Lost Art Assignment (20 page)

Felicity had grown up in a rural area in Ireland, among sheep herders and potato farmers. She had walked a lot in her youth, and still retained the toughened soles of her barefoot childhood. This was a good thing right now. Without shoes, her path was not an easy one. The ground was soggy, but much worse than that mucky feeling were the sharp stalks and husks.

At the dirt road, Felicity wanted to sit for a moment, but
she knew Hall's team wasn't far behind. To keep Paul from being found, she had to backtrack so when they saw her, they would go no farther up this road. After only three minutes walking on the soft dirt, she heard the growling of a fuel injected engine. When the red Mercury came into view seconds later, she sprinted across the road, diving into the corn field on the other side. Behind her, she heard the car skid to a halt on the soft surface, and the doors open and slam. She was only twenty yards down this row of corn when she heard a second car stop behind the first.

Progress was painfully slow. Felicity was resigned to being caught soon, but the thought infuriated her. She could avoid these clowns forever if she could go faster. They thrashed through the forest of stalks at a quick pace, fanned out behind her at about arm's length.

She, on the other hand, had to control her noise level. Corn husks scratched and scraped at her limbs as she walked. Worst of all, sharp stalks brutalized her feet as she went. She had no idea where a house might be from here. She could see no more than two feet in any direction.

Finally, she stepped on a sharp rock, her tears broke, and she sat down in the middle of the row. To hell with this, she thought. Let them find her right there.

As soon as she thought it, her mind rebelled. Find her sitting here, crying? Not bloody likely! She lurched to her feet and drove on. She left a faint blood trail if her followers had the eyes to find it. Up ahead, she sensed danger. She must be approaching another road. They would send someone ahead, to wait for her.

Felicity walked still more slowly, making her passing as quiet as possible. It still sounded like a drunken midnight choir to her, but when she stopped, on hands and knees barely a foot from the road, she was undetected. Through
the screen of corn, she stared at her old friends, the twin towers. Both held guns, looking ridiculous in suit and tie in the middle of a dirt road, against a background of corn stalks. There was no getting past them. No avoiding the men behind her, either. If she fought they would have an excuse to kill her. Only one reasonable action presented itself.

Felicity waited until one of the men was looking up the road one way, the other staring in the opposite direction. She took a deep breath, parted the corn in front of her like a curtain, held her head high and stepped out.

“Hey, stupid,” Felicity said. Both men turned their eyes and guns on her. “Sure and it's lucky for you I don't have a machine gun. I'm tired. Let's go home.”

She stood, wincing, caught in that crossfire until Hall came crashing through the corn behind her. His suit was covered with corn silk and his hair whitened by that powder corn husks give up. Felicity came close to laughing, but her feet hurt too much.

“Where's the white guy?” Hall asked.

“Oh, so you lost him,” Felicity said. “Well, he dumped me and took off. Anyway, I thought it was me you wanted.”

“He put two of my friends in the hospital, bitch. And he did this.” Hall pointed at a bandage around his left arm.

“Good for him,” Felicity said. “He's probably half way to Philadelphia by now.”

“We need to get moving, Wiley.”

Felicity's head whipped around. It was Ross Davis, sitting in the big blue Ford's cockpit. She stepped toward the car, gritting her teeth. Her eyes bored into Davis'. His expressed remorse and helplessness. Her answering expression reflected only anger and a fierce determination
not to be taken in.

“Let's go talk to your boss,” she said, reaching for the car's back door handle.

Discounting short breaks for gasoline and bathrooms, it was a long five hours travelling. At least the big Crown Victoria was comfortable. Felicity rode in the back seat sandwiched between the twin towers. She had not heard them called by name all day, but a close look told her they were certainly brothers and possibly twins indeed. They sat quietly, reminding her of black Paul clones. Soul music from two or three decades back poured from the stereo during the whole trip. The ride's only negative was, someone had chosen leather upholstery, and her sweaty bare legs were sticking to it.

It was a boring ride, since Felicity found this to be boring country. The land on either side of The Garden State Parkway was indistinguishable from that off The New York State Thruway. Only big green and white signs gave any indication of their location. A short break in New York City gave her a cityscape for a while. Wiley Hall got out at Harlem Hospital and they continued on.

With nothing to look at, it was almost impossible for Felicity to keep her eyes away from the rear view mirror. Alone in front, Davis tried several times to catch her eyes. Each time she turned away. Each time it was harder.

After leaving New York City, they had stopped off The Thruway at New Paltz. She was escorted to the ladies room, where she again washed her feet in the sink, which seemed too filthy for even this purpose. When she opened
the door, Davis was there. He handed her a small paper bag. She looked inside, and then closed the door again. He had bought her a washcloth, a hairbrush, new pantyhose and a cheap pair of shoes. After only a minute's hesitation, she made good use of them all. When she came out, Davis gave a half smile and followed her closely back to the car.

“You should at least be able to walk in with dignity,” Davis said. She offered resentful thanks but avoided eye contact. Part of her wished the hose had not fit, or had not been her color, or that the shoes had been more than half a size too big. He was too attentive, and too damned sincere for her to hate.

The major highway turned into a minor one. Route 28 was the last numbered sign Felicity saw. When they left it, they were on roads barely wide enough for two lane traffic. They were in The Catskill Mountains, which put her in mind of the mountains back home, around Glendalough, Ireland. She found these low, green, sparsely-treed mountains very familiar.

Then they drove into denser woods and Felicity wondered if they were lost. Davis continued until they passed onto dirt roads carved through a pine forest of inestimable age. Shadows flittered across the car, and curves became sharper as they went.

When at last their tires bumped up onto a paved street, Felicity thought they had returned to civilization. This, however, wasn't true. Davis parked near the corner of an intersection from another time. Felicity could see that one block away, the city faded into a clearing, and a block after that the woods took over again. Buildings were brick and brownstone, with tall windows. Across the street the sidewalk was wide, almost seven yards across. An awning stretched from the building there all the way to the street. It
looked like a club left over from prohibition days.

One of her escorts got out, and taking her arm, pulled her from the car. Felicity's senses were confused enough to prevent her from resisting. She was looking at a model city scene, like a movie set. It smelled like a crisp mountain glade, but the building ahead was pumping out unmistakable bebop rhythms. She was facing a theater, one with an old fashioned ticket booth out front, posters of performers from the past along its entrance walls, and a vertical neon sign overhead reading “The 125 ST. APOLLO.” On a giant marquee the same words were covered with tiny light bulbs instead of neon tubes. Below this were black removable letters proclaiming “4 INK SPOTS, CLAUDE HOPKINS & BAND, MOMS and PIGMEAT.” Performer's list or menu, she wondered.

A guard held each of Felicity's arms. In step they walked past the theater to the corner. She stood under an ancient street lamp, beside a street sign that told her she was walking along 125th Street, about to cross Lenox Avenue.

The building on the opposite corner looked like a typical inner city tenement, except for its storefront. It seemed dark behind the wide front window, despite the evening sun's strong beams outdoors. A fanciful neon sign in front of the building proclaimed it to be “Birdland.”

The two men hauling her through the door made the place more disappointing than it already was. What Felicity found was a bar, typical in every way, with perhaps a larger than usual bandstand. She let her eyes slide over Morgan, seated at a table with two of the Convincers. She only saw the back of his head, but she had no doubt he knew she was there and that was enough. A dense smoke cloud hung in space at about chest level, apparently growing out from the
broad bandstand. A trio in black suits and string ties played hot bebop jazz up there, lost in their own world.

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.