Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series) (16 page)

Someone behind us snorted. I turned and saw two female office workers at the rear of the elevator, likely leaving for lunch. They both giggled.

"Sorry."

"Don't be," one of the girls replied. She had red hair and wore thick glasses. She clutched a diet book in one hand and a bag of potato chips in the other. Her friend was a slender Asian with a dour face.

We rode in silence to the parking lot. As the girls walked away, the Asian girl turned to my way. "Quick question?"

"Huh? What?"

"
Which
pretentious little shit were you referring to?"

Another burst of muffled laughter. Judd, who was driving, beeped his key chain. We found the brand new silver Lexus. I slid into the plush upholstery of the passenger seat. I was still fuming.

"Take it easy, damn it," Kramer said. "At least wait until we're out of the fucking parking lot before you have a meltdown."

"Did you see that little putz?"

Kramer started the car. Rock and roll music blared. "I saw him. And by the way, I thought you handled that whole thing brilliantly. I was about to stage a walk out."

"It doesn't take a rocket scientist to realize he just wanted us to kiss his ring. Oh man, Judd, I don't know if I'm ready to start all this crap up again."

Kramer pulled out onto Riverside Drive. A Mercedes nearly clipped his bumper. He honked, and a gray-haired man in Armani shot him the finger. "Not ready for this? Now he tells me. Look, Mick you told me you wanted to get something rolling, so I got something rolling. Don't flake out on me."

"I know, I know. And I do appreciate your taking me on after all the bad stuff you've heard about me."

Kramer shrugged. "It wasn't all that bad, to tell you the truth. People over at the agency just said you were self-destructive. Like that's some kind of strange news for Hollywood."

"Want to get a coffee?" I felt thirsty and tired. "There's a place over near Lankershim that makes a great ice blended mocha."

We pulled into the chrome and glass shopping center in the newly revitalized NoHo Arts district. I jumped out, got in line and ordered two drinks while Kramer looked for a place to park. As I counted out change on the counter, I glanced up. The kitchen area was rimmed with mirrors. I caught a glimpse of someone watching from the sidewalk. It was a stocky, well-built blond man who wore sunglasses, a black T-shirt, and pale blue jeans. His arms were covered with fading tattoos. My heart kicked and my stomach went cold. I paid for the drinks and walked back outside.

The silver Lexus pulled up. "Hop in," Judd Kramer said. "I can't find a goddamned parking place anywhere. We'll drink them in the car. I should be getting back to the office soon, anyway."

I reached inside and handed Kramer his coffee drink. "You go on ahead, Judd. My car is only a few blocks down the street. I'll walk. Thanks for putting up with me."

"You sure, Mick? It's hot as hell out here."

"I'm sure. I'll call you at the beginning of the week and we'll put our thinking caps on. We need a plan B, just in case Young doesn't come along for the ride."

"Okay, then. Have a good weekend."

"You, too." I slammed the door and waved. Kramer slid out of the lot and into traffic. I sipped the frozen drink, gathering my thoughts. As usual, until I knew exactly what I was dealing with, I didn't want anyone else involved.

I strolled back to the sidewalk, into the shade and leaned on the window, half-facing into the coffee lounge. I sipped the drink and waited. After a few moments I saw the man again, behind the wheel of the red pickup truck. The same one he had driven the day he tried to follow me home from the gym.

I walked down a side street, moving in the direction of my car, back where I'd first met Kramer. The man tailing me would have no reason to be suspicious.

He wants to get me alone
. I began to cast about for a weapon. Expensive homes lined both sides of the street, all with well-manicured lawns and bushes. Towards the end of the block was an alley that ended at the back of Los Lobos, a famous Mexican restaurant. Some of the trash containers were metal.

I made a great show of finishing the drink and searching for an appropriate place to deposit the empty cup, then abruptly jogged towards the alley and angled across a lawn with hissing sprinklers. Behind me, I heard the driver gun the truck engine from reflex. I knew the alley was a dead end, and chances were so did the other guy. I kept my eye on a flight of concrete steps leading up to the back of the restaurant.

I bobbed, danced, and jumped as if pretending to play basketball and sailed the cup across the alley. It bounced off the rim of a can. I raised both arms as if in frustration and bent to pick it up. The truck eased into the alley behind me, engine purring. I tensed to run up the steps if the vehicle came closer, but the engine shut off and the alley went silent.

When I turned around the blond man was leaning on the truck, powerful arms folded over his chest. His face was a blank wall, and he still wore the sunglasses. I showed my empty hands.

"I think you've been looking for me. Well, here I am. What's on your mind?"

Watch out!
The man shifted his weight slightly and appeared to be reaching behind his back, so I brought the metal trash container up and around and charged. He brought his hands up just in time, blocked the blow with his forearms. The alley echoed with a crunching sound.

I pulled back and struck again. This time the blond man gave ground and backed into the driver's door. The container scraped some red paint from the hood of his truck. The man swore, ducked under the can and drove me backwards onto the floor of the alley. I kicked up with my knees and tried to roll the man back over his head. The can cut off my leverage.
Think, you stupid bastard
, my stepfather said.
Get up off your ass.

I slammed the can up into the man's face. His dark glasses flew off and his nose sprayed blood. He already had bruises around his eyes, as though he had recently suffered a beating. I elbowed the trash container away and tried to grab at his hair, but it was too short. I settled for thumbing an eye, then grabbed an ear and twisted.

The man screamed and slammed a fist down. It connected. I shook my head, jaw throbbing, and twisted the ear again. I felt the sensitive flesh begin to tear. The man struck again, but I moved out of the way at the last second. The fist struck asphalt, with the full force of his blow. The man screamed and fell backwards, nursing his fractured knuckles. I got up and looked around. No one was watching. I went down onto one knee. Both of us were panting.

"I want to know why you're following me."

"Jesus, my hand is broken," the man said. "I need a doctor."

"Talk to me, or I'll break something else."

"You fucked up my life," the man said. His breath carried the crisp stench of bourbon. "I just wanted some payback. Jesus this hurts."

"I don't even know you. How did I fuck up your life?"

"You remember Donna Edwards?" the man asked. I pictured a zaftig waitress who picked at her face, wore a lot of make-up, and couldn't seem to stop talking. I didn't answer.

"You saw her for a couple of months," the man reminded me. "You told her I was bad for her."

"Well, I must have had a reason to say that."

"We used to fight all the time. God this hurts! But you told her to get away from me, that I was some kind of batterer, or something. That was bullshit, man. She hit me more often than I hit her."

I sighed. "So you thought you would just follow me around and kick my ass to get even?"

The man started to cry. "I really loved her, man. I miss her. How can I get her back?"

The guy was drunk and in great pain, so I weakened. "I think you need to stop drinking."

"I miss her so much," the man said, ignoring me. He put his face into cupped palms, smeared fresh blood on his cheeks. "You don't know what it's like. You ruined my life."

I got to my feet and examined the torn knees of my jeans, waited for the crying to slow down. "Listen to me. You need to get some help a lot more than you need to kick my ass."

"I tried to stop drinking before," the man said. "It didn't work."

"You have to talk to people for it to work. You can't just sit there."

"I know I have a problem. I know."

"If you want to get her back that would be the best way."

"If I do, will you tell her for me?" the man asked. He looked like a lovesick teenager.

"The truth is that I haven't seen her for several weeks. I wasn't her regular therapist. So if you think you can send a message through me, you're wasting your time."

"Shit."

"Listen, man, get your life together."

"Do you think she'll take me back?"

"Beats me, but you'll be better off, I guarantee it."

"What should I do when I get clean again?"

"Then I guess you write her a letter, or something. But sober up or you lose, buddy. Beyond that, I can't help you." I started to walk away then stopped, turned. "By the way, have you been following me around on and off for a week or so?"

The man nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Forget it." I walked briskly away, feeling guilty and relieved all at the same time. "And hey, you might want to see a doctor about that hand."

My countdown was on the money. I slipped the final CD out of the player, started up the computer, and rolled the station ID all in one smooth motion. "This is Mick Callahan signing off for the night. We'll be playing smooth jazz from now until dawn, and I will be back with you again tomorrow night at the same time. Until then, sleep tight."

I popped a soft drink and rubbed my eyes. I was in no hurry to drive home. I went through some business correspondence, threw out some solicitations, even read some fan mail. One woman seemed to think I was the Second Coming of Jesus, but another the reincarnation of Adolph Hitler. There was no accounting for taste.

I opened my laptop, booted up, and read the news postings on the Internet service. I checked my email and found one from Hal Solomon.

Young stallion:

First, thank you for once more providing some brief escape from the turgid, trance-inducing rhythms of a wealthy retirement. I have been driving my people almost as crazy as if they still reported directly to me, rather than to that moron to whom I sold my holdings. I think they still love me, or at least they seem to understand my boredom. How many times in a week can one play a mediocre game of golf?

In truth, it is highly stimulating to once again feel a sense of purpose. As we discussed, I have put some of those over-paid former minions to work researching the decadent festival. Video will be streamed to you hard upon your request.

Incidentally, I have consulted a local physician to explore the source of my continuous flatulence. The man is a moron.

Take care,

Hal

I did not access the streaming video, since it would take longer to download and play on the smaller machine. I closed the laptop, packed my briefcase, and shut down the studio.

When I stepped outside the air was heavy with humidity and one solitary jet aircraft winked soundlessly beneath the surface of a pocked, gray moon. I searched the parking lot with my eyes, walked briskly to my car, looked around again and slipped the key into the trunk. I tossed my things inside and locked it, opened the door and got in. The car complained and the engine refused to turn over. I tried again, wondering if it had been tampered with.

It started.

I drove out of the parking lot, still checking in every direction but chiding myself for a bad case of nerves. After all, that mysterious feeling of being followed had just been explained. I changed lanes on the freeway, trying to catch someone following, but failed.

When I pulled into my driveway the side gate was slightly open. The hair on the back of my neck fluttered. Hadn't I closed it before leaving? Perhaps Mary had come outside to water some plants. I slid out of the car and moved quietly through the shadows to the side of the house.

I was suddenly illuminated in a bright pool of light and jumped back a step. The motion detector had kicked the porch light on. I located a metal spike from below the rose bushes and pulled it out.

I eased quietly into the back yard, stopped at each window to check that it had been properly latched. I tried the back door, and it was locked. I walked around to the north side of the house. I could not help tensing up as I approached the corner. I peeked around the edge of the building and then stepped out onto the cement sidewalk, makeshift weapon in hand.

The yard was empty.

Feeling foolish, I reversed my steps to put the metal spike back where it belonged, and then let myself in the front door.

"Mary?"

Not a sound. She's probably just asleep
. I closed the door, locked it and armed the alarm system. I crept down the hallway. The hardwood floors creaked. I gently opened the guest room door and peered in. There was a lump under the covers. I walked closer to listen for the sound of breathing.

Mary whined softly in her sleep and rolled over, her dark hair fanning out across the pillow. Again, she looked fifteen years old. Feeling foolish, I backed out of the room and closed the door. I put my briefcase down on the desk, kicked my boots off and stretched, then dropped into the executive chair.

I booted up the computer, flipped on the large color monitor, and dialed up the files Hal Solomon ordered. They told me Burning Man was an annual experiment in something euphemistically referred to as "temporary community," where the humans involved would
become
the entertainment they wished to see. The latest versions of the festival seemed to revolve around something called a "theme camp," arrived at by consensus among coteries of participants and acted out in costume. Small camp after small camp spiraled out from the center of the makeshift town itself, which was created where the four-story wooden figure of a man, based on those used in ancient pagan rituals, would be raised and eventually burned. I vaguely recalled seeing the figure on fire many years before, when I'd attended.