Lost Art Assignment (8 page)

Morgan straightened and turned to step into the narrow street. He had the bodyguards' attention right away. No harm there. He would simply cross the street slowly with his hands in plain sight. He knew what to say to worm his way onto the team.

Scraping noises drew his eyes left. Two Puerto Rican teens on skateboards were weaving back and forth down the center of the asphalt. They had their white iPod speaker wires running up to their ears and wore identical denim jackets. Morgan stopped to let them pass. Then he saw the nearest one reach to his side and pull out a small object.

A gun. Both kids had guns, and their bodies hid them from Slash's side of the street. They planned a quick hit, smooth and neat. With luck they would kill Slash and disappear before anyone knew what was happening. At worst they would eliminate one or two of his close guards.

“Down!” Morgan shouted before he even realized he would. He dived forward into the oncoming skaters' path. One boy collided with him, his board continuing on under Morgan, his gun flying over, as he folded across Morgan's body. The other managed to weave around Morgan's outstretched arms, but it cost him a precious second. He had time for one shot, and took it.

When Morgan yelled, the giant stepped in front of Slash. The thin guard leaped into the air. Morgan heard the crack of pistol fire and looked up in time to see the big man absorb the shot. The thinner man hit the limousine's roof with one foot and continued forward. His other heel thumped into the side of the gunman's head. The skateboarder dropped to the street, rolled, and sprawled still
on the black surface. His attacker landed on his feet in a relaxed tae kwon do ready stance.

Morgan lay sandwiched between a teenager's upper and lower body. A car, at first headed into the block, was cautiously backing out. The gunshot had emptied the sidewalks, but cautious faces began to appear in windows and doorways. Morgan had just gotten to his hands and knees when a fist as big as a twelve pound ham wrapped around his left arm and he was yanked to his feet. With no words exchanged, Morgan was flipped into the white limo's front seat. The giant squeezed in behind the wheel, pushing Morgan against his thinner counterpart. Morgan turned just enough to see Slash in the back seat before the car roared to life and surged forward with a squeal of tortured tires.

No one spoke, which suited Morgan fine. He had a chance to appraise the group close up. On his left sat a mass of muscle which, Morgan would bet was wearing a protective Kevlar vest. Morgan judged him to be powerful, loyal and dangerous. On his right sat the slightly built karate master, glowing with an energy only another martial arts expert would recognize.

Two blocks from the candy store the limo stopped just long enough to take on another passenger. Morgan saw him in the rear view mirror. Older than the others, he had the easy smile of an old time hustler, big hands and twin bulges under the arms of his perfectly tailored suit. A strange light glowed in his eyes. Morgan marked him as the danger man.

Slash reached up and pushed the button that powered the sunroof open. The air-conditioned coolness flew out. Slash stood up and stuck his head out, surveying the area. It was the first act Morgan had seen really reflecting the crime boss' true age.

“J.J., please come down from there.” the older man in
the back seat called. “You're a target up there like that.”

“I like to see the whole area,” Slash replied. “Besides, nobody would have the balls to take a shot at me.” Nonetheless, in less than a minute he came down. Perhaps the absurdity of his remark struck him, considering recent events.

While he rode, Morgan pulled his sunglasses off to wipe them clean. As he looked up, his eyes wandered in the mirror to meet Slash's. The boy stared into Morgan's light brown eyes, x-raying him, dissecting his face. Morgan reminded himself for the hundredth time that, his age aside, nobody got to be where this kid was unless they were smart, tough, and ruthless. Morgan's face gave away nothing, but he knew even that told the kid something. Slowly, he returned the mirror shades to his face.

Although nothing had been said, the driver took them down West Seventy-Second Street and into Central Park. They stopped as suddenly as they had started, and Morgan was hustled over near the lake. They were in the open, impossible to approach unseen. The driver pushed Morgan against a tree, resting a hand like an oak brace against his chest.

“All right Slick, what the fuck's going on?” Slash asked. The other guards stood on either side. The giant patted Morgan, felt the gun under Morgan's left arm and reached for it. Morgan put a hand on the big man's wrist.

“You don't want that,” he said quietly, locking eyes with the big man. Then to Slash, “What's going on is I just saved your fucking life, pimp.” Uncertain, the giant froze. It was Slash's play. An unpleasant pause followed.

“Leave him,” Slash said, and the big man backed off. “Maybe you don't know me? Did you really think I was a pimp?”

“Ain't seen no dock workers driving a Benzo.”

“All right, Slick.” J.J. Slash found himself on the defensive. “I guess, looking back, maybe you did save me. What's your name, Slick, and what's your story?”

“Name's Johnson,” Morgan said, brushing off and straightening his clothes. “Morgan Johnson. Story's long. The end of it is, I worked as a merc overseas pretty much the last few years. Then I got work in California as a, er, a trouble shooter. A problem solver. But I got tired of the West Coast. Too much shit with drugs, you know. You look like you could use a problem solver. I want a job.” Then he looked sideways at the driver. “You guys escape from the circus or something?”

J.J. Slash tipped his head back and laughed a loud, easy laugh. It seemed he had already forgotten how recently he was a target for two nine millimeters. “You got balls, Slick. I like that. I think we're going to be friends. This here's Daddy Boom. Been watching my back for a long time.”

Morgan took the giant's hand. He prepared for a crushing grip, but Daddy Boom was surprisingly gentle. He smiled wide, suddenly looking like everyone's favorite uncle.

“The tall guy trying to pass is called Ghost.”

“What's the word?” Ghost said with a slight bow.

“Thunderbird,” Morgan replied.

“Huh?”

“Brother's from a different generation,” the third bodyguard said. “But you and me, we gone get along just fine.” He thrust out a huge hand which Morgan grasped. It was a rough, ashy hand, but surprisingly flexible. On a closer look, Morgan realized those pock marks on his face were really ingrown hair.

“This is Crazy Ray 9,” Slash said. “Call him that cause
he's still nuts from Vietnam, and cause he's the best shooter alive.”

“That leaves you,” Morgan said, focusing his lenses on Slash.

“Yeah, me.” Slash paced in front of Morgan. “You a cop or something?”

“Hell, no,” Morgan said, crossing his arms. “I look like a cop to you? Besides, I bet you can smell one by now.”

“You God damn right, Slick.” Slash suddenly bounced up in front of Morgan. “I'm J.J. Slash and I'm a stone hustler. You saved my life, so you down with me. You down with J.J. Slash, you got it made in the Big Apple. Long's you don't lie to me or steal from me. Then my posse here would tear you up. Hey, how'd you know those two kids were shooters anyway?”

“I'm pretty good at spotting trouble,”

“Really? Think I'll keep you close for while, maybe add you to my Convincers here.” Slash pulled a wad of cash from his hip pocket and flipped out half a dozen hundred dollar bills. “Here. I'll drop you where you can get yourself some clothes like the guys here, Slick. You're in.”

Slash turned to the car and Daddy Boom had the door open before he reached it. Responding to subtle hand signs, Crazy Ray 9 and Ghost boarded on either side of Slash. With Morgan up front beside Daddy Boom, the Mercedes moved silently away from the lake and out into city traffic again. Morgan leaned over the seat, looking at Slash.

“Thanks for the money, but I dress like I dress,” Morgan said.

“Don't push it, Slick,” Slash said. His eyes were glazed over, his voice far away. “That bastard Pena sent those kids. Jive-ass, low class, drug pushing, pimp mother fucker. Sure wish I could close him down.”

“We ought to go up and hit him, J.J,” Daddy Boom said.

“Can't get at him,” Slash replied. “He's just too well covered.”

“There's nobody can't be got,” Morgan said, as if stating a natural law. “This a nice sled and I'm betting it's armored, right?”

“You got that right. Bulletproof, even the glass. Even the tires are armored. So what?”

“Actually, the tires are self-sealing. Continental ContiSeals if I ain't mistaken. But your enemy knew all that, and waited until you were out on the street to take his shot. If you know your enemy's defenses you can always get at him.”

Slash looked up, admiring himself in Morgan's lenses.

“You was a merc, right?” he asked. “Yeah. Okay, smart ass, show me what you got. Pena's got an army, just like me, and he lives in a God damned fort. Now, you take my Convincers here up to the Bronx tomorrow night, and you punch Pena's ticket. You do that, it's big bucks and you're on my first team. Think you can handle that, Slick?”

“I can handle it,” Morgan said. “And the name's Johnson. Morgan Johnson.”

“I call everybody by a nickname, Slick. And for what I'm going to be paying you, if I decide to call you Dickhead, you'll get used to it.”

“Sonny D?” Felicity's amused expression actually coaxed a slight blush out of Ross Davis. She looked down, jabbing her fork into her mussels.

“You take J.J. as he is,” Davis said, sipping his wine. “He never calls anybody by his real name. It can be a little annoying, but it's not so bad for me. I've been called Sonny most of my life anyway.”

“Well, Sonny, you've at least got excellent taste in restaurants. After last night, I wasn't quite sure.”

From J.J. Slash's brownstone, Davis had hustled Felicity back into their waiting limousine. They dined from a fast food drive-through, Davis apologizing all the way, but he had an appointment he dared not miss. Then they raced down the Garden State Parkway as best they could. Despite the air conditioned comfort, Felicity couldn't remember a longer hundred forty miles. Finally, they made the short turn onto Atlantic City's own expressway. Davis got her registered in the Boardwalk Holiday Inn, then, apologizing again, rushed off to his meeting.

Felicity seized the opportunity to hit a speed dial button on her cell phone and check in at her apartment. Then she had put out her do not disturb sign and forced herself to sleep, in order to minimize her jet lag.

“I'm really sorry about last night,” Davis said, signaling the waiter for the next course. “Hope this does a little to make up for it.” Davis' strategy for “making up” started
with seafood at the Knife and Fork Inn. Experienced with Europe's finest restaurants, Felicity wasn't optimistic when they walked in. Their Flemish decor seemed forced and artificial to her. However, the service proved top notch and their mussels marinara turned out to be excellent.

“We'll see how I feel after the bouillabaisse and some answers,” Felicity said with a smile. “For instance, how'd you get to be called Sonny? Is it because of your cheerful disposition, now?”

“I was called Sonny as a boy, because Ross Davis was also my father's name.” Davis picked up his spoon as a waiter placed a big soup bowl in front of him. “Where I grew up in Brooklyn, there must have been four or five ‘Sonny's'.”

“This is really quite good,” Felicity said, sipping her bouillabaisse. “Everything tastes so fresh. But Ross, you don't sound like anybody raised in Brooklyn. When I was growing up in Ireland, I watched a lot of American movies. I thought everyone in Brooklyn talked like Bugs Bunny.”

“Shore, and oy used ta think ahl the Oyrish spawk loik Barry Fitzgerald in ‘Going My Way'. My parents thought it was important that I speak proper English. How else was I going to grow up to be president of the United States?”

Felicity looked at the well-groomed man across the table from her, his tie perfectly knotted, his handkerchief just far enough into his jacket pocket, and pictured him in politics. “I take it then that they sent you to the finest schools.”

“When they cost that much they're called academies,” Davis said. His eyes seemed remote, as if he were viewing an old, sad movie. “Worked two jobs, both of them, to put me through. Then to Stanford, to study political science and English. Their only son, so polished, so well-spoken so…” his voice dropped to a whisper, and she barely heard him
say “So white.”

Silence wrapped their table while waiters cleared after the soup. Felicity examined other patrons in the dim, intimate dining room but her eyes wandered back to Davis. The single candle on their table made her date's skin glow golden and helped him hide his eyes. Davis laid the ghosts to rest before returning to the present. His smooth, professional smile was back in place when the steamed lobsters arrived.

Again, Felicity was pleasantly surprised. She thought anyone could create greatness steaming a fresh lobster. The trick was in giving that crustacean proper supporting acts. In this case, the lobster was perfectly complemented by julienned, deep fried zucchini and corn fritters as big as pancakes.

“This place is wonderful, Ross,” Felicity said. “You must know somebody to get reservations here in the tourist season.”

“You don't know the half of it,” Davis said, teasing the tender flesh out of a lobster claw. “This place doesn't take reservations.”

“I am impressed,” Felicity said, dabbing butter from a corner of her mouth. “Guess that's what comes from a college education. Never had the chance, myself. Your parents must have been prouder than peacocks at your graduation.”