The Payback Assignment (24 page)

           
“So this is the rendezvous point,” Morgan said, his voice invading the silence.
 
“Good thing I’m not superstitious.”

           
“This is where I was to bring you.
 
Second floor left.”

           
“Well, let’s not disappoint him.”
 
Morgan pulled out Griffith’s pistol, dropped the magazine and pulled the slide back, popping out the chambered round.
 
As that lone bullet spun to the asphalt he extended the gun toward its owner.
 
“Now take this.
 
I’ll holster my gun.
 
You walk me in like I’m a prisoner.
 
Once I make contact with Stone or his representative, you’re free to go.
 
Right?”

           
Griffith seemed to consider the situation for a moment.
 
“You know, even if I lay off you, even if Stone don’t get you, my men will be after you,” he said.
 
“They’re very good and very loyal.”

           
“I’ll take my chances,” Morgan said.
 
“You in?”

           
“Okay.
 
I’ll play,” Griffith said, reaching to accept the empty automatic.

           
Morgan wondered if any of the local citizens were watching as a military looking white man marched one of their black brothers across a pothole-covered street in the South Bronx.
 
As they stepped through the rickety front door, he noticed a junkie crouched in the far corner of the unlighted hall.
 
The junkie ignored the two intruders.
 
They ignored him.

           
The odor of urine almost overpowered them.
 
Morgan led the way up the stairs, stepping over the broken ones.
 
On the second floor landing, Griffith thrust the impotent gun barrel into Morgan’s back and nodded toward a door.

“Good-bye and good luck,” he muttered.
 
Morgan thought he might mean it.
 
Griffith reached around Morgan and hit the door with three fast knocks and two slow ones.

           
A bolt shot back, a latch turned, and the door swung inward.
 
Morgan expected to see Stone or an underling, seated comfortably, waiting to take him to some unknown Big Man.
 
Instead, he stepped forward into a room even darker than the hallway.
 
On the left, he made out a couch canted away from the wall.
 
To his right sat a big torn up chair and a small table.
 
As his eyes became accustomed to the deeper gloom he thought he saw a doorway about twenty feet ahead, perhaps leading into the kitchen.
 

           
Almost too late, all of his internal warning lights went on.
 
A short, squat figure appeared in the far doorway.
 
A flash of light glinted off of something as he swung it up.
 
Morgan had just enough time to realize that Griffith was in the line of fire.
 
These bastards would toss him out to get Morgan.

           
“Jesus!”
 
Morgan said through clenched teeth as he dived desperately to the left.
 
The blast coincided with his leap.
 
Two or three stray shotgun pellets raked his right side ribs.
 
His left shoulder crashed into the wall and he slid down behind the sofa.
 
He had time to catch only a glimpse of J.D. Griffith pointing his useless forty-five before a swarm of angry twelve gage hornets blasted him into, and all over, the hall.

           
For Morgan, there was no way out.
 
The couch provided some concealment, making it tough for anyone to pin down his exact position.
 
But concealment is not the same thing as cover.
 
He knew that riot gun in the kitchen would find him before too long.
 
Twenty feet away, against the opposite wall, the backup man lay prone under the small table.
 
He fired his small caliber pistol occasionally into the sofa.
 
The crossfire was simple, smart, and inescapable.
 
To stand and get a shot at one, he would have to expose himself to the other.
 

           
What an ugly place to die, Morgan thought, and gave pragmatic consideration to which of these killers he would take with him.

-21-

           
Felicity tore her eyes away from the gun pointed at her.
 
Ahead, she saw that the tarnished pole on the corner held a green light.
 
At the intersection she pulled hard on the wheel and slid around to her left.
 
The Fiat also managed to corner, accompanied by a blare of horns.
 
The cross street was short.
 
She hit her left signaler, indicating a turn up Third Avenue, back the way she had come.
 
She knew the big avenues were one way in alternating directions, and she figured her followers did too.
 

           
At the corner the Fiat was right behind her, trying to squeeze onto her right side, to get on the outside of the turn.
 
She looked up and sighed in frustration.
 
The light was already yellow.
 
She would never reach the corner before it turned red.
 
Well, tough.
 
She leaned back, put on her best “dumb broad” face, down shifted, cranked the wheel and tapped her brakes.

           
The racing change gave her just enough of a fish tail to slide between lanes of oncoming traffic as she cocked the wheel to the right, against the one-way flow of traffic.
 
Surprise caused the river of cars to part for her.
 
There were raised fists and horns sounding in all possible tones and keys.
 
From every car arose a chorus of “dumb broad”, “out-of-towner” and other dirty names New Yorkers call people.

           
Felicity smiled, affected a look of fear, embarrassment and apology, and wound through a block of impatient but obliging drivers.
 
She had long believed the world’s most skillful drivers outside Paris, lived in New York.
 
They could not survive otherwise.
 
She made it to the next intersection feeling the impact of much cursing and swearing, but no collisions.

           
The driver of the Fiat was less fortunate.
 
New York drivers might adjust for one idiot, but not two in a row.
 
The hole that had opened up for the Corvette closed immediately behind it.
 
A Lincoln was stopped, grill to grill with the Fiat.
 
Its engine growled menacingly.
 
In her rear view mirror Felicity saw the drivers of the facing cars get out.
 
The Lincoln’s driver, in a chauffeur’s uniform, was noticeably larger than the other.

           
Then she was on the cross street, on her way back to Fifth Avenue.
 
A part of her wished she could see the result of the massive traffic snarl she had caused, but she did not want to arrive late for lunch at the Waldorf.

           
The magnificent structure known as the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel has occupied the same prestigious corner of Park Avenue and 49th Street for more than seventy years.
 
She chose this place for lunch, not because the guests were frequently film stars and big name politicians, but because she would face less of a crowd there than would be present at some other famous spots.
 
New Yorkers often forget that hotel restaurants offer some of the finest eating in the city.
 

           
Actually, the Waldorf offered three very different restaurants.
 
Inagiku was probably the first upscale gourmet Japanese restaurant in midtown Manhattan.
 
Oscar’s was perhaps the most gracious coffee shop on the East Coast.
 
For that day, she had chosen the third alternative, the Bull and Bear.

           
Over the years, Felicity had learned the advantages of style over substance.
 
The Bull and Bear Restaurant had style to spare.
 
She loved the warm wood paneling and soft, discreet lighting.
 
The decor was rich with antiques, so carefully matched and selected, that to walk through the door was to be plunged into another era.

           
She chose a table near the nineteenth century hand carved boar’s head.
 
She always felt as if she had invaded a private men’s club there.
 
After turning away the offered glass of water, she tried to settle into some people watching.
 
A head of state or two caught her eye, but as always the place held her attention more than the patrons.
 
Her eyes were drawn to an English catchpole and a matched pair of three hundred year old French rapiers behind them.
 
This activity kept her serene until her date, and his escort, joined her.

           
“You are even lovelier today than you were on the Riviera last season, my dear,” Duncan Baptiste said.
 
He kissed the back of her left hand and took the seat opposite hers.
 
“This magnificent decor is almost a sufficient backdrop for your beauty.”

           
She flashed Baptiste her most dazzling smile.
 
“You are most gracious,” she said.
 
Bullshit, she thought.
 
Duncan Baptiste was a jewel thief with few rivals.
 
The product of a French peasant girl and a visiting Scottish soldier just after the end of World War Two, he was obviously named after his father.
 
He started stealing to live while still in his childhood.
 
His reputation came partly from being successful in his chosen field for twenty years before Felicity ever began.
 
The rest of his name came from a half dozen truly spectacular heists in the nineteen seventies.

           
A waiter brought a plate of sandwiches, which Duncan must have ordered.
 
The other, bigger man who joined the table reached for a half sandwich and pushed half of it into his mouth.
 

           
“Who’s this big fellow?” She asked.
 

           
“James is an associate of mine,” Duncan said.
 
“As he matures, a man finds he needs assistance for the more physical bits of business.”
 

           
As their cocktails arrived, she checked her seatmates.
  
While Baptiste’s dark brown hair was styled, James’ was barber cut.
 
Baptiste wore a hand made and tailored wool suit with Italian hand made shoes.
 
His companion wore a Sears polyester suit and penny loafers.
 
Obviously a flunky, but with none of the panache she would expect to see in a thief Baptiste would accept as an apprentice.
 
A bodyguard, then?
 
Was Baptiste losing his confidence in his old age?

           
“Now, my dear, exactly what was it you wanted to discuss with your old rival, eh?”
 
Baptiste asked through the smoke from his Dunhill cigarette.

           
“Well, Duncan dear, I’m afraid it’s business.”

           
“I had hoped for a more social reason,” Duncan said.
 
“Oh, well, what will it be then?
 
Some professional advice, perhaps?”

           
“Well, sort of.”
 
Her eyes wandered nervously as she answered, while her fingers fidgeted with the pepper shaker in front of her.
 
“A few days ago, you see, I was casing a particular bauble that caught my eye down in Mexico.
 
Fact is, I had invested a lot in this score.
 
Not money, but a lot of time and planning.
 
I was all set to make the touch when the mark up and moves to New York.
 
Well, followed the boy here, I did, but then I hear the bauble changed hands.
 
Now this is a particularly nice piece, it is, a real prime target for sure.
 
I know you’ve been making New York your base for a while.
 
If this piece wandered into your bailiwick I figure you’d smell it.
 
And I just kind of figured that out of professional courtesy and for a small consideration...”