Lost Art Assignment (11 page)

“Hey, you don't have to wait, Rican,” The black fighter answered, clenching his entire body. “We can do this right now, save the fight fans the disappointment. You won't go four rounds with me. You just there to build my record, boy.”

Everyone moved at once. Cevida hopped over the ropes. Davis ran toward Bonham. Bonham's trainers backed away from their fighter. Everyone else in the room stopped training to watch the coming battle.

The fighters were only inches apart when Davis jumped between them, a hand on each man's chest.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, this is not what you get paid for,” Davis said in soothing, calming tones. “Save it for tomorrow night. You can make your point to the fans in Roberto's. If you do it here, no one will know who's the best. Let's calm down for now, all right?” Although Davis was as big as the middleweights, his words, not his size,
defused the situation. He was a master manipulator, Felicity saw, and she admired his quick action and effective delivery. With a dazzling smile, he eased Cevida back into the ring, then turned to Bonham's team. He didn't address the fighter, but instead the man who was probably his trainer.

“Look, it's none of my business, and I know with his name your man would be welcome to train anywhere. But I was thinking that he might be able to train without distraction at another place. You want him to be able to focus, right?”

The trainer nodded and with soft words and a gentle touch he ushered Bonham back toward the door. When Davis returned to Felicity's side, only she could see he was shaken.

“I'm proud of you,” she said, giving him a small hug. “You handled that brilliantly.”

“I could have been killed,” Davis said, “but if they fight now, there's no money to be made tomorrow.”

“But it's fixed, right?” she asked in a whisper.

Davis nodded. “You're a quick study.”

“Maybe, but that guy Bonham, sure and he don't look like a man set to take a dive. Looks kind of like the obvious winner, he does.”

“He's supposed to look like the winner,” Davis said. “Otherwise nobody would bet on him. Fact is, he's the better fighter. And he's not taking a dive. He won't know he's going to lose until he hits the canvas. Now, I've got some other contacts to make, my dear, in places less savory than this.”

“That's hard to imagine,” Felicity said with a shudder. “But if you're taking off, mind if I head to the casinos for a bit? Got some angles of my own to work. We can get
together again in the morning.”

“What about tonight?” Davis watched her closely and Felicity felt a slight twinge of guilt.

“Let's not push it too fast,” she said. “I like to stay in control, you know. Besides, as much as I like your company, I don't like to be around all this fighting. Can't wait to get back to New York.”

“But, Felicity, I'm working Atlantic City right now, and J.J. put you under my direction. I don't plan on going back to moving paintings until this dries up. And this has been good. It could be weeks. Don't worry, I got a feeling you'll be just as good at taking suckers' money as you are at getting their art work.”

Felicity held her face steady, even though her heart sank at the thought of being sidetracked from her objective. What really drove Davis with his smooth manner and poker player's face? Money? Sex? Loyalty to Slash? How could she get back to the paintings scam?

“You didn't answer,” Davis said. “What about tonight?”

“Why don't we talk romance after your big success tomorrow night?” She held his arm with just a hint of encouragement, but that night she had plans with another man.

“It's awfully bright in here to be inconspicuous,” Felicity said.

“Relax, will you Red?” Morgan said. “Your boy would never dream of looking for you in here, classy broad like you.” Morgan worked at separating his wedge shaped prize from its home, trailing long strings of mozzarella cheese on the way.

Felicity admitted two things to herself. First, Davis would not expect her to visit a place like Mama Tucci's at eleven o'clock at night. She and Morgan held a small table in the back, but several patrons feasted at the counter. She was in fact a little overdressed for a late night snack this far down Pacific Avenue.

Her other admission, just as grudgingly made, was that Mama Tucci's featured the best pizza she had tasted anywhere in America. Morgan called it New York style, but she had heard that the thin soft crust really came from Philadelphia.

“I seem to be feasting on American cuisine, lately,” Felicity commented, trying to decide where and how to get her next bite from her slice.

“This is Italian.” Morgan displayed his expertise by folding his slice around a finger lengthwise and biting off the drooping point.

“Pizza like this was invented in the U.S. you dope,” Felicity said. “And last night I had bouillabaisse.”

“That French fish soup?”

“Uh-huh.” Felicity caught a slice of pepperoni just before it slid off onto the table. “That French soup was invented in New York, just like pizza.”

“You saying Italians don't eat this stuff?”

“Well, sort of,” Felicity said, “but not like this. Not with pepperoni and sausage and mushrooms and peppers and, whatever the heck else is on here.”

“Onion,” Morgan said around a mouthful. “And extra cheese. So, get a line on the paintings yet?”

“Hit a roadblock. You?”

“Well, I'm a part of J.J. Slash's crime machine,” Morgan said, his voice making it clear he felt no pride in his new position. “Gave me a chance to hit a major drug dealer though.”

“You've got to be pleased with that.”

“Not really, since it didn't promote our real mission, getting the lost paintings back. But I had to, to get close to you. Besides, I figure the target's no loss to society. In fact, I think this man's death, plus evidence we'll give the police on J.J. Slash after this case, might actually improve some lives in my old home town. Anyway, now I'm supposed to be taking care of some personal business. Got to report to your friend Sonny Davis tomorrow, see if he's got any work for me.”

“I'm really glad you're close.” She wiped grease from her hand.

Morgan arched an eyebrow. “Problems?”

“The problem is Ross. He prefers Ross to Sonny, by the way. Anyhow, he's all into this boxing scam he is, and he really doesn't want to get back involved with stolen art. As long as this deal goes well, I don't have a prayer of finding out where those two paintings ended up.”

“Bet he'd get interested if you stole another masterpiece.”

“You're probably right.” She reached for her soda. “Only thing is, damn it Morgan, I'm retired. I don't want to steal anymore. I mean, I loved it when I was doing it, but I think my perspective's changed after seeing our clients' anguish when they get robbed. Men like Mr. Mister Cartellone.”

They finished their pizza in silence, but it was a pleasant silence. Felicity knew Morgan was thinking through the situation just as she was. A simple idea had become very complex. After eating, Morgan shoved his pile of used paper napkins into a trash can and got two Italian ices. When he returned to his seat, he had an idea worth voicing.

“Sounds like we need to queer the deal with this fight. You say it's a club fight?”

“Right.” She licked, and loved, the lemon ice in its folded paper cup. “A club called Roberto's just off White Horse Park, it is. Not that far from the boardwalk, but barely within the city limits.”

“These fighters on the club circuit often get bought,” Morgan said, shaking his head.

“I'm sure, but Ross told me nobody's throwing the fight. It's something else.”

Morgan asked.

“You bet.”

“Can you let me into the gym?” It was a rhetorical question. Morgan knew no lock could resist Felicity's touch. Without further words they stood, dropped money on the table and left.

It seemed odd to Felicity that the air was as warm and sticky in town as it was as right up on the boardwalk. Two blocks away from shore, bright lights gave way to deep
shadows, and ultramodern casinos and shops were replaced by sagging, run down, dirty buildings on dingy cluttered streets. It was as if they stepped out Disneyland's front gate right into Gotham City. Morgan walked with confidence but without him, Felicity would have expected a mugger at every corner.

Streets around Farley's Gym looked deserted as midnight approached. Felicity pulled a spring steel pick from her purse. Then she simply walked up to the front door, and opened it. The owner, using a key, might have taken longer.

Darkness inside the gym was almost absolute. Morgan's light brown eyes adjusted quickly, his night vision being almost as good as Felicity's. They moved silently across rubber mats toward the locker and shower areas. Morgan, who had not visited a real gymnasium in years, breathed deeply the odor he knew outsiders found so offensive. It was the scent of hard work and determination and a hint of dreams that never died, even if a fighter was beaten into the ground. In some ways, he preferred this honest atmosphere to that of his health club, where he went three times a week to lift chromium plated weights in a bright, carpeted, air conditioned exercise room. A place where hip hop flavored musak drowned out the grunts of the few serious lifters.

He soon found Cevida's prep room. He must be this gym's contender to have a space to himself. They turned on the light and in short order, they found the trainer's area. In the center of the room stood a massage table. One wall was almost covered by a set of scales, a low table, a wooden cabinet and poster size photos of various famous fighters. The table held a pair of boxing gloves, shoes and a clipboard.

Morgan tried on Cevida's gloves, which were regulation size and weight as far as he could tell. He squeezed them in various places, and tested the laces.

“What are we looking for?” Felicity asked.

“If nobody's paid to lose, there are only so many ways to fix a fight, Red,” He said. “Thought there might be weights in the gloves, or some kind of foreign object he could come up with, then hide.”

“Ever box, Morgan?” Felicity asked. “Seems like you've done about everything else.”

“Full contact karate, and some Thai kick boxing in the East,” He said. “Never this stuff, though. Enough of this thing hitting your head will scramble your brain after a while.” He pointed at the left glove, then threw a few lightning fast jabs at a wall.

“That's right,” Felicity said, almost to herself, turning to the locked cabinet. “Ross said, all he has to do is put his glove on Bonham enough times.”

“That a direct quote?” Morgan was examining a pair of boxing shoes.

“Naturally,” Felicity said, picking the cabinet's lock without paying much attention to it. “What good's a photographic memory if you can't show off once in a while? Now, let's see what's in here.”

The cabinet came open and Morgan started through its contents one at a time. “Okay, you got your ace bandage, your plaster, your tape, your Motrin with codeine that's probably not a legitimate prescription.”

“What's in here?” Felicity lifted a vial down from a cabinet.

“Never seen these?” He popped the top off and waved it under Felicity's nose. She snapped backward. “Smelling salts. Lots of people use poppers now, but this is the tried
and true. Now this bottle I don't recognize.” Morgan pulled down a small unmarked vial. He figured it held maybe six ounces of a clear, gelid liquid.

“Me either,” Felicity said, taking it. “Why don't people put labels on this stuff?” She opened the bottle and sniffed. “No odor. Any ideas?”

He took the bottle from Felicity, examined it closely, and tipped it up. A few drops of liquid slid into his hand. He rubbed it between his fingers, wondering how quickly it would evaporate. He was about to taste it, when he unexpectedly lost his balance and dropped back on the table. Felicity jumped as if slapped.

“What happened?”

Morgan stared at the ceiling for a moment, at least as startled as Felicity had been. Like her, the last thing he would ever expect himself to do was to lose his balance. Yet, that was exactly what happened.

“I don't know,” he said, finally answering her, “but I think it's this stuff.” He poured a little of the liquid into his palm and, in about thirty seconds, he felt another slight wave of dizziness.

“What is that stuff?”

“Don't know, Red, but I bet it's the fix,” he said. “Looks like it's some kind of drug that causes disorientation and disrupts your inner ear.”

“But you didn't drink it,” Felicity said, taking the bottle from him. “The second time you didn't even inhale it.”

“That's right,” He said, with a grin. “When I was a kid I knew some college boys who joined the army because they found it ‘broadening.' When everyone else was smoking dope they took LSD. When the narcs got hip to sugar cubes and stuff, they just put the stuff in rub on tattoos. The drug went right through your skin. If a hallucinogen can work
that way, why not whatever this is?”

Felicity smirked at her partner. “EVERYONE else was smoking dope?”

“Never mind.”

“So this is some kind of anesthetic derivative,” Felicity said, pacing around Morgan. “Like the stuff the dentist rubs on your gums so you don't feel the big needle. Only this stuff goes straight to your brain.”

“Sure don't last long,” he said, standing and waving his arms as a test. “But in a fight, it wouldn't have to. A neat scheme, and not likely to get busted if that stuff evaporates quick enough.”

“Okay, so now that we know the plan, what can we do about it?” Felicity asked, plopping down on the massage table herself. “Call the police or the boxing authorities or something?”