Lost Art Assignment (7 page)

That business had become a cocoon, protecting her from outside danger. She had moved from a life of constant risk, living on her own instincts, to a manager's life. Moving back caused her a little apprehension.

A slight touch brought her back to the present. She was startled by the tingle going up her spine when Davis' knee gently touched hers. She turned, looking again into his deep brown eyes. Beyond him, an attendant placed a split of champagne on his tray, along with two glasses.

“You talked about your vacation earlier,” Davis said, staying in character. “I thought you might be willing to let me see the pictures you took.”

“I only took one picture you'd be interested in,” Felicity said. She reached between her feet into her duffel bag. From it she pulled a plastic tube. She pulled off the tube's cap, sliding a finger in to pull out the contents, but Davis put his hand over hers.

“Wait,” he said. While she watched, he poured champagne into both glasses. Then he lifted one, handing it to her. Moving slowly, as if to increase his own anticipation, Davis dropped his seat back, inhaled his champagne's bouquet, and turned to his seat mate.

“Now,” Davis said. Felicity slid the canvas out, returning the empty tube to her bag. After letting her own seat back, she carefully unrolled her prize. She knew no casual observer would suspect this was anything but a cheap painting, perhaps purchased from any of the hundreds of artists who offer their wares to passers-by on California's beaches. Her eyes savored again the delicacy of the artist's hand. Beside her, Davis took in a deep breath and slowly let it out.

“Exquisite,” he said, after a moment. “Look at her hair. Astonishing. And the detail of that knit sweater. We're privileged, Nicole, you know that? We may be the first two people in decades to view this masterpiece in natural sunlight,” He sighed, and his left hand dropped with casual confidence onto Felicity's knee.

“I thought you said this guy was a gang leader,” Felicity said. They had been in New York barely two hours when their hired limousine parked in front of a restored brownstone on Manhattan's West 53rd Street.

“Does that mean he has to live in the streets?”

“I suppose not.” Felicity glanced left at the white Mercedes stretch limousine, then right at two black men sitting casually on the stoop next door. Behind her, across the street, metal glinted in a window beneath a stern black face. Another large man with nothing to do stood just behind the glass doors at the top of the steps leading into the building.

Yes, as they said in old American movies, this must indeed be the place.

Her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, Felicity climbed the brown stone steps with Davis holding her arm. Her suitcase stayed in the trunk. At the double glass door Davis walked in, brushed past the guard type and led her upstairs. Behind them, the guard spoke quietly into a small radio.

Felicity looked up toward the third floor, smiling at the wisdom of living in between. This gang boss was no fool. Davis knocked twice, and the door swung open. Felicity's eyes widened. Through the door, she couldn't see all of the man who opened it. He was very big, very dark, and looked like an inflated Macy's parade balloon. He stepped aside, and Davis ushered Felicity inside.

The odor of frying meat struck Felicity as soon as she entered. Layered over the homey sound of grease crackling in a pan, rap music thumped unrelentingly from another room. It made for a mismatched image with the tasteful decor. The living room was done in soft pastels, the fireplace mantle littered with Hummel figurines. A black leather three piece living room group stood on a highly polished parquet floor.

Before they had been inside for a full minute, a thin, frantic figure in baggy pants and a slouching top hat rushed in from the back of the house. He was a teenager, Felicity judged, a black kid whose head looked stretched out and dented in on the sides. A large, black Doberman pinscher trotted at his side. His eyes flashed and he was grinning like an idiot.

“What up, my man, what it is, what it IS!” The boy grabbed Davis' hand for a shake, and the two bumped chests in a half-hug. Then Slash stepped back, his attention drawn by Felicity. He stuck out his lower lip, nodding slowly, as if to say “not bad.”

“This is Nicole,” Davis said. “She is holding me down. Nicole, my dear, this is your benefactor, Mister J.J. Slash.”

“How do you do?” Felicity said, managing to keep her eyes from bulging. This was the mastermind behind millions of dollars worth of artwork changing ownership in recent months? She offered her hand politely. Slash slapped it.

“I do damned fine mama. Not bad, Sonny D. I didn't know you was boo'ed up but I got to give you props for this one. Hey, there's no shortage of chairs. Cop a squat. Let's rap a little.”

Felicity and Davis took opposite ends of the leather sofa, while Slash perched on the very edge of a recliner's
seat cushion. His smile reminded her of a hungry shark's. The dog dropped to the floor beside his feet.

“Lookahere,” Slash said, and Felicity wondered where he meant. “Sonny D. knows I like to cut straight to the bone. He say you pretty cool walking around with a hundred grand worth of, what is it, tempera? Yeah, that stuff, on you.” Felicity pulled the tube from her duffel bag and Slash accepted it without looking inside. “Hey, I don't know from art, shorty, that ain't my department. If Sonny D. says it's real, it's real, you know. Anyway, he says you want a job. That the deal?”

Felicity suppressed a smile at this boy calling her shorty when she was an inch or two taller than he. She watched as J.J. Slash scratched at his head, rubbed his chin and cracked his knuckles. Was this kid a speed freak, or just naturally hyperactive?

“As I told Ross I can steal anything,” Felicity said. “Art, jewelry, the occasional car. But sometimes after the real work's done finding a buyer is the problem. I'd like to be part of an organization, and you look like the winning ticket around here.”

“That's what I look like, huh?” Slash replied. He focused his attention on her as tightly and intensely as a theater follow spot. “Okay, so, how come the fake name and the phony accent before? Hey, you want something to drink? Coffee or maybe a shot? You do shots, mama?”

“J.J., could we just have some lemonade or something?” Davis asked, taking a deep pull on his cigarette. Slash glanced at the giant at the door who headed toward the back of the building.

“The name and accent are just common sense for safety,” Felicity said with a smile. “Like taking recorded messages on a phone routed through extra switches so it
can't be traced.”

“She's pretty slick,” Slash said, looking at Davis for just a second before sending his gaze boring into Felicity again. “It's cool, mama. I don't care who the hell you really are. If you're running from somebody you're safe with me. See I own the East Coast south of Boston, north of Miami. And them borders will be moving out soon. Not bad for a seventeen year old gang banger, huh?”

“If I may.” Felicity thought she might step onto shaky ground now, but if she was to sell herself as fresh from the Continent, she must ask certain questions.

“Don't be shy, sugar. We all grown-ups here.”

“Well, this gang thing,” Felicity ventured. “I mean, I expected more of what I saw on the West Coast. Colored rags and machine guns and the like.”

“You seen too many movies, babe.” Slash laughed a high, long laugh, flipping back in his chair. His hand slid down to scratch behind the dog's ear. A woman brought glasses on a tray, handing one each to Felicity and Davis. It was iced tea, but no one cared.

“Let me clue you,” Slash continued when he had control. “See, those ain't gangs, those are franchises. Niggas like the Bloods and the Cryps, they all run by the South Americans to sell drugs. Outsiders moving in, just like the Japa-fucking-nese. This here is pure-D American enterprise. Which reminds me. Sonny D. here said something about more money?”

“Well…I took a special risk to obtain this special piece,” Felicity said. “I could have fenced it elsewhere without your ever knowing I had it. I wanted it to be my entree to you but I really think the risk and the initiative warrant ten percent.”

Silence blanketed the room, broken only by the
Doberman's panting. Slash froze in position, his eyes still on Felicity but glazed over. It was as if he was asleep with his eyes open, but Felicity somehow sensed his brain humming like a powerful turbine behind the mask of his face. She looked over at Davis, who smiled confidently back. He had seen this act before, and this J.J. Slash clearly impressed him. A full minute passed and Felicity was about to ask something when Slash's mouth suddenly opened and words burst out.

“You God damned skippy. You don't ask for what you worth, you never get it. You're in the mix, Scarlet, and you get ten percent on everything you bring in, long as it's top quality. Sonny will show you the deal. One little thing. What I said about America. Land of opportunity. Need to feed the free enterprise system and what not. No more money sent to some bank over the ocean, you feel me? Set up here. I pay cash, but it stays in the U.S. Can you dig it?”

“I think I understand, but how shall I explain such a large sum?” Felicity asked. “On The Continent or even in Asia I could legitimize these amounts easily. But I am too recently arrived here in the US.” Of course, she could set up a laundry system in days, but Nicole could not, and right then, she was Nicole.

“Got you covered, mama. Tonight you head for Atlantic City with your boy here. He's working a gambling sting down there. He'll give you cash to put down on this deal. You'll win your bundle and it's legally yours. So, you guys want to hang and eat? Cook's making chicken, a mess of greens, dirty rice and some of her killer corn bread. There's plenty.”

“I think the flight's probably tired Nicole out,” Davis said, rising. Felicity stood with him. “Besides, I need to get to Atlantic City. Let me get her into a hotel room. We can
come by and eat another time.”

“That's what's up.” Slash stood up with them. “Just a couple more things, chickie.” He gently took her arm. “Listen. Don't be getting all bent out of shape cause all you see is brothers. You ain't the only white chick working for me, and if I'm going to crack the top markets, there's going to be more and more. Okay?” Felicity offered a smile, just as Slash's dimmed.

“One other little thing, Scarlet. I'm buying into the fake name bit, okay, cause, like, it don't say J.J. Slash on my birth certificate and everybody's got their own thing. But don't get it twisted. If you lie to me, or start skimming on me, well, Daddy Boom here will just come over and…well, you see where I'm coming from?”

Slash's barracuda smile returned, and Felicity looked from him to the giant black man she now knew as Daddy Boom. He smiled also in a pleasant way, but an invisible icy finger traced her spine as Davis guided her out the door.

Morgan Stark enjoyed watching the watchers. Not so much because they were all that interesting, but just because they never thought anyone would be watching them.

On that cloudy afternoon, Morgan stood at a hot dog stand having a small but tasty lunch. He was dressed as a typical street wise New Yorker, which in fact he was. His posture, his walk, his speech pattern were those of an average New Yorker. He was armed slightly better than average. At least, he hoped so.

For three days and nights, Morgan had lived in an outer orbit of the pulsar called J.J. Slash. He planned to observe Slash's lifestyle long enough to find a good way to ease into his organization. In this way, he could stay near Felicity at a reasonable distance so as not to arouse undo suspicion.

Finding Slash turned out to be easy. Every brother on the street knew of him, and he was constantly in motion. He travelled in one of two white Mercedes limousines, depending on whether the stretch model fit conveniently on the streets he planned to visit. At first, surveillance was a challenge, as close surveillance always is. Slash had three regular bodyguards, at least two of whom always stayed with him. Morgan rented a taxi for a little more than its daily take, and in this almost invisible vehicle, tried to keep the gang leader in sight.

Soon he realized he wasn't alone. Someone else was tailing Slash, but doing it right, with a team of a dozen floating watchers. They maintained their stations front, back and on both sides. A tricky situation, but it made Morgan's job a good deal easier. By simply sticking with the followers, he would soon have Slash's routine pinned down.

While Morgan chewed a kosher Sabaret frankfurter, J.J. Slash visited a small candy store on a cross street off Amsterdam Avenue, just a few blocks from the projects.
The Towers,
Morgan corrected himself.
Times change.
At midday, this street, lined with five and six story flat roofed tenements, was alive with small black kids with runny noses and women with mules on their feet, curlers in their hair, and nowhere to go.

Morgan assumed Slash was on a business call. He had watched Slash visit several small operators. He assumed his purpose was to bring them onto his team. Morgan knew a numbers runner when he saw one, and this candy store was probably the neighborhood three digit gambling palace. The boy was ambitious, no doubt about it. He worked a long day, networking and moving money.

Since Morgan planned to make contact that day, he hoped he didn't look too intimidating. He was black leather from boots to cap, wearing mirror shades with his jacket collar turned up. He hadn't shaved in three days, giving him a short brush of a beard and a mustache hanging over his lip.

He turned when, across the street, Slash's massive driver stepped out of the building. Slash followed, reminding Morgan of the cartoon version of Bill Cosby as a kid. The tall, light skinned guard followed him. Morgan wondered why the security men always wore dark colored business suits, while Slash looked like he was going to the studio to film a hip hop video. Today he wore the silly jeans with the
crotch hanging almost to knee level. Oh well, Morgan thought, even in this game image was important, and you can't knock success.