One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel (5 page)

"Actually, I can understand what gave him pause, Hal. We are what we are."

"True enough." Hal checked his watch. "I have to run, Cowboy. We have an early day tomorrow, and I've been promised some great scenery. You getting to meetings lately?"

"Not really, hope to fix that this weekend."

"A likely story. Stay sober, and watch that temper."

"Over and out."

I checked my E-mail and then walked out of the room. The house was so silent I could hear a low, moaning wind whistle through the yard. Leaves scraped the windows. Up until recently, I'd had company—one scarred up, geriatric tomcat I'd called Murphy, short for Murphy's Law. The old dude had passed away in his sleep, and I hadn't had the heart to adopt another pet.

I made a club soda and lime in the kitchen, took it into the living room and channel surfed. After a time, I turned both the television and the lights off and sat alone in the dark, sipping and thinking. I missed Darlene and the gentle vibe of a female in my home. My thoughts briefly caressed her skin. I made them change direction.

Damn, Bud Stone was in a hell of a mess. My old friend had clearly been finessed, but by whom? The easy answer was his so-called partners, Faber and Toole. It seemed likely they still had either his money or the drugs, or both, and thus offered a way to take Bone off the hook. I didn't want to get very deep into this. My situation at work was already precarious enough. Why get arrested due to some misunderstanding? Or killed, for that matter. Hey, you can't work if you stop breathing.

I went back into the office, sat down at the computer. I sent a quick note to my agent, Judd Kramer, asking about the status of my contract with the station. Then I e-mailed Jerry to locate two ex-cons named Joey Faber and Frank Toole as quickly and quietly as possible. I didn't say why. I checked and found Larry Donato online. Darlene's cousin had once helped out with a messy situation, got mistaken for me and shot. He'd ended up in a wheelchair for his trouble. Hal had set him up to run his own company supplying off-duty cops for private investigations and security. We connected and his face filled the screen.

"Larry, how goes it?"

"It goes," Donato said. "Have you heard from Peanut?"

My old sober pal Suzanne Walton, whom I had once dubbed Peanut, had dated Larry for a time. Peanut was currently living in Dallas in order to care for her mom. "Nothing lately, not since her birthday. You?"

He shrugged. "I think she bit off more than she can chew. Her mom is a piece of work, and still boozes it up."

"Well, we are what we are."

Donato yawned. "What can I do for you, Mick?"

"I may need someone to keep an eye on a girl, Larry. She's an ex-stripper, used to see a friend of mine. I'll let her know what's happening."

"Any rough stuff?"

"Maybe, but I doubt it."

"Let me think on who. Can I call you guys tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is fine. You can just let Jerry know."

"How are you and Darlene getting along, Mick?"

"Touch and go."

"Ouch. Okay, talk to you soon."

" 'Night, Larry." I stretched, meditated, and crawled into bed with my mind still buzzing. We'd get Faber and Toole. Hell, Jerry could find anyone, any time. He'd tracked me down for a gig in my hometown of Dry Wells when I was struggling to make a comeback, after years of alcohol and drug abuse. That short job had taken us from acquaintances to friends when a young girl was murdered. Jerry had persuaded me to investigate. We were lucky to escape with our lives. Hal had found consulting work for Jerry, who had opted to follow me to California and live at the beach.

I reflexively reached over to the other pillow, petted thin air, and then remembered Murphy was dead and gone. The towel I'd kept there for him to sleep on was now packed away in a box in the garage. I missed that mangy old coot.

Well, and Darlene.

Women
. I'd spent years working my way up to being a talk-show host and media therapist, crashed and burned and come back again, written hundreds of thousands of words in term papers, and past a certain point, still didn't understand anything about them. So fascinating, so emotionally fluid, so mysterious.

I rolled over and tried to go to sleep. My mind replayed horrific images, pictures of several violent incidents from my return to Dry Wells, the Burning Man Festival in the high desert. I remembered fear, blistering heat, the salty taste of fresh blood, the wicked crunch of bone, and the flat splat of a bullet striking meat.
Think about a Bach cello solo, then some flowers in the breeze. Let everything else fade.
My pulse sprinted anyway.
Easy, let it go, get some sleep.

Another tough choice. Except I didn't feel I really had much of a choice. Bud Stone was an old friend. I owed him. Yet somehow my sobriety had become almost as violent as my drinking career.

It made no sense for me to risk getting seriously involved with Bone's messy situation. It would be far smarter to just hang back and hire someone to look after his stripper girlfriend.

Yeah, right.

"Okay, let's talk about impulses."

I was pacing the studio, wearing a headset to keep my hands free, trying to keep my energy level up. Sixteen minutes to go, and the show felt flatter than the ass-end of an anorexic stripper.
Lift some, damn it. Lift.

"It's a natural impulse to hop out of the car and punch the crap out of the guy who cut you off in traffic, right? But we learn, or hopefully we learn, to restrain that natural impulse. Therapists call this 'impulse control,' and if you didn't have it, you'd pee in your pants. Well, impulse control has a lot of functions. It can keep you from sleeping with your neighbor's wife, punching the hell out of your kids, stealing from the company you work for, right? So, it has a lot of uses."

The caller was a young man from Encino named Don. "How is that different from having a functioning conscience?"

"Good question. I'd say because it gives us choices, not motivation. Look at it this way, Don, a sociopath can have some impulse control, albeit pretty poor in most cases. He could refrain from killing someone in the heat of the moment, and wait for a better time. A conscience would keep most of us from committing murder in either case."

"Got it."

"Thanks for calling."

I checked the clock, reached for the console and brought up some background music. "Go grab a snack, guys. I'm Mick Callahan, and we'll be right back after this brief message."

I popped a commercial into the deck and stretched. I looked out through the glass partition, and saw Zachary Marks coming in to tape an interview with the Mayor. The station manager, a rotund bald spot named Jim O'Brien, was sucking up like the oldest whore at the Chicken Ranch. As I'd told Hal, O'Brien wanted the station to go right-wing talk, despite the current political climate, a posture which struck me as a little like betting heavily on tech stocks back in 2002. Still, Marks had a loyal following and ARB numbers that now rivaled mine, though God knows where they came from in a city as liberal as Los Angeles.

O'Brien saw me, gave a halfhearted wave. Zachary Marks acted like I wasn't there. The Mayor nodded the way people do when they know they've seen you somewhere before and figure they'd best be polite. I went back on the air and brought my theme music up as I spoke.

"I've got time for one or two more callers, and that's about it." I glanced down at the phone. Three lights were blinking. I chose the middle.

"Hi, you're on the air with Mick Callahan. Make sure your radio is turned down. What's on your mind?"

A female, low-voiced with a slight drawl, kind of scratchy and sexy. "You were raised in Nevada, right?"

"Yes, up near a small town called Dry Wells."

"Were you born there?"

Something about her voice was familiar, but I couldn't pin it down. "I'm not sure," I said. "I think so." That was an honest answer. "My stepfather wasn't exactly forthcoming about such things."

"I'm curious; do you have any family still there, or anywhere else?"

"Not that I know about, ma'am. Did you have a comment or a question on tonight's topic, by any chance?"

"No, thank you."

Dial tone. "Okay, then I will consider myself dismissed." I found another blinking light. "Hello, you're on the air."

"I love your show," an older woman said. "And tonight's topic." She sounded sincere. "I just want to toss out a question, and see how you respond. What are we?"

"What are we, in
your
opinion?"

"Violent, selfish, down and dirty, kind of evil."

"So you're saying Freud was right, and we're all just a raging ball of destructive id in a thinly wrapped package, ready to explode?"

"That's it exactly. Sometimes I think we're all kidding ourselves, you know? If I'm good, I'm just wasting my time trying to pretend to be a bad girl. If I'm evil, there's nothing society can do to reform me. I'm one of the bad guys, and that's it."

"I see where you're going, and I'm enough of an existentialist to agree with that to an extent, but even if it's wishful thinking I'd like to believe we can grow out of things and change. For example, I think I have."

"Think, or know?"

I laughed. "Touché, what do any of us really know about ourselves? Have a good night and thanks for calling."

I checked the time. "This is Mick Callahan, and tonight's discussion was about who and what we are. Now it's time to wrap things up. Stay tuned for news on the hour, and then some cool nighttime jazz to help you sleep. Thanks to that last caller, I'm going to offer a new twist on Callahan's thought for the day. It comes from Walt Whitman. 'This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people . . . and your very flesh shall be a great poem.' Good night."

I dialed down the music, started the pre-recorded news disc, and removed the plastic headset. The door to the recording studio was already closed, and as I watched, the red light came on. I knew I was being neurotic, but I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. Maybe I'd be out of a job again soon. My agent was scheduled to have lunch with the brass to raise the issue of a new contract. I didn't want to think about how I'd cover my mortgage if they failed to renew. Hal would certainly help out, but accepting money from him would be yet another exercise in humiliation.

Those thoughts made me queasy. I packed up my stuff, grabbed my briefcase, and left the soundproofed room. The hallway was empty and, as usual, the receptionist was long gone. I went out into the parking lot, and the motion detectors kicked on. Shadow to bright light. I briefly flashed on the night I'd been jumped by a masked assailant. My skin rippled.

I crossed the lot without incident, tossed my briefcase in the trunk, and stood there for a long moment. Opened my cell phone, started to dial Darlene Hernandez but closed it again.
What do I say? I'm sorry, but I'm so screwed up I can't handle how screwed up you can get?

I heard tires crunching gravel and looked up. A white Toyota with rental plates cruised slowly down the alley. A pretty woman sat behind the wheel and stared back at me. She had long, dark hair and large eyes and wore a jeans shirt and jacket with what looked like a cowboy string tie. I smiled and waved, just in case I knew her. Although she clearly recognized me, the girl did not react. The car went behind a concrete wall and I turned back to my own vehicle.
That's probably what's left of your fan club, Callahan.

I got in, slammed the door, and drove home. Along the way, I turned on the radio. I'd left it set on a Classic Rock station, and noticed it was playing an ancient hit called "Dust in the Wind." That got my Buddha going. In the scheme of things, what the hell were Darlene and I fighting about, and why did it even matter? All we are is dust, blowing in the wind.
Carpe Diem,
seize the day. Besides, what kind of man would I be if I simply backed down from a woman's emotions?

At least I now had something to talk about. As I took my exit from the freeway, I dialed her cell number.

Darlene, in her lightly accented English. "Hello?"

I hung up the phone.
Okay, so what if I'm a coward. No one has to know
. My cell phone rang.
Oh, shit. Caller ID.

"Callahan? Did you just call me?"

"I'm sorry, Darlene. I hit the memory button by mistake."

She sighed, a feathery breath that sparked a memory and lit my candle. "Jesus, you're a terrible liar."

"I am, aren't I? See, that and my lack of big boobs is probably why I never get out of traffic tickets."

"I was just thinking about you." She was in a bar or something, probably with a few colleagues. I could hear male voices, arguing in the background—something about a perp who was a real scum bag. Some of Darlene's fellow officers spoke like extras on a bad cop show.

"Missing me?"

"No, not exactly, just thinking about you."

I pulled into my driveway, went into the house. I closed and locked the front door. "You there?"

"Yes, I'm still here. Are you home for the night?"

"Just walked in."

Too much time passed. We both coughed nervously, and that made us laugh. "I don't understand what's happening between us. You're the shrink, Callahan, can you explain it?"

"Maybe." I stuck my neck out. "Can I try that in person?"