from behind the impenetrable mask.
‘It was her downstairs. I knew it. I knew there was something...’
DeLaroza was urging him along the stairs.
‘Smile. Wave at the crowd. We are surrounded by guards. You have nothing to worry about.’