CHAPTER 1

 

 

I earned my keep in the last hour of a seven-day assignment. That was typical. The opposition knew that Melanie Keene had a bodyguard, so they didn’t try anything right away. They let me go through the motions, escorting her to her car, standing around her trailer while she had her face done over for the next scene, lounging just out of camera range when she was working. Enough routine boredom that most guys start to coast, start doing things by the feel instead of by the book. Why not, anyway? I only had Melanie’s word for it that she’d been threatened by an extortionist. It could have been a publicity caper.

Then, on the last evening of her time in Toronto, she decided she should mingle with her fans. I did my best to talk her out of it, and by then we were close enough that she was listening to me a lot of the time. But I guess she needed her fix of adulation. Or maybe she’d built up enough confidence in John Locke Personal Assurance. Either way, she overruled me.

So, with a quarter of an hour to fill before she hopped the limo for the airport, she went downstairs to the bar of the Edinburgh Towers, where the stargazers hang out waiting for things like this to lighten their lives. And they were there in force.

The piano player dropped the Barry Manilow dirge he was tinkering with and launched into the theme of her Academy Award-nominated movie of two years previously. The stand-up crowd took their cue, and she swept in to applause. The whole thing was about as spontaneous as the four-minute ovation Gorbachev gets from the Presidium, but she ate it up.

I was a half step behind her. Maybe a few people figured I was her date. I’m thirty-two, fifteen years younger than her, although you’d be hard put to know it when she’s wearing full warpaint, as she was that night. And I had my Brooks Brothers suit on, the one I’d picked up on the last job to take me to New York, so I looked presentable. Anyway, I used the idea as cover, beaming and acting modest as I checked the crowd. Somebody here was likely to take a slash at her face with an open razor, or worse. That’s what the threat had been: Your face is your future; think about that when you look in a mirror.

The crowd was yuppy, mostly gay. With three marriages and a couple of stints chez Betty Ford behind her, Melanie had the same kind of claque that Judy Garland used to have, especially among homosexuals. A whole crowd of them had turned out to sip expensive water and wait around on the chance of getting to breathe her air. They pressed forward, calling out greetings and extravagant compliments. But there were a couple of guys who weren’t clapping. Those were the ones I watched while a waiter appeared and handed us our drinks, champagne for her, Canada Dry club soda for me. I had promised myself a double Bushmills Irish whiskey later, when she was on her plane and out of my charge.

The fans crowded around, most of them with menus or papers for her to autograph, and she was signing and smiling. Then one of the men I’d noticed came closer. He was back about three people from her, carrying a paper in his left hand, but he still had his glass in his right.

I slid between the worshipers and came up to him as if I were heading on to the men’s room. He ignored me, and I tipped an ounce of my soda water into his glass.

It boiled up like lava, spitting acid all over his hands and up into his face. He yelled and dropped the glass, spilling its contents down his leg. This made him hop and scream, hurting too badly to run away. But I wanted him immobilized, so I gave him a discreet smash in the kidneys. He fell, and I went for the other guy. He was making for Melanie, but I kicked him behind the knee, and he buckled. I shoved him down and knee-dropped on his spine and frisked him, finding a straight razor in his top pocket. He was facedown on the carpet, struggling, but I chopped him across the back of the neck with my right hand, and he went limp.

I was on my feet instantly, watching for more trouble. But it was over. The hotel security man was in the room, and he had grabbed the first creep, the one with the acid on him. The guy was screaming like a burning horse, and the rest of the crowd was yelling and hissing with fear and astonishment. One of them was keening and holding his hand over a burn on his wrist. He was going to sue, I learned as I relieved the house dick, who ran for the phone.

One of the bar patrons stooped down past me. “I’m a doctor,” he said. I glanced up. My charge was safe. One of her fans had gotten the message and had taken his jacket off, ready to cover her if anyone tried a reprise. I took a moment to tell the doctor, “It’s acid; he was after Miss Keene.”

“Then he deserves what he got,” the doctor said grimly, but he was using his beer to wash the acid off the man’s face as he spoke.

“Hold him,” I said, and grabbed the water jug off the bar. Angel of mercy Locke. I wondered what this guy thought of his occupation right now. It didn’t have the same appeal it had held when he came in here, I figured.

The house dick was back within seconds, and I headed for Melanie. Her fan was disconcerted. He was a good-looking guy. Maybe he was hoping to be discovered. I gave him a big smile and spoke to her. “Let’s go, Miss Keene. They can clean this up without you.” To the guy I said, “Thank you, sir, you were very quick. Tell the detective what you did.”

That bought him off, along with the smile Melanie flashed him. He turned away, and she looked up at me, holding her left hand on her heart, cupping her breast as if she didn’t know the effect it had on every male hormone in the room. “The bastards. They were trying to scar my face,” she whispered, and I thought, Prince of Darkness, the nightclub scene.

“Let’s go before the police get here,” I said, keeping a big smile on my face. She stood up, and I steered her to the door with my left hand, making sure I had a clear sweep at my gun with the right. There was a chance yet that this team comprised all Three Stooges. It didn’t seem likely. Two big strong men should have been plenty to damage one small woman, especially when one of them had a jug of hydrochloric acid.

I whisked her into the elevator and pushed her into a corner, behind me, until the doors closed. Then I eased up a fraction. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She wasn’t acting now. She was trembly but tough. “Thanks to you. How did you know?”

“You can tell,” I said.

“But what did you do? Nudge him, what? How come he burned himself?”

“I was just testing. If he’d been holding a drink, nothing would have come of it. But if you add water to acid, it boils. It boiled up over him.”

“Thank you, John,” she said soberly. “You saved me.”

“Just gave new meaning to the expression ‘saving face,’ ” I said cheerfully. “Now stand behind me when the door opens.”

She did as she was told, and I got off first and checked the corridor. There was nobody waiting, and I handed her the key. “Let yourself in. I’ll keep my hands free.”

She did it while I watched the corridor, and when we were inside, I slipped the chain on and said, “Sit down. Would you like a drink of water?”

“Please,” she said, and sat down. Her dresser came out of the bedroom, surprised, and Melanie smiled weakly at her. “A change of plans, Juanita. I’m going to wait here for the limousine.”

I left them talking details while I got her the glass of water and then checked with the front desk. A couple of cops had arrived to take the two guys into custody. The detectives would be coming up soon, I was told, but Melanie shook her head at that one. She couldn’t wait while an investigation plodded to its end. She had a meeting with a producer in L.A. the next morning, and she was going to be on her plane no matter what. I didn’t argue. It probably meant one of the guys would get a free trip to Hollywood to take her statement. Most cops I’ve known would be delighted at that prospect. I asked the desk to hold the limousine until the house detective was free and have him stand by it until we came down. As I hung up, I noticed an acid burn on the cuff of my jacket.

“Hey. He spoiled my threads,” I said, half-kidding.

“I’ll replace it,” Melanie said crisply. “And there’s a two- grand bonus in this for you. Tell Sol I’ve okayed it.” She was all business. We had spent the last three nights together, but she gave no sign. The attack had forced her outside herself. She was a survivor, checking the state of the crew of the lifeboat. I admire that kind of sense.

The detectives arrived within minutes, and one of them rode to the airport with us, taking Melanie’s statement. Mine he would get later, he told me. She expanded for him, acting tough but scared. I could imagine him in the squad room later, telling everybody what a ballsy broad she was.

News of the attack had got out, and by the time we reached the airport, there were reporters and TV cameras as well as an extra contingent of fans. It didn’t figure that anyone would try anything in front of all that media coverage, but I Stayed alert while Melanie blew kisses and told everyone what a wonderful bodyguard I was. Good publicity except that my head was bobbing around the whole time, checking for danger. I must have looked a little spastic. Anyway, she paid me off with a kiss before she left the limelight, and I escorted her through to the aircraft and saw her aboard. I was carrying my Walther PPG, but the airport security chief is a friend from my army days, and he’s given me a pass that skates me around the difficult bits. So twenty minutes later I was out in the concourse, unnoticed except for the detective. I was unemployed again, but I had five grand in receivables plus the price of a new suit. And who could tell? Perhaps a wealthy client would see my face on the eleven o’clock news. I took the detective to the bar and ordered us both a double Bushmills while he took my statement. Not the worst of days, I decided.