One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel

by Harry Shannon

  "You're probably right." I wasn't telling Quentin anything he didn't already know. It just helped to have it coming from the outside. That made it a bit easier for him to focus on the truth.

  "When we drift into an affair, it is usually because we've ignored the signs that our marriage has gone off the tracks. We feel so disconnected from our spouse that we withdraw that mysterious spark of attachment and allow it to begin to flicker elsewhere."

  "Yes." He closed his eyes as if to soak in that idea.

  "You probably started with harmless flirtation, right? Then some private time and sharing personal information you would otherwise have held back. And being in the same church group created a kind of false intimacy. You stopped talking to your wife about the things that matter. A crush became an emotional affair and then finally sex. But what if the proper connections had been nurtured months or years ago? What then? You've had crushes before, but never allowed an affair to start, right?"

  "There was a woman in the choir maybe ten years ago," Quentin said. "She was married, too. We talked about it, but never did anything. She and her husband went into therapy."

  "I rest my case. She did the right thing. And it would have been smart for you to have followed in her footsteps back then, for your own sake. Once the communication clears up, we often rediscover why we're together and save things."

  "I don't like hearing this, but I get your drift."

  "What I'm saying is that it's generally more about the problems in the existing relationship than the appropriateness or desirability of the third party in a triangle. There's still a chance you can fix this thing."

  "You've seen it work out?"

  "Lots of times." And that was the truth. People constantly amaze me with their resiliency and capacity for change. In fact, that's what keeps the work so interesting and rewarding.

  "Can we still be friends, Mick?"

  "After this?" I shook my head. "No. My advice is to lose her phone number. Send no E-mails, arrange no more meetings."

  "That seems cold."

  "Every young woman has read a dozen articles warning her not to get involved with a married man because he usually stays with his wife. Her friends will spank her and remind her that what she did was foolish and wrong."

  "I can never speak to her again?"

  "If you want to call her once to tell her you're going into therapy to try and save your marriage, keep it brief and not romantic in any way. Believe me, if she really cares about you, she'll get it. She may even be relieved."

  Quentin cocked his head. "I don't understand that remark."

  "People have affairs for lots of reasons. One reason younger women pursue older men who are married is a buried wish to take Daddy away from Mommy."

  "Ouch."

  I stared at him. Quentin's face was pink with shame. He'd deserved it. "Our time is up, Quentin. You have the card I gave you? Joan is a good marital therapist. Call her, set something up and take your wife in for a few appointments." I also told him about a book by John Gottman, PhD that I often recommended. Quentin found some tissues and wiped the tears from his face. His jaw settled. He looked like a man on a mission.

  "Do I ever tell my wife about the girl?"

  Now just "the girl," no first name. We'd won some ground. "That's another one I can't answer for certain, but my gut feeling is no. I'd just keep your mouth shut. It doesn't seem fair to unburden your conscience at her expense, especially if you decide it's completely over."

  "I should go, it's late." Quentin looked me up and down as he decided on his next move. I'd stung him, but helped him at the same time. Finally, he said, "Can I come back?"

  "Of course you can." I opened my appointment book. "How about next Saturday? We could keep this as a regular time."

  Two

  Later that night I drove to the Kitty Kat Club, a dump located in a grey strip mall out by the Burbank Airport, just north of Vanowen. It's pretty much the same as any other bar of its kind; a darkened, neon-addled pit reeking of urine, smoke, and alcohol. The female dancers are a cut above average, mostly because a drunken businessman on the road with an expense account is generally the best tipper. I know, because I've had a few of those working girls as clients. Well, and I used to be a regular customer, but that was a long time ago.

  When I pulled in, the parking lot was nearly empty, except for a Jeep Cherokee with rental plates, a panel truck, a BMW, and a geriatric station wagon that looked like it had been tenderized with a ball-peen hammer.

  I drove to the back of the lot and parked sideways, so I could see the entrance and the alley at the same time. I turned the radio down and watched the door for a while. Eventually I heard my own voice. I should be used to that by now, but I'm not. I winced as I listened to myself pitch a brand name comfort mattress for the station. That reminded me that my job status was shaky again. Did I even care? I shut the car off and sat listening to some crickets and the ticking of the engine.

  The Bone was back. Unbelievable. . . .

  There are moments in life that have an odd, almost leaden resonance to them. They give you the distinct feeling that a decision you're about to make could have magnificent or devastating consequences. This was one of those moments. I had no reason to feel so scared, no logical reason at any rate, but my gut was a plastic sack full of ice cubes. I hadn't seen Bud Stone in nearly nine years. I'd loved him like a brother through boot camp, leaned on him when we suffered through Hell Week in the SEALs, hated him for hitting on an officer's wife I was seeing at the time, even knocked him flat one Tequila-fueled night in San Diego. I washed out of the Navy because of that affair, and we'd eventually lost touch, but Bone proudly wore the trident until grievously wounded in Iraq. Then he'd returned to civilian life. Other than an occasional E-mail or phone message, I'd not heard a word from him in years.

  Until now.

  As if on cue, a man in a business suit opened the door with the ponderous gravitas of the dedicated inebriate. When he stepped outside, under the lights, his bald pate gleamed like a polished diamond. He struggled to light a cigarette, but couldn't hold the match steady. Finally he walked over to the rented Jeep, stood weaving like a cobra and searched his pockets for the keys. The door opened again and I instinctively slid down in the seat, out of sight. The drunk looked vaguely like Bud Stone, but I couldn't be sure. And Bone wasn't the type to wear a suit.

  Two other customers emerged; both broad shouldered, with buzz cut hair and tight, stylish jeans. One wore a cowboy hat and a wife-beater tee with Old Glory on it, the other a faded green windbreaker. The two looked reasonably sober, though pretty worked up. They stood near a black Nissan, talking in low tones. Meanwhile, the drunken businessman leaned on the hood of his own vehicle and projectile vomited into some night blooming jasmine. I got a good look at his face, and it wasn't Bud Stone.

  The guy in the windbreaker stayed blocking the door. The cowboy strolled after their mark, cracking his knuckles.

  Two thugs mugging a drunk. Great.

  This was clearly none of my damned business. I was here to see an old friend, not to get my nose broken again. Ah, shit. I made a show of getting out of the car like a man who'd had a few, whistling and mumbling to myself, figuring maybe a witness would be enough to throw a monkey wrench into their plans.

  It didn't work. The guy on the door just leaned back, folded his arms.

  "Closed, pal. Take off."

  I looked at my watch, started walking. "Don't let them bluff you, bro. Last call is one-thirty."

  "You don't hear so well? It's my bar, and I said take off."

  I kept moving, hands loose at my belt loops to show I was harmless. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cowboy closing in on the drunk. "One beer, a look at Tina's tits, and I'm out of here."

  I was on him now, maybe two yards away. A brief, confused look crossed his face. "They ain't got any Tina."

  Cowboy popped the businessman who looked like Bud; hit him once on the jaw. The drunk went down in a heap. Cowboy
was lifting his wallet before he hit the ground, maybe looking for credit cards. My guy went for something in the pocket of his windbreaker, probably a small gun. I feinted giving a kick to the nuts. When he raised his thigh and got off balance, I ran him into the door, slammed my elbow into his temple a couple of times. He dropped hard, but still breathing. I spun and sprinted for the cowboy. He was already up, crouched with his hands loose like a man who'd gone a few rounds.

  "This ain't smart," he said, not unkindly.

  I sighed. "I know."

  "Then don't throw down."

  I pointed to the drunk, who was struggling to sit up. "Give the man his stuff back, and then maybe we can talk."

  Cowboy studied me for a long moment. I saw him replaying how quickly I'd dropped his partner. He opened the wallet, took a twenty and held it up. "Figure I should get a few beers out of this. I walk away now, we straight?"

  I shrugged. "He'd just blow it anyway."

  Cowboy nodded. He went back towards the club, eyes on my face. He took the long way around, to avoid getting close. Picked up his friend from behind, under the arm pits, and half dragged him over to one of the trucks. They got in and drove away.

  The businessman that looked like Bud was back on his feet, leaning against the rental car. His suit was speckled with vomit and some blood from a cut just over his right eye. He glared at me.

  "Buzz off, man. I didn't ask for your help."

  "True enough." I raised my arm, pointed. "There's a Motel Six just down the road. Check in and sleep this off. Otherwise, a squad car is going to nab you, and you'll spend the night in a cell and lose your license."

  He wiped his nose and spat, turned to open the car, and then I heard him mumble something obscene.

  "What?"

  "I said . . . thanks."

  I nodded. "Try AA. It works."

  "Not for me."

  "Give it ninety meetings in ninety days. Keep at it. This is no way to live."

  "That so?" He got in, slammed the door and started the engine. Now he felt safe. "Yeah, well fuck you too, Mother Teresa."

  I watched as he backed out, clipped a metal trash can, and finally managed a U. He drove out of the lot onto Vanowen, then floored it to well over the speed limit. It was no surprise that he went the wrong way, down toward the next line of strip clubs. I crossed the lot.

  Some Rick James tune was thumping, scratching, and growling at the other side of the entrance. That tired old one about a girl being super freaky. I opened the dented metal door and went inside.

  Bud Stone was parked alone at the end of the bar, before a half-empty pitcher of warm beer, watching two bored girls pretend to have lesbian sex. He wasn't wearing a suit. The years hadn't been kind. Like the drunk, his hairline was trekking steadily towards Bolivia, and his massive chest drooped a bit. He still had huge guns straining his tee shirt; arms festooned with tattoos and clumps of thick, reddish hair. Bud Stone worked out harder than any man I'd ever known. And he was one of the good guys, even after two combat tours. I owed him. A lot.

  Bone saw me coming, and his face split into that familiar, toothy grin. "Well, if it ain't Mick Callahan his own self!"

  "Was last time I looked."

  We shook hands, palms slapping together, grips hard and short. "You're in good shape," Bone said. "You've been hitting the iron?"

  "I go over to Golden Gym, on Laurel Canyon, but only three or four times a week these days. Know the place?"

  "Yeah, I know it. I know right where that is."

  "You could meet me there some time."

  "Sure, let's do that. Well, then." An awkward silence ensued. Finally, he motioned for me to sit down. "Want a Coke or something?"

  "Not at five bucks a glass. How are you doing, Bud?"

  "I'm a happy camper." Bud didn't lie well.

  I slid around him, so my back was to the wall. The two dancers saw they'd lost our attention and slithered off to bother the only other patrons, three drunken Hispanics in work clothes.

  "Same old Mick."

  "What?"

  He grinned. "What did you call it, Hitchcock fixation?"

  "Close." My face felt hot. "But it's the cowboy, not the director. Wild Bill got shot in the back playing cards. I just hate to turn my back to a room. Like to see what's going on."

  "Okay, bro, I got a riddle for you. Picture this, okay? You are on a horse, galloping at a constant rate. On your right side is a sharp drop, and on your left side is an elephant traveling at the same speed as you. Directly in front of you is a galloping kangaroo and your horse is unable to overtake it. Behind you is a lion running at the same speed as you and the kangaroo. What must you do to safely escape this highly dangerous situation?"

  I grinned. "Okay, I'll give."

  "Well, son, the very first thing you better do is get your drunk ass off that merry-go-round!"

  We laughed loud and warm. The homely waitress sauntered over wriggling her fake breasts. I gave her cash for the cover charge without being asked. "Just bring me some ice water with a slice of lime in it." She started to remind me that I'd be paying for booze. My eyes told her I already knew. Bone watched her haunches as she walked away.

  "Killer body, with a face designed to protect it."

  I grabbed a swizzle stick from one of his dead soldiers. "Been a long time, Bone."

  "A few years. You may not recall, you seemed pretty blitzed, but we said howdy at Burbank Airport one night. I was on my way to Vegas. You were going to tape that show in Denver, that one where you punched some guy on live TV."

  I winced. "That was my downfall."

  "Every time I saw that clip replayed on the news shows, it cracked me up all over again. The guy was an asshole, Mick. Had it coming to him."

  "Let's talk about something else. I'm reformed."

  Bone wasn't going to let me off easy. "Then I heard about that stuff up in Nevada, where you busted up some kind of drug ring. I was hoping the good publicity would kick start your career. Damned glad to see you land on your feet here in LA."

  "You ever listen to my show?"

  Bone grinned hugely. "Not often. You know me. I've tuned in now and again, but I'm way past saving."

  The girl brought my ice water and slipped away. Bone and I clicked glasses. "To old times, bro."

  "Mostly good times."

  We caught up a bit more. Showed off a few scars like boys who'd played high school football together. The Navy had done a hell of a good job fixing his bum leg. Finally, Bone looked around for a moment, as if embarrassed to finally have to come to the point. "Mick, you said one time that if I ever needed help, you'd have my back. Did you mean that?"

  "I'm here, Bone, just like you asked." He was calling in the favor of a lifetime, and we both knew it. "Even though it's way past my bedtime."

  "I need you to do me a solid."

  "What is it you want?"

  "For you to watch out for somebody who means a lot to me."

  "How serious is the situation?"

  "Hey, it's probably nothing, man. I just want you to look in on her the next few weeks, maybe make sure she's okay."

  "Most things aren't that simple."

  "Well, it's that and if necessary maybe scare some bad guys away. It's become sort of a mess."

  "Rats. We were fine until that last part. Who is it?"

  "My girlfriend." He reached into his shirt, produced a photo of an attractive young woman. I leaned closer. She had bottle-blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a nice figure. In the picture she wore glasses, but I was willing to bet she had contacts in the bathroom cabinet. One of those ubiquitous LA actress/model/dancers.

  "I thought you were married."

  "I am."

  I stared at him for a stiff minute, trying to decide what, if anything, to say. I deal with this sort of soap opera all day long, but Bone wasn't a client. I decided to skip the lecture unless he asked for my thoughts. "What's your wife's name again, Wendy? What the hell happened?"

  "What happened? Well, I g
uess real life doesn't measure up to combat. It gets dull. I made a mistake, bro. I became a statistic. I started to take Wendy for granted. My son is all grown up, moved away to New Orleans to get in on reconstruction stuff after that second hurricane. I started fooling around now and again, nothing serious."

  "And your wife found out."

  "Not about the light stuff. It was a lot worse than that. I got serious about one of them, and my wife saw a couple of hot E-mails. It got pretty ugly. She left me last year, man, and went to stay with her mom. Maybe I didn't mention that in the card I sent at Christmas, I don't know."

  "No, you didn't."

  "It took me months to convince Wendy to come back, but she finally did. We're doing okay again, at least lately."

  I looked around the bar. "You sure about that?"

  He ignored the barb. "That girlfriend I mentioned? She ain't there to tempt me anymore." Bone shrugged, but his eyes glinted. "Got involved with some yoga teacher, even said she wants to have kids with the prick. I was going to lose out to a granola eater. Can you believe that? Cheated on while I was cheating on my wife. Anyway, it finished us, but that's who this is about. The girlfriend."

  "I'm listening."

  He handed me the picture. "You keep it, okay? Just so you'll know her when you meet her. Her name is Brandi, last name DeLillo, originally from Omaha. You can probably tell she was in the life a ways back, but she got herself into a program, and now she's in school at UCLA. It's over, but I still give a shit."

  "Bone, the obvious question is why me? Why not watch out for her yourself?"

  "Figure you owe me?"

  Back in the day, Bone stood by me in numerous barroom brawls, even took the rap for a DUI hoping to protect my ultimately failed status with the SEALs. There were other incidents, including a couple of things I should have gone to jail over. Still could. Those days had to stay buried. "Yeah," I said, without resentment. "I owe you."