Hero, p.1
Hero, page 1
HERO
THOMAS
PERRY
To Jo
HERO
1
Justine Poole sat at her desk in the middle of the big open office of Spengler-Nash Security and stared at her computer screen. The image was from a security camera on the corner of a house’s roof. It was in color and it was clear. The equipment was high-end and well-aimed, focused on the front gate. The house wasn’t visible from this angle, but it was obviously large, like the two houses partially visible across the street, and it had a high hedge that Justine guessed must keep it very private from the ground level. The gate was also high, flanked by brick stanchions with antique-looking lights mounted on the tops. This was during bright daylight, so the lights were off. The stanchion on the right had a keypad and intercom facing the driveway.
A young woman was pushing a baby carriage up the sidewalk outside the fence toward the house. Behind Justine, Rena Todar said, “LA Mother of the Year. That baby can’t be more than three months old, but Mom’s already wearing a crop top to show off her abs.”
“Yes,” Justine said. “I’m thankful that I have a lovely personality and don’t have to cheapen myself with exercise and sensible eating.”
“What is that, anyway?”
“Security camera footage Ben sent me to take a look at. It’s a follow-home. She’s about to get robbed.”
As the young mother pressed a code on the keypad at the gate, a car pulled up in the street behind her and parked. The gate’s electric motor rolled the gate open and the woman pushed the carriage into the driveway and punched in the code again. She turned to continue up her driveway as a man jumped out of the back seat of the car and ran to straddle the single track for the gate’s wheels. The woman pushed the stroller toward the house, but the gate didn’t close behind her.
“See?” Justine said. “He’s standing in front of the electric eye so the gate won’t close.” The gate reversed its motion to reopen the rest of the way, and the car swung to get its nose into the driveway and stopped. The woman took a few running steps up the driveway, pushing the carriage ahead of her.
“Nice car,” Rena said. “Brand-new Audi.”
Now that the car was blocking the gate, the man was free to catch the woman, which he did in three steps. He put one hand on the carriage’s push handle to stop it and kept his other hand in the pocket of his hoodie. He seemed to be holding a gun. The progress of the carriage resumed, but slowly, with the mother and the robber walking together toward the house. They passed under the camera and disappeared from its view.
The car’s driver remained at the wheel, but two other men wearing hoodies now emerged from the car with their hands in their hoodies’ pockets and walked quickly under the camera and out of sight. Justine said, “And that’s that. If you fast-forward about ten minutes you see the guys reappear carrying big trash bags, get in, and drive away. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a problem,” Rena said. “There’s a state law that you have to install the electric eye to keep a gate from closing if there’s anything in front of it, but it might be worth thinking about rewiring around it at our clients’ houses.”
“That’s a nonstarter.” Ben Spengler had come out of his glassed-in office to the open bay. “As soon as we do that, somebody’s kid is going to get squished in his parents’ gate.” Justine and Rena swiveled in their chairs to face the blond, heavyset man.
Rena said, “What good is having an unscrupulous employer if we have to follow rules like that?”
“Beats me,” Spengler said. “Any other ideas?”
Justine said, “So far all that occurs to me is to tell them to look over their shoulders every fifty feet, or hire us to do it for them.”
“That one sounds good. You can double my income. Which reminds me.” He held up a sheaf of papers in his hand and shook it to make a shuffling noise. “I’ve got some last-minute changes to the assignments for tonight. One’s for you, Justine. You’re going with Marcia Min tonight. She’s doing a surprise appearance at the Comedy Pit to try out new material. You’re alone on this one, but the bouncers there know you, and they’re competent.” He walked away across the big room and yelled, “Baker! Mitnik! Fresh assignments!”
Two hours later Justine drove up to Marcia Min’s building in her own small gray car. The policy at Spengler-Nash was that surprise appearances at clubs should be actual surprises, so the celebrity needed to be spirited in. Justine liked it, because anyone who might cause trouble would not have time to dream up something ugly and get ready to do it. Justine looked up and could see Marcia’s face in the window of her upper-floor apartment looking down at her. From so far away Marcia looked like a child—a sad, lonely one. She disappeared from the window and Justine returned her attention to the street, the sidewalks, and the nearby buildings. After about five seconds she talked into the speaker on her phone.
“This is Poole. I’m at the client’s home and we’re on schedule.”
A female voice said, “Acknowledged.” Neither of them said the client’s name or the address or the destination, any of which would be inviting company.
Marcia Min was dangerously popular right now. Two years ago, she’d had a big national stand-up tour and a streamed television special, and then spent last year in LA shooting two full seasons of a television show based on her comedy, called Shanghaied. That title had made Justine wince, but she supposed the only people the world could be sure had never shanghaied anybody were the people who lived there, and a hit was a hit.
The whole country wanted a third season, even though only the first one had aired so far. The network had given Marcia’s agent an opening offer for a third but it was insultingly cheap, so her agent had leaked a rumor that the show was being canceled. The resulting wave of online outrage had been so overwhelming that the network had been rocked back on its heels, but not so much that it forgot to use the public reaction as a chance to raise their advertising rates for the show’s already-shot second season. Justine suspected that Marcia’s sudden impulse to test new material at the Comedy Pit was actually a quiet reminder to the network that any time she wanted to go back to making a fortune on the live performance circuit, all it would take was asking her agent to hire a bus.
Justine saw Marcia come out the front entrance of her building wearing a pair of jeans and a leather jacket, trot to the car, and take the passenger seat. “Hey, Justine,” she said. “You know where we’re going, right?”
“Yep,” Justine said. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I love that jacket, by the way.”
“If you let my enemies kill me, you can strip it off my body before the cops arrive. You can have the bullet hole patched good as new.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Justine said.
“Maybe we can even do a trade. I like those bodyguard suits you guys wear to some of these gigs. They have sort of an Anime Badass Motorcycle Emergency Sex thing going on.”
“That’s my world, all right,” Justine said. “Let me tell you what I’d like to do when we get to the club. The bouncers are saving a parking spot in back by the dumpster. There are two bouncers, I think both of them hired since you played there. Ali is a slim, dark man about forty who’s a lethal martial arts guy, but he looks normal. Bobby is a big guy, looks like a college linebacker. I’d like Bobby to go in ahead to block the view of you a little until we get to the stage. I’ll be right behind you, so nobody approaches you that way. You step right up onto the stage. Barry, the manager, will be acting as emcee. He’ll hand you the microphone and step away. The only lights will be on you, and I’ll be at the front table to your center left. If you see a problem from up there, point at it.”
Marcia said, “Sounds good.”
“Great,” said Justine. “Anything I should watch for tonight? Offended religious groups? Political stuff? Process servers?”
“Nothing so far, but it’s not even nine o’clock yet. Maybe a scorned lover or two and some angry wives.”
“If I see a couple of those, I’ll try to fix them up with each other.”
“That’s actually a pretty funny idea.”
“Consider it yours,” Justine said. “We’re six minutes out now. I’ll be quiet so you can think.”
Justine drove while Marcia devoted the time to scrutinizing her makeup, making tiny, invisible changes to it, and brushing her hair, but Justine knew her brain was running through what she was going to say.
Justine turned west on Sunset and pulled the car into the narrow driveway that led to the alley behind the Comedy Pit and into the small employee parking area behind the building. She parked in the only empty spot, and Ali the bouncer stepped up and opened the car door for her. “Hi, Ali,” she said. “I’ll leave the key in it.”
“Thanks, Justine.”
She looked to the side and saw Bobby beside the rear door of the building. He was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. “Hi, Bobby. Are you going in first?”
“Sure. Unless—”
“Perfect,” she said. She looked back into the car at Marcia. “Ready?”
“Eager.” Marcia got out of the passenger seat and came around the front of the car. “Thank you for doing this, guys. I’ll just piss everybody off a little and we’ll be back out before the traffic light changes.”
Justine looked at her watch. “Okay, Bobby. It’s time.”
Bobby waited until Marcia Min was close behind him before he stepped in, and Justine followed a step behind Marcia. Ali shut the door behind Justine and stayed in front of it to be sure nobody else got in. In side there was only a four-foot landing before the beginning of the stairway down to the “pit.” The walls of the staircase were red brick with the half-readable skins of peeled-off posters. The staircase was a dozen steps in a single flight. Five steps down the left wall ended, replaced by a stretch of open space with a steel railing, so Justine had a view of the crowd.
The thirty tables were packed with people, everyone’s chairs turned toward the little platform that served as a stage. Justine had several thoughts at once. There were too many people, almost certainly a violation of the fire regulations, but she decided that for the moment she should let it go, because her job now was protecting Marcia Min for an appearance that would probably be fifteen minutes. The crowd also made her think that Marcia’s surprise visit was a secret that had gotten out. This was a Monday night on a nothing week in mid-summer.
When she turned her eyes forward again, Bobby was taking the last of the steps down. He paused, standing straight and tall enough to obscure the two women behind him from the view of the audience. About three seconds later, the comedian on the stage gave a bow, said “Thanks for coming,” waved, and handed the cordless microphone to Barry, who was already there to receive it. Barry yelled, “Give it up for Danny Rastow!” There was a roar of applause that Justine suspected wasn’t entirely for Danny Rastow. It lasted a few seconds and grew as Danny Rastow jumped down from the low stage and out of the spotlight into near invisibility.
During the applause Barry stepped into the spotlight, leaving the area at his feet in shadow while a woman seated there got up and Justine slid into her seat. Meanwhile, Bobby the bouncer crossed the room in an aisle between tables, holding the attention of a percentage of the audience.
Barry said, “We have a pleasant surprise tonight. I just noticed that a dear friend of the Comedy Pit is here. Please welcome—Miss. Marcia.” The applause began and intensified, a couple of screams were added, and Barry shouted, “MIN!” The audience roared. Marcia Min took two running steps out of the shadows. Her third step was a leap up onto the stage and into the spotlight, where she accepted the microphone and said, “Thanks, Barry,” words that were simply tossed up against the wave of sound from the audience.
In the previous second, after seeing Marcia make it onto the stage without falling, Justine had already taken her eyes and mind off Marcia Min and turned them onto the audience. Her eyes were busy scanning the people at the tables and the bar, looking for facial expressions that were out of place or out of proportion, or for any physical movement that might reveal a problem was coming.
Justine didn’t listen to Marcia Min’s new anecdotes and observations, because she was making an effort to keep her ears tuned to the sounds that weren’t coming from Marcia Min. Her full attention was aimed outward from her spot in front of the stage, keeping the glare of the spotlight behind her so her pupils would be slightly dilated and sensitive to the shapes and movements in the audience and the periphery around and behind it, where trouble nearly always began.
The sets at the Comedy Pit were fifteen minutes. They might stretch it for somebody like Marcia Min, but not much, because it would take minutes away from somebody else’s fifteen. Justine was aware that Marcia was getting big laughs, bringing the audience with her into the complicated, surprising narratives she liked to tell in these intimate spaces.
Justine had been assigned to protect comedians many times since her first one just after she’d turned twenty-one. That night she had made a mistake and had been glad that Ben Spengler had been there to correct her. There was a heckler in the audience and Justine had stepped away from the wall where she’d been standing and begun to edge closer to him, preparing to distract him and signal for the bouncers. Ben was suddenly beside her and whispering in her ear, “Come back.” They had stepped back to the wall, the act had ended, and nothing bad had happened. Later he’d said, “Don’t bother with hecklers. Humiliating them is part of the comic’s trade. They practice it, test new put-downs, and so on. You’re just here so nobody gets hurt—physically, not psychologically.”
Justine saw something that held her attention and the memory was gone. There was a young woman with a black cloth bag between her feet under her table. Nearly every other face in the audience was up and looking at the stage, but hers was looking down. The man sitting beside her had the large-screen version of the latest iPhone, and he was looking at the screen. He must know that comedy clubs didn’t allow anyone to record performances, so what was he doing? Justine scanned the room to locate Bobby, but he seemed to have gone upstairs to the front door. She looked at the young woman and saw her pull both feet back beneath her chair to shift her weight to the balls of her feet. That was bad news. Justine brought her feet back, too, and moved to the edge of her seat.
The young woman made a sudden lurch forward, and now she held something in both hands as she charged the low stage. At the same moment her male companion stood, his phone’s camera following her advance. Justine sprang up, pushing off hard to pick up two steps on the young woman. The young woman had both hands palms-up to hold the object. Justine was only a half-step behind and gaining when she recognized the object as a cream-topped pie in a round foil pan. Justine’s left hand pressed down on the woman’s forearm so the pie tilted downward. The woman compensated by increasing her upward pressure, and Justine instantly lifted with both hands to amplify the woman’s effort. The pie arced upward into the woman’s face. The pan fell, leaving a mess of whipped cream and strawberry covering her hair and eyes, so she was forced to stop and paw at her face because she couldn’t see where she was going. Justine gently sat her down on the floor in front of the stage.
The man took a step toward Justine, but when Justine turned her head to look at him, something about her made him freeze and back up.
Above them, Marcia Min was laughing, so the audience laughed too. “You baked that for me, hon? That was really thoughtful. I’d lick your face, but my time is up and I’m afraid I’ve got to go. Thanks, everyone!” She curtsied and threw a kiss, and then spun, stepped off the stage, and climbed the stairs quickly. Justine stepped up behind her so nobody else could follow.
As they emerged from the back door of the Comedy Pit, Justine said to Ali, “Thank you, Ali.” She handed him two envelopes, one with “Bobby” written on it and the other with “Ali.”
He said, “You don’t have—”
“No, but Spengler-Nash does.”
She and Marcia got into her small gray car, and Justine swung out onto Sunset and drove off. Marcia was laughing. “That was insane. You’re just like a snake.”
“Thank you, I think,” Justine said. “Have you ever seen them before?”
“No, but since people learned I broke up with Allen last week a couple of online tabloids have been making a story out of it, saying he’s devastated and I’m a cold-hearted bitch and all that. What they don’t seem to know is that he was so heartbroken that he had to console himself in advance while he was in New York.”
“Really?”
“Yep, with three different women—two models and an actress. Any publicity is usually good, but I hope this pie thing doesn’t catch on.”
“No hard feelings? Real ones, I mean?”
“None on my side, and he gets to keep the models and actress until they read about each other.” She looked at her watch. “That was fun, but I’m tired. We’re doing a retake tomorrow and I’ve got to go in for hair and makeup at six A.M.”
“It takes the same time to get you home as it did to get you here,” Justine said. “We’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes.”
Ben Spengler watched the dark blue Mercedes crawl past Mystique Restaurant for the third time. There were two young men in the front seat and at least two in the back, and maybe another between them. Spengler glanced at his watch. It had only been five minutes this time. The intervals were getting shorter. He suspected it was because they didn’t want to miss the moment when the high-value diners paid their checks and went home. Tonight, Jerry and Estelle Pinsky were in there meeting with some other charity donors about another idea for saving some part of the world, and the bodyguard keeping an eye on the Pinskys was Ben Spengler. He seldom gave himself client protection assignments anymore, but the Pinskys were old Hollywood, and they had been paying Spengler-Nash for security since practically his grandfather’s time. Giving them the boss’s personal attention was a courtesy.
