Austin Camacho - The Payback Assignment

Traffic filled in as they left Manhattan and suddenly, they were in the Bronx. Morgan had seen the results of urban guerrilla warfare up close many times. Here, in the world’s richest city, was an area that bore an unpleasant resemblance to downtown Beirut. He knew those crumbling tenements he was riding past had spawned some of the most hardened fighters civilization had to offer. The broken windows were empty eyes staring out of pockmarked stucco faces.

The people here were black or Hispanic. They walked quickly, alert as any jungle animal, ready for an attack. When they moved around the neighborhood, they traveled in packs. They roamed these mean streets as warily as if there was a war on.

The driver lapsed into silence as he pulled the cab over to the curb. Morgan paid him, and the two passengers, captor and captive, stepped into the littered street. The men locked eyes as the taxi pulled away.

“I recognize this feeling, this emptiness,” Griffith said in hushed tones.

“Yeah,” Morgan said. “It’s that feeling, like when the choppers take off and you’re left in that LZ, inches from the forward battle line, unprotected.”

Griffith nodded, pointing a little up the narrow avenue. The empty lot directly across the street was covered with broken glass, broken bricks, broken bottles, broken boards. To its right stood a crumbling four story tenement building filled with broken windows, broken doors, and, Morgan imagined, broken dreams. Beyond the building was yet another empty lot.

The building stood like a single tooth, sticking up out of a rotting mouth. The number 1313 was painted on the door.

“So this is the rendezvous point,” Morgan said, his voice invading the silence. “Good thing I’m not superstitious.”

“This is where I was to bring you. Second floor left.”

“Well, let’s not disappoint him.” Morgan pulled out Griffith’s pistol, dropped the magazine and pulled the slide back, popping out the chambered round. As that lone bullet spun to the asphalt he extended the gun toward its owner. “Now take this. I’ll holster my gun. You walk me in like I’m a prisoner. Once I make contact with Stone or his representative, you’re free to go. Right?”

Griffith seemed to consider the situation for a moment. “You know, even if I lay off you, even if Stone don’t get you, my men will be after you,” he said. “They’re very good and very loyal.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Morgan said. “You in?”

“Okay. I’ll play,” Griffith said, reaching to accept the empty automatic.

Morgan wondered if any of the local citizens were watching as a military looking white man marched one of their black brothers across a pothole-covered street in the South Bronx. As they stepped through the rickety front door, he noticed a junkie crouched in the far corner of the unlighted hall. The junkie ignored the two intruders. They ignored him.

The odor of urine almost overpowered them. Morgan led the way up the stairs, stepping over the broken ones. On the second floor landing, Griffith thrust the impotent gun barrel into Morgan’s back and nodded toward a door.

“Good-bye and good luck,” he muttered. Morgan thought he might mean it. Griffith reached around Morgan and hit the door with three fast knocks and two slow ones.

A bolt shot back, a latch turned, and the door swung inward. Morgan expected to see Stone or an underling, seated comfortably, waiting to take him to some unknown Big Man. Instead, he stepped forward into a room even darker than the hallway. On the left, he made out a couch canted away from the wall. To his right sat a big torn up chair and a small table. As his eyes became accustomed to the deeper gloom he thought he saw a doorway about twenty feet ahead, perhaps leading into the kitchen.

Almost too late, all of his internal warning lights went on. A short, squat figure appeared in the far doorway. A flash of light glinted off of something as he swung it up. Morgan had just enough time to realize that Griffith was in the line of fire. These bastards would toss him out to get Morgan.

“Jesus!” Morgan said through clenched teeth as he dived desperately to the left. The blast coincided with his leap. Two or three stray shotgun pellets raked his right side ribs. His left shoulder crashed into the wall and he slid down behind the sofa. He had time to catch only a glimpse of J.D. Griffith pointing his useless forty-five before a swarm of angry twelve gage hornets blasted him into, and all over, the hall.

For Morgan, there was no way out. The couch provided some concealment, making it tough for anyone to pin down his exact position. But concealment is not the same thing as cover. He knew that riot gun in the kitchen would find him before too long. Twenty feet away, against the opposite wall, the backup man lay prone under the small table. He fired his small caliber pistol occasionally into the sofa. The crossfire was simple, smart, and inescapable. To stand and get a shot at one, he would have to expose himself to the other.

What an ugly place to die, Morgan thought, and gave pragmatic consideration to which of these killers he would take with him.

Felicity tore her eyes away from the gun pointed at her. Ahead, she saw that the tarnished pole on the corner held a green light. At the intersection she pulled hard on the wheel and slid around to her left. The Fiat also managed to corner, accompanied by a blare of horns. The cross street was short. She hit her left signaler, indicating a turn up Third Avenue, back the way she had come. She knew the big avenues were one way in alternating directions, and she figured her followers did too.

At the corner the Fiat was right behind her, trying to squeeze onto her right side, to get on the outside of the turn. She looked up and sighed in frustration. The light was already yellow. She would never reach the corner before it turned red. Well, tough. She leaned back, put on her best “dumb broad” face, down shifted, cranked the wheel and tapped her brakes.

The racing change gave her just enough of a fish tail to slide between lanes of oncoming traffic as she cocked the wheel to the right, against the one-way flow of traffic. Surprise caused the river of cars to part for her. There were raised fists and horns sounding in all possible tones and keys. From every car arose a chorus of “dumb broad”, “out-of-towner” and other dirty names New Yorkers call people.

Felicity smiled, affected a look of fear, embarrassment and apology, and wound through a block of impatient but obliging drivers. She had long believed the world’s most skillful drivers outside Paris, lived in New York. They could not survive otherwise. She made it to the next intersection feeling the impact of much cursing and swearing, but no collisions.

The driver of the Fiat was less fortunate. New York drivers might adjust for one idiot, but not two in a row. The hole that had opened up for the Corvette closed immediately behind it. A Lincoln was stopped, grill to grill with the Fiat. Its engine growled menacingly. In her rear view mirror Felicity saw the drivers of the facing cars get out. The Lincoln’s driver, in a chauffeur’s uniform, was noticeably larger than the other.

Then she was on the cross street, on her way back to Fifth Avenue. A part of her wished she could see the result of the massive traffic snarl she had caused, but she did not want to arrive late for lunch at the Waldorf.

The magnificent structure known as the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel has occupied the same prestigious corner of Park Avenue and 49th Street for more than seventy years. She chose this place for lunch, not because the guests were frequently film stars and big name politicians, but because she would face less of a crowd there than would be present at some other famous spots. New Yorkers often forget that hotel restaurants offer some of the finest eating in the city.