“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.
When it was over, Ray climbed up on the stage, his arms hanging at his sides. Both pistols’ slides were locked back. Silence took over the club. The piano was a mass of kindling now, the drum set behind it a group of empty steel hoops.
“Too bad, Morgan,” Crazy Ray said, dropping the empty magazines from his guns. “You had a lot of heart, but you were just outgunned.” He laughed again, pulling a fresh magazine from his belt.
“Wrong, stupid.”
Ray turned left, centering on Morgan’s voice. He saw the man standing at the edge of the stage, pointing a pitifully small revolver at him. Crazy Ray, moving with a speed born of desperation, slammed the new clip into his left hand weapon and raised it. Morgan, holding his own small gun in a tight two hand grip, squeezed its trigger once. A twenty-two caliber bullet flew into Crazy Ray’s mouth and punched out his neck just below his skull, severing his spinal cord between the third and fourth vertebrae. The order to fire may have left his brain, but it never reached his finger.
“You’re only outgunned if you miss,” Morgan said, wondering if Crazy Ray 9 could hear him. His second shot poked a neat pencil hole in Ray’s left eye and out the back of his head. The killer dropped first to his knees, then fell face first to the stage.
Morgan wiped sweat from his forehead with a shaking arm, thanking whoever might be listening that Crazy Ray 9 never noticed how the stage dropped off behind the bandstand, allowing Morgan to crawl around to the side, hugging the stage. Ray’s gunfire covered the sound of his movements. That probably didn’t matter, though. Crazy Ray, all speed but no accuracy, was probably half deaf from shooting like that anyway. Now Morgan had to go back outside to clean up this case, and pray Felicity came back with a whole skin. He snatched up Ray’s reloaded pistol and walked slowly toward the door.
Across the street, Daddy Boom stepped carefully along The Apollo’s right side wall.
“I know you’re in here girl,” Daddy Boom called as he walked down the slight incline. “There’s no way out except that door you came in, you know. And Ghost is waiting at that door to tear you up if you try it. No sense hiding. I’ll look under every one of those seats if I have to.”
Without the applause and screams it was built for, The Apollo tossed whatever sounds it got hold of back and forth endlessly. Daddy Boom’s words echoed back on him, obscuring any other sound there might be. He kept up this patter until he got to the front of the theater. Here he reached what he had been after all along. The central light switches. He spread pudgy fingers across the panel and flipped all the lights on at once.
“Yow!” It came from the stage. A broad grin split Daddy Boom’s face as he looked up to see Felicity, standing at the end of the stage nearest him, clutching her eyes.
“Did I blind you?” Daddy Boom asked with mock concern. “Let me come up there and help you find your way to the hotel, little girl.” Daddy Boom started up the five stairs to the stage. Felicity turned and, apparently guided by his footsteps, ran in the other direction. Halfway across the stage she stumbled and fell, sliding almost to the far edge.
On stage now, Daddy Boom walked heavily toward her. He couldn’t see something was wrong when she looked up at him with hatred in her eyes. He felt only curiosity when she jumped to her feet and reached behind the curtains at the end of the stage. Not until she selected a particular lever and pulled down on it with all her weight did he realize things might not be as they seemed.
Like all good traditional stages, the one in The Apollo had a large, efficient trap door. Felicity had watched Daddy Boom’s progress across the boards, carefully timing his tread. Now as he charged after her, his left foot came down on empty air.
Daddy Boom chest scraped against the stage floor as he fell, but he wasn’t fast enough to grab it. Felicity saw the bright stage lights glint off his bald head as he disappeared into the square hole. The fall was just over fifteen feet without the usual padded platform in place to catch someone using this form of stage exit. That left time for only one second’s worth of scream. There was a loud crack, and the scream of fear was replaced by a scream of pain. Felicity stepped to the edge of the hole and looked down. It was fairly dark below where Daddy Boom lay, but Felicity had excellent night vision. She was back lit to him, but had a clear view of the big man beneath her. She could see his right ankle sticking out sharply away from his right foot, with the foot itself hanging at an odd angle.
“You know, I’ll bet that ankle’s broken,” she said. “It seems that what you had in strength you lacked in flexibility
, and this time your weight worked against you, didn’t it?”
In between nerve chilling screams, Daddy Boom managed to rasp out the word, “both.”
“Break both ankles, did you?” she asked. “Or maybe it’s your heel on the other foot. Well, tubby, you just better hope I’ll be getting out of this alive to call somebody to come get you. If your friends outside kill me, they’ll never find your fat arse before you starve to death.”
At the Cotton Club door, Morgan paused, listening for any outside activity. He could hear nothing, and felt no danger signal. Perhaps Ghost had exercised the better part of valor and run off. Of course, he didn’t believe that. He knew he would have to become a target for Ghost, and then trust his danger sense to warn him in time. It was a hell of a game to play with a serious martial arts expert.
He stepped onto the sidewalk gun first. His eyes probed in all directions as he walked to the end of the long awning. The street seemed more like a movie set than ever, as quiet as a chapel on Wednesday morning, with a single anachronism, a twenty-first century car, in the middle of a 1930’s street.
“So, I see you now have a gun.” Ghost stepped out from behind the black sports car. His right arm was locked around Ross Davis’ neck, his left hand in the man’s hair.
“Let him go,” Morgan said in a bored voice. He could see how this would end, but he recognized this scene. It had certain obligatory dialogue.
“So you can shoot me?” Ghost asked. “Unlikely. You throw that borrowed gun away, or I will surely break this man’s neck.”
Davis’ eyes were pleading, but he was the only one present unsure of Morgan’s next action. With a grim nod, Morgan flipped the gun off to his right. It skidded across the asphalt to smack into the curb.
“I am told you have two knives, one in each boot. If you please.” Ghost gave Davis’ head a slight tug. Morgan reached down, pulled the Parkerized dagger from his left boot and tossed it to land near the gun. Then he slid his throwing knife out of his right boot, adding it to the gutter collection. Ghost smiled and tossed Davis off to his left. He skidded across the asphalt to smack into the curb.
“Now,” Ghost said, stepping forward, “Let us end this properly.”
Sure, thought Morgan getting into a ready stance. They would do this right, except he was a mass of bruises not yet healed while Ghost was fresh and certainly in top form. He would get no second chance with this guy. Options were limited. Running would risk someone else’s life. It looked like a street fight.
Ghost might have gotten his name for having very light skin, but Morgan would bet it actually came from his light, smooth movements. As Ghost floated into range Morgan attacked first, a solid reverse punch with all the speed and power he could load into his right fist. Ghost seemed to float around Morgan’s fist, planting his right foot, spinning, his left foot flying up in a spinning back kick that could have taken Morgan’s head off.
Morgan barely blocked the kick with his left forearm, pushing it high, grabbing the leg with his other hand. Ghost punched with his right, curled in to free his leg, then rolled to his feet.
As Felicity stepped into the sunlight, she saw Morgan’s right foot come up in a thrusting kick. He missed Ghost’s head but smacked his shoulder hard. Morgan stepped forward almost back to back with his enemy, swinging his left elbow back, striking just above Ghost’s kidney. The lighter man spun fast, his left foot whipping into Morgan’s solar plexus. Morgan staggered back, but Ghost was in no position to press his advantage.
Felicity glanced at Davis, saw he was conscious, apparently in no pain, and switched her attention back to Morgan. She circled the fight at a healthy distance. She had seen Morgan fight bigger men, stronger men, even groups of men, but this battle seemed more evenly matched than any of the others.
The fighters came together again. Ghost tried a front snap kick but Morgan blocked it with crossed forearms, and came up with a punch to Ghosts face, Ghost blocking high and thrusting forward with a fist into Morgan’s stomach. Morgan blocked the follow up punch with a forearm, thrusting stiffened fingers for Ghost’s eyes, hitting low, being pushed away by Ghost’s turning kick to his chest.
Felicity wondered if they could hear their grunts and panting. Both men had blood on their hands now. Ghost’s face was bleeding. Morgan’s chest showed a fierce open welt. Her mind was buzzing with sympathetic vibrations of Morgan’s danger sense, like a hornet trapped in her head. She examined their faces for clues to who was winning. Both men’s eyes were hard, cold, the eyes of men ready to kill, or die. Morgan’s kicks seemed slower to her by maybe a tenth of a second, the difference between wearing combat boots and sneakers. Both had fast hands, but Ghosts were more calloused, harder.
Felicity began searching the ground for anything she could use to distract Ghost. There wasn’t a stick, not a rock in sight, nothing she could help with. Then, as she stared down the gutter’s edge, her eyes fell on a dull gray shape, between the slightly lighter concrete sidewalk color and the slightly darker street asphalt. It was one of Crazy Ray’s automatics. Then she saw Davis’ hand. He had been slowly crawling toward it. He would reach it in a second and that would end the fight.
Morgan was focused entirely on his immediate opponent. Recent scars had torn open on his back and blood dripped into his right eye, but his confidence remained. He realized now he had fallen into a subtle trap. Knowing Ghost was an expert in tae kwon do, he was fighting in that style. His own style, wharangdo, was also Korean, but subtly different. He had to fight his own fight to win.
He moved in fast with a straight punch Ghost barely blocked outside. Ghost followed with a front snap kick which Morgan blocked chopping down, then Morgan got through with a right cross, catching Ghost on the chin. Dazed, Ghost managed to spin as he fell, a leg going out to sweep Morgan’s. Morgan went down hard, and Ghost recovered his feet first. Felicity gasped.
And then their danger signal shifted directions.
“Kill him,” Davis shouted, coming up with the gun. “Do it now, Ghost.” Both fighters froze.
“What?” Felicity felt as if someone had packed ice around her heart. She stared into Davis’ eyes, for the first time doubting her own instincts. Davis grinned at her. It was the grin of a shark.
“Sorry, ‘darling’, but with J.J. gone, these fine fellows were ready to make me their new boss. You see, they need leadership.”
“No!” Felicity shouted. “No! They captured you. We risked our lives…”
“A clever ruse, was it not?” Davis said, moving closer. “I called to tell these gentlemen where you were, as an offering of good faith. But they were angry over Slash’s death and would only accept me as boss if I delivered you to them. I came up with a plan to bring you here alone. A good one, I think.”
“But, that bomb.”
“Set it myself,” Davis said. “Had to disappear convincingly, didn’t I?”
“You filthy bastard,” Felicity said with all the venom she could inject. “You conned me. It was all a con.”
“Yes, my dear, I’m afraid it was. As the fable goes, you knew I was a snake before you took me in. And now, I’m going to assure the winner of this little match.”
Morgan and Ghost were tense but still, waiting to see how the new player would affect the battle. Morgan had stood and circled so he could see both other men. Felicity sensed him preparing to dive for Davis, knowing he would never make it. But maybe, with his danger sense telling him the exact instant Davis would fire, he could take the bullet in a non-vital area. Then the question would be, could he survive Ghost’s attack wounded?
The world slid into freeze frame for a split instant, and then everything happened at once. Davis raised the gun, pointed at Morgan. Ghost turned, reaching toward Davis. And Felicity heard a blast, too distant to be from Davis. Davis’ eyes widened, then dimmed. Morgan crouched, turned toward Ghost.
Startled, Ghost’s timing was thrown off. He whipped out a high roundhouse kick. Morgan dropped forward, under the kick, and dive
d into Ghost’s supporting leg. His shoulder rammed Ghost’s knee hard and they went down. Morgan’s tackle became a forward roll, his left foot snapping down into Ghost’s face. Both men grunted, then both men lay still.
Yards away, Paul stepped around the corner, coming off “Lenox Avenue.” He had circled the block The Apollo was on to approach the battle from an unexpected angle. Now Felicity turned to him, eyeing his still smoking automatic.
“You bastard!” she shouted into Paul’s face. Then she ran to Davis’ still form. She pressed her hand to his throat, but could feel no pulse. She bent to press her ear to his chest, but stopped and swallowed hard when she saw the hole in his jacket just there, over his heart. A small fountain of blood pulsed out and she jumped to her feet.
Morgan stood by helplessly, horrified by the total conflict showing on Felicity’s face. When she looked down, hatred seemed to have won out.
“You bastard!” she shouted again, kicking Davis’ body hard in the side. Then she dropped to her knees, her long hair hiding her face on both sides. She cradled his head in her lap. Her breath came in great sobs then and she cried.
-36-
Morgan sat beside Gerry Cartellone at his ebony dining room table. The two men sat silent, listening to muted Coltrane, sipping 18-Year single malt Scotch whiskey and staring down at two colorful tableaus. A boy riding a bicycle. A girl walking on a city street. No frames held them, but they didn’t seem out of place with their corners secured by salt and pepper shakers, an ashtray and a sugar bowl.
The chandelier above the paintings highlighted every nuance, every brushstroke in the artwork. Morgan had not felt this tranquil in a long time, and he knew it was a shared experience. The figures on the canvas were as serene as their viewers. Cartellone wiped something from the corner of his eye.
“As I understand the story, you paid quite a price to recover these.”
Lost Art Assignment Page 20
