Lost Art Assignment

by Austin Camacho

  The music wound down, the six man audience burst into applause and the two brothers dragged Felicity forward. They stopped in front of Slash’s table, just outside kicking distance. The teenage gang lord looked up at her, smiling that barracuda smile she remembered.

  “Here it is, Birdland, named for ‘Bird’, Charlie Parker. Just like it looked when it opened in 1949. Now, what we going to do with you, Scarlet?” Slash asked.

  Felicity snarled like a jungle cat. “Well, first you can tell these apes to let go of me. Then, you can point me to the ladies room.”

  “No, I think first you can answer some questions,” Slash said. “Like who the fuck you are.”

  Felicity had judged Slash at their first meeting and her judgment had not changed. She must demand respect to survive here. She relaxed her body completely, forcing her two escorts to tighten their grips on her upper arms. Then, with an explosive leap she whipped her legs into the air. Her feet went over her head. Her skirt flipped up as she went over, giving the room a flashing glimpse of her behind. The unexpected twist ripped her arms free. She landed on her feet, just behind where she stood a second before. Two very big men stood empty handed.

  “Now,” Felicity said, ignoring everyone but Slash, “I been in that car for five bleeding hours. Where’s the bloody loo?”

  J.J. Slash leaned back against his table, bubbling with laughter. Everyone else followed suit but with more reserve. Slash raised one arm, pointing to a door just past the bar.

  “When I get back,” Felicity said with a smile, “You buy me a drink, and then we’ll have ourselves a talk, we will.”

  “I likes me a bitch with balls,” Slash said to Felicity’s back as she headed for the door.

  In the tiny rest room, Felicity had to move fast. The window was too small to slip through, but escape wasn’t her immediate goal. She had one item she dared not be caught with. She pulled off her jacket and blouse, hid her little revolver, and quickly dressed again. Then she spent a minute arranging her attitude before she walked back out.

  A trumpeter was painting a musical abstract when she walked boldly back to Slash’s table. Davis had taken a seat at a table nearby, with Daddy Boom. Ignoring him, Felicity went straight to Slash. His Doberman Pinscher sniffed, recognized her, and began panting. The chair next to him was now empty. She stood behind it. After a moment’s uneasy pause, Crazy Ray 9 stood up from Morgan’s table and pulled the chair out. Felicity stepped in front of it and Ray pushed it in.

  “Like I said, you got balls, babe,” Slash said, leaning on one elbow. “And a nice ass, too.”

  “I work hard to keep it that way,” she said. “I’ll have a Bailey’s.”

  “How about scotch?”

  “I’ll settle for a scotch,” she said. “If you’ve got a decent single malt in the house. Would you be having any Cadenheads Limited now?”

  Her question was greeted with blank stares.

  “Bruichladdich?”

  “Brook Laddie?” Slash asked with a chuckle.

  Felicity sighed. “All right. How about some Glen Livet? It doesn’t even have to be the eighteen years old.”

  Slash gave a subtle signal. One of the twins went to the bar. Slash maintained eye contact with Felicity until the bottle and glasses arrived. They were at least proper single malt glasses with wide rims and Slash poured generous portions into them. They both sipped from their glasses. Felicity smiled and nodded her approval. Her tongue responded to the ripe fruit notes, although she missed the drier oak influence of the longer aged variety. Still for a gang banger it was a decent drink. And she noticed Slash wasn’t jerking and fidgeting as much as the last time she saw him. He was focused entirely on her.

  “I know curiosity killed the cat burglar but tell me, what is this place?” Felicity asked.

  “This place is an exact replica of Harlem at its high point, around nineteen thirty-five. Or at least, some of the best parts of it. Now it’s your turn. Just who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Felicity O’Brien,” she said, tasting her drink again. “When I first contacted you, I went by the code name Nicole. Then…”

  Slash made a buzzer sound. “Wrong answer, bitch. One of my contacts in Europe talked to Nicole yesterday, in person. She’s still stealing, she’s still French, and she ain’t you.”

  “You’re right,” Felicity said, but she never blinked. “Truth is I muscled in on Nicole’s racket, and sent her packing to The Continent. I wanted in with you, and it seemed like the easiest way. I mean, I didn’t expect you to take on an untried stranger.”

  Slash leaned back, sipped his drink. Felicity could almost hear his mind humming. She knew he must be considering her story. It made sense as far as it went, but she knew it would not save her. It didn’t explain her running, or the car lost or the three hospital bills he probably had to pay. Nor would she explain where Paul was.

  She looked up for a moment and her eyes went wide, then narrowed immediately. Slash, focused on her, saw it and spun around. She was looking toward the bar, but no one was back there now. He couldn’t know the source of her reaction.

  What she had seen, what had made her breath catch for a moment, were the two paintings hanging behind the bar. One was an almost photographic picture of a boy riding a bicycle. The other featured a young girl walking along a city street. They were the originals of two fakes she had seen in Gerry Cartellone’s home. Slash must have liked them, wanted them, and simply kept them to decorate his private fantasy land. At her moment of greatest danger, she sat within diving distance of her goal.

  “You wanted to work for me so bad?” Slash asked, bringing Felicity back to the present. “How come you ran when I sent for you? How come you got a trigger man for backup? You know three of my home boys had to go to the hospital behind your crazy shit?”

  “Wait a minute, J.J.,” Felicity said, like a schoolgirl caught skipping class. “I know I screwed up, but look at it from my side, huh? You send the Twin Towers after me, with a third guy, what I’m supposed to think, huh? Felicity, I says, you must be in some sort of trouble for him to send that kind of weight after you, and that’s for sure. I met an old pal in Atlantic City, a gambler, and he picked me up. After that, well, things kind of got out of hand.” She cast her eyes down in an expression of contrition. “Truly I’m sorry about your pals. I never meant for anybody to get hurt.” Then her head came up, and she batted her eyes, silently offering a more sincere apology in private.

  Slash was frozen again, gathering data and coordinating it. He seemed to reason through leaps of intuition as often as assembling logical constructs, but it was obvious that he never doubted his conclusions.

  Behind Slash, Morgan pushed his chair out slightly from the table, and gathered his feet more firmly under himself.

  “I got just one question,” Slash said, in a voice as seductive as Felicity’s had been. “Just how in hell do you manage to keep your eyes so green? As full of shit as you are, they ought to be brown.” He turned his head slightly. “Daddy Boom. Come over here.” The big man rose and loomed over Felicity like an incoming hurricane storm cloud. She felt the chill of fear and her danger warning went into high gear.

  “Think she’s pretty?” Slash asked. Daddy Boom nodded. “Take her in that back room right over there, will you. Get me the truth, homes. She don’t have to be pretty when she come out.”

  “Hey, hold it,” Morgan said, getting to his feet. The jazz band lapsed into silence, and Morgan had everyone’s attention.

  -28-

  When Morgan stood up, Slash stood up. Ghost and Crazy Ray 9 followed. An electric tension joined the cigarette smoke hanging in the air. While Slash stared at Morgan, Davis casually stood and eased over toward Felicity.

  “Problem, Slick?” Slash asked.

  “Sorry, boss, but I draw the line at beating women,” Morgan said.

  “Yo, blood,” Ray said. “What Slash say goes around here. You better dig yourself.” His right hand got halfway to his chest. Morgan froze
him with an icy stare.

  “She ain’t worth it,” Morgan said. The others present seemed unsure about what to do, how to react. The band packed their instruments and retired to a back room. Without their hot jazz, the model Birdland seemed hotter, and a musty smell wafted up from six decades ago.

  “I think I can get what you want,” Davis said, “If you let me do it my way.” His tone was soft and soothing.

  “Leave the girl alone,” Morgan said. Felicity gritted her teeth but stayed silent, which Morgan appreciated. He was playing the house to ensure her safety at the risk of his own. Anything she said now could place them both in jeopardy.

  For his part, Morgan was monitoring his senses closely, waiting for an attack. He glanced at Ripper, the Doberman Pinscher, but he was sure he would only attack at a command from Slash. Then the hairs on Morgan’s neck stood up, and he knew this time, Crazy Ray wasn’t feinting toward a gun but going for one. Morgan knew he couldn’t match Ray’s fast draw. So he didn’t try.

  Crazy Ray 9 had a pistol in each hand, half drawn from their holsters, when Morgan reached him. He got a grip on both of Ray’s forearms, pinning his guns against his chest. Crazy Ray looked stunned, as if the unthinkable had occurred. Before he could recover, Morgan lifted Crazy Ray by his arms. It looked as if Morgan was doing a military press with Ray’s weight. Once he was overhead at full arms’ length, Morgan spun and smashed him down onto a table. His back and head made a loud crack sound, and the table’s two far legs buckled. Table and man tumbled forward.

  Morgan tried to follow in a forward roll, but he wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid Daddy Boom’s swinging fist. Morgan thought a twelve pound ham had bounced off the back of his head. He hit the wooden floor hard, and turned quickly. One leg was raised in defense, but stars danced in front of his eyes.

  “Can’t have this kind of shit, Slick,” Slash said. “You work for me, you can’t be going against me.” He turned to Davis. “Take the bitch to the Theresa. You got till breakfast to get the straight skinny, homeboy.” To Felicity he said “You tell him the truth, bitch, or Daddy Boom get it out of you tomorrow. Ain’t nowhere to run from here and nobody can hear you scream for miles.”

  Morgan had lurched to hands and knees when Slash crouched down on his haunches to talk to him. He waited until Davis took Felicity out of the room, followed by the other two guards. The musicians were gone as well. Daddy Boom gripped Morgan’s neck, reached under his jacket, and took his gun.

  “You pissed me off, Slick,” Slash told him in a fatherly voice. “Now I owe you for Crazy Ray. How you gone pay him back for hurting him?” Morgan looked up into those eyes, so intelligent, yet so cold, knowing full well what was coming. Since it didn’t matter what he did, he did what he wanted to do.

  “Fuck you,” Morgan said with contempt. He shrugged to anticipate Ghost’s foot slamming up into his stomach.

  “Don’t kill him,” Slash said, straightening to face Ghost and Daddy Boom. “He’s still done some good things for me. He just needs training. Show this dumb mother fucker what a whipping is. Take him in that back room there. When Crazy Ray wakes up, give him a chance to join in.” Slash turned and walked out, leaving just four figures in Birdland to dance without a band.

  “We do this easy, or hard?” Ghost asked Morgan. In response, Morgan spun a leg out in a wide sweep Ghost just managed to avoid. A quick side step got him to the side of both fighters.

  “I see,” Ghost said, snapping into a ready stance. Morgan surprised him by charging forward. A snap kick, a jab, a reverse punch all came in a flurry. Ghost managed to block each attack and send out two stiff punches of his own. Morgan blocked them, but couldn’t avoid Daddy Boom’s fist slamming into his ribs. That provided the opening for Ghost’s knife edge blow to the side of Morgan’s neck.

  Morgan staggered, and Daddy Boom had his arm. He swung Morgan’s body around into a devastating punch to the stomach. Air blew out of Morgan, and Daddy Boom lifted him by the captured arm. He drew his fist back for a crashing blow to Morgan’s face.

  Ghost’s jaw dropped when Morgan reached up, blocking the punch. Then he gripped Daddy Boom’s collar and, with a loud shout, punched into that round face once, twice, three times in rapid succession, staggering the giant.

  Ghost leaped, and his flying side stamp slammed Morgan across the room. Morgan fell into and through a table, rolled on the floor and lay still. After three deep breaths he lifted his head, then lurched to his knees and drew his fighting knife from under his right arm. He slowly regained his feet, facing Daddy Boom and Ghost with a bit more confidence.

  “Put it down.” It was Crazy Ray, behind his two partners, pointing both guns at Morgan. “You can’t do it twice.”

  Daddy Boom moved around Morgan, quickly for a man his size. Morgan dropped his knife, and Daddy Boom grabbed him from behind by his upper arms. Morgan felt inward pressure beyond what he thought a human being could produce. He could barely breathe. Ghost floated in, as lightly as his namesake, and landed another side stamp, this time into Morgan’s solar plexus. Then he stepped in close, landing a series of punches which had broken bricks in the past.

  When Ghost stepped back, Morgan hung limp in Daddy Boom’s arms. Only one eye watched Ghost, because he couldn’t open the other. Blood fell from his nose and lip, and he had a small cut over his right eye.

  “Now,” Ghost said, a bit out of breath, “now let us go to the back room, and begin the beating.”

  -29-

  “When I was a kid I heard Moms Mabley tell a joke about this place, over in the Apollo,” Davis said. He was walking up the stairs in the Hotel Theresa model. Felicity followed closely, with the tall brothers at her heels.

  They had walked under a huge square awning to enter a vast mirrored lobby. Inside, the hotel reminded Felicity of places you see in old Western movies. An almost purple flowered carpet covered the halls and stairs. The wallpaper carried the same design in a pale lilac color. Banisters and floorboards were hardwood, and ceiling lights were covered by glass globes shaped like tulip petals. They climbed long flights of stairs covered with the same carpet.

  Davis opened a door on the third floor and waved Felicity inside. She sat on the chenille bed spread, sinking into a too-soft mattress over too-weak springs.

  “Moms was too funny,” Davis went on, closing the door in the other two men’s faces. “She used to say ain’t no fleas in the Hotel Theresa.”

  “Just bedbugs?” Felicity asked, glancing around at the antique dresser, chest of drawers and end table holding an old style black telephone.

  “Bedbugs neither,” Davis answered, untying his tie. “The roaches eat them all up.” He laughed at his own joke, but it sounded forced.

  “Hilarious, Ross, but that’s not the Apollo over there and this isn’t the Hotel Theresa. What’s going to happen to that man with the sunglasses?” Felicity asked, staring at the flashing sign in front of Birdland through the tall window on one side of the headboard.

  “Oh, he’ll get a little ass whipping, I guess,” Davis said, hanging his jacket in the closet. “What do you care?”

  “Tried to stick up for me, he did. Somebody had to.”

  “Look where it got him,” Davis said, standing in front of Felicity, hands in pockets. “Why don’t you ask me something important?”

  “Okay. What’s going to happen to me?”

  “That depends, doesn’t it?” Davis said, sitting next to Felicity, dropping his suspenders from his shoulders. “You better either give me the truth, or a story I can really sell to J.J. Otherwise, it’s a long session with Daddy Boom. I’ve seen him tear phone books in half, and he sure gets a kick out of messing up women’s faces.”

  Felicity shivered and turned away. Davis would assume it was from fear but in actuality her mind was on Morgan. She fingered the bed’s curved brass headboard scroll, wondering for the first time if she and Morgan would get out of this alive. Guilt ate at her. She never really took this teenage gang leader seriously until it wa
s too late. Now Morgan was paying the price. Her eyes fell on the telephone and, spontaneously, she picked it up.

  “Yes?” said a bored female voice. Felicity thought for a moment.

  “I’d like to place a call to New York City,” Felicity said.

  “Sorry, no outgoing calls.”

  “Well, then, do you have room service?” Felicity asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, what’s on the dinner menu?” Felicity asked, remembering how much had happened since her big lunch.

  “Barbecued ribs.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Ribs and fixings.”

  “Well, that’s clear,” Felicity said. She glanced at Davis and said “Send up two orders. Room 302.” She hung up, and faced Davis. “He keeps a staff here?”

  “Sure.” Davis bent to remove his shoes. “Hookers he brings up here for the guests. They double as desk clerk, cooks, maids, all that stuff. This place is his dream escape. His own little world. Harlem in the nineteen thirties. J.J. thinks he was born too late, see?”

  “I get it.” Felicity slipping off her own shoes. “And what about you? Do you belong in J.J. Slash’s fantasy?”

  “I’m rooted in the here and now, beautiful,” Davis said, sliding beside her on the bed. “And here and now, I only have tonight to get you off the hook with J.J. Darling you’ve got to trust me and tell me who and what you really are.” He leaned in, brushing his lips across Felicity’s ear.

  “I don’t have to do anything,” she said, but her smile returned unbidden. “Well, there is one thing. I absolutely have to take a bath.”