Austin Camacho - The Payback Assignment

He left the cab at Washington Square, four blocks from the small cafe in the heart of Greenwich Village at which he would meet Griffith. The sun was harsh, the sky unusually clear and the air thick and stagnant. Not the best day for a hike through New York, but he wanted to walk in and tour the area before the meeting.

For a hundred and fifty years the West Village has been the home of writers and artists of all types. Something about those twisted, narrow streets in the midst of an otherwise grid work city has traditionally made it the place where society’s oddballs fit in. It has been through beatniks, hippies, heads, freaks and punks, and while the residents have changed, the area has not really changed much. It remains a good place for a meeting if you do not want people to notice you.

J.D. Griffith, Morgan’s “date”, was ex-Marine Recon. He served his country in Vietnam, and himself later in Rhodesia and the Congo. Morgan had worked with him briefly, and had kept in touch for professional reasons. Both men were respected team leaders when they worked, and they did not want to get in each other’s way somewhere when the action got hot.

Morgan crossed the street within a block of his planned meeting place without looking toward it. He passed a storefront Thai restaurant, and its sweet and sharp aroma followed him around the next corner. Halfway down that block Morgan hopped to grasp a rusty fire escape ladder. The squeal of metal against metal set his teeth on edge, but the ladder did come all the way down and Morgan scrambled up it to the roof four stories above the street.

Standing at the edge of the roof he could see the heat rising off the black surface, and it somehow reminded him of his youth. Crouching low, he lumbered three quarters of the way across the roof before dropping to low crawl the rest of the way. The asphalt’s pungent odor stung his nose. He relaxed at the end of his brief journey, absorbing the warmth from the tacky surface. Looking over the roof’s edge, he was directly above Georg’s Cafe, a little Greek place with umbrellas over its outdoor tables that said “Cinzano” in red and blue letters. In about twenty minutes he would meet Griffith under one of them. Now he carefully scanned the windows across the street.

There! Second floor, second window to the left. That had to be one of Griffith’s men in the window. And on the near corner to the left, that dude loitering in the doorway was just a little too alert. He found another to the right across the street. The man in that telephone booth was not really talking to anyone. Griffith had covered the street quite well. Simple caution, Morgan wondered, or something more?

He backed off from his vantage point, retracing his steps down the fire escape. As he sauntered around the corner, he zipped his windbreaker halfway up. He started whistling and relaxed his pace. Morgan’s normal gait was very much like marching, but now he exaggerated his walk into the inner city “bop” so many black men have, as if he were listening to some dance track no one else could hear. The impression he gave was extremely casual.

He recognized Griffith’s grin as he approached the table. He was at least five years Morgan’s senior, but he still retained a jocular baby face. His hair was cut in the style Marines call a “high and tight”: short on top and nearly shaved to the skin on the back and sides. He wore a wrinkled corduroy suit and top quality hiking boots. A typical blond haired, blue eyed, bullet headed type, Morgan thought.

“S’happenin’ my man?” Morgan called in greeting as he sat down, extending his hand.

“You know the deal,” Griffith replied, adding a strong handshake to the habitual military greeting. “I took the liberty of buying you a beer. Hope you don’t mind a Michelob.”

“Well, I still prefer that Black Cat we used to get in the ‘Nam. However…” Morgan picked up his bottle and tipped it up, putting down half of the brew. It was light, crisp, cold, and unremarkable, as Morgan found all mass-produced American beers to be. Griffith also took a strong pull from his amber bottle. Morgan figured that should take care of the opening rituals.

“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.

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.