Lost Art Assignment (25 page)

Paul, walking out toward his bosses, saw their tension and started looking around. Morgan felt under his left arm, cursing fate for leaving him without a gun or his fighting knife.

Felicity stood with outstretched fingers, figurative antennae probing the situation, trying to put a name and location on whatever menace was approaching. Her tingle
was like a vicious itch, becoming more and more uncomfortable, telling her whatever she was reacting to was very close, straight ahead.

Davis looked up and smiled at her. She had a fix. Was Davis the danger? Was he about to draw a gun, or… no. Not him. Directly behind him. No one was there. Perhaps a weakened wall or a bomb or…

“Ross!” she screamed, and four people moved at once. Davis stepped toward Felicity. Paul spun toward the gift shop, a gun appearing in his hand. Felicity jumped toward Davis. Morgan dived even faster, landing on her, forcing her into the carpet.

The world went silent for an instant, then roared and rocked with an explosive concussion. Shattered glass flew everywhere. The noise of the blast was supplemented and then replaced by screams of terror. Felicity had a momentary flash of deja vu, reliving the day she saw her parents die in the blast of an IRA bomb.

Morgan tasted plaster dust and Felicity's hair. He shook his head as if that would clear the ringing in his ears. He lifted himself to arm's length, looking around. He whispered, “Jesus” and got to his feet. Paul, his gun hidden again, helped Felicity up and held her arms tightly. Morgan, sensing the danger over, went forward into the space that used to be a little gift shop.

There was only one salesgirl. She was shaken, but otherwise fine. Morgan's feet crunched on shattered glass and porcelain knickknacks, jewelry and cigarette lighters. The smell of quarts of perfume mixed together was almost overpowering.

Morgan backed past two incoming policemen and sidestepped to where Paul stood behind Felicity, still
holding both her arms. Tears streamed down her face, but confusion was replacing her grief. She looked at Morgan, who took her hand and began guiding her toward the door.

“Your boy Ross is gone,” Morgan said. “We've got to get out of here now.”

The trio headed for the door, but Felicity tore away. In the confusion she slipped through the crowd to grab the bag Davis had been carrying. Morgan followed but didn't try to stop her from sifting through the bag's contests. Gum, candy, a lighter. She dropped them all with the bag, except for a single red silk rose Morgan had seen Davis pick up for her.

Morgan walked back into a hotel room as still as a funeral parlor during a wake. He tossed a box of Winchester nine millimeter hollow points to Paul. Paul sat in the chair by the window, still, emotionless, like an android awaiting new programming. Morgan considered how apt that analogy was.

Felicity sat on the bed, hugging herself. Barefoot, in the bright sun dress, her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders, she looked much as Morgan imagined she must have looked in her native Ireland in her teens. Her face reflected fear, frustration, sorrow, and mostly, anger. Morgan sat in the chair opposite Paul, across the small table by the window. He pulled the miniature Black Widow revolver out of his boot, swung its cylinder out, and slid five fresh twenty-two magnum caliber shells into it.

“Why such an extreme distraction?” Felicity asked herself. “Why not just walk in and snatch him?”

“They respect us,” Morgan said. “They've seen me in action. They've seen Paul's courage close up. They figured if they put the arm on him, we'd fight and maybe they'd lose.”

“Wouldn't have thought any of them was smart enough to figure that far,” Felicity said. “Could Slash still be…”

“No chance,” Morgan told her. “He's dead. These guys just want revenge for that.”

“But they took him,” Felicity said, standing, starting to
pace. “If they wanted him dead, they could've just used a bigger bomb. Why keep him alive? Why not kill us when they had the chance? How in hell did they find us, anyway?”

The ringing electrified them, as if an alternating current reached out and jangled their nerves directly. All eyes were on the telephone by the start of the second ring. The third ring still found everyone frozen.

“That may be your answer,” Morgan said, reaching for the telephone. Felicity stood close, her face blank but eyes tightly focused. Morgan could see she was straining to catch all the call's meaning. All Morgan wanted was to capture the actual words.

“We got Davis.” It was Crazy Ray 9, sounding a little more frantic than usual.

“What do you want, slug?” Morgan asked.

“Your ass,” Ray said.

“You know where I am.”

“We want you and the bitch, but our way, smart ass.” Ray got louder as he went. “I owe you big time for what you did to J.J., nigger, and you gone pay up. You come back to Little Harlem. Just the two of you. Nobody else, hear? No guns. No tricks.”

“And if we do, what then?”

“We give you a chance to fight for your life. Ghost wants to make it an honor thing. You and him, one on one. The woman, well, we'll have some fun with her, then we let her go. You got three hours to get here.”

“And if we don't? Suppose we just ride off?”

“I can put thirty-four bullets in Davis inside five seconds,” Crazy Ray said.

“I want to talk to Ghost,” Morgan said, bringing a startled look to Felicity's face. During a brief pause, a loud
click drew Felicity's attention. Paul had just slid a full magazine into his gun's magazine well.

“This is Ghost.”

“That guy you studied with was Japanese?” Morgan asked.

“Korean,” Ghost said.

“Even better. I want your word of honor that we'll have a fair chance to come out of this alive. If it's you and me, it's you and me. Period.”

“It is a matter of honor,” Ghost said. “You have my word.”

“Three hours,” Morgan said, then hung up. For a moment no one said anything. Then, as if suddenly plugged into a power source, Felicity picked up the telephone. When the desk clerk answered, she asked him for a large pad and two sharp pencils.

“Not much time,” Paul said. “If we're to make the deadline we need to leave soon.”

“You're not in this,” Felicity said. “They only want the two of us.”

“You could simply not go,” Paul said, standing.

Felicity stared at him, daggers flying from her eyes. She was about to reach out and slap him. Then her eyes widened in what Morgan interpreted as understanding. Or maybe acceptance.

“All right, I guess I'll have to be saying it out loud, just to get it out of the way.” Calmer, she pulled out a weak smile and picked up her silk rose. She sniffed at it, then looked up. “Not go? That's not an option,” she said. “At least not for me.”

When the paper and pencils arrived, Felicity tipped the bell boy and went to the window table. She turned a chair backwards and sat straddling its back, putting a pencil
between her teeth before she realized how she must look. That raised a smile, and she started making a list.

“Morgan, this is my gig,” Felicity said, talking down into the lined yellow pad. “Send Paul for clothes for us. Jeans, tee shirts, sneakers, athletic sox. I need a good hair tie. Want a new knife?”

“They never took my boot knives,” Morgan answered.

“Good. And I need you to draw me a map to scale of the Harlem set. You saw a lot more of it than I did. Then we hustle to the library and spend about a half hour in anything they've got on those four places. If they're really built to be exact replicas like Slash said, we might just see something that could be helping us.”

Two minutes later Paul was gone and Morgan sat drawing Slash's hideout as well as he could from memory. When he completed his drawing he looked up.

“Red, do you really think we can take those three out? You got a plan?”

“That's just it, Morgan,” Felicity said. “I know that's what they're thinking too, but we don't need to take them out. All we need to do is find Ross and set him free in those woods. That's our only advantage. They think we're coming to fight. All we really need to do is get Ross and run.”

Morgan stared into her green eyes but said nothing. It wasn't over, he knew, and there would have to be more death before it was. He only hoped he could determine whose. On a wild impulse, he reached into Felicity's closet, pulled out the big garbage bag and unrolled one of the paintings. He looked closely at the boy pedaling serenely along some Greenwich Village street. It seemed so incredible that this boy, so involved with his immediate task, could have started all this.

Felicity pulled her sports car to the right on the obscure dirt road. Paul popped the back door open but leaned over the front seat before getting out.

“You should take my gun, Mister Stark,” he said.

“No, Felicity's right,” Morgan said. “They'd only take it from me as soon as I arrived. I think she's got it pegged, Paul. They want some kind of confrontation. They won't kill us right away. That's why we're not sneaking in. Then they might shoot on sight. We don't know exactly how many of them there are. You're most useful getting out here, approaching slowly and quietly after we're already there, and maybe taking the well timed shot if I'm getting my ass kicked by Ghost. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Paul said, slipping out of the car. In seconds he had disappeared among the trees. One mile from the model Harlem crossroads, he would reach the buildings in about twenty minutes. By then it would all be over but the grieving.

Felicity pressed the accelerator, moving her car toward the battle. They had drawn a perfect day, warm and sunny, with low humidity and an almost cloudless sky. Van Morrison crooned from the car's sound system, “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?” For some reason Felicity had prepared as if for a date, including just enough perfume that Morgan caught the scent while sitting beside her. Felicity's scent was oddly calming to him. He rested
his elbows on his knees, curling his hands into fists, opening them, and balling his fists again.

Paul had found them matching black denims and tee shirts and for Felicity, a wide black elastic band to hold her hair in place. She wore black Air Jordans, pumped up for perfect fit. Morgan still wore boots, his jeans hanging over them to conceal his weapons.

When they reached the paved road, Felicity took her foot off the gas, coasting slowly forward. Three men stood in the street facing them. Ghost, in the middle, stood most relaxed, his hands held in an easy ready position. Daddy Boom stood on the right, in front of The Apollo. On the left, the Cotton Club side, stood Crazy Ray 9. No guns were drawn, but Morgan knew it made no difference.

“I could just stomp on the gas,” Felicity suggested grimly.

“Crazy Ray would chew us up before we got within twenty yards of them,” Morgan said. “You haven't seen him shoot. We play it just like you laid it out. Soon as you're out of sight, disappear and stay disappeared. You can find Ross while they're looking for you.”

Fifty yards from the three killers, Felicity stopped her car.

“You ready?” she asked.

“Let's do this.”

As one, Morgan and Felicity opened their doors and got out. The breeze flipped Felicity's hair over her right shoulder. They walked slowly, their steps hitting the pavement in unison without a sound.

“Expected you to find a gun,” Crazy Ray 9 said as they approached.

“You know damned well you can't get a pistol in this state without all kinds of permits and stuff,” Morgan
answered. As he talked he crossed to his left, subtly changing places with Felicity.

“I see you behaved honorably,” Ghost said. “No guns, alone. Now you will stop. Crazy Ray will watch our battle from the Cotton Club door. Daddy Boom will take the girl over to the Hotel Theresa to begin her punishment.”

“Where's Ross Davis?” Felicity shouted, now only twenty yards away.

“Safe until this is over.”

“Cute,” Morgan said. “Who else is here?”

“Nobody.” Daddy Boom spoke for the first time. Felicity smiled, getting her first look at how puffed out one side of his face was. “We're closing this place down now J.J.'s gone. Your boy's body will be all we leave here.”

“Well,” Morgan said, taking a deep breath, “I don't think so. Break!”

As if triggered by a single detonator, Morgan and Felicity sprinted to opposite sidewalks. Morgan scrambled along the wide sidewalk outside The Cotton Club to burst through its door. Crazy Ray 9, nearest to him, pulled his guns and followed. Felicity ran past the old fashioned wooden ticket booth and posters of early black stars to lose herself in The Apollo's darkness. Daddy Boom moved after her as quickly as possible. Ghost started after Morgan but stopped after a few steps.

“They are tricky, these two,” he said to himself. “If this is one of their tricks they will double back for their car. If they elude my partners I know where I need to be.”

Close-placed tables and chairs cluttered The Cotton Club's floor. Morgan ran across the table tops, driving for the bandstand. He had always wished he could visit this place in a time machine, to drink in the famous club's
atmosphere. Now all he detected of that past time was the phantom smell of blood, and that would ruin even the best party.

“You didn't play by the rules, boy,” Crazy Ray said, bursting in behind Morgan. “Now Ghost won't be pissed when I put you away right. No big deal. I'd have shot you anyway if you beat him.”

Morgan cast one fearful glance over his shoulder, scrambled across the raised dance floor/stage, and dived behind the piano on the bandstand. Ray stood laughing at the end of the raised floor, his arms resting on the stage between two big footlights. He screamed “good-bye” but gunfire drowned him out. He worked the triggers of his twin Glock 17 automatic pistols at full speed. Steel slides slammed back and forward again, a plume of bluish smoke rising above him. Pieces of the piano's wood flew in all directions. For five long seconds the machine gun sound rattled the walls, calling to the ghosts of all the men shot at and stabbed in the real Cotton Club so many miles away.