-29-

            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.