Chapter 44

At seven, he was in Huck Finnigan’s suite at the Essex House, chatting amiably with his old friend California, while Huck finished with some business people in the next room and Aki dressed. Huck was giving a performance that night at a downtown club, and while he wanted California as his own bodyguard, he had asked Eric to look after Aki.

Finnigan poked his head out from the other room. “I’d like you to bring the little genius back to the hotel about ten, if you will, then wait until Cal and I get back,” he instructed Eric. No one ever called California ‘Cal.’ They didn’t even actually call him California—only Eric did because that’s what they had called him in the Unit. California’s mother called him Eugene, his given name.

“He’s taken a liking to you,” Eric observed to his buddy.

“Yeah, man, I have a show-biz kind of personality myself. Huck appreciates that. And he admires my pecs. You don’t hardly have any pecs to speak of.”

“I have pecs,” disagreed Eric. “I just don’t like to bulk up that way, so show-offy like.” He did a belated double-take.

“Huck? You call your employer Huck?” He put his finger in his mouth to demonstrate that he was ready to disgorge his dinner, such as it had been. Truth to tell, Eric had suggested that he take care of Finnigan tonight himself and California look after Aki. California had been shot a few months before, and his spleen had been removed. That meant he was supposed to be taking it easy and finding a new, less-rambunctious lifestyle. In fact, he was working at a marina on Long Island, but the winter months were slow, so Eric had called him in on this job. After all, no one actually had threatened Finnigan.

But a club date was different. People drank; people started fights at clubs. Eric felt responsible. Aki came out of his room, Hiroshi alongside him. Eric smiled and shook the boy’s hand. “Here’s my fellow engineer,” he joked. He let the dog jump up on his suit and lick his face once before he pushed him down. Aki scolded the animal in Japanese. Eric smiled. That rang a bell with him.

Aki spoke Japanese, he recalled. His linguistic ability might come in handy some way. Not only for Aki, but for Eric.

Five of them crowded into the limousine, Finnigan’s personal manager, Jack Berry, in front next to the driver and Eric and Aki perched on the jump seat facing Finnigan and California. Finnigan looked at his son critically. “You don’t have a scarf?” he wondered.

“I don’t need one,” protested the boy. “We’ll be in the car. I’m not a baby.”

“I have a scarf,” said Finnigan whose own scarf was wound tightly about his neck. “I’m not a baby.” Nonetheless, he didn’t put much energy into the debate, which obviously he had lost from the get-go, but turned his attention to the passing scene outside the window.

“You didn’t see who was driving this car, man.” California said, tapping Eric on the knee.

“I did so,” Eric disagreed. “You think I get in a car without looking to see who the driver is?” He pretended astonishment at his friend’s estimate of his abilities.

“Who is it then?”

“P. J.—Colonel Wilson’s driver from Fort Bragg,” Eric said nonchalantly. He grinned, pleased with himself.

“He told you who he was, right?” Eric grinned again, without answering.

Pamela’s was a trendy club on the West Side waterfront in Greenwich Village. This month, it was considered the late-night hot spot for those of New York’s rich and famous who hadn’t fled to South Florida for the winter and those who had been displaced from Southern California by the 7.2 earthquake and aftershocks.

For that reason and none other, Finnigan had agreed to appear for two nights at the club. He hadn’t come to New York to rust, he pointed out, but to do as much late-night and as many other Finnigan-promoting gigs as possible.

The owner of Pamela’s wasn’t thrilled to have a juvenile foisted on him as one of the first customers of the evening.

“He’s actually a short older person,” Eric explained. “Don’t worry. I’m looking out for his interests.”

“The last thing I need is to lose my liquor license,” Vincent Carmello grumbled, finding them a table away from the entry, but not too far away. “If I had Mafia connections, I wouldn’t mind,” Carmello explained, trying to make a joke of it. “Then I’d be safe on the license front.” But he wasn’t going to make so much of a fuss that a headliner like Finnigan would walk out on him. “How about two Pepsis?” he offered.

“Make it two Perriers, and we won’t turn you in,” countered Eric. He patted the gun in his shoulder holster, as if making sure it was still there.

He was unaccountably nervous. He hadn’t been doing much protection recently and doing it meant being in a more keyed-up state than he was now accustomed to. He also didn’t like the fact that they were in such a public setting, and that people were starting to pour into the club. Finnigan would do one set at nine, one at ten-thirty, and one at midnight. Eric and Aki would sit through the first set, at which time P. J. would drive them back to the hotel. Then Eric would worry until California and Finnigan showed up. He was a worrier, but he didn’t worry about himself, only about those he felt responsible for.

The club became a noisy babble and unless they wanted to shout at one another, all Aki and Eric could do was sip their drinks and look around. To Eric, the people appeared grotesque. He guessed that was what made them trendy, rather than normal.

Finnigan started his set. He was very relaxed, charming in a way that didn’t come over in real life. Eric watched Aki laughing at his father’s jokes. It made Eric smile. He didn’t like Finnigan—the singer was too narcissistic for his taste—but he was glad that Aki saw his father with such uncritical eyes. Finnigan sang and played electric guitar with only a drummer to accompany him.

Surprisingly, to Eric, who had never heard the man’s music except for a moment or two in the house in Beverly Hills, Finnigan was good. His soft rock rhythms were unpredictable in an exciting way and his voice reached places that few did, making a pleasing package.

Eric wasn’t so sucked in by what was happening on stage, however, that he was distracted from his duties. Despite the music, the chatter, the clatter of serving trays and drinks, he was still highly cognizant of the movement of people in and around the table and at the door to the club. So he definitely noticed the five young men who walked in and didn’t seem to belong to this crowd of the beautiful, the moneyed, and the wannabes. He didn’t like their look and it wasn’t a racial distinction he was making because half of the trend-setters who surrounded him were black, Asian, and Hispanic.

He pulled his chair around to Aki’s side of the table. Finnigan was still performing and the boy’s eyes were fixed on his father. Eric put a hand on the child’s arm, just to draw his attention away a little. Aki glanced at him in surprise. Eric gave him a serious look and returned his eyes to the door. The young men seemed to be arguing with the brawny guy who passed judgment on those waiting to gain admittance.

Eric wished he and California were hooked up with mics and earpieces, but they weren’t. He knew how fights started, and this was going to be a fight. How bad a fight, depended on what weapons, if any, the men were carrying.

He didn’t hear a shot, but he did see the heavyset bouncer stagger back. At that second, he pulled Aki off his seat and down with him, underneath the table. Eric’s impression that a shot had been fired was confirmed by the sight of a gun with some kind of homemade silencer. Eric stood slightly for leverage, then slammed the table down as a shield in front of the two of them. Welcome to America!

Despite the cover offered by the tabletop, Eric crouched in front of and over the boy, protecting him from random shots. He pulled out his own gun simply as a precaution. He had no way to shoot at the young men by the door—even if he wanted to—too many people were between them. But he didn’t want to. That wasn’t his job. He wasn’t here to be a hero. He was here to protect Finnigan’s little boy who also happened to be someone he liked. That was all he was going to do, period.

The people nearest the door had caught on: They had a shooter in the crowd. They started to scream. Suddenly, everyone was hitting the deck. The movement toward the floor spread like a Saint Vitus Dance throughout the club. A wave of fear-sounds permeated the space, and the floor was littered with the highest price fashion that Bergdorf’s and Bulgari had to offer. Eric watched California step in front of Finnigan with his gun out, pulling him down flat.

Suddenly, the men were into the crowd, pointing their guns at people’s heads, but not actually shooting. They dispersed throughout the club and started robbing people of their jewelry, forcing them to put everything they had into plastic bags. One of the bandits, Eric observed, was approaching the stage area. So they weren’t rebuffed social hopefuls; they were just ambitious muggers.

Or—maybe he was crazy—but if someone had been after him over the Westlake thing, this could be another hit attempt. It looks like a robbery, right, but guess who winds up dead?

Eric could have had a clear shot at about three of the felons, but he didn’t want to start a gun battle that might end up with his young charge in the morgue. Instead, Eric maneuvered the table around so that it was still between them and the bad guys. He pulled it—and Aki—steadily toward the door. He did this slowly and as quietly as possible, while shoving people out of the way where necessary.

Aki saw what Eric was trying to do and scooted silently. Although the club wasn’t nearly as noisy as it had been ten minutes before, still enough commotion and now focus on the bad guys covered Eric and Aki’s retreat.

In fact, a few others near the door had gotten the idea and had slipped out quickly. Eric and his charge were near the entry. Eric saw that the door attendant was down, bleeding from the chest. Aki saw, too, his face going pale. Damn, reality could be a kick in the ass. They were close enough to the exit. One of the gunmen saw that people were fleeing on them and turned toward the door, shooting up at the ceiling. More screams. Eric and Aki stopped stock-still.

Eric wondered for a moment if he was taking too big a chance by trying to leave, when staying—with so many people in the room—might not be that risky. But, although he shouldn’t be thinking about it, he had one more priority on his mind—California and Finnigan. They were bigger targets than Aki and might not be ignored by the bad guys. As the shooter returned his attention to the prey in his immediate vicinity, Eric signaled Aki that they were going to make a break for it.

Aki crouched in front and Eric shielded him completely while half-twisting to face the gunmen in case they let off shots toward the door. Eric and Aki scrambled out. No gunfire followed. They were in the relative safety of the cold outdoors. Eric hustled Aki over to the car a few yards away and P. J. popped out in a normal fashion to pull open the back door. Apparently, he hadn’t a clue that anything was amiss inside.

Eric thrust the child into the back seat. “Get down,” he told the boy. He pulled a second gun from his leg holster and handed it to P. J. “Remember these?” he asked the former soldier. P. J. grunted. “Bad guys are creating havoc in the club. Call 911 and tell them five shooters are running amuck at Pamela’s on Varrick Street. The doorman’s been shot, too, and needs an ambulance. I’m going around back to see if I can find California and Finnigan.”

P. J. was already in the front seat, dialing. Eric glanced into the car. Aki looked at him in fright. Eric winked at the child, slammed the door, then disappeared.

It came as a surprise, but the back exit to the club was locked. Back doors to such places, he thought, were usually open so that the staff could bring out the garbage or take breaks. Maybe a plush club like this had too many gatecrashers that way. He examined the lock. It was a pin tumbler, which his book had told him was sometimes a little harder to undo than a disc tumbler. Pin tumblers required a feeler pick and a tension tool, not the rake and tension tool he was carrying. Theoretically though, a rake action could also do it.

He worked the lock. Sweat began to pop out on his forehead despite the fact that his coat was still checked inside and the night was particularly cold. Soon, he felt something click inside the mechanism, and the door sprang open. Eric slipped into the club, his gun drawn. Cautiously, quietly, he moved through the backstage area, taking a turn almost at once into a male body clinging to the wall.

Eric grabbed the man, placing a hand over his mouth. It was Finnigan’s manager, Jack Berry. Eric released Berry, keeping his hand in place until he saw that Berry wasn’t going to yell. Eric motioned to Berry to head toward the back door, then continued on his search for California and Finnigan.

He was just about at the stage itself when he saw that California and Finnigan were almost exactly when he had seen them last, lying on the floor of the performance area. He noted a difference now, however. One of the robbers stood over them and was relieving them of their valuables. Eric stepped back into the shadows at the side of the platform and observed. Finnigan fumbled with his Rolex and then undid his heavy gold chain. California didn’t seem to have anything to hand over but his watch. Where was his gun?

Eric knew that watch. It was an inexpensive, though highly trustworthy, Citizen. The theft made Eric mad. He brought his gun up but fought to control himself. He hoped he wasn’t going to shoot the guy for stealing a friend’s hundred-dollar watch. He could see no strategic purpose to such a move. After the mugger had placed California and Finnigan’s jewelry in his bag, the guy turned to go. Eric sighed—almost audibly—and lowered his gun.

For no obvious reason, except maybe a bloodlust, the mugger spun back around and raised up his weapon. A shot vibrated through the air—and it was the mugger who staggered and fell. Eric had shot the bandit, but California’s gun was out from under him and in his hand in a flash. He turned, nearly blowing Eric’s head off, but stopping just in time. California still had those split-second reflexes that had won him rave reviews from the Ranger command. Eric jumped on stage and ran in front of California and Finnigan, where he stooped. “Get him out the back,” he hissed.

California grabbed for Finnigan who was reaching for his guitar. The bodyguard snatched first and pulled the singer away from his instrument and off the stage in a crouch. Eric had his Astra pointed at the fallen man, in case the guy decided to live again after having been shot over the right temple, but the body didn’t even twitch. That didn’t mean danger wasn’t still lurking out there, because the instant Eric had pulled the trigger, the reverberation had drawn the attention of the fallen man’s cohorts.

Eric wondered if he, too, was already dead, but simply didn’t know it. A shot blasted and a bullet whizzed close by. Eric pressed down further, against the floor. Optimism caused him to imagine that he was going to get out of this scene in one piece. After all, he was the one who always remained alive, despite the odds—so far. Realism reminded him that the past wasn’t a forever guarantee. He was afraid to fire back at this point, not wanting to hit any of the innocent bystanders.

A man with a gun approached the stage. Eric would drop him when the guy got a little closer. Then the man bent and yanked one of the hostages from off the floor—a woman. He held his weapon to her head. “Throw the gun away,” he yelled at Eric, “or I kill her.” Eric hesitated. The choices were equally rotten ones—either the woman got killed or he did. He didn’t especially want to get shot to death. But, of course, death was supposed to be preferable to dishonor. “Let her go,” he called out.

He shoved his gun across the little stage. The bad guy aimed his pistol at Eric in a brutally serious fashion. A sense of unreality fell over him. Jesus, he was going to die. It wasn’t his own life that flashed before his eyes, as legend had it, it was his son’s life. He was going to miss his child! Again, a shot sounded. Once again, a mugger fell. Eric didn’t even turn to verify that California had been the person shooting behind him.

Despite Eric’s mental criticism of Finnigan for reaching for his guitar in the midst of all this, he scrambled forward to recover his gun. He had the weapon in his grasp and was off the stage with the speed of the Coyote cartoon character. He and California moved through the rear of the club in unison, back to back, California guiding their progression toward the exit, and Eric making sure they weren’t pursued. They stepped out into the cold night air, closing the door behind them.

“Two down,” itemized California, as if they had to account for all five. Eric recognized the look in his pal’s eyes. He wondered if his own pupils had turned to hollow pinpoints in that same slightly deranged killer way.

“Whoa, buddy,” he called softly. “We’ve done our bit.” Finnigan waited outside, unprotected and looking shaky. “Did you get my guitar?” he asked California.

“Too much gunsmoke,” said California, as if reporting back. “Hard to see the stage.”

“Where’s my son?” asked Finnigan, blankly, as if coming awake from a dream, but not having fully emerged. Eric reassured him. They walked around front. Five squad cars were parked outside Pamela’s, lights revolving. Eric went over to speak to the police, and Finnigan and California headed for the limo. Eric watched them go.

When they were almost at the car, Finnigan bent over and retched. Eric would have been wryly amused, but he sort of felt that way himself.