Morgan stretched hard, listened briefly for activity in the apartment before swinging his feet to the floor. After an unremarkable late supper with Felicity, he had enjoyed the easy, after action rapport they seemed to share, along with a couple of beers. They had returned to Felicity’s apartment and turned in pretty quickly. A two-hour nap in the guest room had been plenty for him. He could sleep more, but he had things to do, and they were things that should not include Felicity.
Getting dressed made Morgan aware of some minor soreness, residual damage from his brief meeting with Monk. Pulling on his holster rig he took another look at the pistol he seized from the man who rode with them in the elevator. It was a little Colt Commander, complete with a full magazine of eight rounds of. 45 caliber ball ammunition. Not his favorite, but it would do a much better job than the little. 38 revolver Felicity took from Monk. He pulled the slide back to charge the Colt, pushed the safety up, and slid it into his holster. His plans didn’t include any shooting, but in his mind, it was better to have a weapon and not need it than the reverse.
In the hall he stopped long enough to tune in to Felicity’s breathing. Confident that she was resting comfortably, Morgan moved quietly through the apartment and out. There were things he had to do before they even considered dealing with Seagrave in his own little fortress.
Rain met Morgan at the door. He pulled the zipper of his jacket to his chin, turned up the collar, and stepped out into the darkness. It was not a hard, driving rain, but somehow the drops felt unusually sharp as they slashed against his shoulders. New York rain didn’t carry the sweet scent of a jungle shower, but it set the sidewalks aglow in a way that made him feel welcomed. Hands in pockets, he moved purposefully uptown. He thought he might be followed but frankly didn’t care. He hoped whoever might be out there in the shadows would show themselves. If they did he would end their night violently. Otherwise, he would move on to the little after hour spot he remembered from the old days.
Morgan fell into a steady forced march pace, his leather boots seeping moisture in to his feet, water running off his head into his eyes. The city was relatively quiet, people moving quickly under umbrellas or wrapped in plastic, not bothering to pretend they noticed anyone else. In some indeterminate amount of time Morgan reached Forty-sixth Street, just west of Eighth Avenue. He stopped on a corner from which he could see the waterfront. He was deep in the neighborhood called Clinton, although for the better part of a century it had carried the nickname Hell’s Kitchen.
Part of Forty-second Street leaked into this little area of narrow storefront restaurants and dance clubs. There were more luxury rentals and fancy condos now than when he was growing up, but he could see that there were still plenty of walkup tenement flats available. The city kept moving, shifting out from under him. There were some pretty nice places within an easy walk – the Hudson Library Bar on 58th, the Float, a hot dance club up on West 52nd Street – but his destination was old school, a nameless basement after hours spot that sort of rebelled against the new age nightlife. Stepping away from the street lamp, Morgan seemed to pull the darkness around himself like a cloak before moving quickly down a flight of stairs to the entrance of a place only people in his business would know about.
As Morgan pushed the door open, a wave of oppressive heat burst outward onto him, like the fetid breath of the desert. If a wet dog could be set afire and made to smolder, it would smell like this place. He pushed his hands back into his pockets and stepped inside, crossing the bare wood floor toward the long bar on his left. In a far corner, a jukebox boomed out a hard rock song Morgan didn’t recognize, with a base line he could feel in his feet. The room was a dimly lighted square, barely big enough to hold the forty or so patrons seated at its closely packed tables. A small team of barely dressed women wove between those tables, mostly ignored as they exchanged full beer bottles for empties and collected bills from the tables.
These men were all hard cases: bush pilots, treasure hunters, fire eaters, personal protectors, and professional soldiers like himself. They would call themselves gunfighters, or runners and gunners. They were men who didn’t ask many questions, and didn’t pay much attention to others. So far ignored, Morgan scanned the room slowly. He was surprised to find a few women at the tables, playing cards and drinking with the others. This was an all male joint the last time he was here, but things do change. Anyway, they were females, but they were certainly nobody’s dates. The girls he saw seated were hard cases too, evidence, in Morgan’s mind, of equality gone wildly wrong.
Morgan spotted what he was looking for at a table almost in the center of the room. The man was short, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. He wore a blonde crewcut and a fatigue shirt with its sleeves rolled up. At the moment he was playing poker with three others but Morgan had last seen him standing in a telephone booth pretending to make a call.
Morgan got the bartender’s attention and using hand signals ordered a mug of beer. He drank about half of it at the bar, then began weaving through the tables as if he was looking for an empty seat. In a moment he was standing behind the blonde poker player. He gave the man on the other side of the table a friendly nod before gripping the back of the blonde man’s collar. Morgan twisted his fist hard enough to choke Blondie with his own shirt, and calmly swung his mug up against the side of the man’s head. While the others stared on impassively he yanked Blondie from his chair and dragged him across the room. Just as Blondie began to regain his balance, Morgan slammed his head into the bar a couple of times as if ringing a gong.
“Can I get your attention over here,” he shouted. “My name is Morgan Stark.” All eyes turned to him. A few men stood with clenched fists, and he saw some hands easing toward holsters or knife scabbards. He had their attention.
– 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.