One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel

by Harry Shannon

  He looked down. "I got myself in a little trouble is why. Nothing I can't straighten out. I'll watch out for Wendy, but I can't be two places at once. So I'm only asking you just in case, if you know what I mean."

  "Like as in case you do time? Get blown the fuck up? What?"

  "That doesn't really matter, does it? You don't need to know."

  I shook my head. "We're old friends, Bone. I keep my promises and pay my debts. But if you want me to get involved in something where there's real risk, I have to know the whole story. It's better that way."

  "Can I count on you to keep your mouth shut? Even to the law?"

  "Give me some money."

  "What?"

  I held my hand out. "Give me some money."

  Bone shrugged, dug around in his pockets and produced a ten-dollar bill. I tucked it into my jeans. "Okay. Tomorrow, when I go to the office, I'm putting you down as a cash client."

  "Huh?"

  "Then anything you tell me will be kept confidential, unless you're planning a murder or molesting kids. Sound okay?"

  "Okay." He looked down at the bar, moved some moisture around with his fingertips. "I was a cop for a while. I should know better than to be in this fix. I did something really stupid, Mick."

  "What, and why?"

  "Why? Money, what else? The what of it is that I wanted to help Brandi with her school. I wanted her to think I was cool, look up to me and be grateful. Okay, and maybe give me another chance. Anyway, I gave myself all the same lame excuses we all use when we're young, dumb, and full of come."

  "You're not that young anymore, Bone."

  "Yeah, but I'm still dumb and horny."

  I checked my watch. "Just tell me what happened. I wasn't kidding about this being past my bedtime."

  "I was shooting pool with a guy I know, and he said he was sure he could make a big score through a pal of his, some guy named Toole. He just needed some cash to make the first buy. Said it was an easy double-your-money type thing, okay? Piece of cake." The waitress wandered our way again, and Bone fell silent. He resumed when she vanished into the ladies' room. "And you know something funny? I can't believe I went for it, because I hate those fucking drug dealers, I really do."

  "Go on."

  "I sold a couple of my old cars, borrowed from a few people, and gave him my stake. He went to make the move. I was supposed to get paid the next weekend."

  "Let me guess. He disappeared."

  Bone picked at his fingernails. "Dumb, huh? Faber never showed up for work after that. Neither did this Toole guy. They just left my sorry ass twisting in the wind. Mick, I got cocky. I figured they'd never risk pulling a fast one on someone like me. Looks like I was wrong."

  "How much money are we talking about, Bone?" I was running numbers through my mind, wondering if I could float him a loan instead.

  He mumbled something. I stared at him until he managed to say it louder. "It's maybe a hundred and change."

  My shoulders slumped. "Oh, man."

  "I know, I know. Like I said, dumb."

  I slapped his leg. "So face up to it, work hard, pay everybody back."

  "I'm trying to do that, but it gets worse."

  "Doesn't it always?"

  Someone came in the front door. The hair on my neck fluttered. It was the cowboy from the parking lot. He saw us and waved at me. No sign of his friend, who was probably waiting outside to rearrange my facial features. This night had started bad and was going downhill fast.

  "Some of the money I borrowed, like maybe fifty grand, it was from the Pesci crew." He expected me to recognize the name. "As in Big Paul Pesci, who I hear is one bent-nose, spaghetti-chomping motherfucker. And he doesn't go to a shrink like that guy used to on TV, okay? I figured the vig was low enough that if I doubled the fifty in a week and paid everybody back I'd still come out thirty large ahead of the game, enough to cover all of Brandi's tuition. I meant well, man. I really did."

  Cowboy sat at the other end of the bar. He flashed a shark grin and wriggled his fingers. I waved back this time, with a growing sense of anxiety. All I needed now was my name in the newspapers because of a fight outside some strip bar. My ratings had slipped, my radio job was getting iffy, and that could really flush it all down the toilet.

  Bone didn't notice. He finished his beer. "Anyway, I missed the due date, so Pesci sent a couple of folks by my place of employment to adjust my attitude."

  "Did they?"

  "They tried, but I adjusted back some. I'm sure they're a bit pissed. Anyway, here is the rest. Fucking drug dealers, I hate those pricks. Some clown name of Rico Diaz from Guatemala? It seems he sold a bunch of primo smoke to this Toole fellow, who took down his man and skipped town with the whole shipment of weed I was supposed to be helping to buy."

  "He sure about that, that he's gone?"

  "At least it looks that way, which is just as bad. So this Diaz, now he also likes me for repaying his money, too. Mostly because I'm the only asshole anyone can find."

  "How much do you owe there?"

  "Another fifty."

  I rubbed my temples. "Jesus, Bone. So you have yourself on the hook for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and it's to the mob and a drug ring?"

  He forced a shark smile. "Genius, isn't it? Like I always said, you're going to fuck something up, do it big-time."

  "Why not go to the police? Wear a wire on both crews."

  "Not a chance. These folks play too rough, even for witness protection, and I like having my balls attached to my crotch. I'll find a way to get the money together. In the meantime, Mick, you can help put my mind at ease by promising me you'll look after the girl. Just in case anything bad happens. If they can't get to me and my wife, they may go after her. Okay?"

  "Wow."

  "Like I said, I'll find a way to make this right. Do this thing, Callahan. Please. I don't want to have to worry about Brandi, too."

  "She already got sober, right?"

  "More than a year ago."

  "I know a lot of women in the program."

  "She doesn't really go to those meetings much anymore."

  "Just a backup plan. I'll ask a friend to keep an eye out, maybe." I patted the photograph in my pocket. "Okay, Bud. If anything happens, I'll help her out. You have my word."

  He sighed with relief. "Thanks, Mick. You have no idea how much better I feel."

  "Bone, what are you going to do?"

  "I'll figure something out."

  "Like what?"

  He stared at me. Something in his eyes said he was enjoying himself more than he was letting on. Warriors always have a hard time packing it in. They want to recapture living on the edge. Hell, I was more that way myself than I wanted to admit.

  "Never mind," I said. "Way better I don't know."

  "True."

  I looked around the room, thought for a moment, leaned closer to Bone and whispered in his ear. He nodded, slammed his fist on the bar. "Well, I got to piss like a racehorse. I'll call you next week, tell you what's up."

  "You do that. Take care of yourself, Bone." We slapped palms.

  Bone wandered off, in search of the toilet. I slid off the bar stool and considered my options. Cowboy was waiting for me, grinning like a possum licking peaches off a wire brush. His friend was probably right outside, maybe in the bushes by the trash cans. I checked my watch, thought about things, and decided to just get it over with.

  I walked straight past Cowboy without looking back, paused briefly in the doorway, and then went outside. The night air was crisp and welcome after the stench of the bar. I listened carefully, heard the guy in the windbreaker quietly change positions in the brush.

  After a long moment, I moved further out into the parking lot. Heard the door open and close again behind me.

  "I thought we were straight," I said, still facing the other way.

  Cowboy belched and chuckled. "Guess I lied."

  He rushed me from behind, boots in deep gravel, while Windbreaker clanged past the meta
l trash cans to jump me from the right. Things slow down a bit when you can see the fight coming. I tend to feel pretty calm.

  I dropped low, spun around, and my shoulder hit Cowboy in the lower belly. He gave up a whinny and a burst of foul breath. Tried to grab at my face, gouge my eyes. I straightened up, got my knees into it, and brought him high into the night before slamming him down on the pavement. When he hit, I heard the air whoosh out and something go CRACK, maybe the plastic handle of a hidden gun. I kicked his head, made sure he was down and out for a while.

  I turned slowly, looked. Windbreaker lay facedown in a pile of trash, writhing in pain. Bone had slipped out the front of the bar, jogged down the alley, and ambushed him for me. My friend removed a pair of brass knuckles, shook his fingers. We stood, chests heaving, staring at each other under the stars. Bone grinned.

  Kind of like old times.

  Three

  One hour later, I was in my small house in the San Fernando Valley, talking to my sponsor, Hal Solomon, via Tag World. The connection was especially good.

  "What I want to know," Hal said from the computer screen, "is how you manage to create so much drama without even breaking a sweat."

  My best friend, virtually always in a suit and tie, currently wore a thick pair of red pajamas that somewhat robbed him of intrinsic dignity. His silver hair was freshly washed, almost sparkling. The camera showed me a large bed and part of a rustic executive suite in the background. If memory served, Hal was at a lodge somewhere in Canada, ostensibly to learn how to fly fish. Or maybe it was upstate New York.

  Personally, I figured he was there because of the cuisine. Hal was comfortably rich and semi-retired. He could do any damned thing he wanted on a daily basis, and generally did.

  "Without even breaking a sweat? Hal, you almost sounded like a country boy."

  "I've been hanging around you long enough."

  "I'm not at all sure the world can handle two opinionated, sober, educated rednecks."

  "Promise me you won't get dragged into anything messy. I realize this fellow is an old friend, but things have been somewhat peaceful of late. This is indeed a welcome change."

  "I know that."

  "Was that the sound of you giving me your word?"

  "Hal, I have no intention of getting into trouble."

  Hal sighed. "Semantic judo. You should have become a lawyer instead of a therapist."

  "I should have become a lot of things."

  "So, young stallion, the television show is on hold and you're still on a contractual probation at the radio station. Yes?"

  "True, and so I should stay out of this."

  "Unless you're tired of paying a mortgage and having a pot to urinate in, I would think that a reasonable proposition. Look, I'm still not sure I understand what exactly has gone wrong at work. Can you fill me in? Is it your ratings?"

  "My ratings are decent, Hal. They've slipped a bit, that's all. The manager doesn't like my act all that much. He's got a thing for this so-called conservative commentator, a bozo named Zachary Marks. He's been pushing the guy to take over my time slot, one of the best for late-night talk."

  "So he has no legitimate reason?"

  "Okay, one. Maybe his numbers are sort of closing in on mine, but the guy's a first-class prick, and ignorant as a bullfrog."

  "One of many, although their numbers seem to be shrinking. Only a few brave souls still admit to having voted such incompetent thieves into office."

  "A bit late. If this country had turned any further to the right it would have met its own ass coming the other way."

  "Your manager, this Bill person, is it a matter of politics with him, or just advertising dollars?"

  "He'd never admit it, but it's just about the money."

  "Then it would behoove you to shake things up a bit, get your ratings back up where they belong."

  I leaned back in my desk chair, rolled from side to side. "I know, I know. The truth is I'm a little bored with the show. Maybe I need to take on a partner or something. Two hours can be one hell of a long time all by your lonesome."

  "I noticed that the last time I was in the ER."

  "Don't remind me. I thought we'd lost you. Still feeling okay?"

  "Fit as the proverbial fiddle." Hal glanced at his watch. "I'm going to have to jump off soon and get my beauty sleep. Have you managed to patch things up with Ms. Hernandez?"

  "She won't call me back."

  "You're still fighting."

  "She is."

  Hal stared at me. He required a better explanation than I was prepared to offer. I drummed my fingers on the rim of the computer keyboard. Sergeant Darlene Hernandez and I had been an item for several months. At first things had gone wonderfully, but as soon as some of the initial chemistry wore off, as is so often the case, we started to bicker; senseless, low-key arguments that left us exhausted and hurt and confused. I call them "evil twin" fights, because afterwards you can't even remember what started it. Your evil twin just takes over, sticks a hand up your behind and starts running your mouth. To Darlene, it had something to do with our relationship being only about sex. To me, it had something to do with her trying to encroach on my precious freedom to be driven and self-absorbed.

  "Callahan?" Hal was still waiting.

  "Sorry. I was just thinking 'physician, heal thyself.' It's amazing I can know so much about psychology and counseling and so little about keeping a woman happy."

  Hal chuckled. "Not that I'm a black belt in these matters, but I'd say you've made a critical error right there, stallion. It is not possible to keep a woman happy. In the final analysis, they've got to make themselves happy, just like the rest of us. All we can do is be there for one another in a pinch, and perhaps be friends."

  "I'm going to think of a good argument the second we sign off."

  "I doubt it, Mick. And one other thing, at the risk of sounding like a broken record . . ."

  "Hal, they don't play records anymore."

  "Don't nitpick." He leaned forward, closer to the camera. "You have a fierce anger that is rooted in your childhood, needless to say. I'm no therapist, but it seems to me that if my stepfather beat the feces out of me on a regular basis and forced me to fight other children for money, I might have a tendency to confuse love and hostility."

  I grimaced. "Hal, I'm not the one starting the fights here."

  "But you'll damn well finish them?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means that when Darlene lashes out at life, maybe you instinctively think about winning the battle instead of loving her through an emotional experience."

  He stared, I stared. "Old man, sometimes I just want to strangle you."

  "Take your best shot," Hal said, then laughed and touched the computer screen with his fingertips. "Just do it now, not the next time we're in the same room."

  I grinned. "This fellow is selectively courageous."

  Hal leaned back in his chair. "How are those nightmares?"

  A shrug. "Some okay, some terrible. I don't dream about him very often anymore, if that's what you mean." The man in question being Donny Boy, a violent psychopath who had nearly killed me on two occasions, and was now fortuitously six feet under the Nevada desert. One of my finer achievements. "Most of the time they're fighting dreams. No surprise there."

  "I wish I could help you get a good night's sleep," Hal said sadly. "What do you think these bouts with the demons are really about, counselor?"

  "A man named Robert Simon wrote a book on forensic psychiatry called Bad Men Do What Good Men Dream. He views human behavior as nothing more than a continuum from the rare instances of extreme good, all the way in an arc to the thankfully rare instances of extreme evil. He says we're all capable of just about anything under the right circumstances. I happen to agree."

  Hal sighed. "I learned that when I examined my own drinking and drugging history, and finally did a fourth step."

  "As did we all. Anyway, Simon makes the simple observation, simi
lar to Freud's, that our dreams solve problems, work out violent and inappropriate impulses, and therefore protect us against our antisocial tendencies. Any good therapist learns rapidly that some part of him completely understands his most disturbed clients in a very visceral, sometimes upsetting way. Like bad dreams." Of my violent past; getting tossed from the Navy SEALs for drinking, brawling, and that affair with an officer's wife; the humiliating crash of my television career. Booze, drugs, and rage. Sex. Booze, drugs, and rage. On and on.

  "What about understanding Darlene, then?"

  I hate it when Hal uses logic on me. I sighed. "I hear you. Her anger may have nothing to do with me. I'm being too self-centered when I react that badly."

  "You said it, not I."

  "You manipulated me into saying it."

  He cocked his head. "Promise me you'll try again. She's the finest young lady I've ever seen in your company."

  "Well, that's certainly true enough. That's a promise I don't mind making. I haven't given up on her. Not yet, anyway."

  "Glad to hear that."

  "Hey, did Jerry e-mail you those pictures of his little palace at the beach? He's surrounded by sand, surf, healthy young ladies in tiny string bikinis, and enough sunshine to give a rattlesnake a bad case of sunstroke."

  He laughed. "The lad is probably in heaven."

  "Jerry likes California a lot more than Nevada, that's for sure, and the security job lets him consult and telecommute more often than not. I think he is one happy camper."

  "Are they going to do that work on his face?"

  My hacker friend was badly disfigured. His foster mother had gone psychotic and burned his face with a hot iron. The new job in aerospace security had a nice package of benefits, and Jerry had recently consulted a plastic surgeon about having the scars removed.

  "I don't think he's made a decision yet."

  "Odd. That would seem to be an obvious call."

  "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?"