“So, why the meet?” Griffith asked. “You got a new contract in Africa? Want to make sure I’m not on the other side?”
“No, it’s not like that,” Morgan said, leaning back in his chair. “In fact I’m not working right now. I came looking for you because I need some information. A few phone calls told me you’ve been working out of New York for a while now, so I figured you’d be the one to ask.”
“Well, I do pretty much know what’s going down around town,” Griffith said, lighting up a Cuban cigar. He offered one to Morgan, who declined. “I don’t come cheap, but I can be had.”
“You remember Stone?”
“Sure, I’ve worked with him,” Griffith said, signaling into the cafe for a couple of refills. “Every gunfighter I know has worked with him. Everybody worth a damn, anyway. He’s always been straight with me. Course, he’s not an independent anymore. Took a steady contract with somebody.”
“Yeah, I heard that. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The last job I did for Stone didn’t go too good. He crossed me. Who would have figured it?”
“Crossed you?” Griffith repeated, blowing cigar smoke into the sky. “Like how?”
Morgan leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “Like, he pulled my transport at the end of a hot mission. Like got my men killed, and damn near got me, too. I can’t let people get away with crossing me. You know that. It’s bad for future business, you know.” Morgan finished his beer, and tension showed in his arm as he set the empty bottle down. “I sure would like to find him.”
“Well, getting to that boy could take some doing,” Griffith said between gulps. As he finished his first beer, the waiter came out with the second round. All conversation ceased until he was well beyond hearing range. Once he was gone, Griffith continued. “Still, from what I’ve heard, it can be arranged.”
“And just what did you hear?” Morgan sat up just a little straighter. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. Damn it! He had looked it all over so carefully and still stepped square into a trap.
“Well, while you’re out looking for Stone, it turns out Stone’s also looking for you, old buddy,” the ex-Marine said. “I’d like to get you two together.”
“I see you’re in a helpful mood,” Morgan said, starting to rise. Griffith waved him down.
“You need to stay in your chair, old pal, so as not to make anyone nervous. I know how dangerous you are, and I guess Stone does too. He’s put quite a little price on your head. Word is, he wants you dismissed. With extreme prejudice.” In the vernacular of the business they were in, Morgan and Griffith both knew that meant killed in cold blood.
That was when Morgan felt the waiter’s gun barrel resting gently against his twelfth vertebrae. He was the one member of Griffith’s team Morgan had not made. Not that he was a particular problem. Morgan knew that he could free himself from the waiter, even kill him, but he knew he would never get away. Griffith’s men had the street too well covered. If Stone had put a price on his head, Morgan knew his old rival Griffith just might collect it.
19
All Felicity got when Morgan walked out the door was a peck on the cheek. As he closed the door, her mind was alive with conflicting thoughts. She had not really wanted him to go. She suspected he was on his way to meet some dangerous contact from his mercenary past. His confidence appeared absolute when he left, but did that have any meaning? His confidence seemed total under all circumstances, no matter how dangerous.
Despite some difficulty concentrating, she made several phone calls and moved off to her room to get dressed. She moved through these motions almost unconsciously, her mind awhirl with recent happenings. Why had she fallen into such a trusting mode with this tall dark stranger? Sure, he had proved worthy of her trust last night when she was too tired to think straight, but why oh why had she taken him so to her heart in the first place?
He weighed on her mind while she flipped through her closet. He was a mass of contradictions, this Morgan Stark. Even his name conjured up different images. Morgan, as in the pirate. Stark, as in raving mad. Perhaps she found him so easy to trust because he was so open, so “up front” as he Yanks liked to say. He was certainly outspoken. There seemed to be no subtle side to this one. And so proud, he was. And yet, she had no idea who he was, and knew nothing about his life. He had revealed only the barest bones of his past.
Facing a full-length mirror, Felicity held a dress in each hand. She held one in front of herself, then the other, but was at a loss about which would be the better choice. Morgan, she reflected, seemed totally competent and never at a loss. He could be as cold as a Norwegian winter night, and then turn around and be as warm and soft as a sheepskin coat. And how could he be so intuitively intelligent, yet so socially unsophisticated? And how did she seem to have some sort of emotional connection with him, almost a psychic link? Was it some side effect of her, now their, danger sense? Was it just her romantic reaction to being rescued, protected, defended and comforted by a heroic stranger, like in those cheesy novels? Or, and this was the big question, was she falling in love with this regimented, stubborn, black, ill-mannered professional soldier? Damn!
Because the texture appealed to her fingers more that day, Felicity chose the long sleeved, cream colored, wool dress. She pulled the garment over her head, stepped back, and turned so that she could check herself out in both her wide dresser mirror and the full-length looking glass on the other side of the bedroom. She was dressed to the limits of elegance for her luncheon downtown. The dress was just this side of too tight. The back was a drape, which hung low on her tanned back, almost to the swell of her ample hips. She had put her hair up for the occasion and applied the slightest hint of makeup. She smiled at her image. This look would take her to the world’s most stylish eateries.
Minutes later, she pulled her 1966 Corvette Stingray coupe out of the parking garage and slid smoothly into traffic. She hated driving in New York, but she had to admit it was better than trusting her fate to any cab driver. And if she was going to drive, it was a joy to pilot this classic bit of transportation, so she pulled it out whenever she was in the city. The day’s brilliant sun would make her glossy, tuxedo black machine hard for passersby to look at, but she knew they would want to stare. Dipped in chrome and airbrushed with twelve coats of paint, the agile vehicle seemed to slip like quicksilver through traffic on the wide one-way avenue. A twist of the knob of the factory installed AM-FM radio filled her cockpit with Van Morrison’s folksy blues sound. After all these years, she still found “Domino” to be great driving music. Humming along, she pulled a pair of Dragonfly sunglasses out of the glove compartment and slid them into place. Life was good.
But less than three blocks from home, she started to get fidgety. That odd, intuitive discomfort always had a cause. She glanced in the rear view mirror. Was someone following her? She switched to the far left lane, signaling for a turn. Yes. The little Fiat four cars back was jockeying to get behind her. She suddenly darted to the right lane and the Fiat nearly ran a Lexus onto the sidewalk getting to the right also.
No style, she thought. A rank beginner would have spotted him. She could see two men in the car. Were they police? She knew they put a tail on her from time to time, hoping to get lucky. Then she saw the passenger side man hold up a pistol and charged back the slide.
“Nope, you’re not the police, are you?” she said softly to herself. “Who, then? Friends of the two killers I met in my apartment on the West Coast, perhaps? Well then, no time for games now.”
She could find out for sure why the men in the follow car wanted her later. Now she had to shake these guys in a hurry, and she knew how. A couple of years back, Felicity took an offensive driving course. Her instructors thought she was a bodyguard in training, but in fact she needed the skills of an expert evasive driver to escape police pursuit. That was also the reason she replaced the 327 turbocharged engine the factory put into her little Corvette with the 426 blown hemi under its hood now. The same reasoning led to the button on the side of her Hurst T-shifter, but she did not need that now. Her own driving ability would do the trick, along with her knowledge of New York streets, and New York drivers.