Lost Art Assignment (18 page)

“But the car is bulletproof.” Ghost had protested the day before. “Even the glass.”

Morgan thought he deserved an explanation. “There's no such thing as bulletproof glass, pal. It's shatterproof, maybe even impact resistant. It'll turn nine millimeter or forty-five caliber slugs, even if they're coming out of a machine gun. Those things hit hard, maybe three or four hundred foot pounds of impact. Plenty enough to slap you on your ass. These pills I'm shooting have a lot more guts. They'll leave the muzzle brake with more than twelve THOUSAND foot pounds of energy. The curve of the windshield or back window might deflect it to the side. That side window glass? Nothing.”

Morgan had time to reconsider if he was committing murder, to tell himself he was saving lives, to remind himself what this particular target did for a living. That debate could have gone on for a while, but when the target was in position, combat reflexes took over. The car, in exactly the right place, stopped just long enough for the driver to change gears. Minelli turned to look out the window. A bright summer sun made him squint.

Morgan squeezed the trigger so gently, he was surprised when the hammer fell. The stock punched into his right shoulder. The rifle's mass and muzzle brake made it a surprisingly light punch. But even with double protection, he heard the report.

Minelli's car was too far away for anyone in it to hear anything but breaking glass. Morgan watched the grim scene through his telescopic sight. Minelli's head rocked back, split like a melon by a bullet that would have knocked a Cape buffalo down. Gore spattered his bodyguard, and the driver, hearing the window implode, slammed on the gas and roared off, unknowing, toward the
source of the blast.

Acrid smoke filled the van, but Ghost got it started and turned the air conditioner on full blast. He eased the van away from the curb, driving toward Manhattan. In the rearview mirror he saw Morgan remove his hearing protection. Ghost did likewise, all the while shaking his head.

“I would not have believed that shot if I had not seen it,” he called to the back. “But now I have. You have opened my eyes to what is possible for a warrior.”

Morgan moved to the front passenger seat. He had scraped elbows and knees from sliding on the van floor. He felt the rush of accomplishing the mission, and a touch of pride at impressing a fighter like Ghost, but he wasn't sure he felt good about the job. Weariness weighed down his voice.

“Thanks, I guess. I can't wait to get back. I need a shower and I deserve a great lunch. Then, I want to finish that personal business in Jersey.”

“Ah, no one told you.” Ghost was smiling, really smiling, like Morgan had not seen before. “J.J. said you'd get a special reward if this thing came off. We're all going to lay low for a while, and he's got a nice surprise lined up.”

“I hate surprises.”

“You'll love this one,” Ghost said. “He's got a special retreat up in the Catskills, west of Kingston. It's out in the woods, so you'll be right at home, hunter-man. He's built a model of Harlem, but like it was back in the '30's. We'll hang out up there for a few days. Don't bother bringing company, because it's all provided.”

“Super,” Morgan said, slumping back in his seat. “Well, better call the girl and tell her tonight's off, eh?”

Felicity swallowed her last bite of curried veal and leaned back. She remembered this particular suit being loose on her, but this last week's feasting had changed things. Her jacket was still comfortable, but the pleated skirt cut into her waist just a bit. When this case was over, it would be diet and aerobics time for sure.

“Ready to go to work?” Davis asked, leaning back from the table.

“Sure.” Felicity gave a relaxed smile, tossing her hair purely for effect. “You want me to make the touches?”

“Some of them,” Davis said, fishing bills out of his wallet.

“Really? Not flashing the platinum card today?”

Davis grinned, dropping the bills with a flourish. “Force of habit. For years, a lot of Atlantic City's best places didn't take credit cards. This has always been a cash town. As for our marks, we'll know who should approach when we see these guys.”

“Enough good choices?”

“More than,” Davis said, pulling a small notebook from his vest pocket. “I must say this list you brought back is impressive. You think like I do when qualifying a mark. Name, room number, marital status, approximate age. And what's this. Everybody gets an L or a T.”

“Just a guess, based on his habits at the table,” Felicity said. “I like to know if a guy's loose or tight with his
money. Get it?”

“Masterful,” Davis said, while rubbing her foot with his under the table. “If you're this good at everything, I might be in trouble.”

“Okay, so who gets to convince who to come to our little party?”

“Like I said, we'll judge when we see them,” Davis said. “For instance, if the guy's wearing cowboy boots and a ten gallon hat, YOU talk to him.” Davis laughed, and Felicity joined him. This man knew how to relax and enjoy life, and that kind of man attracted her. She wondered if she could get together with him again after this job ended.

As she watched his face, it composed into his professional smile. He was looking over Felicity's head at something. At that second Felicity's danger sense rocked her, the kind of buzz she would get when someone pointed a gun at her. She spun rapidly in her seat, prepared to dive for cover.

Three black men approached them, all smiling pleasantly. The one walking in front was short and squat, but he had the long, agile fingers of a professional pianist, or perhaps a pickpocket. The other two, twin towers in human form, were clearly hired muscle. Davis stood when they reached the table, holding a hand out.

“Hope you had a good flight,” Davis said, shaking hands. Then to Felicity, “Darling, this is Wiley Hall. He's the dealer who's going to pay you with other people's money.”

“Wiley?” Felicity asked. “Really? Well, pleased to meet you.”

“Charmed, ma'am.” Hall took her fingers and bent to kiss them. Felicity showed no reaction, but she looked him over very closely. He looked harmless enough, but he went
right off the scale jangling her danger nerves.

“Ross, old buddy, I got a message for you,” Hall said. Then he glanced at Felicity and back to Davis. “Excuse my rudeness, buddy, but I really need to do this in private.”

“Not a problem,” Felicity said, rising. “I need to powder my nose, anyway. Meet you in the casino, lover?”

“See you there.” Davis looked a bit nervous, but only someone as good as Felicity could have seen it. “I'll be over by the one armed bandits.”

Felicity excused herself, and went to the nearest ladies lounge. One of the towers, as Felicity had dubbed them, made a laughable attempt at following her unobserved. He stationed himself so he couldn't miss her coming out the door. She went inside, sat on the lid in one of the stalls, and set her mind into high gear.

Once Felicity was out of sight, Hall took her chair. His cordial smile slid off his face, uncovering a stern, business expression.

“What's with the girl?” Hall asked. “She caused any trouble?”

“What are you talking about?” Davis was baffled by Hall's bluntness and made it plain.

“Slash got the 4-1-1 about the bitch you been buying pictures from, from his European contacts,” Hall said.

“Information?” Davis asked. About Felicity?” Hall shook his head.

“This girl's name is supposed to be Nicole, and she's in Paris right now, working on a counterfeit Picasso scam.”

“So who's this?” Davis asked.

“That's what Slash wants to know, buddy,” Hall said. “He wants to talk to her personally. Thinks she might be a cop or something. We postpone the game here and take her
to The City. From there, you and a couple of Slash's close staff will escort her to him.”

Davis cast about for an alternative which didn't put him in jeopardy. Finding none, he nodded. As one, the two men rose .and walked toward the casino.

In her tiny stall, Felicity cleaned out her purse. It would be excess baggage if she had to move quickly. The door was the only exit from the room. She would have to go back to Wiley and the boys in a minute and she thought she might end up on the run in a worst case scenario.

Identification was already hidden in a pocket of her right bra cup, and she had half a dozen hundred dollar bills in a hidden inside pocket of her skirt. She sat with her tiny five shot revolver in her hand. She certainly didn't want to abandon it, but she didn't want Slash's boys to find it on her. So, where to put it?

Absent a better idea, she stripped off her jacket and blouse. Exhaling hard, she pulled out her bra's elastic on her left side. The cold steel slid in beside her left breast. The gun, barely an inch thick, pressed into her flesh hard, but she could live with it. With all her clothes back on, it was inaccessible, but also invisible.

With head up and eyes bright, Felicity pushed the door open, waved to her silent observer, and stepped lightly toward her meeting point. She walked down a long aisle, between two rows of slot machine players. With their backs to her, the faceless gamblers looked like a series of automatons, parts of the machines they operated. Bells rang and lights flashed. From the customers' smiles and the speed with which they pulled the long levers down, an outsider might not guess how much more money went in than came out.

The woman at the last machine dipped coins from a paper bucket sitting on top of her machine. An empty bucket waited expectantly next to it. Her hair was blue, but her right arm showed a lot of energy as she cycled the slot machine again and again, watching the three section window as if it would spell out her eternal fate.

Felicity stepped into Davis' arms at the corner of that vast rolling sea of gamblers. He held her very tightly at first, then gripped her shoulders and pushed her to arm's length. Hall stood behind Davis, the tower brothers now on either side.

“Felicity, darling, there's been a change of plan,” Davis said.

“Ross, I don't like this guy,” Felicity said, her face taking on a grim, serious cast. “You said it's you and me, right. Now, you just need to be telling me what's going on.”

“Felicity, you've got to trust that I'll protect you, no matter what.” Conflict showed on Davis' face, but his voice didn't waver. “J.J. wants to see you. Guess there's still some confusion about your identity. We'll go tonight, clear up this nonsense, and you can find out about your paintings. All right?”

For a moment, the two lovers were in a world of their own. Davis' eyes pleaded with Felicity to stay quiet and cooperate. He feared violence if she resisted. She was certain of his sincerity. He really believed he could talk their way out of any problem with Slash. Of course, he didn't know the whole truth. And there was another factor. If she was blown, Morgan might be too. If he was captured, her prime imperative was to stay free.

“Maybe we should discuss this in private for a moment, Ross,” Felicity said.

“You ain't going nowhere, girl,” Hall said. Behind her,
someone hit a jackpot, triggering a rotating police light above the machine, and a siren mounted beside it, so everyone in the giant room could hear. One of the tower brothers held her right wrist, with a gentle yet quite powerful grip. If she was to get free, it had to be now, before they had her in a moving car.

“Let go of me, you great ape,” Felicity half screamed, trying to pull free.

“You can't get loose, girl,” Hall said. “Take a tip from me. Just relax and join us on a little ride. Don't know if I can control my man here if you piss him off.”

“Is that so, shrimp? Well I've got a tip for your hulking friend here, I do.” Felicity swung around, snatched down the bucket full of quarters with her left hand, and flipped it into her captor's face. Startled, the big man snapped his head back, and his grip on Felicity loosened. She yanked her wrist away from him, free. Before any of the others could recover, she was running down a crowded aisle.

Felicity kicked off her shoes on her way down the first aisle of slot machines. She had not noticed before how sharp the body odor was in the closely packed fraternity of slot machine users. But, she knew she could force her slender form between those players more easily than either of the tower twins.

Behind her, one of the muscle men gave chase, travelling more like a tank than a hunting dog. Even over the clanging and clicking of the machines, she could hear his rasping breath behind her.

Just six feet from her the charging hood jostled a tall Texan at one of the machines. Felicity heard the impact and looked over her shoulder. The gambler turned, apparently taking in the picture in an instant. One very big black man chasing a small, scared white girl. No judgment was called for here. He hooked a hand in the pursuer's collar, bringing him up short. He was an inch taller than the man who had run into him.

She stopped to catch her breath, since she was no longer being chased. She saw her pursuer swing an elbow back into the bystander's face. The Texan's head snap back as he collapsed to the floor, unconscious. People around him screamed.

Danger! Felicity felt the impulse and instinctively sprang to her right. A slot machine's handle gouged her ribs. Two long arms stretched over from the next aisle,
fingers missing her throat by less than an inch. Muscle man number two had almost grabbed her. For one frozen instant she stared into his yellowed eyes and fear finally sank its long nails into her heart.

Panicked, Felicity tossed her empty handbag into the man's face, dropped to the floor and rolled under the machine to the next aisle over. She popped up to her feet, put her head down and sprinted forward, staying low, hoping she wasn't seen over the machines. Her danger sense kept her from running into anyone.