Eunice considered their stare, knowing that her thoughts were wide open to these three exceptional women and verbalized, “It’s a dangerous assignment. There’s a terrorist group located in Iran going after the same orchid. They’ve already annihilated an entire village of peasants down there, only to find out that they were in the wrong village.”
Lisa interjected, “One of them, a woman, is going back there this week. She will fly down and meet some angry men in a warehouse in Sao Paulo.” Her eyes fluttered, and she added, “The hotel is a Spanish name, “El Oro Mesa. That’s all I’m getting.”
Eunice asked if they could be ready to leave on Friday.
Tonya raised her hand like a student asking to be called on. “Yes Tonya?”
“I see airline tickets for Saturday morning at nine. I see five tickets. Ours and a Jim Morgan’s, but the fifth one is a blank.”
“Thanks Tonya.” Eunice had chills running down her spine, “If you, or any of you, have a fifth name? Let me know. As of right now, I’m only sending down the three of you, and Morgan. And -- he hasn’t been asked, as yet.”
The three psychics looked at one another for some answer. None came. They didn’t know. The girls knew this was odd. One of them should have known something.
Eunice excused herself and moved to leave. Jackie called out to her, “Have a nice trip tomorrow, Miss North.”
Turning back to her, Eunice responded, “I’m not going anywhere tomorrow, Jackie.”
Jackie grimaced, then spoke, “Sorry. Just goes to show you, psychics don’t know everything. Do they?”
* * *
Morgan bolted awake, disoriented. His clock read five P.M. It took a few seconds for him to recall where he was, and his dinner date. While taking a quick shower he thought about Catherine and how much she resembled Sophie. He also made a mental note to call Eunice, one day. And then recalled that his last adventure, to Madagascar, had begun with a small note, too, “Call Eunice.”
After a quick shave, he splashed on his favorite scent, Cool Water. He pulled on a pair of tan slacks and a white golf shirt and then stepped into a pair of light-brown loafers. He went to the kitchen and threw down a glass of cold tap water. He read a scraggly note on the fridge, “We’ll be back by ten.” On his way out the door, he saw the message light flashing on the house phone, but ignored it. He was behind the power curve and didn’t want to be late. Inevitably, the call would turn out to have been from Uncle Bill or some inane message for his parents.
The Austin roared out of the drive, and headed for the Quality Inn on Lake Shore Drive. In an afterthought, Morgan pulled the 3000 over to the curb and retrieved another copy of his book from the trunk and slipped it under the driver’s seat. He’d wait to see how she dressed before deciding where he’d take her. She did say, “Casual.” And he thought, Tommy Guns. One, it’s fun. And two, he was hungry and loved their Lasagna. The mobster ambiance might just be the ticket for a girl out of Miami, the retirement Mecca of Al Capone and a lot of the other old-time baddies. Or was that, Boca Raton?
Catherine, as promised, was standing at the front door. Another woman was with her, and Morgan correctly, intuitively, guessed that it was her roommate. Leaving the Austin run, he got out and went around to the passenger door and stood as they approached him, “You look absolutely stunning, Catherine.”
She was wearing a white sleeveless dress, which did look casual, yet stated, “We can go anywhere you want.” She carried the same little handbag that she had toted earlier – she looked gorgeous.
“What a cute car.” She turned and introduced her girlfriend, Mary Lynn; also a pretty, petite blonde.
Morgan shook Mary Lynn’s hand and was surprised at how cold it felt, he also discerned that it was also quite moist. Mary Lynn was obviously an overseer, and didn’t approve of Catherine going off with a stranger. He opened the door for Catherine, while stating, “I’d invite you along, Mary Lynn; but you’d have to sit on my lap.”
In a matronly tone, came an adamant reply, “Oh, I’m not going anywhere -- I have work to do.”
As they pulled from the circle drive, Catherine shouted, “Don’t wait up!”
* * *
Margolova was heated up near rage as she yelled into her cell phone, “I need to know where Morgan is. Not just that he isn’t at the Institute. Can’t I get anything from your bloody network that’s worth a shit?” And then severed her International call to New York City with a nasty snap of her cell phone lid.
Joseffie, cleaning an AK-47 on the kitchen table, yelled at her to relax! That his people were on top of every flight out of America, “They will tell me if Morgan leaves his country.” This was an open boast on the extent of his covert ties.
“I should have you go find him and slit open his throat. Or better yet, I will go do this myself. I should have done it back in Madagascar.” And she contemplated a brief moment, as to just why she hadn’t, and she shook off a sexual desire that began to form in her twisted thinking.
Her cell rang, and she answered, vehemently, “Yes!”
“We found him. He’s in Chicago. What do you want us to do?”
“Watch him! I want to know where he is, minute by minute. If he leaves Chicago, I want to be called – Immediately!”
Chapter Four
Pulling onto Lake Shore Drive, Jim asked Catherine, “Would you like a quick tour of the lakefront on our way to the restaurant?”
“Sure, sounds nice. I’m amazed at how beautiful Lake Michigan is. And I would love to see more of the city. Have you already made reservations somewhere?”
“No. It’s Sunday. We can go anywhere, casual opens a lot of doors, but I do have an idea as to where we’re going.”
Catherine smoothed down her dress, and knew she was dressed beyond casual, at least, by Miami standards.
Morgan took the scenic route north past Soldiers Field, home of the Bears football team; and then past John G. Shedd Aquarium, the largest indoor aquarium in the world. Exiting off Lake Shore Drive on the Randolph Street exit, he growled the Austin down and cruised by the front entryway of Navy Pier. Then shot west, into the center of the Loop for an upward view of Sears Tower. Morgan played the role of tour guide exceptionally well, he even told her how the city dyes the Chicago River green on St. Patrick’s Day. Then made her laugh with political stories on how often a dead person is allowed to vote Democratic on Election Day.
Catherine felt an immediate comfortableness with him and found his mental playfulness -- downright enjoyable. Maybe it was the awesome vibrations of Austin 3000, or the architectural beauty of Chicago itself, or some Cupid trick at work, but after twenty minutes with this High Rolling -- Engineer, she recognized that something very significant was missing in her life. She was totally sensing the essence of what she dearly wrote about, Romance.
She inquisitively asked, “Why are you living with your parents, Jim?”
“Oh, that’s a long story, kiddo. I’ll tell you over dinner. If you like?” To which she nodded out in the affirmative. She tried to guess his age, and tried to catch a glimpse of his ring finger for a hint of a ring, or ring-indentation. She decided to hold these questions until they sat down to dine.
They drove down Michigan Avenue in an observational silence as they headed south along Grant Park and the flowing Buckingham Fountain, toward China Town and “Tommy Guns” dinner theater. It was a fun ride, and dinner was right around the corner, just ... Two minutes ahead.
While waiting for a red light to change, a green and white taxi bumped, gently, into the rear end of the Austin. Morgan grimaced, turned to Catherine and asked if she were okay, then pulled on the emergency brake, got out, and walked back to check for damage. The Arab-looking driver had already exited his cab and was feeling around the bumper for damage. The cabbie stood and was openly apologetic, insistent that no harm had come to either vehicle.
Morgan didn’t see any damage. Not a scratch, “Okay, pal. Be a little more careful with that bomb of yours.”
/> Ahmed, the cabbie, wanted to shoot Morgan his middle finger for calling his car a bomb, but held back. He couldn’t jeopardize the magnetic tracking device he had just attached to the Austin’s undercarriage, “May Allah ride with you tonight,” he said convincingly, and gave Morgan a Middle-East bow with his fingertips pressed together in a loosely apologetic gesture.
With a lot of horns honking behind him, Morgan returned to the wheel, pausing briefly to retract the book he had placed under his seat earlier, “Here Catherine, a little gift for you.”
“You wrote a book?” Catherine looked at him with a deep intensity as he pulled the Austin through the green light running through the gears as if he were playing a sophisticated musical instrument. His face expressed a love of life, an intensity of simply, being. And she thought, God I want to write this moment down – I feel so, alive.
With her hair blowing freely in the setting sunlight, she opened his novel to a random page, and read, “...your bed or mine?” To which he confidently answered, “Yours first. Mine later.” She closed the book and looked at him with a blushing grin. Then read the back of the book as he pulled into the Tommy Guns parking lot, “Sounds interesting, Mister Morgan.”
“Jim. Call me Jim. Do you prefer Catherine?” He came around and opened her door, “What’s your last name, Catherine?” He grasped her hand and guided her up. He liked the way she felt, soft and – she exhumed an aura of self-confidence, something he personally appreciated.
“I use Catherine.” She looked up at him, “My last name is, Harris.”
“Well, Catherine Harris, shall we?” As he offered her a guiding elbow to walk beside him, back -- into the Roaring Twenties.
* * *
Eunice, back from the ESP laboratory, sat down in a plush green leather desk chair in her home office. She grabbed a pen and made a to do list on a yellow legal pad. The first entry read: “Book five passengers to Sao Paulo, Saturday 9 A.M., round trip.” She was acting on the premonition of a psychic, and it made her feel terribly apprehensive.
She eased back in her chair and mentally ran through the possibilities of who would be using the fifth ticket. Kicking off her high heels, she caught herself biting the corner of her pinky fingernail. She reached the pen and made a second entry on her to do pad: Fly to Chicago. And then, all of a sudden, she became very sleepy.
She went to her bed in the adjoining room, pulled back the thick Swedish down-comforter and crawled in, nylons and all. Her last waking thought, before she fell dead asleep, was of the last man that had slept alongside of her months earlier, Jim Morgan.
* * *
Margolova answered the International call and listened to a sob story about Morgan being in a nightclub, with a beautiful, blonde woman; but their tail couldn’t afford the cover charge to follow them in. She thanked the caller, sardonically, and hung up. Then said, aloud, in Russian, “Idiots!”
In Islamic, Joseffie, still half-asleep, begged her, “Get some sleep, mama. You’re driving me coo-coo,” and pulled the coarse wool horse blanket back over his bearded face.
* * *
Senator Alberquist poured himself a glass of milk and carried it up to his bedroom where he set it down on a hand-carved ivory coaster. He removed his shirt and was placing it on a chair-back when his home phone rang. It was after nine and a rarity for him to get calls that late. He entered the 777 codes, to insure a secure line, and answered.
It was Ames, “Sorry to bother you this late John. But I thought this might be important to you. We’ve picked up on some overseas calls to Margolova. She’s placed a watch on Morgan.”
“Ah, the plot thickens. Thanks, Arnold. He should be okay until he starts picking orchids.”
“That was...is our thinking here, too, John. I just wanted you to know. I’ll talk with you again, soon. Goodnight John.” Ames yawned as he turned out the office lights. He had just worked a fourteen hour Sunday, and he loved every minute of it.
The Senator hit the release button on his tape recorder, which would append a date and time to Ames’ call, drank his milk and went to bed with fond memories of his daughter, ones that floated easily in and about his brilliant mind.
* * *
Exiting Tommy Guns, both wearing fedora mobster hats, Jim pulled out a pack of Camels and put one between his lips, then offered one to Catherine. She started to take it and then announced, “I quit a few months ago, but you go ahead -- it doesn’t bother me. Morgan and his “Doll” made their way to the bugged Austin. They looked, cool. They made a handsome couple, and they both sensed it. They also knew this, that they were both having a surrealistically great time.
Catherine looked into Morgan’s face with the full moon lighting up his smooth facial features and thought that his dangling cigarette gave him a bad boy aura, and -- it fit him. She tried to recall how many glasses of white wine she had consumed, and she felt that the ancient mystery of all romance was blooming full, right before her fantasy laden eyes, and she felt an unreal chill, a wave of uncontrollable energy dance through her body, and it made her physically shudder from her shoulders right down to her knees, “Jim Morgan. I must tell you, it’s been a long, long time since I’ve had such a fun time.”
Her hat brim was shadowing her baby blues, yet Morgan saw them sparkle in the darkness, and his senses screamed out from within his being that something very special was happening there – in their – here and now. And it made him smile deep and wide and he knew, right then, that love was once again entering into his life, and he felt an exceptionally strong compunction to kiss her – right there, in the parking lot, but he held back and asked her, “Hey, I’ve got an idea, want to take a walk on the beach?”
Without hesitation, her dimples indented and she smiled out an exhilarated, “Yes!”
They drove off, giddy, and made their way down to the 77th Street beach holding onto their fedoras and their mutual feelings of romantic expectations, “It’s a bit tricky to park around here, so -- hold on.”
With an illegal U-turn and a dodge around a gated entryway, they pulled into a lakeside apartment complex. Morgan turned off the lights and parked with the engine still running. The view from the Austin was a spectacular cinema graphic sight; right smack in front of them was the full moon casting soft moonbeams that painted a whitish-yellow path across the water right onto the smallest wavelet lapping gentle on the beach sand.
Catherine’s breath was whisked away with the beauty of the panoramic view, “Oh, this is simply awesome, Jim,” and she averted her view onto him, and said, very playfully, “You know you’re seducing me. Don’t you?”
“Yeah.” He grinned and gave her a sharp wink, then asked, “Is it working?” And he watched her, as she smiled and kicked off her shoes in preparation for a budding lover’s stroll in the lakeshore night.
They both heard the crash and turned their heads, simultaneously, back to where they exited Lake Shore Drive. Through the opening they drove through, they observed a green and white taxi slide past – upside-down, with sparks flying out from a metal-to-road skid that the cab’s roof was enduring. It was less than a second in passing when a second vehicle – a big SUV -- came sliding, sideways, right behind the flipped over Checker.
Morgan exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!”
Catherine, placing a hand on his upper arm, uttered out, “Oh...My...God.”
They both got out of the car and began a jog toward the gates. Morgan offered Catherine his hand and she grasped it in mid stride. She, being barefooted, said, “Ouch”, twice, as she stepped on errant parkway pebbles. Jim stopped, looked at her bare feet, “Want me to go back and get your shoes?”
“No. I’m fine.
Morgan smiled; then looked at her a few seconds, and then offered, “Okay, but watch your step. Let’s go.” And they went on, much slower...
Traffic had already begun to back up behind the crash. A police cruiser with flashing lights was approaching from a block away in the southbound lane, people were walking from their resid
ences, and a few were running. Some idiot was honking his horn in a road-rage fit; and everyone knew his name, too. It was, Asshole.
Jim and Catherine were 50 yards from the wreckage when the taxi exploded, sending up a fiery ball of yellow and orange flames. The concussion from the blast had stopped them cold. Morgan let go of Catherine’s hand and placed his arm protectively around her shoulder and they just stood their watching the blaze in bystander amazement. There was nothing more that they could do, but observe.
An officer was spraying foam on the fire from a hand held extinguisher. An ambulance was being directed to a safe parking spot, and more sirens were announcing the arrival of yet more safety vehicles in route. Morgan asked, “Seen enough?”
“Yes. Have You?” She countered.
Hand in hand they returned to the Austin, with occasional glances back at the highway and, now hidden from view, wreckage. A huge bubble had burst; the ambiance of a first night together was all but shattered. They both knew it. It was, the way it was. Back in the Austin, Catherine pulled out a small note pad and pen, asking Jim, “Do you mind?”
“No. Not at all,” as he reveled in the vigor and intensity of her occupational interjection.
Jim’s thoughts flashed back to the rear-end tap they had experienced earlier, and his intuition began using his grey matter as a punching bag. “Was it the same cab? Why did Eunice call him? Was the Arab cabbie acting suspicious? And ... Just who is this -- Catherine Harris?”
Catherine finished jotting in her book. She looked back to the road and announced, “Looks like the traffic is moving.”
“Yeah, I’d better get you back to your hotel,” then, looking at his watch, “It’s already past ten.”
Catherine gathered up her shoes as Morgan started up the Austin.
Orchids to Die For (Jim Morgan Adventure Series) Page 2