The Payback Assignment foams-1

by Austin S. Camacho

  “I recognize this feeling, this emptiness,” Griffith said in hushed tones.

  “Yeah,” Morgan said. “It’s that feeling, like when the choppers take off and you’re left in that LZ, inches from the forward battle line, unprotected.”

  Griffith nodded, pointing a little up the narrow avenue. The empty lot directly across the street was covered with broken glass, broken bricks, broken bottles, broken boards. To its right stood a crumbling four story tenement building filled with broken windows, broken doors, and, Morgan imagined, broken dreams. Beyond the building was yet another empty lot.

  The building stood like a single tooth, sticking up out of a rotting mouth. The number 1313 was painted on the door.

  “So this is the rendezvous point,” Morgan said, his voice invading the silence. “Good thing I’m not superstitious.”

  “This is where I was to bring you. Second floor left.”

  “Well, let’s not disappoint him.” Morgan pulled out Griffith’s pistol, dropped the magazine and pulled the slide back, popping out the chambered round. As that lone bullet spun to the asphalt he extended the gun toward its owner. “Now take this. I’ll holster my gun. You walk me in like I’m a prisoner. Once I make contact with Stone or his representative, you’re free to go. Right?”

  Griffith seemed to consider the situation for a moment. “You know, even if I lay off you, even if Stone don’t get you, my men will be after you,” he said. “They’re very good and very loyal.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Morgan said. “You in?”

  “Okay. I’ll play,” Griffith said, reaching to accept the empty automatic.

  Morgan wondered if any of the local citizens were watching as a military looking white man marched one of their black brothers across a pothole-covered street in the South Bronx. As they stepped through the rickety front door, he noticed a junkie crouched in the far corner of the unlighted hall. The junkie ignored the two intruders. They ignored him.

  The odor of urine almost overpowered them. Morgan led the way up the stairs, stepping over the broken ones. On the second floor landing, Griffith thrust the impotent gun barrel into Morgan’s back and nodded toward a door.

  “Good-bye and good luck,” he muttered. Morgan thought he might mean it. Griffith reached around Morgan and hit the door with three fast knocks and two slow ones.

  A bolt shot back, a latch turned, and the door swung inward. Morgan expected to see Stone or an underling, seated comfortably, waiting to take him to some unknown Big Man. Instead, he stepped forward into a room even darker than the hallway. On the left, he made out a couch canted away from the wall. To his right sat a big torn up chair and a small table. As his eyes became accustomed to the deeper gloom he thought he saw a doorway about twenty feet ahead, perhaps leading into the kitchen.

  Almost too late, all of his internal warning lights went on. A short, squat figure appeared in the far doorway. A flash of light glinted off of something as he swung it up. Morgan had just enough time to realize that Griffith was in the line of fire. These bastards would toss him out to get Morgan.

  “Jesus!” Morgan said through clenched teeth as he dived desperately to the left. The blast coincided with his leap. Two or three stray shotgun pellets raked his right side ribs. His left shoulder crashed into the wall and he slid down behind the sofa. He had time to catch only a glimpse of J.D. Griffith pointing his useless forty-five before a swarm of angry twelve gage hornets blasted him into, and all over, the hall.

  For Morgan, there was no way out. The couch provided some concealment, making it tough for anyone to pin down his exact position. But concealment is not the same thing as cover. He knew that riot gun in the kitchen would find him before too long. Twenty feet away, against the opposite wall, the backup man lay prone under the small table. He fired his small caliber pistol occasionally into the sofa. The crossfire was simple, smart, and inescapable. To stand and get a shot at one, he would have to expose himself to the other.

  What an ugly place to die, Morgan thought, and gave pragmatic consideration to which of these killers he would take with him.

  21

  Felicity tore her eyes away from the gun pointed at her. Ahead, she saw that the tarnished pole on the corner held a green light. At the intersection she pulled hard on the wheel and slid around to her left. The Fiat also managed to corner, accompanied by a blare of horns. The cross street was short. She hit her left signaler, indicating a turn up Third Avenue, back the way she had come. She knew the big avenues were one way in alternating directions, and she figured her followers did too.

  At the corner the Fiat was right behind her, trying to squeeze onto her right side, to get on the outside of the turn. She looked up and sighed in frustration. The light was already yellow. She would never reach the corner before it turned red. Well, tough. She leaned back, put on her best “dumb broad” face, down shifted, cranked the wheel and tapped her brakes.

  The racing change gave her just enough of a fish tail to slide between lanes of oncoming traffic as she cocked the wheel to the right, against the one-way flow of traffic. Surprise caused the river of cars to part for her. There were raised fists and horns sounding in all possible tones and keys. From every car arose a chorus of “dumb broad”, “out-of-towner” and other dirty names New Yorkers call people.

  Felicity smiled, affected a look of fear, embarrassment and apology, and wound through a block of impatient but obliging drivers. She had long believed the world’s most skillful drivers outside Paris, lived in New York. They could not survive otherwise. She made it to the next intersection feeling the impact of much cursing and swearing, but no collisions.

  The driver of the Fiat was less fortunate. New York drivers might adjust for one idiot, but not two in a row. The hole that had opened up for the Corvette closed immediately behind it. A Lincoln was stopped, grill to grill with the Fiat. Its engine growled menacingly. In her rear view mirror Felicity saw the drivers of the facing cars get out. The Lincoln’s driver, in a chauffeur’s uniform, was noticeably larger than the other.

  Then she was on the cross street, on her way back to Fifth Avenue. A part of her wished she could see the result of the massive traffic snarl she had caused, but she did not want to arrive late for lunch at the Waldorf.

  The magnificent structure known as the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel has occupied the same prestigious corner of Park Avenue and 49th Street for more than seventy years. She chose this place for lunch, not because the guests were frequently film stars and big name politicians, but because she would face less of a crowd there than would be present at some other famous spots. New Yorkers often forget that hotel restaurants offer some of the finest eating in the city.

  Actually, the Waldorf offered three very different restaurants. Inagiku was probably the first upscale gourmet Japanese restaurant in midtown Manhattan. Oscar’s was perhaps the most gracious coffee shop on the East Coast. For that day, she had chosen the third alternative, the Bull and Bear.

  Over the years, Felicity had learned the advantages of style over substance. The Bull and Bear Restaurant had style to spare. She loved the warm wood paneling and soft, discreet lighting. The decor was rich with antiques, so carefully matched and selected, that to walk through the door was to be plunged into another era.

  She chose a table near the nineteenth century hand carved boar’s head. She always felt as if she had invaded a private men’s club there. After turning away the offered glass of water, she tried to settle into some people watching. A head of state or two caught her eye, but as always the place held her attention more than the patrons. Her eyes were drawn to an English catchpole and a matched pair of three hundred year old French rapiers behind them. This activity kept her serene until her date, and his escort, joined her.

  “You are even lovelier today than you were on the Riviera last season, my dear,” Duncan Baptiste said. He kissed the back of her left hand and took the seat opposite hers. “This magnificent decor is almost a sufficient backdrop for your beauty
.”

  She flashed Baptiste her most dazzling smile. “You are most gracious,” she said. Bullshit, she thought. Duncan Baptiste was a jewel thief with few rivals. The product of a French peasant girl and a visiting Scottish soldier just after the end of World War Two, he was obviously named after his father. He started stealing to live while still in his childhood. His reputation came partly from being successful in his chosen field for twenty years before Felicity ever began. The rest of his name came from a half dozen truly spectacular heists in the nineteen seventies.

  A waiter brought a plate of sandwiches, which Duncan must have ordered. The other, bigger man who joined the table reached for a half sandwich and pushed half of it into his mouth.

  “Who’s this big fellow?” She asked.

  “James is an associate of mine,” Duncan said. “As he matures, a man finds he needs assistance for the more physical bits of business.”

  As their cocktails arrived, she checked her seatmates. While Baptiste’s dark brown hair was styled, James’ was barber cut. Baptiste wore a hand made and tailored wool suit with Italian hand made shoes. His companion wore a Sears polyester suit and penny loafers. Obviously a flunky, but with none of the panache she would expect to see in a thief Baptiste would accept as an apprentice. A bodyguard, then? Was Baptiste losing his confidence in his old age?

  “Now, my dear, exactly what was it you wanted to discuss with your old rival, eh?” Baptiste asked through the smoke from his Dunhill cigarette.

  “Well, Duncan dear, I’m afraid it’s business.”

  “I had hoped for a more social reason,” Duncan said. “Oh, well, what will it be then? Some professional advice, perhaps?”

  “Well, sort of.” Her eyes wandered nervously as she answered, while her fingers fidgeted with the pepper shaker in front of her. “A few days ago, you see, I was casing a particular bauble that caught my eye down in Mexico. Fact is, I had invested a lot in this score. Not money, but a lot of time and planning. I was all set to make the touch when the mark up and moves to New York. Well, followed the boy here, I did, but then I hear the bauble changed hands. Now this is a particularly nice piece, it is, a real prime target for sure. I know you’ve been making New York your base for a while. If this piece wandered into your bailiwick I figure you’d smell it. And I just kind of figured that out of professional courtesy and for a small consideration…”

  “That I’d lead you to it?” Baptiste asked. “Well, O’Brian, when you tilt your head just so and bat those big green eyes at me like that, how can I say no? Besides, I’m not above collecting a small finder’s fee. Now just what are we talking about? What does this bauble look like?”

  “Oh, ‘tis a honey of an antique brooch,” Felicity said. “Picture a teardrop diamond set in Russian malachite, surrounded by matched pearls. It’s really quite lovely.” Her speech slowed because without warning, her senses had again heightened. If humans had antennae, hers would have been out. Reaching for a sandwich she dropped her napkin, apologized and bent to pick it up. While she was under the table she scanned the room. She took six precious seconds to confirm the locations of exits and to plan for trouble. When she sat up she could sense a man standing behind her. She didn’t turn, but kept her eyes on Baptiste.

  “All right, Duncan,” she said, her voice cool but not threatening. “Why ever do you think you need two bodyguards to have lunch with me? So very dangerous, am I?”

  “I don’t really know, Felicity.”

  “Why a trap?” she asked, still not looking at the man behind her. “I’m here alone, unarmed, asking an old friend for help.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” Duncan said, “but I’m afraid I had a secondary agenda for our meeting. You see, there’s a gentleman, a man about town, who would like an introduction to you in the worst way. I couldn’t resist the reward offered, but I couldn’t be at all sure that you would agree to the meeting. My friends are here to escort you to him.”

  She turned finally to stare up at the big, bald man with the cavernous eyes who stood behind her chair. “But I never even had my lunch,” she sighed.

  “I will remain and enjoy the marvelous menu in your stead.”

  She bit her lower lip, and her shoulders dropped in apparent resignation. “Well, I’ll travel with gruesome here if I must, but he’ll at least have to be neat.” With that, she twisted around in her seat, reached up and began straightening the tall man’s tie. Out the corner of her eye, she watched Duncan, who was plainly amused at how nervous her attention made his hulking bodyguard. He must believe she was simply trying to make the best of a bad situation.

  When she saw that Duncan and his seated assistant were relaxed, she knew the time for action had arrived. She smiled sweetly up into her standing “escort’s” eyes, subtly tightening her grip on his tie, and slid herself off the edge of her chair.

  Her rump smacked the floor painfully. Her guard, snapped forward by her weight, bent awkwardly at the waist. His tongue jutted out when his Adam’s apple crashed into the back of her chair.

  Before the tall man had slumped to the floor gagging, even before James could rise from his seat, her hand darted like a striking adder to the table. She flipped a shaker at the big man’s face. The cap, which she had loosened in her assailants’ full view, dropped away. A cloud of black pepper engulfed the flunky’s head. Fingers that were originally headed for his shoulder holster, now clawed at wounded eyes.

  She and Duncan rose to their feet simultaneously. His eyes gleamed with hatred. She tossed her scarlet locks and smoothed her dress. The agile, continental cat burglar took one step toward the girl and fell on his face. He had not noticed Felicity tying his shoelaces together during those scant seconds she spent bent under the table.

  The statuesque redhead was pushing the door open before her three “dates” recovered. The entire episode, from tie tightening to darting across the room toward the door, had taken place within eight seconds.

  22

  Felicity wasted no time getting into her Corvette and moving it into traffic. She was angry. Angry with herself for being so trusting. Angry at an old friend for being untrustworthy. Angry at a world that twisted people so easily, turning friends into enemies in a heartbeat.

  Her brain spinning, she drove by reflex. As she cruised, a growing uneasiness crept into her mind. She wandered the streets, pursuing an elusive feeling. It was her usual danger warning, but then again it was not. She was confident of her own safety, but her senses were never wrong. Whatever it was, it was driving her crazy, like a hornet trapped in her ear. And something was drawing her uptown, making her turn. She wondered if Morgan ever…

  That was it! Her eyes snapped wide and she squealed her tires taking the next corner. It was Morgan. He was in danger, deadly danger. Perhaps walking into a trap. She did not know how she knew, nor did she care. All she was sure about was how she cared about this man. He had saved her life and by God, she would save his if she could.

  Felicity usually kept a low profile because she hated the idea of entanglement with the police under any circumstances, but this day her need for speed tossed all that out the window. She turned up the Chieftains blaring from her radio, then pressed her thumb into the button on the side of her Hurst T-shifter, releasing the nitrous oxide kicker to her engine. Her head snapped back as her car leaped forward and suddenly she was drag racing across town, aiming at the ramp onto the Henry Hudson Parkway.

  The Henry Hudson, recently rebuilt, was a narrow strip along Manhattan Island’s western edge. It was two lanes wide each way, with a two-foot high cement wall on either side. The lanes were wavy lines dotted with potholes. The traffic flow was fierce, hot and unforgiving.

  At times like this, she did her driving on another mental plane. The union of driver and machine was nearly meditative. She flowed among the cars, weaving with the wavy lines at eighty miles per hour. Pursuit was not a concern. She knew no policeman would be insane enough to chase her on this madcap road.

  While much of her
consciousness focused on guiding her car, another part of her brain considered her reactions, as if she could stand outside herself as an observer. She wondered if this mad urge she felt was the same as whatever drove Morgan Stark to her, days ago in an obscure Centrral American jungle. Where had it come from? What was the bizarre link between their minds that appeared to be functioning right then as a biological homing device?

  After all, they were barely more than strangers and they could not be less alike. White and black, sophisticated and earthy, educated and not. They had nothing whatever in common. Of course, they both traveled in an underground subculture, but she moved in a world of thieves and confidence men, not professional soldiers and hardened killers like he did.

  She remembered two or three people in the past telling her that she was psychic, usually after a narrow escape. She had never really accepted it. A natural skeptic, she had always figured she just had good instincts, or sharp senses. But now this had happened. There was no denying this, no explaining it away. There was no logical, rational way that she could know Morgan’s location. But she also had not cared about anyone this much since she had left her family. Now her respect, affection, and perhaps something stronger she felt for this adventurer rogue was leading her right to him.

  Although she was quite familiar with Manhattan’s streets, she had very little experience with the rest of New York City. She somehow got onto the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Drive on the east side of the island. Soon she found herself on something called the Major Deegan Expressway. Minutes later she was smoothly shifting down through the gears in a slum neighborhood in the South Bronx. She remembered seeing Dublin after a clash between the IRA and British forces. The setting was eerily familiar.