CHAPTER 50

McCall waited in the outdoor pavilion of the glass monoliths. Office workers were streaming outside to take their lunch hour, some of them making a beeline right to the Earl of Sandwich shop on the corner. McCall was looking at the glass doors to the 221 building. Karen Armstrong came through them, carrying her faux Louis Vuitton handbag with the intricately embroidered sequins on it filled with everything a young woman needs to travel a hundred yards.

Including a Smith & Wesson SP9 VE handgun with a 10 + 1 capacity.

When she saw McCall her face lit up. She jogged over to him.

“Hey, Bobby! Where have you been? I haven’t seen you at Bentleys in days!”

“I had to go out of town.”

He fell into step beside her.

“I need to talk to you before you grab your lunch.”

The white tables were already getting full, so she veered off to one of the ledges of flowers and sat down on it. McCall stood. She put her Louis Vuitton bag beside her.

“What’s up?”

“Are you still carrying that old Smith and Wesson pistol?”

She was startled. “How did you know about that?”

“I saw it in your bag at Bentleys.”

“You bet I’m still carrying it. If that creep Carlson comes near me again, I’m going to blow his head off.”

“He won’t be stalking you anymore. He went to Washington, D.C., and raped two young women in a remote parkland spot. Students from AU. He had the city terrorized before his next victim stabbed him to death.”

Karen was shaken by the news, but put on a brave front.

“Wow. Good for her! Self-defense.”

“Kind of,” McCall said; she was unaware of the irony. “But there are more Jeff Carlsons out there. If you pull a gun on an assailant and don’t know how to use it, he’ll take it away from you and kill you.”

“I know what I’m doing!” she said defensively.

“No, you don’t. But I can take you to a firing range and teach you how to shoot.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

He could see she regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. “I know you’re not just coming on to me. You could have done that a hundred times in Bentleys.” She jumped down off the low ledge. “I can take care of myself, Bobby.”

She picked up her Louis Vuitton bag and started to move past him.

McCall said, “When you have that gun in your bedroom, don’t leave it lying out on the bedside table. Where a stalker can pick it up, take out the clip, shake out the bullets, put it back in, and you’re none the wiser.”

She stopped dead in her tracks. Slowly she turned to face him.

“You were in my apartment?”

“He was. You were in the shower. He emptied your gun. If you haven’t checked the clip since then, which you probably haven’t, you’ll find it’s empty. He could have used it on you, but he liked his own MO. He was carrying a Japanese kitchen knife. He stood in your bathroom doorway and watched you. You were defenseless.”

“But you were there, too?”

“I persuaded him to leave.”

“What night did this happen?”

“Wednesday of last week.”

“I didn’t hear a thing. I don’t believe you!”

But she was pale and her hands were trembling.

“There’s a nice Picasso over your bed, a girl in blue bathing in a kiddie pool,” McCall said. “Your bathroom is tiled in dark and light blue tiles. You keep the shower door open. You’ve got a mole just below your right breast. You’ve got the tattoo of a lacy blue butterfly with black edges on the wings on your right buttock. It’s pretty, but no one can see it there. You should have had it tattooed on your shoulder.”

She was staring at him. It was as if she was talking just to be saying something.

“I got drunk with some of my girlfriends one night. It was a dare. We went to a tattoo parlor in the Village. Oh, my God.” She looked at the growing mass of humanity on the concourse. There was already a line forming outside the Earl of Sandwich shop. “Who are you?”

“Someone who wants to help you. If you insist on being armed, you need to know how to use that gun. Give me your card.”

She fished one out of her bag, self-conscious now of the Smith & Wesson in it. McCall wrote on the back of the card and handed it to her.

“That’s my cell number. When you’re ready to go to a firing range, call me, or talk to Laddie at Bentleys, I’ll make sure he can find me.”

“You won’t be there anymore?”

“Probably not.”

Karen hugged him, then broke the embrace, a little embarrassed, and looked over at the Earl of Sandwich shop. “I’d better get in there before all of the house-smoked ham and grated Parmesan are gone. What’s your real name?”

“Robert.”

“You mind if I still call you Bobby? You’re Bobby to me.”

“Sure.”

“Maybe I’ll see you at Bentleys some time. I promised to bring my new boyfriend there.” Her eyes danced with sudden amusement. “He’d enjoy meeting you. You’ve seen more of me than he has.”

McCall smiled.

“If you want to come back to my apartment for a drink one night, you know where it is. And obviously you know how to get in,” she added ironically.

She walked quickly toward the sandwich shop.

McCall wondered if he should take her up on that offer, but his mind was still back in Prague with his Angel.

*   *   *

Two days later McCall walked to Dolls nightclub. He noted a sign in one of the bright windows that said UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT IN gilt letters. It was 5:00 P.M. and the place had just opened. There was the usual line of hopefuls outside and a new bouncer at the doors. He was African American and looked like he should be a linebacker for the Jets. McCall estimated his weight at 320 pounds and all of it looked like hard muscle. With four fractured ribs and three healing bullet wounds, one of them causing a distinct limp in his right leg, McCall was not crazy about the thought of tangling with him. But he walked to the head of the line. The linebacker looked at him, but it was with a completely different attitude than that of his predecessor. He took McCall in with one glance, nodded, and stepped aside.

“You’re good to go in,” he said in a gentle voice.

McCall nodded and moved inside.

Dolls already had the music pounding—Maroon 5 moving like Jagger. The revolving ball was spinning its kaleidoscopic colors over the dancers. There were couples at the silver cocktail tables, several men up at the bar with others pushing to get their drinks. Abuse was spinning his records. McCall walked to the area just above the sunken cocktail level, looking around. He saw that Natalya was sitting at an end table, working on an iPad, doing her homework. She had not seen him, intent on the iPad screen.

McCall saw none of the Chechen enforcers in the big room. Three of them he knew were dead, because he’d killed them—Kuzbec, Salam, and Rachid. But he’d expected to see other faces he recognized and didn’t.

There was no sign of Bakar Daudov.

McCall’s gaze shifted to the dance floor. Katia was dancing with a young man who was doing everything he could to impress her short of Michael Jackson moves on the dance floor. Katia’s face had almost healed. Her left eye was completely open. There was probably still some purple discoloration around it, but she’d expertly hidden it with makeup. The bruises were also hidden. Her split lip had healed. She was wearing a burgundy dress and matching shoes and looked stunning. She hadn’t seen McCall yet.

His gaze shifted over to where Melody was dancing with a slick Wall Street type whose hands kept moving down her back to grip her ass. She pulled them back up, still smiling at him, now, now, be a good boy, but it was clear that the reputation of the club had reached him. He was building up to the suggestion that they go upstairs after their last dance.

Melody turned and saw McCall. Her expression changed in an instant. He thought it was almost shame.

McCall gently shook his head.

Don’t worry. Not going to happen.

McCall looked over into the alcove.

Samuel Clemens was sitting in the middle of the table where Borislav Kirov had always sat. There were eight men around him, including the thin, ratty-faced accountant McCall had noted during his first visit to the alcove. Next to him was Borislav Kirov’s attorney whom McCall had seen at the Les Misérables opening night. McCall thought he looked a little lost without his Kate Upton wannabe Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. There was no muscle at the table or standing guard around it. The atmosphere inside the alcove was tense, but not threatening.

Until McCall walked in.

Samuel Clemens was dressed in dark jeans, a dark blue cowboy shirt the Duke had worn in The Searchers, and a lightweight suede fringed jacket. McCall could see his alligator boots under the table. His eyes were alight with excitement and concentration. He barely glanced up as McCall entered, but when he recognized him, he straightened up fast. His face crumpled for just a moment into something resembling an old cowboy who’d been left out to die of thirst in Death Valley. Then he slapped on his best grin and waved an expansive arm.

“Mr. Maclain! Come on in! You’re here at a very auspicious moment! Dolls has just officially changed hands. You’re lookin’ at the new owner, Samuel T. Clemens. You’ll see there’s a whole new staff on duty at the club tonight. Livelier ambiance! No more watered down drinks! Better music, ’cept I’m gonna keep that young Chechen DJ, Abuse, love that name! He’s a pistol.”

“Clear the room,” McCall said.

Clemens got slowly to his feet, his eyes locked on McCall’s face. The smile never left his lips, but his breathing became a little more labored.

“Sure thing. Gentlemen, I need a few moments alone with this fellah. We’ll get all the paperwork signed tonight. Just a little wranglin’ I gotta do right now.”

The men packed up their briefcases and headed past McCall through the entranceway out into the noisy club. In the confusion of people leaving, McCall casually reached under the table to where he’d planted the small silver bug. It was still in place. He pulled it away from its adhesive and dropped it into his jacket pocket. Clemens never saw him do it because his eyes had not strayed from McCall’s face. Once the last attorney had left the alcove his eyes took on a feral look. He licked his lips. McCall couldn’t tell whether he was deciding to come around the table at him or bolt.

“What did they tell you happened to Borislav Kirov?” McCall asked.

“Retired. Wanted to get out of the nightclub rat race, go somewhere there’s a white sandy beach and those cocktails with little umbrellas in them. Can’t hardly blame him. But that wouldn’t do for me. I need to be where the action is.”

“He’s dead,” McCall said. “It’s his widow and sons who have gone to Maui.”

Clemens opened his mouth to speak, closed it again.

“You must be dealing with his lawyers,” McCall said. “Who would be anxious to sell. It’s a good thing. You’re going to turn this place around, Samuel. You’re going to make it a class act.”

Clemens relaxed a little. “Well, that’s exactly what I aim to do. Still gonna open a Dolls nightclub in Fort Worth, once we get this filly up on its legs. I got a bunch of folks comin’ down who are gonna run this Manhattan hoedown for me.”

“You can also ease up on the Davy Crockett homespun dialogue,” McCall said. “It’s cute, but I’m not sure New Yorkers will buy it.”

“I don’t know what you’re…”

“The first thing you’re going to do at your new Manhattan nightclub is to spread the word that the girls here only dance. No one goes upstairs with a customer.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

McCall walked around the table and got in Clemens’s face.

“You’re a lying sack of shit. You know exactly what was happening in this club. But it stops tonight. No customers are allowed up to the second floor. You’re going to get a wrecking crew in here tomorrow. You can probably keep the club open during the renovations.”

“What renovations?”

“You’re going to tear down those bedrooms upstairs. I’d suggest putting in an elite bar, very exclusive.”

“And what if I don’t believe these renovations are necessary?”

“They are.”

“What if I pick up a phone right now and call the police and tell them I’m being threatened?”

“You and I are having a friendly chat. I’m welcoming you to the neighborhood. Your word against mine. But you won’t call the cops. You’re going to do exactly as I say.”

“Why should I?”

McCall gripped the lapels of his fringe jacket and slammed him up against the back wall.

“Because if you don’t, I’m going to come back for you,” McCall said softly. “The same way I came back for Borislav Kirov.”

Clemens’s eyes opened wide. He swallowed hard. McCall’s face was an inch from his.

“Are we clear on this?” McCall asked.

“Yes, sir. We surely are. Yes, we are.”

McCall let him go and took a step back.

“You’ve got some men with you from Fort Worth here tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make sure one of them spreads the word about the rooms upstairs. Closed for renovations. Get all of the girls together in the next twenty minutes and let them know there’s been a major policy change now that you’re the new owner. The girls dance and flirt and hug and some of them can make other arrangements if they so desire. But they’re under no pressure to do anything more. Make it clear to them. Make it clear to the clientele.”

“Gonna take care of that, sir. Tonight. Yes, sir.”

McCall moved around the table to the entrance to the alcove. Clemens stared at him. He looked like he was against a wall at the Alamo.

McCall smiled. “You know how some business deals are, Mr. Clemens. You don’t get lard lessen ya boil the hog.”

Clemens breathed out at last and nodded.

McCall left him. Almost immediately Kirov’s attorney and the ratty accountant and the other lawyers and the real estate broker and the local city councilmen filed back in. They’d been hovering, but they hadn’t heard a word over the deafening music. Clemens put the used-car-salesman smile back on his face and waved them in with an expansive hand.

“Gentlemen, let’s conclude our business!”

McCall walked through the cocktail area to where the young man with Melody was saying something to her she didn’t like. She shook her head and he gripped her wrist tightly. McCall grabbed his wrist, pulled his hand from her, and spun him around.

“Time to leave.”

“Who the hell are you?” He looked at Melody. “This your boyfriend?”

“I’m her dad,” McCall said. “Get out.”

He let go of the man’s wrist.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

McCall had seen something in his peripheral vision and half turned. The linebacker from the front doors was standing just above the cocktail area watching them. McCall nodded at the young man. The linebacker nodded, moved with surprising speed for someone his size, gripped the man’s arm, and hustled him out of the cocktail area and up the two silver steps toward the front of the club. He didn’t say a word.

McCall took Melody’s hand.

“Things are going to be different now.”

“Thank you. I don’t understand what’s happened. Mr. Kirov is gone and the club has been sold. To that Texan. He looks pretty oily.”

“He’ll be a better boss than Kirov.”

“Katia knows what’s going on, but she won’t tell us.”

“She’s protecting you. All you need to know is that a construction crew is going to rip apart the upstairs. In a few weeks there’ll be an elite club up there. I have the feeling it might be a country and western bar,” he added wryly. “This is a new beginning. For all of you. Starting tonight.”

Melody hugged him.

He was getting a lot of hugs these days.

“I could kiss you.”

“That might cause a scene.”

McCall eased out of her embrace and turned away. Melody caught his wrist, looking at the dance floor where Katia was still dancing with her energetic young man.

“Don’t you want to see Katia?”

“She doesn’t need to know I was here tonight. I’ll see her again.”

McCall walked through the tables and up the silver steps, turning once at the entrance to the club. Natalya was watching him. She didn’t move. She didn’t say anything. She just smiled at him.

McCall smiled back and left the nightclub.

*   *   *

The next morning when McCall entered Manhattan Electronics Mary was serving two customers at once and two more were browsing. She was dressed in a black miniskirt, a black silk shirt, black stockings and black high heels, her dark hair on her shoulders, running up and down the cluttered shelves with intimate knowledge. Brahms was not playing. It was the Beatles from their White Album, one of McCall’s favorites. George Harrison was singing “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” Mary put some electronic components into one customer’s hands, handed another a Mac notebook, and rushed over to the front of the store to McCall.

“Hey, there! Wow, you look awful. What happened to your face?”

“Window blew out beside me.”

“That’s a bummer. But you’re okay?” McCall nodded. “Brahms isn’t here.”

“I could tell that. No Brahms concerto playing. Even the Beatles would curl his toes.”

“Hilda was transferred from Sloan-Kettering to the Cancer Care Center at Boston Medical four days ago. An experimental course of treatment. Brahms is with her. It’s all been paid for. Thousands of dollars. Someone named W. Mays wrote the check. Who is that?”

“You’ve never heard of Willie Mays?” McCall asked, as if shocked. “The best baseball player of all time.”

“I doubt very much he’s a friend of Brahms or is intimately aware of his wife’s cancer diagnosis.”

McCall shrugged. “Must be another W. Mays.”

“I know who it was,” Mary whispered. “Brahms does, too, but he’s too proud to say anything. Did you need him?”

“I’m returning a delicate piece of equipment. I’ll drop it on his desk.”

McCall moved to the back of the store. Mary rushed back to her customers, taking money from one of them, ringing up a sale and fielding a question from the other.

McCall walked into Brahms’s office and set the little bug down on his desk beside his laptop. He picked up a picture of Brahms and Hilda, twenty years younger, on New Year’s Eve, both of them holding glasses of champagne and grinning foolishly for the camera in a big ballroom somewhere. McCall set the picture back on Brahms’s desk. “Experimental treatment” always gave him pause, but sometimes it was the only way to go.

And miracles did happen.

When he came out of Brahms’s office he saw that Mary had disposed of three customers and was showing the last one a package of ethernet micro-connectors. She ran over to McCall.

“When he calls, should I tell him you were in?”

“No need. But let me know how the treatment is going.” He took one of Brahms’s Manhattan Electronics cards from a pile on a counter and wrote on the back of it. “That’s the number you can reach me on, day or night.”

She took it and slipped it down the front of her plunging neckline. She grinned. “I’ve run out of pockets. I’d say the boss still owes you big time.”

“He doesn’t owe me a thing.”

“Well, I owe you this,” Mary said, and hugged him.

McCall was on a roll.

“And don’t tell him about the Beatles,” she whispered, and then she was running back to the counter to take the customer’s money for the micro-connectors.

Paul McCartney was singing “Blackbird” when McCall walked out of the store.