Morgan knocked at the indicated door, got a curt “Yo” and walked in. The quiet click of a keyboard greeted him. One lamp shined from across the room, supplemented by a computer monitor’s glow. J.J. Slash sat at a computer desk, pushing keys with quiet concentration. It was the first time Morgan had seen him when he wasn’t fidgeting. The big Doberman’s head poked out from under the desk and Morgan froze until he saw there was no threat. Then he pulled the other chair over beside him and waited.
The room’s decor was austere, with no color scheme. Morgan was surprised at its neatness. He saw no clothes lying around, no loose papers, nothing out of place. Even the desk, with ledgers and notebooks abounding, was precise in every way. Pencils lived in a cup and books stood in rows.
“You met Ripper?” Slash asked, petting the dog’s neck. “The only living thing I love, brother. I take her to the vet four times a year, get her all her shots, special food, the whole deal. She won’t hurt you. Not unless I tell her to.”
Slash had not looked away from the screen. Morgan remained silent, waiting for an invitation to speak.
“So, how’d it go?”
“Got the job done,” Morgan said. “No friendly casualties. Held to the timetable.” He stopped, hoping Slash also heard what he didn’t say. After a moment, the boy faced Morgan and his smile returned.
“That’s what went right,” Slash said. “Now, tell me what you didn’t like.”
“All right.” Morgan leaned back, locking his fingers over one knee. “Crazy Ray 9. He’s a loose cannon on deck. I don’t like loose cannons. I designed a surgical strike. He executed a massacre.”
“Yeah, Ray’s a little wild,” Slash said, half turned to the screen now, still punching in what Morgan saw were figures in columns. “Daddy Boom thinks he’s invincible. With that Kevlar-lined suit I got him, and the matching bullet-proof tee shirt underneath, he’s damned near right. And Ghost thinks he’s some reincarnated Samurai warrior or some shit. I don’t know what your weirdness is, but people that’s real good at something are always a little weird. You might be the control rod I need in that team.”
“Say again?”
“You know how a nuclear reactor works?” Slash was lecturing now, and Morgan noticed his speech pattern was very different. “Flying neutrons start a chain reaction. When the nuclear fuel gets carried away, producing too much heat, you slide in the control rod. It’s boron, or maybe cadmium, and it absorbs the neutrons without being changed by them, cooling the reaction before there’s a meltdown. Maybe you can do that for me with my Convincers.”
“Could be,” Morgan said. He realized again that he had to stop thinking of this kid as a street punk.
“Anyways, you done good tonight, Slick. Nobody’s going to come after me for a while after they hear about tonight. A bunch of unemployed hustlers and gang members will come to me looking for a fast buck. And, of course, there’s a few less pushers on the street. And that’s cool.”
“You know, I’m a little surprised about that,” Morgan said. When Slash didn’t respond, he pressed on. “I got the idea you’re looking to move big ticket items, get into the high end of the game, but drugs are still the most profitable racket in this country. Now, don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a filthy business, but I’m surprised you’re not running that too.”
“You don’t get it do you?” Slash asked, turning in his chair. “Well, you’re a pretty smart dude, maybe you can dig this.”
Slash paused while he ordered his thoughts and, again, the nervous movements stopped. When he started again, he was back in lecture mode.
“See, Americans are fighters,” Slash began. “We see us as the baddest mother fucker in the valley, and we need a big bad guy to fight. Like…well, like the civil war. You think that started just cause they wanted to help us po’ black folk? Shit. There wasn’t no big bad guy around, so slavery became the enemy to beat. You follow that?”
“Yeah, man. That’s deep.” Morgan had never figured this boy for a philosopher.
“After that it was Spain. Then two wars in Europe that had nothing to do with us. Same shit in Korea. Then it was the Russians. I mean, they never attacked us or nothing, we just needed a badass enemy and they were the only other badass left in the world besides us.”
“Well, I don’t know about all that,” Morgan said. “Communism and slavery were things we needed to fight, anyway. But what’s that all got to do with the world of crime?”
“Crime? Home boy, it’s just capitalism in the twenty-first century. Anyway, here’s the hook. The Russians are dead, man. Finito. No more big enemy, Slick. We might dick around with some assholes in the Middle East off and on, but they ain’t big enough to keep us busy. Hell, after more than a decade of that bullshit, half the country don’t even know we’re at war. And that’s fine cause the big boys in charge know it won’t ever end, at least, not in our favor. So now that huge fucking bureaucracy in Washington’s going to start looking around for a fight they think they can win. And what do you think they gone jump on?”
Morgan shrugged. Then the light dawned and he felt like a fool. “Yeah. Drugs.”
“With both feet, homie,” Slash said. “Drug dealers are going to be the new target. South American cartels are the biggest, baddest enemies around. All those CIA agents that were chasing commies thirty years ago? All them FBI faggots that been seeing spies under the bed? All this machinery we built to fight terrorists: INS, ICE, Border Patrol, air marshals. Hell, man, even the Army, the Navy and the United States fucking Marines will be making war on drug dealers. Me? I’ll be kicked back, giving the upper class everything they want they can’t get at Bloomingdale’s.”
“So your whole objective is to avoid the conflict?”
“Slick, my man, the trick is to magnify your profit by diminishing the resistance. Carnegie understood it. Why you think he gave so much fucking money away, while he was killing steel workers in the mills every day? Ford dug it. Pay your slaves just enough to keep unions out. Rockefeller had them dying in the mines, but he worked the media to make him a hero. Kennedy was a God damned bootlegger for Christ sake, and he got his whole fucking family in national politics.” His eyes bored into Morgan’s, as if searching for one mind who might understand him. “It’s capitalism, Slick. You fix it, you buy it, you con your way into it, but you make the money. The art of maximizing your income while you minimize the friction. Thanks to a bunch of welfare brained politicians, it’s a lost art in this country. A lost art. Me? I’m bringing it back. Now, go on up and get some sleep.” Slash turned back to his monitor as if to end the conversation. Morgan waited a minute before speaking again.
“Got to ask you something, first.”
“What you got?” Slash asked.
“Got some loose ends to clear up on this coast before I settle in. Need to go to Atlantic City for a couple of days. Got anything there you want done?”
“You need a couple of days?” Slash asked. “No biggie. Go on down there. Check into the Holiday Inn, the one on the Boardwalk. I got a man down there right now. I’ll hook you up. While you’re taking care of your business, you can be another set of eyes for me.”
-15-
Felicity O’Brien had spent many an hour in health clubs and fitness centers in recent years, but this was her first time in a gym. Davis walked her around men punching a light bag, skipping rope and shadow boxing. She observed that a fist hitting a heavy bag sounded just like a fist hitting another man in the movies.
It felt almost like being invisible. Felicity’s black and gold double breasted houndstooth jacket and black skirt hugged her body as usual, yet everyone in the big room ignored her. She admired their focus and concentration, but she was unaccustomed to being surrounded by men and not getting a glance.
In the center of the dim, high ceilinged room, two men danced and jabbed at one another. Felicity wondered how they could move in this humidity. At first, she thought they were generating that overwhelming smell of sweat. Then she realized th
e odor was deep in the very walls of the place, coming from everywhere.
“Know anything about boxing?” Davis asked.
“Only what everyone knows. Two men hit each other. One falls down. The other wins.”
“That’s about it,” Davis said. “Except for the toughness, the heart, the strength, the speed, the science involved, the endurance you need to do this for three minutes twelve times in a row.”
Felicity considered this as she watched the two men poking at each other in what she had heard called “the square circle.” Most of the punches were launched with their left fists, but every so often one would swing a right at the other. It looked as if they were giving each other’s forearms a beating. She thought the Mexican was dominating the fight, keeping the black man from making any real progress.
“Our boy’s about ready for his big fight tomorrow,” said a voice behind Davis. They turned, and Davis clasped hands with a portly, graying man. He had a big nose with wide pores, which Felicity associated with too much wine. His eyes were brown and watery, and she could only think of his lips as blubbery. He wore a gray sweat suit and sneakers.
“Felicity, this is Skorolos,” Davis said. “He’s trainer for that stumblebum in the ring right now.”
“Well, he looks real good,” Felicity said, not really knowing what else to say.
“Oh don’t worry,” Skorolos said in a heavy voice. “He’ll look as good in the fight as he does with his sparring partner. It’s pretty simple. All he has to do is put his glove on Bonham enough times, eh?”
“That is the name of the game.” Davis grinned, as if sharing a private joke. Skorolos wandered away to his fighter’s corner, and Felicity moved closer to the ring. So this was just sparring, not an actual fight. She looked closer at the determined look on the Spanish man’s face.
“This is what you’re down here for?” Felicity asked. “To take bets on this fight tomorrow?”
“That’s right. J.J. owns this fighter here, Cevida. I make contact with the high rollers who lose big money on sure things every day. That’s their hobby. Losing money on sure things.”
“You provide a service to the community,” Felicity said. Just then Cevida got hit and sweat spun off his head, sprinkling Felicity’s hair. He seemed tough enough, and he was very quick, but the black guy didn’t move much when hit. Did Cevida have enough strength in his right to knock someone down?
Three more men walked in, and the whole gym’s activity level dropped. Felicity saw two men dressed as Skorolos the trainer was, and one in trunks, a muscular black man whose bald head caught the ceiling light and cast it into her eyes. Cevida stopped sparring and went to the ropes, leaning over at the newcomer.
“Bonham!” Cevida shouted, waving a fisted glove. “You better get back to Campo’s gym and work some more. Not that it’s gone help. I been waiting a year for a chance to kick your big black ass.”
“Hey, you don’t have to wait, Rican,” The black fighter answered, clenching his entire body. “We can do this right now, save the fight fans the disappointment. You won’t go four rounds with me. You just there to build my record, boy.”
Everyone moved at once. Cevida hopped over the ropes. Davis ran toward Bonham. Bonham’s trainers backed away from their fighter. Everyone else in the room stopped training to watch the coming battle.
The fighters were only inches apart when Davis jumped between them, a hand on each man’s chest.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, this is not what you get paid for,” Davis said in soothing, calming tones. “Save it for tomorrow night. You can make your point to the fans in Roberto’s. If you do it here, no one will know who’s the best. Let’s calm down for now, all right?” Although Davis was as big as the middleweights, his words, not his size, defused the situation. He was a master manipulator, Felicity saw, and she admired his quick action and effective delivery. With a dazzling smile, he eased Cevida back into the ring, then turned to Bonham’s team. He didn’t address the fighter, but instead the man who was probably his trainer.
“Look, it’s none of my business, and I know with his name your man would be welcome to train anywhere. But I was thinking that he might be able to train without distraction at another place. You want him to be able to focus, right?”
The trainer nodded and with soft words and a gentle touch he ushered Bonham back toward the door. When Davis returned to Felicity’s side, only she could see he was shaken.
“I’m proud of you,” she said, giving him a small hug. “You handled that brilliantly.”
“I could have been killed,” Davis said, “but if they fight now, there’s no money to be made tomorrow.”
“But it’s fixed, right?” she asked in a whisper.
Davis nodded. “You’re a quick study.”
“Maybe, but that guy Bonham, sure and he don’t look like a man set to take a dive. Looks kind of like the obvious winner, he does.”
“He’s supposed to look like the winner,” Davis said. “Otherwise nobody would bet on him. Fact is, he’s the better fighter. And he’s not taking a dive. He won’t know he’s going to lose until he hits the canvas. Now, I’ve got some other contacts to make, my dear, in places less savory than this.”
“That’s hard to imagine,” Felicity said with a shudder. “But if you’re taking off, mind if I head to the casinos for a bit? Got some angles of my own to work. We can get together again in the morning.”
“What about tonight?” Davis watched her closely and Felicity felt a slight twinge of guilt.
“Let’s not push it too fast,” she said. “I like to stay in control, you know. Besides, as much as I like your company, I don’t like to be around all this fighting. Can’t wait to get back to New York.”
“But, Felicity, I’m working Atlantic City right now, and J.J. put you under my direction. I don’t plan on going back to moving paintings until this dries up. And this has been good. It could be weeks. Don’t worry, I got a feeling you’ll be just as good at taking suckers’ money as you are at getting their art work.”
Felicity held her face steady, even though her heart sank at the thought of being sidetracked from her objective. What really drove Davis with his smooth manner and poker player’s face? Money? Sex? Loyalty to Slash? How could she get back to the paintings scam?
“You didn’t answer,” Davis said. “What about tonight?”
“Why don’t we talk romance after your big success tomorrow night?” She held his arm with just a hint of encouragement, but that night she had plans with another man.
-16-
“It’s awfully bright in here to be inconspicuous,” Felicity said.
“Relax, will you Red?” Morgan said. “Your boy would never dream of looking for you in here, classy broad like you.” Morgan worked at separating his wedge shaped prize from its home, trailing long strings of mozzarella cheese on the way.
Felicity admitted two things to herself. First, Davis would not expect her to visit a place like Mama Tucci’s at eleven o’clock at night. She and Morgan held a small table in the back, but several patrons feasted at the counter. She was in fact a little overdressed for a late night snack this far down Pacific Avenue.
Her other admission, just as grudgingly made, was that Mama Tucci’s featured the best pizza she had tasted anywhere in America. Morgan called it New York style, but she had heard that the thin soft crust really came from Philadelphia.
“I seem to be feasting on American cuisine, lately,” Felicity commented, trying to decide where and how to get her next bite from her slice.
“This is Italian.” Morgan displayed his expertise by folding his slice around a finger lengthwise and biting off the drooping point.
“Pizza like this was invented in the U.S. you dope,” Felicity said. “And last night I had bouillabaisse.”
“That French fish soup?”
“Uh-huh.” Felicity caught a slice of pepperoni just before it slid off onto the table. “That French soup was invented in New York, just like pizz
a.”
“You saying Italians don’t eat this stuff?”
“Well, sort of,” Felicity said, “but not like this. Not with pepperoni and sausage and mushrooms and peppers and, whatever the heck else is on here.”
“Onion,” Morgan said around a mouthful. “And extra cheese. So, get a line on the paintings yet?”
“Hit a roadblock. You?”
“Well, I’m a part of J.J. Slash’s crime machine,” Morgan said, his voice making it clear he felt no pride in his new position. “Gave me a chance to hit a major drug dealer though.”
“You’ve got to be pleased with that.”
“Not really, since it didn’t promote our real mission, getting the lost paintings back. But I had to, to get close to you. Besides, I figure the target’s no loss to society. In fact, I think this man’s death, plus evidence we’ll give the police on J.J. Slash after this case, might actually improve some lives in my old home town. Anyway, now I’m supposed to be taking care of some personal business. Got to report to your friend Sonny Davis tomorrow, see if he’s got any work for me.”
“I’m really glad you’re close.” She wiped grease from her hand.
Morgan arched an eyebrow. “Problems?”
“The problem is Ross. He prefers Ross to Sonny, by the way. Anyhow, he’s all into this boxing scam he is, and he really doesn’t want to get back involved with stolen art. As long as this deal goes well, I don’t have a prayer of finding out where those two paintings ended up.”
“Bet he’d get interested if you stole another masterpiece.”
“You’re probably right.” She reached for her soda. “Only thing is, damn it Morgan, I’m retired. I don’t want to steal anymore. I mean, I loved it when I was doing it, but I think my perspective’s changed after seeing our clients’ anguish when they get robbed. Men like Mr. Mister Cartellone.”
They finished their pizza in silence, but it was a pleasant silence. Felicity knew Morgan was thinking through the situation just as she was. A simple idea had become very complex. After eating, Morgan shoved his pile of used paper napkins into a trash can and got two Italian ices. When he returned to his seat, he had an idea worth voicing.
Lost Art Assignment Page 8