There was silence, then the man said, “How long has it been, Father? Five, six years?”
“At the very least.”
“Father. Considering we never had one…that has a very strange ring to it, don’t you think?” He paused, trying to comprehend something, then bobbed his head, a strange smile on his lips. “Father. Or can I still call you brother?”
3
Michael Charger saw them coming, all mouth and drunken swagger, but planned to sit tight, let events unfold as they would. Come what may, the tab could never be squared from where he sat. Still, all things considered—the coked-out temper tantrums, head-lopping of writers, directors and other key staff who were expected to make gold out of crap, what with the star himself barely able to throw a believable punch without umpteen takes, slow-motion choreography or computer graphics added postproduction—he figured to enjoy a live show where life might well imitate art.
The former United States Navy SEAL captain gave his two twenty-something buddies a grin, shook his head. The two knuckleheads came into focus from the east quad. It was crystal clear where they were headed and the object of their scorn. Roy Barnwell and Jimmy Rosco fidgeted, scowling. Charger could understand their dilemma. It was called job security.
Charger knew life in the fast lane of Hollywood was their only battlefield to date. At their tender age—with their fat paychecks—he suspected they feared the all-night parties with beautiful groupies and noses dug into conveyor belts of cocaine might skid to a screeching halt. Obscure in their profession, at best, he was sure they would be first in line to get kicked off the gravy train if something should happen to Bret Cameron.
The drunks in question cranked it up another decibel, pointing and laughing at Hollywood’s latest hunk as they bridged the gap. Sid Morheim, Cameron’s agent, became a human cannonball, shot out of his leather throne. The local groupies followed his mad dash for the photographers with squeals of delight. The tabloid flunkies smelled blood, no question, ready to cash in from the anticipated fracas.
Maybe the agent had arranged a publicity stunt to sell more tickets for the guy’s latest sequel, Charger thought. As a soldier who knew the score in the real blood-and-guts world, this bunch came straight from planet Phony. In his experience there were no decent human beings in the movie business.
Were it not for who he’d been in real life, it might have bugged him to no end being the guy’s stunt double. He was often mistaken in public for the star by beautiful young barracudas. There was some resemblance in physique, but the faces didn’t quite match other than lean and mean hawkish. Age, for one thing, not so much in years, but wear and tear of grim experience under the fire of live rounds. Scars around the eyes and jaw from the kissing end of bullets were another problem, requiring touching up in the cutting room with computer graphics often switching mugs for any shot other than long. To keep Bret Cameron on top, superhuman tough for the world to behold, took three of them, and he figured they’d shared more concussions, burns, broken bones and torn ligaments, more stitches scalp to foot than many of the surviving war victims he’d seen in both Gulf wars, and beyond.
Charger could see his comrades growing more agitated to help Tyrell and Guamo run interference, but two things most likely kept them glued to their seats. One, they looked up to him, as the right stuff who had actually lived the kind of life the star only portrayed on the big screen. Two, they wouldn’t mind seeing Cameron smeared by some truly righteous press if he got knocked on his can, and let Sid the Squid spin that. Rumors were the movie star had enough skeletons to keep his agent busy greasing tabloids as it stood. The little bejeweled, toupeed agent swept dirt under the rug often over any sordid mess created by their actor.
One of the drunks was out of the agent’s stratospheric reach.
“Hey…movie star! Yeah, you, hero! How about an autograph?”
Charger lifted his beer, sipped, smiled. As the men moved for a close-up, their laughter took on a mocking note. One of them treated Cameron to an up-and-down look of pure contempt, then squeezed his package, asking his buddy in broken English why would such a big man need to pay underaged girls to lie to the tabloids about his sexual prowess.
Cameron looked stunned into paralysis by such disrespect.
The ex-SEAL suddenly wondered about that himself as he recalled whispered rumors how the star stayed so coked up Viagra was his only face-saving grace.
The show went on.
About five hundred pounds of steroid-buffed muscle, the salt-and-pepper bodyguards, made their move. The last of the teenagers, Charger saw, was scurrying off—or did Cameron give the boy a shove? The skinny kid looked flabbergasted, clutching an autographed poster like his ticket to paradise when he was nearly bowled down by Tyrell. One of the female hangers-on started giggling, looking hopeful for bloodshed. Sid Morheim bulled into the paparazzi, pink, diamond-studded fingers swishing away cameras. What Charger hoped would become a full-scale brawl, with Cameron on the deck, ended in only a short pushing and cursing contest. Reflex, though, spurred, no doubt by stung pride and a brain fried on coke, caused Cameron to wrench free of the blond trophies, step up and smash the challenger in the nose. It looked to Charger like one of Cameron’s best shots, an award winner, in fact, that mashed beak, blood taking to the air from the burst faucet all but assuring a lawsuit. Worse still—Tyrell already had the drunk in a headlock, the cheap shot sure to have been caught on film.
Then a riot nearly erupted.
Guamo descended on the other heckler, speared a palm to sternum that sent him backpedaling in a lively jig step. His windmilling arms brought down a waitress with a squeal and crash of glass on the deck. The first drunk was squawking about assault, railing on about cops and lawsuits and sucker punches. Cameron was snarling some tough guy line from a safe distance while Morheim bleated at his meal ticket to stand down. Hotel security came flying into the tussle next from out of nowhere.
Charger looked away. He’d had enough. Money would change hands, the paparazzi film would be seized or they’d be briefed in private how it should play in the papers.
Charger put his full attention back on the blond woman in the white dress and her dark companion. For his money, both of them had stolen the spotlight in passing, moments ago.
Charger’s nameless movie queen was sitting under a thatched umbrella, one long luscious leg crossed over the other, watching from a distance with a neutral look. It was her tall companion, though, who had Charger looking hard and wondering what his act was all about. The sun setting to throw dark shadows their direction, the woman’s companion was all but obscured, nothing but a tall, broad specter. But Charger had seen enough, instinct shouting to the ex-SEAL this man was solar systems different, the way he was from Bret Cameron.
Another warrior, yes, sir, tried and true, in the living flesh.
YZET GOLIC WAS DISGUSTED. An ex-captain in the Serbian army, he was used to giving the orders, followed without hesitation or fail. Once upon a time the mere mention of his name struck terror into hearts, and anyone—Serb or Muslim—paid him due respect, unless they wished to see themselves and their entire families hacked to death or shot without warning. Entire fields and valleys all over Bosnia claimed the bones of Muslim men, women and children who had been shot simply for breathing the same air. Years after they shut down the prison camp he ran, NATO do-gooders were still tripping over skulls around Sarajevo, shouting his name all the way to the Hague like an obscenity. Spineless fools. The war he’d waged, he’d long