She leaned closer. "You said he was in trouble. What kind of trouble?"
I told her some of it, but watered things down a lot. Bone owed people money, and was worried they might hassle her to get back at him.
"What are you, some kind of bodyguard?"
"Not at all. When I'm not on the radio, I'm a shrink."
"Bullshit." She laughed. "You look like a boxer. How many times have you broken that nose?"
Charmed another one. "I lost count." I tend to lose control of the conversation when it comes to pretty women. Well, when I'm not working. I covered by sipping some water. Meanwhile, Brandi looked at me like someone studying a math problem.
"I guess it was nice of him to think about me."
She didn't blink. I didn't, either. "I thought so."
Brandi came to a decision. She got up so abruptly a glass of water started to tip. I grabbed and straightened it. "Nice reflexes, Mr. Boxer."
"Gee, thanks. And it's Callahan."
Brandi leaned over the table. I enjoyed her perfume. "Callahan. Okay, I'll just try to keep an open mind. Any woman who says she doesn't like handsome men worrying about her safety is a liar. But I can take care of myself."
"Somehow I believe you."
"Leave me your number if you want. I'll call if I need something, but you're in for a long wait."
I gave her a business card. "Mind if I have someone check in on you from time to time? You'll go right past him when you go outside. He is an off-duty cop."
"Whoa. This is kind of creepy, dude."
"Just a precaution."
"All right, as long as he stays out of my way."
"He will, I promise." I looked up, waved to Lopez and motioned with my hands that I'd filled her in. "Hopefully this will all blow over in a day or two, Brandi. Thanks for indulging us."
"It's a free country."
Brandi got up like I'd never existed; walked away briskly, swinging her purse. She walked right by Lopez, who was reading a newspaper, and gave him a quick smile. He wriggled his eyebrows at me, gave her maybe ten yards and picked up the tail.
Jerry was right. Young Brandi DeLillo had a very nice tail.
Eight
"I've got good news and bad news," Judd Kramer said.
My dour agent wasn't generally much for joking around. I felt my stomach tighten. "As long as we're spouting clichés, how about you just cut to the chase." I was pacing outside, sloppily watering my backyard. To the west, the sun was sinking into a bright pool of watercolor smog.
"Hang on a second."
He put me on hold. I watered the roses, wrapped up the hose, and plopped down on a lawn chair. Shadows lengthened and a light, welcome breeze whispered through the tall, purple magnolia. My jeans were wet at the shins. Judd had been trying to renegotiate my contract with the station. He'd had lunch with O'Brien, the station manager, and an attorney for the mother ship.
The music in my ear was an old Beatle's tune that had been cruelly hacked to pieces by some bored arranger and now consisted of insipid electronic strings and bland choral voices. I let the phone rest on my shoulder and struggled to pick a theme for my next show. It crossed my mind to do politics. Maybe offer an examination of the general personality differences between liberals and conservatives. Someone once wrote that conservatives were ruled by fear, liberals by guilt. That the root of liberal was "generosity" and the root of conserve meant "to hoard." It didn't take long to discard the idea; my bias would be far too obvious, but the thought of doing that show with Zack Marks listening made me grin.
Judd was taking a while. I thought about my options. Did I really want another one-year contract, assuming they offered one? I'd been feeling interfered with lately, pressured by management to shift from what I was comfortable doing to a more traditional talk-show format. That heat was likely to continue. On the other hand, I really needed the money for the mortgage. I wondered how Jerry and Lopez were doing with Brandi, and what was going on with Bud Stone.
I checked my watch. Five minutes. I don't enjoy playing diva, but the long delay was starting to feel rude.
If you sit alone and still for a long time, without meditating, you'll start to feel empty. Me, if I don't give my mind something else to eat, it eats itself. I wondered, did I really even want to be a homeowner? Didn't the idea of hopping in my car and driving back to the desert sound good sometimes? Being free enough to do that on a whim? But then I also wanted a family some day. Women don't take too kindly to a vagabond husband, so I wanted to prove I could put down some roots. Is that what this is about, then? Proving something to Darlene, or a woman you haven't even met yet? Pretty weak, Callahan.
What would you tell a client?
Judd finally came back on the line. "Sorry about that, Mick. Had to take that call. How did your show go last night?"
"Pretty well." We made small talk; his kid got in to UCLA and the wife was still mean as a badger with hemorrhoids. I noticed that Judd's speech seemed pressured and tight and that he was much cooler than usual. We circled the issue without tackling it. I got tired of stalling.
"The lunch, Judd?"
He sighed. "Which do you want first?"
"I don't mean to be rude, but let's quit screwing around. Just tell me what's going on, okay?"
"You're fired, and it's as of last night."
I sat up. "What?"
"O'Brien wants to go with Zachary Marks and his new talk show. To keep things simple, he'll pay off the last month of your contract and use re-runs until Marks is up and running."
"Conservative radio has been dropping like whale poop, Judd. What's he thinking?"
"His numbers aren't far behind yours, man." I winced. Judd mumbled to someone else in the room, probably his secretary. "Anyway, he figures he can corner the market in LA, and since they skew older he can sew it up for years. He'll settle for a smaller piece of the pie, because the ARB numbers stick."
"I can't believe he's backing that idiot."
"Easy there, Mick. I may not always agree with him, but Zack is actually a pretty smart guy."
The air grew even colder. Short hairs fluttered. "Wait a second. Hold on. Since when are you on a first-name basis with Marks, Judd?"
A long pause. "Since a couple of hours ago."
"You took a meeting with my competition?"
"Business is business."
"I don't believe this, you took him on as a client?"
Kramer sputtered. "You know I like you personally, but a man in my position can't afford to turn down work. It's nothing personal. O'Brien assured me there was nothing I could say or do on your behalf that would have changed his mind. He just feels it's time for a change."
"You know something? So do I."
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing personal, Judd, but you're fired, too."
I closed the phone. Just like that, back to square one, with just enough savings to last me a few months. I could always sell the house, but I sure didn't want it to come to that. I pondered my suddenly bleak future. Yet in a weird way it was also exhilarating to be free again.
It got very dark outside. A chorus of dogs screamed along with distant sirens. I thought about drinking the way you think about an old girlfriend who lied and broke your heart. You wonder what she's doing, but it's not like you're in the mood to get raked over the coals again, not any time soon. When I got tired of feeling sorry for myself I went back inside.
I did the dishes, dumped the trash, and listened to Emmy Lou Harris. The woman is magical and can make sadness a blissful thing. I played "Too Far Gone" twice. Then I went to the computer.
Hal looked rested and a little pink from the sun. His lips moved silently for a couple of seconds before I remembered to turn up the sound.
". . . I got your E-mail about the job," he said. "That is somewhat depressing."
"Yeah, but to be honest, I'm ready for a change anyway. As you know, I've been feeling pretty restless."
"As you generally do, stallion. Why be upset? Consid
er it a month-long vacation with pay and rather fortunate karma."
"I've made Kramer a lot of money and yet he just stabbed me in the back, Hal. That hurts."
Hal's eyes popped open with feigned astonishment. "An agent lacking in scruples? Heavens to Betsy! I shall alert the Los Angeles Times."
I laughed. "Touché."
"Have you considered your next move?"
I sipped diet soda. "I'd still like to go back to television at some point, but that's not in the cards for now."
"You could sell the house, take a year away from things, and perhaps write a book. Then come back and I'll get my people to set up a tour."
"You know me better than that, Hal. I love to read but hate to write."
"One does what one must."
I crumpled the soda can and sailed it toward the metal trash can. NBA caliber, nothing but net. "I'll think of something."
"Don't wait too long. Any news with respect to those missing miscreants Faber and Toole?"
"I have a sense of where they may have gone. Haven't decided what I'm going to do about that yet, if anything."
"Have you heard from your friend Bud?"
"No." I filled Hal in on the meeting with Brandi and the rest of what we had on the two missing thieves, which wasn't much. "I asked Jerry to help out, so he and an ex-cop will keep an eye on the girl."
"How close?"
"I don't want him hurt. They'll just trade her off, light and easy, mostly just keep an eye out to see if anyone else is following her."
"Nothing too serious."
"No."
"For once this looks like a boring story."
"Let's just hope it stays that way."
Hal rubbed his eyes. "Getting to any AA meetings, Callahan?"
I was in no mood to be scolded. I grimaced. "I'm just kind of off the program for now, Hal. I'll go back."
"Do I need to remind you of what can happen if you stray too far from the well-worn path to happy destiny?"
"Just looking at your face reminds me."
"Ouch," Hal said. "He's grumpy. Still, I must ask. Any random urges?"
I shook my head. "The only urge I'm aware of is that it's been too long since I've had someone in my bed."
"And how is the lovely Sergeant Hernandez these days?"
"Don't ask."
Hal cocked his head. His eyes oozed concern, and for some reason that annoyed me, too. "Mick, this isn't the wisest time to call her."
"I know, but I may do that anyway. The breast nurtures, you know?"
"Ponder carefully," Hal said. "And perhaps wait until the morning to decide."
I looked around the room to avoid meeting his gaze. Finally, I nodded. "You take care of yourself, old man. I'll keep you posted."
"You are valued."
"And you."
I surfed for a while and then shut down the computer. The black screen became oddly fascinating. After a long moment I opened my cell, looked at Darlene's phone number as if expecting it to morph into her face. Closed the phone and leaned back in the office chair. It squealed loudly, as if in sympathy.
It's a bitch being a loner who gets lonely.
I wandered through the house looking for something to do. Examined my large stack of unread books, but they all seemed uninteresting. Went outside into the front yard and sat on my porch steps. Another one of those perpetually low-flying planes crossed west to east, lights twinkling, rumbling toward Burbank. I could hear Mariachi music playing several blocks over, across one of the invisible jigsaw lines that separate middle-class San Fernando Valley from the barrio. Los Angeles is strange that way, six-hundred-thousand-dollar homes surrounded by apartments full of people on welfare.
The street began to settle in for the night. Yellow and white porch lights went on and off. Two feral cats got into a loud duel down the block. Homes, side by side, unique yet all the same. Places where it seemed like mostly contented people sat in mostly comfortable rooms; sharing dinner, watching television, getting their kids bathed and into bed. Making love.
Don't go there.
I opened the cell phone again. Closed it with a metallic snap. Wondered what the hell had gone wrong. Darlene was a cop, given to the mistrust of outsiders that damned near went along with the job description. She'd been molested as a girl. We'd fit so comfortably at first, maybe because we had both been abused as children. Then something subtle had begun to go wrong. The lulls in conversation, calls that weren't returned. Odd questions that seemed to have suspicion layered thickly between the words spoken aloud. Finally, that dreaded request for "time off" and "some space."
Come to think of it, a cold beer sounded pretty good.
I looked at my watch. There was an eight-thirty meeting at Beverly Glen and Dickens. I considered taking a quick shower and running over there. I'd probably arrive just in time to catch the main speaker. My legs didn't move. As I'd told Hal, I'd just felt out of place at the meetings lately, bored with the rhetoric, weary of the routine and the structure. Physician, heal thyself. I was getting pretty burned out on sad stories. Shrinks call that state "compassion fatigue." Too much work, not enough of a personal life. And that led me back to the cell phone and Darlene's number. I strolled out onto the sidewalk and paced in a circle.
Okay, say you call, what the hell will you say to her, "Hi, can I come over?"
The hulking shape of a dark van came down the street, rocking from side to side as it passed over the new speed bumps. The driver had not bothered to flick on the lights. I turned away, feeling embarrassed for some reason, as if a host of adolescent feelings were stapled to my shirt.
I opened the phone. The screen lit up. My finger was actually trembling. Screw Hal, what did he know about women? He'd been single since the Jurassic Period. I dialed Darlene. Maybe I'd do this the simplest way possible. Admit I was an asshole and I missed her and just needed a hug.
The van parked almost in front of my house. Someone inside was smoking a cigarette. I walked closer to the porch, into the light, and hunched over with the phone to my ear. Darlene answered on the third ring. She sounded sleepy. I remembered her next to me on the pillow and the scent of her perfume. A need burned in my chest.
"It's me."
A sharp intake of breath, as if Darlene knew what was coming and couldn't decide how to answer. That happens sometimes, when people are on the same emotional page about a relationship, half in and half out. . . .
Feet trotted up the slanted grass behind me. My adrenaline kicked in, and I ducked low and spun around. A baseball bat glanced off my left hand and sent the phone flying. My fingers went numb. I feinted to the right as my eyes darted around in search of a weapon. My vision narrowed to take in the bat. It came at me from above, so I closed with the assailant and drove him back into some potted plants. He lost his balance and grunted harshly. He smelled like cigarettes. I clubbed him twice with the side of my clenched fist, mindful of suddenly sore and possibly broken fingers. Our eyes locked.
It was the man from the strip club. He wore a different shirt but still that same faded windbreaker. I threw myself off him and rolled through the plants and out onto the cement. The second man was closing fast. It was the one I'd called Cowboy. I backed toward the house, palm up and circling. Cowboy went left, Windbreaker—looking a bit dazed—broke to the right. I didn't bother trying to talk them out of it. They both looked pretty determined. Cowboy spoke.
"You could come quiet."
Not likely. Windbreaker tried to rush me. I backed into the wall, and felt the handle of a rake. I brought it up and blocked the bat as it came down. Cowboy was faster this time. He grabbed at me. I used the end of the handle to whack him, got lucky and caught him in the abdomen. His own momentum cost him a lot of wind. He staggered backwards into the bushes. Windbreaker tried for my testicles but I turned in time to catch most of it on my thigh. The bat grazed my skull. I got woozy and my knees weakened.
"Don't. Kill. Him."
Cowboy, trying to yell but sounding like a fee
ble old woman. Windbreaker tapped my temple with the bat. The world went white, spun in a circle, and I went down. I snapped out of it for a second and tried to stab upwards with the prongs, but he kicked me in the throat. I thrashed around like a trout, clutching at my neck. Another blow to my head and the lights went out.
Nine
Bud Stone was the neighbor you loved to hate if you lived in LA. He had a lot of used cars and at least two would be up on blocks in his parched brown yard on any given day. Late that same afternoon he had gotten an old red Mustang running for the first time in years. Once it cranked up, belched and farted fire, the Bone looked in all directions, left it running, and went back through the metal wrecks and into the cluttered garage. He got up on a small folding ladder and took down a tackle box, put it on his wooden workbench, opened it up and removed the top row of wrenches.
The sack layer held a saw-toothed hunting knife in a sheath, some old field glasses, two handguns, and worn holsters for a 9mm Glock and a .38 Smith and Wesson. Bone had cleaned and oiled the weapons the night before. He loaded them, tucked the Glock onto his right hip and put the smaller gun at his ankle, cop style.
My friend put an extra clip and a speed loader full of hollow-points into the pockets of his bulky, grey sweatshirt. The wicked knife sat in the back of his belt. He stretched and did some breathing exercises to calm himself. He heard a floorboard squeak.
Bud looked up, saw his wife Wendy standing in the kitchen, peeking out through the doorway. She wore a pale blue dress and a stained white apron that read BOSS. Wendy was a plump redhead, almost blind without her glasses, and she worried too much and too often. Bud loved her dearly. Since it was hard to know how much she'd seen, he assumed the worst and forced himself to produce a broad smile. "Now, don't get all worked up. It's no big thing."
Wendy's eyes filled with tears. "Guns again, Bud?"
Bone shrugged. "They're mostly for show, okay? I have to bluff. I've got to meet some guys. It's a business sit down, but these clowns fancy themselves badasses, you know? I might have to show them I'm not scared. Believe me, I know better than to sign on for the real deal. Relax. Just finish packing. Did you call your sister?"
One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel Page 7