The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories by Christopher Bunn Page B

peace, and Snix blew right through them. I could smell burnt feathers. He landed in a back alley somewhere and killed the engine.
    “All right, men,” I said. “I can ask nothing of you but your courage, your honesty, your very lives. We ride forth into the valley of—”
    “Okay,” said Jerzy, huddled over his laptop. “There are thirty-seven different Gambinis listed in Manhattan. However, I hacked the NYPD’s mainframe and I think I got the Gambini we want. Figgy Gambini. Morningside Heights Avenue, number 1400. Yep. That’s gotta be the one. The guy’s been in and out of jail since he was a kid.”
    “Good work,” said Snix. He stomped on the gas and swerved out into traffic. I could hear a lot of cheerful honking and hollering from other drivers and pedestrians. New Yorkers sure were a friendly lot. The way Snix drove, we turned the corner at Morningside Heights before I had finished my third espresso.
    “That’s some building,” said Herk, staring down the street at the mansion. “You ever delivered presents there, boss?”
    “I think so. Yes, I have. If I remember correctly, young Figgy Junior wanted a Garganto-Nuko-Blaster with accompanying spacesuit. I gave him a jigsaw puzzle instead. Four chimneys in this place. Nice, wide, marble ones.”
    “That’s it, then,” said Snix, nodding his head. “We’ll infiltrate through the chimneys.”
    He engaged the cloaking device and did a fast vertical takeoff. The Camaro zoomed up into the sky and ghosted over a few roofs to the top of the mansion. He put her down as light as a feather. From our vantage point on top of the roof, I could see the entire grounds. The mansion was surrounded by an immaculately kept garden. A circular drive swooped by the front door from a high iron gate at the street. Several large men in black suits stood on the front steps. A friendly welcoming committee, no doubt, for an afternoon of bridge or canasta. Perhaps with some cannoli or biscotti, or whatever Mr. Gambini preferred to serve his guests.
    “Ready, team?” said Snix.
    He and Herk and Jerzy were all toting black backpacks they had taken from the Camaro’s trunk.
    “Ready!” barked Herk and Jerzy. Maybe it was my imagination, but they both seemed to be quivering so fast that they were slightly blurry. Then again, they’d been downing espressos ever since we left Hawaii.
    “Stay in radio contact,” said Snix. “Avoid detection. Reconnoiter the place and neutralize any imminent threats. Find the sled and the sack, secure them, and then call for backup. Got it?”
    “Got it!”
    “Seems overly complicated,” I said. “Why don’t we just find Mr. Gambini and ask him to return my things?”
    The elves gave me a withering look, as if to say that I was a fathead. Then they each dropped down a chimney. I sighed and jumped into the last chimney. It was a long trip down. That mansion had five stories. I landed in a pile of ashes on a marble hearth. I poked my head out and took a look around. Whatever anyone had to say about this Gambini fellow, he really knew how to decorate in velvet. Mostly red velvet.
    I strolled through the mansion, admiring the antiques and the many fine paintings. There were quite a few Matisses. I suppose Gambini, in addition to red velvet, really liked Matisse. In fact, he had five of the same exact Matisse hanging right next to each other in one room. I stopped to admire them. Forgeries, obviously, but whoever had done them had managed to make them look exactly alike. I peered closer. Precisely one hundred percent alike. Even the old wooden frames were exactly the same. Right down to the chip in the lower right-hand corner.
    I froze.
    The sack! Someone had figured out how to use the Supreme Santa Sack Version 3.0 with fifth-dimensional sourcing. Someone had cranked out these Matisses. And not just any old someone. A Mafia don.
    That’s when someone stuck a gun in my lower back.
    “Reach for the sky!” growled a voice.
    I about jumped out