Lost Art Assignment (10 page)

Morgan felt eyes on him from every darkened corner as he stepped briskly toward J.J. Slash's brownstone. His new boss gave himself every edge. He didn't fear taking chances, but he covered his bet every way he could. His sentries were a good deal more alert and more disciplined than the men guarding his competition.

The night doorman recognized Morgan and let him in. He trotted up to the third floor, which was dedicated to Slash's “Convincers.” Morgan would find a room with a warm bed there. After an hour on a dark roof and an interminable ride in an empty subway car, plus the walk to Slash's house, Morgan was ready to crash. He had stopped on the way to make telephone contact with Paul at Felicity's place, and he had some thinking to do.

Morgan expected nothing but snores when he pushed open the door to the third floor's main room. Instead he found Crazy Ray 9 on the sofa, nodding. His head popped up when Morgan walked in.

“What's up, Ray? You waiting up for me? Afraid I wouldn't come back?” Morgan asked, only half joking.

“I knew you'd show up. Had a message, that's all. J.J. wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“That's right,” Ray said. “Now that you know, I can get some shut-eye.” He stood and stretched.

“Before you go, can I ask you something?”

“Sure man.” Ray rubbed his neck, making a show of trying to stay awake.

“What you carrying in that double shoulder rig?”

Ray smiled, and pulled the gun from his left holster. “Here, take a look. It's a Glock 19. Ever seen one?”

“Once or twice,” Morgan said, clearing the gun and looking inside the breech. “Seventeen shot magazine, plus one in the chamber if you want.”

“Yeah, and I always want. What do you think, man?”

“I think you're the fastest gun I ever saw,” Morgan said. “I like the safe action these things have, but they don't jam up on you?”

“Naw, Jack,” Ray said. “Took them to a gunsmith out on the Island, had him slick up the action some. I like to shoot fast.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Morgan said, returning Crazy Ray's gun. “Thirty-six bullets. You emptied them up in The Bronx, didn't you?”

“Uh-huh. Awesome, ain't it.”

Morgan made a noncommittal noise. “One more question if it's okay. You're one dangerous son of a bitch, and your two partners are too. How come J.J.'s the boss around here?”

“Cause he's the smartest nigger I ever saw,” Ray said, poking a finger at Morgan's chest. “Smartest I ever saw.”

“And he's waiting for me now, eh? Is he staying up just to talk to me?”

“No man.” Crazy Ray's eyes held genuine sadness. “He's always up. The boy never sleeps. His brain, it won't stop, you know?”

Morgan answered only with a nod and headed downstairs. In the front room he found another young black man playing solitaire on the coffee table. He motioned
Morgan forward. Slash certainly wasn't cheap with the payroll.

Morgan knocked at the indicated door, got a curt “Yo” and walked in. The quiet click of a keyboard greeted him. One lamp shined from across the room, supplemented by a computer monitor's glow. J.J. Slash sat at a computer desk, pushing keys with quiet concentration. It was the first time Morgan had seen him when he wasn't fidgeting. The big Doberman's head poked out from under the desk and Morgan froze until he saw there was no threat. Then he pulled the other chair over beside him and waited.

The room's decor was austere, with no color scheme. Morgan was surprised at its neatness. He saw no clothes lying around, no loose papers, nothing out of place. Even the desk, with ledgers and notebooks abounding, was precise in every way. Pencils lived in a cup and books stood in rows.

“You met Ripper?” Slash asked, petting the dog's neck. “The only living thing I love, brother. I take her to the vet four times a year, get her all her shots, special food, the whole deal. She won't hurt you. Not unless I tell her to.”

Slash had not looked away from the screen. Morgan remained silent, waiting for an invitation to speak.

“So, how'd it go?”

“Got the job done,” Morgan said. “No friendly casualties. Held to the timetable.” He stopped, hoping Slash also heard what he didn't say. After a moment, the boy faced Morgan and his smile returned.

“That's what went right,” Slash said. “Now, tell me what you didn't like.”

“All right.” Morgan leaned back, locking his fingers over one knee. “Crazy Ray 9. He's a loose cannon on deck. I don't like loose cannons. I designed a surgical strike. He
executed a massacre.”

“Yeah, Ray's a little wild,” Slash said, half turned to the screen now, still punching in what Morgan saw were figures in columns. “Daddy Boom thinks he's invincible. With that Kevlar-lined suit I got him, and the matching bullet-proof tee shirt underneath, he's damned near right. And Ghost thinks he's some reincarnated Samurai warrior or some shit. I don't know what your weirdness is, but people that's real good at something are always a little weird. You might be the control rod I need in that team.”

“Say again?”

“You know how a nuclear reactor works?” Slash was lecturing now, and Morgan noticed his speech pattern was very different. “Flying neutrons start a chain reaction. When the nuclear fuel gets carried away, producing too much heat, you slide in the control rod. It's boron, or maybe cadmium, and it absorbs the neutrons without being changed by them, cooling the reaction before there's a meltdown. Maybe you can do that for me with my Convincers.”

“Could be,” Morgan said. He realized again that he had to stop thinking of this kid as a street punk.

“Anyways, you done good tonight, Slick. Nobody's going to come after me for a while after they hear about tonight. A bunch of unemployed hustlers and gang members will come to me looking for a fast buck. And, of course, there's a few less pushers on the street. And that's cool.”

“You know, I'm a little surprised about that,” Morgan said. When Slash didn't respond, he pressed on. “I got the idea you're looking to move big ticket items, get into the high end of the game, but drugs are still the most profitable racket in this country. Now, don't get me wrong, I think it's
a filthy business, but I'm surprised you're not running that too.”

“You don't get it do you?” Slash asked, turning in his chair. “Well, you're a pretty smart dude, maybe you can dig this.”

Slash paused while he ordered his thoughts and, again, the nervous movements stopped. When he started again, he was back in lecture mode.

“See, Americans are fighters,” Slash began. “We see us as the baddest mother fucker in the valley, and we need a big bad guy to fight. Like…well, like the civil war. You think that started just cause they wanted to help us po' black folk? Shit. There wasn't no big bad guy around, so slavery became the enemy to beat. You follow that?”

“Yeah, man. That's deep.” Morgan had never figured this boy for a philosopher.

“After that it was Spain. Then two wars in Europe that had nothing to do with us. Same shit in Korea. Then it was the Russians. I mean, they never attacked us or nothing, we just needed a badass enemy and they were the only other badass left in the world besides us.”

“Well, I don't know about all that,” Morgan said. “Communism and slavery were things we needed to fight, anyway. But what's that all got to do with the world of crime?”

“Crime? Home boy, it's just capitalism in the twenty-first century. Anyway, here's the hook. The Russians are dead, man. Finito. No more big enemy, Slick. We might dick around with some assholes in the Middle East off and on, but they ain't big enough to keep us busy. Hell, after more than a decade of that bullshit, half the country don't even know we're at war. And that's fine cause the big boys in charge know it won't ever end, at least, not in our favor.
So now that huge fucking bureaucracy in Washington's going to start looking around for a fight they think they can win. And what do you think they gone jump on?”

Morgan shrugged. Then the light dawned and he felt like a fool. “Yeah. Drugs.”

“With both feet, homie,” Slash said. “Drug dealers are going to be the new target. South American cartels are the biggest, baddest enemies around. All those CIA agents that were chasing commies thirty years ago? All them FBI faggots that been seeing spies under the bed? All this machinery we built to fight terrorists: INS, ICE, Border Patrol, air marshals. Hell, man, even the Army, the Navy and the United States fucking Marines will be making war on drug dealers. Me? I'll be kicked back, giving the upper class everything they want they can't get at Bloomingdale's.”

“So your whole objective is to avoid the conflict?”

“Slick, my man, the trick is to magnify your profit by diminishing the resistance. Carnegie understood it. Why you think he gave so much fucking money away, while he was killing steel workers in the mills every day? Ford dug it. Pay your slaves just enough to keep unions out. Rockefeller had them dying in the mines, but he worked the media to make him a hero. Kennedy was a God damned bootlegger for Christ sake, and he got his whole fucking family in national politics.” His eyes bored into Morgan's, as if searching for one mind who might understand him. “It's capitalism, Slick. You fix it, you buy it, you con your way into it, but you make the money. The art of maximizing your income while you minimize the friction. Thanks to a bunch of welfare brained politicians, it's a lost art in this country. A lost art. Me? I'm bringing it back. Now, go on up and get some sleep.” Slash turned back to
his monitor as if to end the conversation. Morgan waited a minute before speaking again.

“Got to ask you something, first.”

“What you got?” Slash asked.

“Got some loose ends to clear up on this coast before I settle in. Need to go to Atlantic City for a couple of days. Got anything there you want done?”

“You need a couple of days?” Slash asked. “No biggie. Go on down there. Check into the Holiday Inn, the one on the Boardwalk. I got a man down there right now. I'll hook you up. While you're taking care of your business, you can be another set of eyes for me.”

Felicity O'Brien had spent many an hour in health clubs and fitness centers in recent years, but this was her first time in a gym. Davis walked her around men punching a light bag, skipping rope and shadow boxing. She observed that a fist hitting a heavy bag sounded just like a fist hitting another man in the movies.

It felt almost like being invisible. Felicity's black and gold double breasted houndstooth jacket and black skirt hugged her body as usual, yet everyone in the big room ignored her. She admired their focus and concentration, but she was unaccustomed to being surrounded by men and not getting a glance.

In the center of the dim, high ceilinged room, two men danced and jabbed at one another. Felicity wondered how they could move in this humidity. At first, she thought they were generating that overwhelming smell of sweat. Then she realized the odor was deep in the very walls of the place, coming from everywhere.

“Know anything about boxing?” Davis asked.

“Only what everyone knows. Two men hit each other. One falls down. The other wins.”

“That's about it,” Davis said. “Except for the toughness, the heart, the strength, the speed, the science involved, the endurance you need to do this for three minutes twelve times in a row.”

Felicity considered this as she watched the two men
poking at each other in what she had heard called “the square circle.” Most of the punches were launched with their left fists, but every so often one would swing a right at the other. It looked as if they were giving each other's forearms a beating. She thought the Mexican was dominating the fight, keeping the black man from making any real progress.

“Our boy's about ready for his big fight tomorrow,” said a voice behind Davis. They turned, and Davis clasped hands with a portly, graying man. He had a big nose with wide pores, which Felicity associated with too much wine. His eyes were brown and watery, and she could only think of his lips as blubbery. He wore a gray sweat suit and sneakers.

“Felicity, this is Skorolos,” Davis said. “He's trainer for that stumblebum in the ring right now.”

“Well, he looks real good,” Felicity said, not really knowing what else to say.

“Oh don't worry,” Skorolos said in a heavy voice. “He'll look as good in the fight as he does with his sparring partner. It's pretty simple. All he has to do is put his glove on Bonham enough times, eh?”

“That is the name of the game.” Davis grinned, as if sharing a private joke. Skorolos wandered away to his fighter's corner, and Felicity moved closer to the ring. So this was just sparring, not an actual fight. She looked closer at the determined look on the Spanish man's face.

“This is what you're down here for?” Felicity asked. “To take bets on this fight tomorrow?”

“That's right. J.J. owns this fighter here, Cevida. I make contact with the high rollers who lose big money on sure things every day. That's their hobby. Losing money on sure things.”

“You provide a service to the community,” Felicity said. Just then Cevida got hit and sweat spun off his head, sprinkling Felicity's hair. He seemed tough enough, and he was very quick, but the black guy didn't move much when hit. Did Cevida have enough strength in his right to knock someone down?

Three more men walked in, and the whole gym's activity level dropped. Felicity saw two men dressed as Skorolos the trainer was, and one in trunks, a muscular black man whose bald head caught the ceiling light and cast it into her eyes. Cevida stopped sparring and went to the ropes, leaning over at the newcomer.

“Bonham!” Cevida shouted, waving a fisted glove. “You better get back to Campo's gym and work some more. Not that it's gone help. I been waiting a year for a chance to kick your big black ass.”