Rodney was feeling that itching under his skin again. It was the first sign that he was coming down from the ice high. Time to score again.
His mind had started to wander, and he almost walked into the man on the corner. He was tall and thin, like Rodney, but he certainly did not belong here. First of all, he was not Mexican. He was white, with short brown hair and spooky blue eyes. And he had on a light blue suit and a tie. Rodney started to move on, but the man lightly touched his arm.
“You look like the man I’m looking for.”
Like most teenagers, Rodney liked being called a man, even by a stranger. “Yeah? For what?”
“I’d like to give you this.” The stranger held up a hundred dollar bill, and then headed down the street slowly. The sun was hurting Rodney’s eyes, one of the things that happened when the ice faded. He turned to follow the tall stranger.
“Okay, you the man,” Rodney said. “What you want? Not much I can’t handle for a hundred dead presidents.”
The man never looked at Rodney, but kept his eyes straight ahead. Still, it felt as if he was looking everywhere. “I just want to know who you get the drugs from and where they are.”
“What, you think I’d rat out my connection?” Rodney grabbed the man’s arm and felt unexpected strength there.
“I look like a cop to you?”
He did not. Rodney was not thinking too clearly, but he took the time to think now. None of his usual posse was on the street. He was broke and he needed the cash now. But turning in his connection might make it hard to get his next fix. He jammed his hands down into the pockets of his baggy pants.
“Give me the money,” he said. “I’ll take you.”
Paul had followed the Mexican teen for ten blocks on a winding route which took them down a seemingly endless string of narrow streets. He was sure the boy was a drug user. He had the wiry build and the distinctive body odor of a speed freak. He could only hope the boy would lead him to his connection, which might put him on the trail of his two bosses.
Finally, the boy came to a boarded up tenement. Kids played in the street, shouting at each other in Spanish, but none came near this place.
Rodney shoved the door open a few inches and darted inside. After the slightest hesitation, Paul followed.
Light filtered in through loosely boarded windows, creating an imitation dusk in the musty room. Rodney turned and Paul subtly shifted his balance.
“All right. Where are we?”
“Right where they’ll find you if you don’t give me more money.” Rodney pulled his butterfly knife and flipped the handles apart, exposing the long blade.
Paul remained calm. “You’re a hundred dollars richer. Why not keep this simple?” He began to slowly circle through the long, dark shadows criss-crossing the plaster dust covered floor.
“You got that much, I know you got more,” Rodney said, carving small figure eights in the air with his knife. His movements were fast, but somehow disjointed and all the more dangerous for that. Paul heaved a heavy sigh.
“You’re out of your depth, son. You don’t want to play this game with me. I used to do this strong arm stuff for a living.”
“Fuck that!” Rodney shouted. “Fuck you! You don’t give it up, I’ll take it off your bleeding body.”
Paul heard the commitment in the boy’s voice and resigned himself to the unavoidable outcome. He moved his hands to his sides, farther than some might consider wise. His feet shuffled on the floor, covering his shoes with a fine white powder. Crumbling plaster. His eyes were on Rodney’s belt buckle, the leading indicator of a thrust.
Rodney feinted once, twice at Paul’s midsection. Paul did not react at all. He was waiting for the real thrust. When it came, it came fast. Rodney stabbed forward with all he had, right on target. Except somehow, when the point of the blade arrived, Paul’s body was no longer there.
Paul’s right hand crossed his body to land on Rodney’s wrist. He swung his arm up, around and out in a big circle. Rodney screamed as his shoulder joint rolled around and out of its socket. The knife clattered to the floor just before Rodney landed on his back, raising a small dirty cloud. In the semidarkness, Paul could see his face twisted in a rictus of pain. He pressed his left foot into the boy’s armpit and rotated his arm out just a little more.
“I understand your confusion now,” Paul said, his voice still tightly controlled. “I’m nothing you’ve ever seen before. I’m not a policeman constrained by rules of law. I’m not a drug addled junkie or one of these, er…” he reached for the right word, “one of these gang bangers you meet. I’m the genuine article, sonny, and I’ll twist your arm right off unless I get a name and a location real soon.”
But pain and the need for drugs had already broken Rodney. He began to babble wildly, words spilling out of his mouth like the pitiful meanderings of a wino with delirium tremens.
-27-
“This Tomas is special help,” Morgan said around a mouthful of scampi. “Too special to be guarding a warehouse where nothing shaky’s going on.”
“Got to get in there,” Felicity said, sipping her wine. “Somehow Chuck’s people missed it, but I’m sure the stuff’s held in that warehouse.”
They had found a small, peaceful restaurant and chosen from four pages jammed with shrimp dishes for a late lunch. They had an ocean view from their seats through a wide picture window.
Barton sat back from his shrimp Creole and took a long swallow from a Coors bottle. He swung a hairy hand up and slapped Morgan’s shoulder.
“You guys have changed a lot since that fiasco in Panama,” Chuck said. “I seem to remember you smiling a lot more, Morgan.”
“At the time I hadn’t killed any young women recently.”
“You’re not responsible for that,” Felicity said, pushing her Newburg away.
“And you, my fine beauty, you’re different too,” Barton continued, sliding a hand into her hair. His fingers slid down her neck, probing toward her chest.
“Jesus, don’t you ever think of anything else?” Felicity snapped, brushing his hand away. Morgan looked up from beneath hooded eyes. For the first time since he had known her, he could not read her face.
“I think you’re right about the ice being in that warehouse,” Morgan said between sips from his beer. “You got a way to get in?”
“Nope,” Felicity said. “Don’t even have any contacts around here to get detection equipment to defeat their security, but I’ll think of something.”
“I’m telling you we went over that damn building with a fine tooth comb,” Barton said. “Where could drugs be that we couldn’t find them?”
“Good question,” Felicity said, looking up. “If it’s not too late on the continent I might be able to get the answer.” Then she left her chair, heading for a pay phone just outside the restaurant. Both men watched through the window while she pushed one button and started talking.
Morgan knew Felicity was talking to an operator, which meant an overseas call. She would not want to use her own credit card, so she was most likely arranging a collect call. After a pause, she started talking, eyes wide and rocking her head the way she did when her voice was filled with excitement. After a time, she turned to the picture window and signaled for them to join her. Morgan moved outside while Barton settled their check. When Morgan was close enough to hear, she mouthed “It’s Raoul” and held the phone a little away from her ear.
“Cheri, you know I never handle narcotics,” the man at the other end said. Morgan knew him, a professional smuggler who lived in Paris, and Felicity’s friend and lover from years back.
“How do you stay in business without it, lover?” Felicity asked, only half joking.
“The law of supply and demand does not only apply to illegal addictions, ma petite,” Raoul said. “Right now there is a lot of money for anyone who can get American cigarettes into Russia. Also, moving legal medicinal drugs into the Middle East is highly profitable these days.”
“Well, darling, we�
�re chasing this new drug called ice,” Felicity said, caressing the telephone as if Raoul could feel it. “A synthetic crystal it is. How would you move such a thing so it can’t be seen?”
“Is this business, ma chere?” Raoul asked from across the Atlantic.
“I’m on a job, love,” Felicity said. “I don’t do vendettas. Just give me an idea.”
“When I was handling jewelry and art you brought me, it was the same,” Raoul said. “The secret is in misdirection, just as it is for a thief. With drugs, like jewels, you must change the form. And thanks to good misdirection, what is being smuggled is right where you thought.”
Barton finally joined them just as Felicity threw Raoul a good-bye kiss.
“He’s right,” Felicity said, stepping away from the phone. “Let’s head for the cottage. Sure and I’ve got to think this thing through.”
The bloated summer sun was half way to the horizon as they approached Barton’s cottage. Daytime beach dwellers packed three lanes on their left, crawling past them, returning from a day’s sun worshipping. With traffic so light in their direction, Barton drove at a relaxed, unhurried pace.
“I still don’t get it,” Barton declared, stopping for a red light. “Our DEA partners are experts at this sort of thing. Why would you spot a smuggler when they wouldn’t?”
“I knew a guy once who did a mind reading act,” Morgan said. “A panel of experts in psychic phenomena were convinced he was genuine. They were experts, see, but in the wrong thing. Know who busted him out? A couple of professional magicians. Felicity’s an expert at getting stuff past the cops. Since she just thinks like a crook, not a cop, she’s got a chance.”
Felicity interrupted Morgan with a sound very close to a scream. He spun, scanning for whatever could shock Felicity so much. He followed her gaze across the wide avenue. It was a suburban scene filled with casual wanderers dressed in bathing suits, cowboy hats and shorts. In front of a small drug store, Frederico was trying to get gum balls out of a machine.
“Damn,” muttered Barton, and Felicity saw why. They were one car back from the light. Two cars had pulled up behind them, preventing Chuck from moving. She stared at the tableau playing itself out on the sidewalk. A low slung white sedan slid around the corner and pulled to the curb just past Frederico. He turned, as if to cross the street, tossing the gum ball into his mouth. Tiny beads popped out on Felicity’s forehead, despite the car’s air conditioning.
Two Latino men in cheap suits with their sleeves pushed up jumped out of the white sedan. The one with a scar on his face ran past Frederico but then turned around. The other, a darker man, walked purposefully up to Frederico and swung a fist up into his midsection. Frederico doubled over, his knees buckling. Felicity’s stomach flipped and clenched as if she had taken the punch herself.
She heard a car door slam and saw Morgan, running across the street. The light must have just changed, because cars suddenly rushed at him from his right. On the sidewalk, the dark, weasel faced man shoved Frederico forward, while Scar Face grabbed his arm. They had him in their sedan in seconds.
Morgan had a hand on the car as it sped off. He reached under his jacket, then hesitated. Felicity could imagine him considering the density of the traffic, the number of people on the street, the likelihood of nearby police. She saw anger twist his face as he reached the same conclusion she had. Pulling a gun here, now, was not only pointless, but dangerous.
She bounced against the car door when Barton could finally whip his car into a U-turn. He locked the brakes in front of Morgan, who got in and slammed the door, much harder than necessary.
“No chance to chase, not in this traffic,” Morgan said.
“Get a license number?” Barton asked, driving forward anyway.
“Sure, but they’ll have a new one by now,” Morgan said. “Just like back at the hotel, these guys are pros. Sorry, Red.”
Felicity’s teeth hurt, making her realize the extent of her tension. She took three deep breaths before answering. “Nothing to be sorry for. He was safe as long as he stayed indoors. I should have known he wouldn’t do as he was told. He never really believed he was in any danger as long as…he thought I was some kind of magic protection.” She dug her nails into Barton’s shoulder, betraying her desperation. “Can’t we get after them? Chase them down somehow?”
“Felicity, sweetheart, they’re gone.” Barton put one of his hands over hers.
“He’s gone,” Morgan said, hitting closer to the mark. “The Escorpionista’s machine is bigger than we thought, and it don’t make anywhere near the noise we figured it would. Nothing to do now, Red, but get down to the business of hitting Anaconda the only way we can. Cripple her drug empire.”
Barton drove on to his rented cottage and parked in his designated space. Morgan got out and looked around, cautious even though he felt no danger warning. Barton walked around the car and opened Felicity’s door. She stared up at them both, her eyes moist.
“It won’t do,” she said. “He saved us. We couldn’t save him. It won’t do.”
-28-
It sounded loud when Barton hung up the phone, but Morgan realized it was only in contrast to the silence in the room before and after his calls. He did not speak right away, just sat looking at Felicity. Her face was blank, her body lifeless. She stared into the darkness just outside the window. Morgan wondered what she saw there.
“Well, that’s it,” Barton finally said. “I’ve talked to the agency, the FBI and just for fun, the local police. The dragnet’s about to drag over every Hispanic in the state.”
“They won’t find him,” Felicity said. “They’ve gone to ground with him, or maybe taken him to California or even back to South America by now.” She paced around the cottage’s main room in a rough figure eight pattern.
Morgan, sitting at the table, watched her closely for a clue to what was happening. He understood Felicity being depressed about losing Frederico, but this was something else. Usually, Felicity was filled with fire, like good Irish whiskey. Now her green eyes were dull and her face had lost its usual light of creative intelligence. Morgan had never seen her really at a loss before.
They had driven to a small place Barton knew for dinner and brought back take out Mexican food. The table was littered with wrappers and half eaten bits of chimichangas, burritos and tacos. Felicity had tasted everything, but eaten very little. Since dinner she had paced, as if measuring the distance the sun dropped with her tread. Now the moon was out and it looked as though she might walk the floor until dawn.
Morgan, knowing what kind of night it would probably be, had bought five more pounds of coffee when they were out. Barton had picked up a bottle of scotch. Half a bottle later, three glasses had been poured into, but only Barton’s had been emptied, and that several times. He lurched to his feet, weaving in front of Felicity.
“Look, you been doing your imitation of the mummy for half a day. You need to finish that drink.”
“Hey Red.” Morgan spoke as if Barton was not in the room. “This can go two ways. You want a hot shower and a rub down? Or, you want to make a plan to go save the kid?”
“Sure and I don’t know if we ought to…” Felicity’s voice trailed off, and Morgan saw an unfamiliar look of indecision cross her face. Morgan was ready to fight or drop it, but he understood Felicity’s emotional investment and was prepared to let it be her choice. In the past, deciding who should lead in a given situation had been easy for them, but this time Felicity was not responding as usual.
“I know what you need, baby,” Barton said, putting his glass down. He walked up to her, stared into her eyes, and put his right hand on her waist. Morgan could see Felicity was trying to smile, to be receptive. He knew this man had given her comfort in the past. They shared a gentle, tentative kiss and she pressed herself to him. Her tensed shoulders dropped.
Then Barton’s hand slid up her side, toward her breast. Felicity jerked away. Anger flashed on Barton’s face, just before he could hide
it.
“You want to help me, or help yourself?” Felicity asked, her voice slowly heating up. “I don’t need company and I don’t need comfort. I need to be left alone and I need for all of this to just go away.” At the end she was on the verge of screaming. She spun around, taking Morgan in with her glance, and then walked into the bedroom as if she were leaving the site of a messy accident. The door slammed, and a deep silence rushed in to fill the room again. To build the strength to break that silence, Barton emptied his glass yet again.
“Why don’t you go in there and comfort her?” Barton sneered in Morgan’s direction.
“You know it’s not like that between me and Felicity,” Morgan answered, keeping his voice low.
“Too bad,” Barton said. “Her problem is, you’re what she always wants. Nobody can compete with your image, pal. If it’s broke she figures you’re the only one can fix it.”
Morgan did not feel any response was necessary. He stood up, stretched, and moved toward the door. “Think I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone for a while,” he said. He heard no response, no call for more conversation as he stepped outside. When he pulled the door closed behind him, Morgan heard liquid pouring from a bottle. The night air was cooler and the ocean breeze brought a pleasantly briny smell. A walk would clear his head, perhaps bring him some idea what to do next.
-29-
It does not always take a lot of input to create sensory overload. Sometimes, it is just too much at one time.
A key turning in a lock woke Morgan up. Someone was trying to open the door quietly. A siren in the background almost drowned out the sound. Morgan, topless and barefoot, reached under the sofa. He had thumbed his gun’s hammer back before he noticed the still empty love seat.
He had returned from walking the night before to an empty living room. Either Barton and Felicity had found common ground, or the CIA man was out getting drunk. Morgan knew only one way to check, but he was not about to open that bedroom door. It really did not matter. Either way, he could get some sleep. He had an idea how to deal with the morning.
Ice Woman Assignment Page 12