One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel (17 page)

"Do your folks still live there?"

I shook my head. "They're both gone. Actually, I never really knew either one. My biological father abandoned us. And I can't remember much about my mother. She died when I was a small boy."

"That's sad. Did you know her name?"

"Katherine." Saying my mother's name aloud still makes me sad, and it probably showed. "I think Callahan was her married name, but I'm not even certain of that. I could never be sure if my stepfather was lying. I think he genuinely loved Katherine, I remember him sobbing when she died, but it ate him up inside that she'd had a child by someone else."

"Wow." Her face softened. Mary smiled. "You should probably talk to a shrink about that."

"Believe me, I have." I leaned forward. "You're more comfortable running things, aren't you, Mary? Maybe you have a few trust issues of your own."

She crunched ice. "You could say that."

"Where are you from, Mary?" I used her first name again, hoping to bring us a bit closer. She was a strange one.

"I was born in Utah," she said. "We're almost neighbors."

"Whereabouts?"

"Salt Lake City."

"How old are you?"

"Oh, I'm going to be twenty-nine indefinitely."

We both grinned this time. "Not a bad idea. I intend to implement a plan like that just as soon as I turn forty. Let's just stop time in its tracks. And are your parents alive?"

Her head dropped. "My mother is in a convalescent home in Oregon somewhere. We haven't spoken in a long time. She was abusive as hell and never wanted to cop to it. It's too late now. She has wet brain from boozing."

"And your father?"

Mary looked up. "Another thing we have in common. He left us when I was a girl, although I was old enough to remember a few things."

"Like what?"

She sighed. Drifted far away. "He smelled like cigarettes and sweat, you know? And there was usually a bit of whiskey on his breath when he kissed me goodnight. He was huge, or maybe that's because I was so little. Such a wide chest, those big hands. He had a really low voice."

"You loved him."

Her eyes went damp. She didn't respond. I tried to get into her head space. "You waited by the window for him to come home," I said softly. "For his headlights in the driveway. You loved the way his beard scratched against your face, even though it hurt. You wanted to be his special one forever."

Mary wiped her eyes. "What are you trying to do to me?"

"Every little girl wants to be Daddy's little girl, Mary. It's as normal and healthy as breathing. It's part of how we grow up. It must have hurt like hell when he didn't come home."

"He beat her," Mary said. "Not all the time, but often enough."

"Your father hit your mom."

"And yeah, he knocked me around a little, too, but only if he was really, really smashed. And that was usually because I tried to get in the middle."

"They both drank."

"Lots of people drink. Lots of people fight." Mary shrugged. "And lots of kids grow up that way. I've been known to take a drink now and again myself. You got sober, though, right?"

"Yes."

Her eyes flickered with something that looked an awful lot like scorn. "Are you one of those Bible-thumping AA demagogues, Mick? Are you going to save my immoral soul from the fires of hell?"

It seemed wise not to respond. I just let her sit with what she'd said. Mary had the good grace to blush, although she offered no apology. The kid had a real temper. After a long beat, I decided to respond to the subtext of what she'd just said.

"AA isn't perfect, Mary. It's not for everyone. And it certainly has the same percentage of assholes as any other group. There are dogma freaks who speak in bumper stickers and there are sociopaths and whiners, but a lot of reasonable healthy people, too. There are a lot of different kinds of drunks, and there are different kinds of recovery."

"So you did the bit, then? You got a sponsor and everything. Wow."

"My sponsor, Hal, has become my best friend. I don't know if it's like that for other men, but it worked that way for me."

Mary was doing some kind of a slow burn. The question was whether or not to add fuel to the fire. We could also just change the subject and come back to alcoholism and AA later. I split the difference. "Did one or both of your parents try the program? Have you been to meetings?"

A hit, a palpable hit
. Mary got redder. "Let's just say I'm not fond of the whole twelve-step thing and leave it at that."

"Okay, fine with me. As I said, it's not for everybody." There was now a large elephant in the room neither one of us wanted to talk about.
Screw it.
"Did you come here to talk about alcohol and drugs, or do you have something else on your mind?"

Mary said, "How much do you charge?"

Damn, can this girl tap dance
. "My stated fee is a hundred and fifty dollars an hour, but we can negotiate if that becomes a hardship."

"It became a hardship the second you said it. You must be pretty rich."

"Actually, far from it. However, what I make or don't make shouldn't really concern you beyond whether or not you can personally afford my services. Or do you kind of resent people who make serious money? I'm just curious."

She closed her purse and composed herself. "I've taken up a half an hour of your time, and I have maybe sixty dollars in cash on me. Let's call it even."

I weighed her nervousness. She was definitely on the way out. "No, in that case keep your money. We're already here now, so let's just talk. If I can't help, maybe I can refer you to someone else."

"Why?" She studied me suspiciously. "You ever hit on a client, Mick? You seem like the type who would."

What a button pusher
. "No, that's a line I won't cross. Some day you'll have to explain why I seem like the type."

"You don't. I lied. I just wanted to hurt you back."

"Hurt me back? What have I done that caused you pain?"

"You got born."

"Excuse me?" She got up. So did I. Normally I would have given up on her, but for some reason I couldn't let go. "Don't leave yet, Mary, let's finish up the hour."

She moved hurriedly to the door but then paused and turned with one hand on the knob. "I'll make you a deal, Mick Callahan. We'll finish the hour under one condition."

"What?"

"We go for a walk, you and me. There's a bar down the street. You can drink cola or whatever the hell you want, but right now, I need a cold beer and a shot."

"I won't do that."

"Afraid you'll drink, too?"

"Actually, no. It's just not appropriate."

She turned the knob a few times as if hoping to change her destination to somewhere more acceptable. "Mick, was your father named Michael?"

"So I was told. Why?"

"When I tell you, believe me, we'll both need a drink."

"Mary, what the hell is going on? Let me level with you. It took me a while, but I recognize you now."

Her brown eyes widened. "You do?"

"You've followed me around. I've noticed you a couple of different times. Like you wanted to approach me but felt too shy. You've gone to a lot of trouble to be here if it's just for an autograph and a hug. You may as well get something more out of this."

"Man, you are
slow
."

She opened the door and went out into the waiting room. I followed, honestly bewildered. Mary went to the stereo, turned it off, turned off the light, and moved back to the middle of the room. Either I was to dutifully lock up and follow or she was now hitting on me. She closed the distance and looked deep into my eyes. I wanted to say something but suddenly couldn't move or speak. Suddenly she gave me a hug.

I patted her back but kept my head turned away. I used both arms to re-state the proper distance. "Look, let's not do that, at least not just yet."

My shoulder felt damp. Mary was openly sobbing. She stepped back, and I could tell she was both surprised and angry to be so emotional..

"I'm no client, Mick. My name is Mary Kate Callahan."

Suddenly I got it, and the room tilted sideways for a moment. "My God."

"Yeah. I'm your goddamn kid sister."

"I've been watching you for a couple of weeks. For some reason, I just couldn't walk up and start talking. Then I just called your show."

"I think I remember. You asked a family question."

"Anyway, that suddenly seemed like the wrong place and time."

"You hung up."

"Finally, I just called you for an appointment. I figured I could bring it up if I wanted, or just see what you were like and leave without rocking your boat."

"Consider it rocked."

"Sorry."

"No, that's okay, but I'm still trying to catch up because of how this got started, setting up an appointment and everything."

"I apologize for lying so much just now. I just sold you a load of crap, but now we'll straighten things out."

"Give me a hint to get started?"

"Wipe the slate. The only part that was true is that I heard some people talking about you in a bar. I'd wondered if you were related, but never followed through with finding out."

"Until now."

"Up until that moment, it hadn't crossed my mind that you'd be in Los Angeles. I knew it could all be coincidence, but Mick can be short for Michael and the last name was the same."

"So you wondered, and got bothered just enough to start digging."

"I read an article in the paper that talked about you, and it gave me chills, but I wasn't certain. Next, I listened to your show, and your voice sounded like something I'd been hearing in the back of my own head all my life."

"Now that I know what to look for, I hear that in your voice, too."

"So I went to a library and looked at your picture on the Internet, and that's when I knew for sure."

"Where are you staying?"

"Woodland Hills."

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow. Anyway, I came to LA to see the sights and plan on leaving within the week."

"Where is home these days?"

"Nowhere set. I wander, you know?"

"I've been there. Damn. I don't know what to say."

"Me, neither. I read your bio, and it says you grew up in Dry Wells, Nevada. Isn't that up near Utah?"

"The boonies, on the way to Wendover."

"Yeah, I kind of remember. So you never knew your mom?"

"Katherine died when I was just a boy."

"Who raised you?"

"My stepfather. He was a rancher name of Danny Bell."

"So it was just the two of you? Is he still alive?"

"Danny died a long time ago."

"I'm sorry. Were you close?"

"Not really. He was a very difficult man. Hot tempered, a drinker. Viet Nam did a number on his head. Hell, he used to make me fight other kids for money. Thought he was toughening me up, I suppose. A tortured soul."

"Jesus."

"He died and I left to join the SEALs. I made it all the way through boot and won the trident but got tossed out right after training because of boozing, brawling, and messing with an officer's wife. I got some help, but didn't sober up, and eventually went back to school and became a therapist."

"You got a television show, right?"

"I drifted into that kind of by accident. It did pretty well, but eventually the partying caught up with me, and now I'm finding out just how difficult it can be to start your life over."

"You seem to be doing okay."

"Yes and no. Compared to before, not really, but I'm better off than one hell of a lot of folks, too. That's enough about me, though. As you can imagine, I'm curious as hell to hear your story."

"So. . . ."

"Hey, my manners. Want some water, or tea or something?"

"Some water would be nice, Mick."

"Here. Now fill me in. Where were you born?"

"In Washoe County, outside of Reno. My mom worked as a casino waitress and bounced around town. She caught our father's eye and got pregnant with me. They lived together for a few years, then had a quickie marriage that lasted until I was maybe seven or eight. That's when he up and left for good."

"Ouch, bad time for a girl to lose her dad."

"Hell, he'd already come and gone a few times by then."

"This feels so strange to me. I've wondered all my life, as you can imagine. What was he like?"

"You never knew where you stood with him. He could roughhouse and play one minute and fly into a rage the next. Dad was pretty cool when he was drunk, but even as a little girl I knew there was something strange about that. He had badness in him that was always fighting with the other part, you know?"

"Yeah, I think I do. Wow, you actually remember him."

"Just bits and pieces, and most of those not so great."

"Still, I envy that. I have always wondered what happened to my father. Why he left. Who he was. Do you have any idea where he went?"

"Texas, I think, but maybe that was just Mom talking."

"Did he ever try to contact you?"

"If he did, or sent us any money, she never told me. She hated his sorry ass for leaving like that."

"Did you ask about him?"

"Sometimes, but she always shut me down fast. Like I said, I was seven or eight when he split, so I took it hard. She hated that, and finally she just told me he left because he just didn't love us anymore."

"She was pretty hostile."

"You know it. And the way I figure it, that's why he left. Anyway, pretty soon I was busy dealing with a long line of bad boyfriends and stepfathers of my own. Finally, I just forgot to give a shit."

"I can't get my head around it. This feels like looking in a mirror."