The Payback Assignment (36 page)

-31-

           
Morgan stood with his back against the bar, holding up the unconscious man by his collar.
 
Someone unplugged the jukebox and the room suddenly seemed even closer.
 
Morgan figured he had about forty-five seconds to make his point before it got nasty.

           
“Some of you know me by reputation,” he said, using his drill sergeant voice, “and I see that most of the rest of you have heard my name.
 
I understand there’s a price on my head.”

           
He was tracking one man on his right visually, and another directly ahead of him looked ready for trouble.
 
Yet his senses told him that the real danger was behind him.
 
The bartender must be screwing up his courage to try to end any trouble before it started.

           
“This guy here, he worked for Griffith,” Morgan went on.
 
“Griffith tried to earn that reward.
 
He’s dead now.
 
His crew’s been following me around though, at long distance.
 
They even got ahead of me once and set up a trap, complete with a sniper.
 
That guy’s probably in jail now, and a couple of his friends are hanging out with Griffith in hell.”

           
Blondie cocked a fist back but before it went anywhere, Morgan slammed a left hook into the man’s midsection.
 
He crumpled to his knees.
 
A couple of the other men in the room stepped a bit closer.
 
The serving girls eased to the far corners.
 
The man Morgan had marked as a danger man, over on the right, had his right hand behind him, surely on the butt of a gun.

           
“Now this could go a couple of ways,” Morgan said, pulling his hands out of his pockets and slowly unzipping his jacket.
 
“You could all come rushing at me, right?
 
I’d make a hell of a mess in here,” he pulled his jacket back to show his automatic, “but I’d eventually go down.
 
Then, you’d end up chewing each other up over who gets the money, right?”

           
While he spoke in a tightly modulated voice, Morgan felt his senses going crazy.
 
The bartender must be about to make his move.
 
Morgan had him pinpointed by the direction he expected the threat to be coming from.

           
“Or, you could let me walk out of here, and chase me around the city until somebody gets lucky,” he went on.
 
“Or...”

           
Morgan’s left elbow swung up and around, as if of it’s on accord, crushing the bartender’s nose, causing him to drop the scotch bottle he was about to use as a club on Morgan’s head.
 
Before the bottle hit the bar, Morgan was diving to his right, his pistol thrust forward, rocking in his hand as the slide slammed back and forward, the blasts echoing in the packed room.
 
As he slid across the floor the two men who had drawn were falling backward into their neighbors, their blood splattering the men standing behind them.

           
Morgan slowly stood, halfway to the door now, his gun still at arm’s length toward the room.
 
A particularly large, olive skinned man in a wifebeater and jeans stepped over to the bar, separating himself from the others.

           
“You got a point here?” he asked in a thick Corsican accent.
 
“What do you want, Stark?”

           
Morgan nodded his recognition at the man who apparently spoke for the group.
 
Even in a room full of alpha males, one would always surface.
 

“What I want is forty-eight hours of peace,” Morgan said.
 
“I know who put the price on my head, and it’s nobody in the business.
 
Not a fighter or a shooter, just some rich businessman.
 
I’m telling you right now, he’s going to be in no condition to pay up by this time tomorrow night.
 
I just don’t want to be looking over my shoulder while I’m taking care of him.”

           
The Corsican huffed impatiently.
 
“And if you fail?”

           
“Hell, if I don’t put this guy down in the next two days, then I deserve to get capped by whoever thinks they can get close enough.”

           
Morgan’s mouth felt unnaturally dry, as he stood alone, gauging the crowd.
 
It all came down to what kind of mood they were in, what kind of night it had been.
 
He had played it the best way he knew, and now he would learn if it worked or not.

           
The big Corsican looked down at his table.
 
He glared over at the two unmoving men on the floor in the middle of the room.
 
He shook his head for a minute.
 
He unconsciously fingered the hilt of a Kukri knife hanging from his belt.
 
Finally, he locked eyes with Morgan.

           
“I come here to drink beer and play cards.
 
That’s what I want to do.
 
Get the fuck out of here.”

           
Morgan took a slow deep breath, nodded, and slowly holstered his automatic.
 
The jukebox came back on as he backed toward the door.
 
By the time he was opening it the room’s occupants had already forgotten him, except for the men who were lifting the corpses for disposal.
 

           
A cold rain stung his face as he stepped outside.
 
Not a big deal, he thought, and his remaining errands would be a lot more pleasant.

-30-

           
Felicity’s eyes popped open at eight-thirteen.
 
She had slept well.
 
A bright sun beamed into her room, the sky rinsed clean by night rain.
 
She got up and stretched her naked form into the sunbeam, absorbing the warmth, absorbing the silence.
 
Fully stretched, she headed for the door.
 
She knew before she opened it that Morgan was gone.
 

           
She had no rational way to know.
 
They had slept in separate rooms after stopping for some barbecued ribs she found both interesting and delicious.
 
She remembered that Morgan had made her laugh by painting word pictures of their enemies, turning them into caricatures.
 
He joked about the trouble they had with “Donkey Kong”, “Stone-face” and their boss, the walking pear man.
 
He had made her feel confident and relaxed.
 
She had awakened only briefly in the night, with an uneasy feeling, but it had faded in seconds and she knew he was fine.
 

           
She treated herself to a hot shower, dried herself with a plush terry cloth towel, and gave her hair a hundred brush strokes.
 
Halfway through them she knew he was back.
 
It was eerie in a way, but also very comforting, being able to feel when someone was nearby.
 
They had not had a chance to talk much about these strange phenomena, but she felt some experimentation would be in order as soon as she had her brooch in hand.

           
As she squirmed into her Calvin Kleins, Felicity heard the stereo pop on.
 
Music filled the apartment, happy but fierce.
 
A trumpet wandered effortlessly through lilting expository phrases.
 
Very soothing, she thought as she pulled on a sweatshirt, pushing the sleeves halfway up.
 
Soothing yet driving.
 

           
Morgan, standing in the living room, looked up as she approached.
 
The overstuffed shopping bag at his feet prodded her curiosity almost as much as the man standing beside him.
 
The stranger was shorter, with curly black hair and an olive complexion.
 
When he spotted her he took a small step back.

           
“What a fox,” the newcomer said, under his breath.

           
“I know what you mean,” Morgan said.
 
“She never just comes into a room.
 
She always makes an entrance.
 
I always feel grubby next to her.”
 
Felicity chuckled at that, since he had on black denims, new black running shoes he had picked up someplace and a charcoal wool blazer over a gray, Italian cut dress shirt.
 
It was a sharp contrast to her jeans and sweatshirt.
 
He had clearly been shopping, but the only clothing stores open at dawn were parked at the curb of certain city streets.
   

           
“Good thing I wasn’t walking around starkers,” she said, stepping forward to offer her hand.
 
“Who’s your friend?”
 
She was surprised to find Morgan bringing a guest to the apartment, but figured he must have a good reason.
 
Besides, the man was handsome in a Middle Eastern way, dressed very nicely in a conservative blue suit of obviously steep price tag.

           
“Felicity, this is Aaron Goldsmith.
 
I met him in Brussels during an arms deal.
 
Now he sells insurance.”

           
“A very pleasant surprise,” she said, smiling at Aaron.
 

Your boyfriend here was ringing my doorbell before the sun was up,” Aaron said.
 
“Believe me, I’m not a morning person.”

“Maybe,” Felicity said with a smile, “but as I’ve learned, Morgan can be a very persuasive person.
 
Now, Morgan, what else did you bring me?”

           
“Assorted pastries for you to pop into the microwave,” Morgan said, lifting a package from the top of the shopping bag.

           
“Well, there goes my diet,” she said, accepting the little bundle.
  
“What else?”

           
“Stuff.”

           
“What kind of stuff?” she called from the kitchen.
 

           
“Stuff for tonight.”
 

           
“Great,” she said.
 
“Find out what Mr. Goldsmith wants in his coffee.”

           
“Aaron, please,” Goldsmith called.
 
“And I’ll take a little cream and one sugar.”

           
Felicity’s coffee maker had automatically ground beans and brewed a fresh pot just minutes before.
 
She reveled in the tangy aroma of her own personal blend of Costa Rican and Columbian beans while pouring three cups,
 
Aaron’s she prepared as he requested.
 
For herself she added two sugars, a little cream, a stick of cinnamon, a drop of vanilla and a little chocolate powder.
 
Morgan, she knew, took his straight.

           
She placed a tray on the oak cube in front of the sofa, next to Morgan’s shopping bag.
 
With Morgan and Aaron on the couch and Felicity in one of the overstuffed chairs, they ate warm pastries and drank hot coffee and listened serenely to the African rhythms.
 
The cherry and cheese-filled Danish in her mouth was as sweet and relaxing as the music.

           
“You know, this is good stuff.”
 
She nodded toward the stereo.

           
“Yeah.
 
Miles Davis,” Morgan said, moving his head with the sound.
 
“The CD is `Bitches Brew’.
 
The state of the art of jazz in the early seventies, and one of the best albums ever cut.”

           
She let the music rule the room, waiting for Morgan to tell her the new scenario.
 
After a couple of minutes, he glanced at Aaron, who nodded.