Free Sharky's Machine by William Diehl Page A

unique. Electronic toys, stuffed toys, toys that moved, that sang, that walked and danced and spoke by means of tiny tape loops hidden deep inside them. Each was the prototype for a production model and each performed its eerie function silently within the towering glass rectangles that dwarfed the reception desk at the far end of the uncomfortably quiet room. To Domino, the collection of dolls, animals, trolls, and other creatures was almost too real. She walked past them without looking, her heels echoing on the tile floor.
    At the reception desk a husky Oriental man, his ice-cube eyes concealed behind heavily tinted glasses, was operating the complex pushbutton switchboard. Music whispered from a tiny transistor radio at his elbow.
    She made a pyramid of her hands and bowed low from the waist.
    ‘Jo sun,’ she said.
    The guard-receptionist repeated the gesture.
    ‘Jo sun, dor-jeh,’ he said.
    He pushed a button under the desk and a door slid soundlessly open nearby. ‘He awaits you,’ he said and she was gone.
    She stepped into a lush botanical garden, a giant two storey terrarium filled with rare plants and shrubs from all over the world: dracaena sanderianas, maidenhair ferns, dwarf azaleas, Chinese fan palms and Amazon lilies, saffron pepper trees, butterfly gardenias, and six-foot ferns, all flourishing under an enormous sun dome. In one corner a circular stairway wound up through the foliage to the penthouse above.
    She skirted the dense, moisture-laden foliage and peered past the greenery, through a heavy window into the office beyond. Pieces of Mayan and Chinese sculpture crouched under soft lights on Oriental rugs.
    In the centre of the office a man sat behind a broad desk cluttered with curios, a large, heavyset man, bald as a crystal ball, with a full red beard that was turning grey. He wore gold-rimmed bifocals and his large hands lay flat on the desk in front of him. He was wearing one ring, on his left hand, a platinum and jade design that covered one entire joint of his little finger. His silk mandarin shirt had three entwined dragons brocaded in red and gold across the chest. He stared at her for several seconds and then smiled and pushed the button that opened the door between the greenhouse and his office.
    She stopped several feet in front of his desk, stared down at him, turned slightly, raised her chin, and arched her back and glared at him over her shoulder.
    Incredible, he thought.
    She had high cheekbones and a full, almost arrogant mouth. Her thick black hair was bobbed at shoulder length and had been tousled just enough by the wind. Her neck was long and slender and the hollow place in her throat, between her collarbones, was as soft and delicate as the petal of a flower. She was slender, long-legged, narrow-waisted, and her breasts were as firm and as perfect as an artist’s sculptured fantasy.
    She wore a Halston dress, its simple, straight lines flattering every curve, every line, its muted rose-grey accentuating the shades of colouring in her skin, her hair, and her eyes. She was young, Haughty. Superior. Elegant. Untouchable. And totally desirable.
    ‘Well?’ she said and raised an eyebrow.
    He leaned back in his chair and, with a flourish of his hands, said, ‘Você e bela.’
    She raised the other eyebrow and half closed her eyes. ‘Muito obrigada.’
    ‘Pardon me,’ he said. ‘Of course, you are fantastic. Muito prazer em revê-la.’
    She looked perplexed and shook her head. ‘Now you lost me. You know how limited my Portuguese is.’
    ‘It means simply, “I am glad to see you”,’ he said.
    ‘That’s all, hunh? Just glad to see you?’ She struck another pose. She unbuttoned the top button of the dress. Then the second. The dress opened slightly. He watched her breathe. She was superb. He had known women in every country, of every race, he had known legendary beauties, the whores of the world, and had once lived for a short time in a very famous house in Bangkok where