Lost Art Assignment (13 page)

Davis jumped up on the table and shouted “Get up!” loud enough to be heard above Bonham's cheering fans.
Stay down.
Morgan willed Cevida, trying to send a psychic message.
You don't know who your friends are. Accept the truth, you are second best here.

The referee yelled “nine” and Cevida stood on his own two feet. He correctly identified three fingers waved before him. The ref backed away, waving Bonham in. Morgan thought it was like calling in an artillery strike. Cevida poured out his courage all at once on Bonham's jaw, and Bonham ended the fight as quickly as he could, bringing a roundhouse right fist up, over and down across the Mexican's jaw.

After hearing the number ten Bonham missed a beat. Morgan guessed he was wondering, as all good boxers do, if he could have done it with less pain to his courageous enemy. Then he leaped into the air, waving raised fists, and accepted his fans' roared approval.

Davis pointed a finger at Morgan, then at the door, and jumped down from the table. Within the emotional whirlwind the club had become, he bent to give Felicity a light kiss on the cheek.

“Sorry, babe, but I got to go. Can you get to the hotel okay?”

“Of course,” she said, tugging his shoulder to hold him close for a second. “Hey, sorry things went sour for you. Go take care of business. I'll be fine.” Then he left, Morgan left, and she sat alone, drained by the evening's experience. This was nothing like amateur fights she had seen as a child
in Ireland. Those were friendly, in a way. This audience wanted blood, or at least crushing defeat. She was stunned at how many grown men, and especially women, got a tremendous kick from watching such a spectacle.

Felicity was still in her chair after most of the patrons had left. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung just above her head, covering the entire room. She was startled to see Cevida walk slowly past her. The sorrow in his eyes wrenched her heart because she alone knew about her part in his defeat. Skorolos lumbered behind him, looking grim. When he recognized her, he shook his head slowly.

“The kid's finished,” Skorolos said.

And so are you, Felicity thought.

Davis' voice sounded hoarse when he said “come in”. Morgan stepped into the room, not sure what he expected. What he found was Davis on the edge of the bed, dressed in his usual stylish manner, sitting behind a picked over breakfast cart. He looked as if he had not slept all night. Dark circles hung under his reddened eyes.

“What now?” Morgan asked, standing just inside the door. As he learned last night, Davis liked to do the talking.

“Morning,” Davis said. “As you might guess, I got kind of busy after I cut you loose last night. Things move quickly in the circles I travel in. Anyway I had a lot of bets to pay off, and more today but first there's other business.”

“Can it wait until this afternoon?” Morgan asked. “I got a lunch date.” This was true. At noon, Morgan planned to pay off Skorolos. He couldn't afford to miss that date. Skorolos, driven by both greed and fear, was unpredictable if he didn't get paid.

“You'll have to cancel,” Davis said. “I need your help with some people coming down from New York. That could happen any time today. We'll be moving quickly, things might get tense, and I'm no good at the rough stuff.” Davis went to the writing table. Morgan waited a moment before speaking again, as if it might seem like stepping out of line.

“None of my business, of course, but is the girl going with us?”

After a pause, Davis said “No, you're right to ask. She'll be occupied elsewhere. She shouldn't see this stuff. In fact, would you go get her? She's directly upstairs from here.”

He nodded and left Davis' room. He already knew where Felicity's room was and got there as quickly as he could. At her door he knocked twice and went in. Felicity, in casual summer wear, sat at her dressing table, applying a hint of eye makeup.

“Don't tell me.” She smiled at him in the mirror. “He wants me?”

“Who doesn't?” He sat on her bed. “But I need you. There's a hitch.”

“What kind of hitch?” Felicity asked, turning.

“Davis needs me all day.” He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket. “You can't come along. Might be some rough stuff, as he puts it. So you have to make the drop.”

“No sweat,” Felicity said, dropping the cash-filled envelope into her purse. “Just hope Ross doesn't intend to send me out of town.”

After escorting Felicity downstairs, Morgan held the door to Davis' room to let her enter first. Then he got comfortable at the little table by the window, staring out at the view of the Atlantic that justified most of the room's inflated cost. Felicity reached for Davis, hugging him with a concerned expression.

“You're not in any kind of trouble, are you?” she asked.

“Me? No way this can be traced to me,” Davis said. “But there are some loose ends from that mess last night. While I'm taking care of them, I want you to do some spotting for me.”

“Well, I guess I haven't earned my keep yet, so just what is it you'd like me to be doing?”

“For a talented lady like you, not much,” Davis said. His
smile returned when he talked to her. “I want you to case the casinos, especially Trump's place. Find me some good marks. You know what I need. High rollers looking for a bigger game, not pros. I got a card mechanic coming in and we'll set up a couple of good poker games for him.”

“You mean we're staying in Atlantic City?” Felicity wondered if derailing the boxing scam had all been for nothing, but was careful to cloak her disappointment.

“For a little while, pretty girl,” Davis said. “Right now I've got serious business to take care of. Got to get the boat on an even keel before we can cruise right, you know?” As if on a sudden impulse, Davis gathered Felicity into his arms. They fell into a long, deep kiss. Morgan ignored the clinch, knowing Felicity would do more than kiss the man if necessary. When they separated, they said a few goodbyes and Felicity left for her room.

“So?” Morgan asked once she was gone.

“So now we wait,” Davis said. “That girl really turns me on, you know?”

“She's a looker all right,” Morgan said, not wanting to take that conversation too far in either direction. “Got a deck of cards? No sense just sitting here all day.”

At eleven a.m. Felicity walked to the Holiday Inn's ground floor and stepped out onto Atlantic City's boardwalk. Sunshine caressed her face like a lover's fingers and she waited a minute before pulling on her wide brimmed straw hat. The weather was lovely, but her skin was much too fair to leave exposed.

Felicity saw Atlantic City as a totally Americanized version of her old haunts on the Riviera. Or perhaps middle-class-ized described it better. Early in the twentieth century Atlantic City was a rich man's summering place, rivaling Saratoga Springs farther north. In the 1940s that business started running down. Then in the seventies, when gambling was legalized in the city, it became a resort for the hopeful.

Now glitter exceeded glamour. No nudity, but bathers pushed the limits in European bathing suits. High stakes baccarat, roulette and chemin de fer were available, but the real wealth came into town in quarters, dimes and even nickels poured into hundreds of slot machines every day.

Felicity strolled the wide boards, enjoying the soft, salt-laden breeze, and pondering the contrast between the monolithic casinos passing on her left and the simplicity of a splendid sandy beach on her right. And considering her options. This case was rapidly getting away from her. She was no closer to the lost paintings, and it looked as though she would need to come up with a plan to get out of
Atlantic City and back on track. Meanwhile, her business was ten thousand dollars out of pocket for a gambit that cost someone a fortune in gambling debts but had not seemed to further their cause.

Oh, well. She stopped off at a small novelty store within sight of the rendezvous point. She knew the time exactly without ever glancing at a clock. It was a special gift, which she thought was tied in with her photographic memory somehow. Trying to relax, Felicity changed ten dollars into quarters and wasted some time playing two slot machines just inside the store.

At eleven thirty-one Davis picked up the telephone on the third ring. He nodded a lot and spoke in hushed tones. Morgan picked up the cards and shoved them into their packet. This, he reasoned, must be it.

“Time to go,” Davis said. “By the way, Johnson, just what are you carrying, in case we run into trouble?”

Morgan lifted his jacket's left side. “Know anything about this stuff? That's a Browning Hi-power, sometimes called a P-35. Fourteen rounds of special exploding tip ammo I load myself.” He dropped the left, raising the right side. “That's a Randall Model One fighting knife. Seven inch blade.” He straightened his clothes. “Also two boot knives. One for fighting, one for throwing. Satisfied?”

Davis looked like he didn't expect the question. “Seems like enough,” he said after a pause.

“Good,” Morgan said, keeping his face straight. “It's only for extreme situations anyway. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I can handle whatever comes up with my hands and feet.”

A moment later, the two men were on the boardwalk, which didn't look as wide as Morgan remembered it as a
boy. A gifted judge of distance, he saw it was within inches of sixty feet across. He wondered if any beach anywhere had so many beautiful women as permanent fixtures. Of course, he had seen beauty on beaches the world over, but only there did it inspire the start of the Miss America Pageant. Maybe, he thought, the beauties weren't more plentiful there. Maybe they just appreciate a fine female body more than anywhere else.

“So where we going?” he asked, after walking in silence for a while.

“Not far,” Davis said. “Need to straighten out what happened last night, and we can do it right here on the boardwalk.”

“Just what did happen?” Morgan asked. “Was one of those guys supposed to take a dive or something?”

“The plan was a little more subtle than that,” Davis said with a grin of superiority. “No, it was the trainer who either screwed up or screwed us. Either way, he's got to be taken care of.”

Morgan stared into the sheer glass cliffs in front of the Resorts International Hotel, imagining the vast expanse of handle puller beyond. “You know where he is?”

“Relax, pal,” Davis said, pulling off his jacket and slinging it over his shoulder. “We've had a man on him since he woke up this morning. Just waiting for a good public place to talk to him. Need to make an example, so everyone knows not to mess with my people.”

Morgan felt the net dropped for another fish closing around him and his partner. Where was Felicity? Did she know she was in the net as well?

They called it Rick's Fish Fry, but the name changed almost annually. Colored lights flashed around the edge of
the place's open front. It was perhaps fifteen feet wide, but a lot got done in that space.

Felicity walked in at eleven forty-four, early for her noon meeting. On her left, cramped against a bright yellow wall, cooks worked at a bank of deep fryers. Periodically they pulled out a bewildering variety of batter fried items. Felicity saw fish fillets as expected, but also shrimp, clams, onions, mushrooms, zucchini, even mozzarella sticks. Turning in their narrow space, cooks dumped their baskets onto trays right behind them, refilled, and returned them to the hot oil.

Felicity paid five dollars for all she could eat. The restaurant had a narrow center aisle, with tables arrayed along the right side and more in the back. She headed for the farthest corner seat on the right.

She saw Skorolos before he spotted her. He was pressed into the opposite corner, at the end of the cooking area, looking as if he wanted to hide under his table. Felicity gently pulled her hat down over her left eye and headed right. Searching for a tall black man, Skorolos would not notice her. She hoped.

Once seated, Felicity had another problem. How could she get the envelope full of half bills to Skorolos without letting him know she was involved?

Twenty feet from the front of Rick's Fish Fry, Morgan felt fear's hot breath on his neck. Standing thirty feet to the left of the entrance, Ghost nodded toward him. He crossed the open front, meeting Davis and Morgan just out of sight of anyone in Rick's. Morgan's watch said eleven fifty-two.

“He is inside,” Ghost said. He was dressed casually, in loose fitting slacks and a black sleeveless top. “I think it is the perfect setting for what we need to do.”

“Yeah,” Davis agreed. “You know Johnson?”

“We've worked together,” Ghost said, offering Morgan his hand. “I think this is a case of overkill, my friend.”

Morgan saw his chance. “You ain't lied, brother. This sure as hell ain't a two-man job. Why don't you wait outside? I'll go in and break something. I saw this guy at ringside. He's a butterball, an old guy.” And if he sees us together, my cover's blown, Morgan thought. From what little he had seen of Ghost in action, he would really rather not have to tangle with him.

Davis smiled at the new guy's ignorance. “That would be logical, but not spectacular enough for J.J.'s tastes.”

“Besides, Daddy Boom is here,” Ghost said. “He and I will go in. You will seal the entrance until we return. We don't want any added headaches. Nor would we want any of the witnesses to leave prematurely seeking assistance.”

Over Ghost's shoulder, Morgan saw Daddy Boom coming up the steps from the street to the boardwalk. He wore a loose white jumpsuit that made him look even bigger than he already was. Morgan's mouth went dry as the sand beneath the broad wooden walkway.

So at least Skorolos would not get a chance to spot Morgan. He would, however, recognize Felicity when she handed him the envelope. Had she passed the money already? Skorolos would say anything he thought might save him when these two grabbed him. Morgan wondered what might happen if Skorolos fingered Felicity as handing him the money. Could he, Morgan, put Daddy Boom and Ghost out of action and get Felicity clear? Maybe. But not without a bloodbath, that much was certain.