Daemon: Night of the Daemon

by Harry Shannon

  "I don't have a land line."

  "Don't you have a cell phone for emergencies?"

  "Somewhere. I forget."

  Charlie barked a laugh. "Oh, fuck you, Irish. Why won't you come back and work for me?"

  "The answer is always going to be the same," Lehane said. He paused, worked to soften his voice. He'd always liked Charlie. "That mess in Iraq burned me out."

  Charlie bobbed his head. His bald pate dripped with sweat. "I'm offering ten grand for two days, Jeff." The driver called Castle absorbed the staggering size of that offer and then radiated pure hatred.

  "I don't need the money."

  "I can't change your mind?"

  "Nope."

  Charlie Spinks sighed again, this time with resignation. "Come on, Brandy. Let's get your tight little ass back inside a casino." Castle turned and opened the front door. The girl jumped to her feet. When she brushed past Lehane, her perfume aroused him. He'd been without a woman for months. Lehane reluctantly raised one finger.

  "Out of curiosity, Charlie, why haven't you called Fletcher?"

  "He's in London this week."

  "Oh. Then what are you going to do?"

  Castle helped Brandy go outside onto the porch. The two of them moved toward the Mercedes arm in arm. In the doorway, Charlie paused and wiped his brow. "I guess I'll just have to bump Heather up to lead on this one."

  Lehane felt his heart twitch. His stomach took an elevator to the basement. "Excuse me?"

  Charlie started out the door. "She's been nagging me for months, angling to get on the fast track. I guess this will be her shot."

  Lehane shook his head. "You bastard."

  Charlie, all innocence: "What?"

  "You know she's not ready for that much pressure. Not yet, at any rate. She's only been with you for a couple of years."

  "She'll have to rise to the occasion."

  "Yeah, or maybe get herself killed."

  "Maybe." Charlie went outside. He closed the wooden door behind him. Lehane fought with himself and lost. The close proximity of a woman had made Heather's sultry memory hit him with overwhelming force. He opened the door and stepped out onto the wooden porch. Spinks was just getting into the dusty car.

  "Take it easy, Jeff."

  "Up yours, Charlie," Lehane shouted. "You think I'm that easy to manipulate?"

  TWO

  Wagon Wheel was the newest hotel on Paradise Road, near Riviera. It was a round, gaudy open-air site designed to host prizefights and rock concerts. The stage was currently decorated with red, white and blue banners. Lehane stepped out on to the catwalk above the arch and peered down over the edge at the huge, empty stadium. Row upon row of reserved seats encircled this part of the arena. He looked up at the far side of the enclosure. Several grips were busily taping down cables. Lehane spoke into his throat mike. "You okay up there, Pops?"

  "All set."

  He waved at Pops Keltner, who waved back. Lehane walked back toward the stage, rubbing his smooth jaw line. He missed the beard. Lehane looked down. The crew was busy as an ant colony. Some of the television cameramen, including one burly steady cam operator, were already practicing some diving, swooping moves. Lehane heard a crackle in his headset.

  "Irish, that you?"

  The speaker had a gruff Israeli accent. Lehane felt his face split into a grin. "It's me, Guri. Glad you're on the team."

  "You kidding? I got your six."

  Lehane turned. He located the handsome former Mossad agent and saluted. "You know about the meet at fourteen hundred, right?"

  "I shall be there. Have you been introduced to our baby yet?"

  "Not yet. I'll be going down to his dressing room in a few minutes."

  "He's a smart ass, Lehane. Got a real mouth on him."

  "So?"

  "So don't say I didn't warn you."

  The arena had been reasonably well-prepared. Ten cameras monitored the audience from a variety of angles, and there were two members of the security staff in the control booth from one hour before each scheduled show time until after the final curtain. The Vegas police had already gone through the premises with bomb-sniffing dogs. Nothing seemed out of place or disturbed from the night before. No name had been flagged by the computer system. Everything was on track.

  Then why am I so damned nervous? Lehane tried to reassure himself that jitters were normal after a long time off the job, but his gut wasn't buying it. Something about the entire enterprise felt out of synch.

  "Have you been here all night, or were you sniffing around Sandy Hammer?" The speaker was female. Heather.

  Lehane had a flash of vertigo at the sound of his ex-wife's voice. He kept his eyes fixed on the stage and did not turn around. "Hey, Heather."

  She walked steadily to the railing, stood next to him and looked down. "If I were going to put a cap in his ass, I'd do it from here, wouldn't you? And then get away from the roof."

  It was a game they had played many times before. "That's why we have a man near each emergency stairwell. They check in every ten minutes."

  "Nobody would hear a chopper come down during the show, though. Maybe I buy one of the two men, or kill him. Maybe have someone climb up and take one of them out, right after he checks in. Ten minutes would be enough time."

  Lehane turned to face her. Her creamy, chocolate-colored skin made his fingers twitch and feathered his breathing. Heather looked at him directly with large brown eyes. She was visibly upset. "This was my first shot at being the lead, Jeff. Why couldn't you have shown some class and respected that?"

  "How?"

  "You could have stayed the fuck away."

  Lehane shrugged. "Charlie upped the bucks. It's nothing personal."

  "Oh, bullshit." Heather stomped her left foot like a toddler. Lehane immediately wanted to kiss her neck. "You didn't think I was up to it, right? You thought you had to come and rescue my black ass."

  Lehane sighed. He shook his head, lied smoothly. "Don't make so much of it, Heather. I just needed some work. And I love your black ass."

  Her lip twitched and she softened. "Jeff, why didn't you talk to me first?"

  Lehane touched her hand. She pulled it away and stepped back, leading him further from the railing and back into the gloom of the stairwell. "I didn't know if you'd take my call, because of the way I left. Because of what happened."

  Her eyes reddened. "There ain't no us any more, you silly-assed, uptight, pale-skinned honky motherfucker." She made sure no one could see and then slapped his face. He saw the blow coming a mile away but didn't try to stop it. There wasn't much power there, so she wasn't trying very hard. His cheek stung for a couple of seconds.

  Heather said: "You rotten bastard." And then she impulsively kissed him. Lehane felt the entire world fall away into another dimension. Heather still tasted of her favorite chewing gum, just as he'd remembered. The feel of her breasts against his chest made his heart race. She stepped back and tenderly wiped her lipstick from his mouth.

  "What happened to you? Was it because of that thing in Iraq?"

  "Maybe."

  "Why?"

  "Not now."

  "Can we talk when this is over?"

  He nodded. "I'd like that."

  Heather glanced at her watch. "You'd best come on down and say hello to the great Enrique, then we'll get the staff meeting started."

  Lehane followed her to the high-speed, clear Plexiglas elevator. It was hard to stay a few feet away from her on the ride down, but the rest of the team would be watching, waiting and wondering. No point in setting up fresh rounds of gossip when there was a job to do.

  The elevator stopped at the stage level. They walked out onto rows of taped-down cables leading to gigantic amplifiers and speakers. The roadies were nearly ready for the sound check. Lehane watched them for a long moment, followed Heather into the emergency exit and its hallway. They went down a flight of stairs, their feet clanking noisily on the metal steps. He was about to speak to her when he noticed someone coming u
p the other way. Lehane stayed silent.

  Heather led him to a pair of huge, varnished doors on the ground floor. An arena security guard was leaning on the wall, smoking. He straightened up when he saw Heather, dropped the butt and opened one of the doors.

  "If you were one of mine," Heather snapped, "I'd fire your ass."

  "Sorry ma'am."

  Inside was an immense, plush carpeted meeting room with a wooden conference table perhaps twenty feet long. Several people sat talking around the table, some in the dark suits that served as uniforms for Spinks Security and some already in disguise as civilians. Heather went straight to the head of the table.

  "Let's get started," she said. Her manner was cool and professional. "Most of you already know Jeff Lehane. I've just been informed that he will be the lead on this one, so listen up." She stepped back and to one side. Lehane remained standing, but leaned forward on the back of the executive chair.

  "It seems to me you've all done a fine job so far. I just want to do one last quick rundown. Call me superstitious."

  "We called you more than that." The speaker was sitting next to the handsome Israeli agent, Guri Meier. Whiz Ligotti was a small wheelchair bound man with orange hair and coke-bottle glasses. He looked impossibly young, but was actually a hair shy of thirty. Whiz was a computer genius so gifted his work was generally classified by the government.

  "True enough," Lehane said. "Good to see you again, Whiz." He looked around the room. Some of the faces seemed welcoming, some deceptively bland, some outright hostile. Those seeking promotions would be worried he was back for good. "Let me make one thing clear from the start, guys. I'm doing this one job as a favor to Charlie. I have no plans to come out of retirement. You help me out here, so that things go smoothly, and I'll be out of your hair by tomorrow morning."

  "What if we don't, and the guy gets snuffed?" Guri, to general laughter.

  "Then I'll move into your neighborhood, marry your daughter without converting and mooch tickets during the high holidays."

  Lehane surveyed the team. He had some solid people. As he'd suspected, they'd even hired back Sandy Hammer, a sometime character actress and stunt woman known for her skill with makeup and disguise. Lehane had enjoyed a fling with her a few months back. Sandy had been a lot harder to forget than the others. She was too smart and funny to be marginalized.

  "Hi, sailor." Sandy winked at him and licked her lips, which was more than a bit amusing since she was already in character as a nun. The team laughed again.

  Some of the other players were also dressed as if for Halloween, since many of the concert fans would be in death-mask makeup as a fashion statement against war, poverty and starvation. The agents had to blend in.

  "Where's Pops?"

  "Here." The door opened and Darren Keltner strolled into the room.

  "Nice of you to join us, Pops."

  "I was just running some license plates from the parking lot," Pops replied. He winked at Heather and sat down. Pops was a hard man to ruffle. Although his college degree was in journalism, the sandy blond athlete had worked SWAT for LAPD. He was also a former Olympic finalist with a handgun. Pops had just turned forty and was the oldest member of the team.

  Lehane resumed. "Okay, one last gut check and a Q and A before we do this for real. Be advised Heather is second in command. She and I will be on the stage itself as roadies. I'm Top Dog. My call sign will be A1, and Heather is A2." Lehane saw Heather's eyes widen slightly. She hadn't expected him to share the primo spot. "Heather will take stage right, over by the bass player, and I'll be on stage left by the guitars. We'll be out of sight most of the time but never more than fifteen or twenty feet from Enrique. What are your assignments?"

  "I'm going to be right in the center of the crowd at the foot of the stage, like a boxer in drag as Mother Theresa. My call sign is B."

  "Left balcony, in a speaker box with a sniper scope," Guri Meier said, calmly. His accent was barely noticeable. "I'm call sign D."

  "And I'm E." Pops stretched and popped his neck. "I'll be in the right balcony, same set-up, because these Jews can't shoot straight."

  Guri threw a paper airplane and blew a raspberry. "You got us mixed up with the Arabs."

  Lehane grinned. He motioned to the faux nun. "What are you carrying, Sandy?"

  "Glock nine, Jeff. I've already checked the angle, and any misses from down center would go straight up into the acoustical ceiling tiles."

  "Good."

  "I'm up in the damned booth, on the camera with the house guys." Some of the afternoon sun burned through the thick window coverings. Lehane had to shade his eyes to see the back of the room. The man at the end of the table was tall and wide. He had a red-veined, bulldog face with buzz-cut grey hair. "I guess that makes me F for fucking useless."

  Everyone laughed again. The big man waited for the noise to die down. "As you already know, my name is Castle, Mr. Lehane. Mike Castle. I'm C."

  "I took a shot at you yesterday."

  "Believe me, I remember. Pops Keltner and I have worked together a couple of times before, so I've heard some pretty tall tales about you. Charlie brought me down from Vancouver to help out."

  "Come to think of it, I know your name from Europe, too, don't I?" Lehane moved around the table and walked closer. "You did some work in Bosnia."

  Castle smiled politely. "My reputation precedes me."

  "And what if you spot something on the monitors, Mike?" Lehane closed the distance. He wanted to look the man in the eyes. "What will you do?"

  "I call it in to everyone, including which sector and who to look for."

  "And?"

  "And nothing. I stay in the booth."

  "Exactly, because you're our eyes and ears. If you leave your post we're screwed. Now, do you have any hard feelings towards me, Mike?"

  "No hard feelings."

  "Don't trust the guy," Pops said in a stage whisper. "He's been known to welsh on bets. Besides, the bastard stole my girl."

  Lehane extended his hand, Castle took it. "Okay, let's do good work, Castle."

  "So who is this fucker we're guarding, anyway?"

  Heather answered from the end of the room. "Enrique is a political activist and rock and roll star who has managed to piss somebody off. That's all we really need to know."

  "What's he like?"

  "Opinionated."

  Someone knocked on the conference room door. Lehane let one hand drift to his weapon and motioned to Guri, who opened it and immediately stepped out of the way. Two men stood outside. One was overweight and sweaty, holding a large plastic water bottle. Lehane recognized him from the files as the rock star's manager, Dennis Levinson. The other was a remarkably handsome Latino with his long hair done in corn rows, Enrique Diaz. In person, Enrique seemed smaller than one would expect. He had a bright, wide smile and was slender but clearly athletic. He wore his hair in long dreadlocks, as a statement. Enrique's eyes roamed the room. He extended his hand. "Buenos dias."

  "Jeff Lehane. This is my crew."

  Enrique strolled into the room. When he saw Heather he smiled. "Ah, someone of color is employed here. How nice of you white folks."

  Lehane blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "I have just been puzzled by one thing," Enrique said. "You have a number of skilled people working for you, but no one of South American heritage and only one black. She is a woman, of course, but then we are not offering affirmative action points here, are we?"

  Levinson, the manager, gulped some water. "Enrique just wanted to come by and say hello," he mumbled. "I tried to tell him he should get to his room and grab a bit of rest before the performance."

  Lehane examined some lint on the dark carpet. He chose his words carefully. "I think we're getting off to a bad start, here. I assume you have noticed the hotel porter who was assigned to you this morning?"

  "The token Hispanic, Juan Garcia? Certainly. He doesn't say much, but then he's probably afraid to talk about working here. I've been known to have what s
ociety calls a big mouth."

  "Insert foot," Lehane said, mildly. "Because his real name is David Martinez and he works for me. He's a black belt in a number of schools and a crack shot. Kind of fools you with his step-and-fetch it act, doesn't he?"

  Enrique's jaw dropped. To his credit, he laughed. "Okay, that served me right, I suppose."

  Heather nodded. "Sure did."

  "Mr. Lehane, my people assure me that there is a need for all this extra protection. I'm not sure the threat has been exaggerated. This may all turn out to be a huge waste of time and money. Would you agree?"

  Lehane watched Levinson try to scowl and remain blank at the same time. The manager shook his head, ever so slightly. Lehane pretended not to notice. "I have seen photocopies of three separate notes threatening your life. The lab tests turned up nothing, which makes me nervous."

  Enrique frowned. "Because?"

  "An amateur always makes a mistake. They leave a trace of saliva, dirt, something we can work with," Lehane said. "A professional doesn't fuck up. Whoever this is, he is dedicated and quite serious about either shutting this show down or killing you, possibly both."

  "What exactly did the notes say?"

  Without dropping a beat, Lehane quoted one. "The beaner dies tomorrow. He goes on, I get off. Stuff like that."

  "A racist, then." It was not a question.

  "Not necessarily," Lehane said, calmly. "Like I said, he's a pro. The xenophobic stuff could be there to throw us off his trail."

  "His?"

  "It's probably a man. Can't be certain, of course."

  "Of course."

  Lehane eyed his team. He addressed Enrique. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

  "One last question, if you don't mind."

  "Shoot."

  "Exactly."

  "Excuse me?"

  Enrique sighed. "It is my understanding that your team may actually use deadly force if you confront a stalker in this situation."

  "Yes."

  "Even by sniper? Is that legal?"

  "If we need to shoot him," Lehane said, "be glad we're in Nevada. Charlie Spinks knows all the right people."