Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels)

by Harry Shannon

  "I had a glass of champagne, perhaps half of one not long before, I was certain this would not be a problem."

  "An attorney might have disagreed."

  "My husband is a lawyer. I should have known better. I think they had to justify that they had stopped me, yes? And because of that half a glass of wine I was just a fraction over the legal limit, so they cuffed me and then they took me to jail. Mr. Callahan, it was so very humiliating. They took my driver's license for a few months." She looked down at her hands. "I had to tell my husband of course, but I never told my family, especially my mother. I would not have heard the end of it."

  "She would have judged you, perhaps?"

  "Most certainly."

  "For religious reasons?"

  She nodded. "My parents are very old fashioned, and this arrest would have been considered a terrible thing, bringing shame upon my family. A scandal. My merely drinking alcohol, much less . . ."

  "I sometimes wonder what it must be like, being Muslim in America these days. There are so many types of pressure, some of which I suspect the rest of us don't understand."

  "Yes. Things are difficult enough already, especially with the new incident in Las Vegas."

  "I haven't caught the news today."

  "There was some sort of an attack on an office building." She shook her head. "I cannot understand that kind of violence, suicide bombings. For peasants who feel powerless under a dictatorship perhaps, but targeting innocent civilians?"

  "I understand. It offends me too." Callahan took a deep breath and bought a moment. He pondered a few options, made a decision. "Let's get back to the DUI arrest. That cannot have been easy, to carry that secret. In fact, hiding the truth for so long, having your husband drive you to work, making other arrangements, inventing stories. I would assume all of that was also a punishment, perhaps the worst punishment of all. A constant reminder that lives to this day."

  Her eyes glistened. "Sometimes it feels like on one side I have people who do not understand or accept my love for my culture and religion. And on the other . . ."

  He finished her thought. "You often feel that you are not fully accepted by those you love."

  She shrugged. "Life is not fair."

  "No, it is not. It's just life."

  She was a brilliant woman, tightly wound. Her own emotions seemed to bewilder her. Callahan searched for an appropriate response. "I believe that it is meaningful to just allow feelings to happen, to flow naturally. They may or may not lead to a resolution of some kind, but we feel as well as think, and they often contradict one another. That's just what it means to be human. To live with both intensity and uncertainty in our feelings."

  She began to weep. As the emotions discharged, her muscles twitched. Callahan smiled wearily, but this time stayed back in his chair, allowing her space. "Bear with me on this part, okay? William James once indicated that religion could be a defense against the spiritual experience. Do you see what he means?"

  "I think so. Yes."

  "Your parents, for example. Consider this possibility. Sometimes I think people cling to religious and political positions just to avoid the 'not-knowingness' of life. Cosmogony, the cycle of life and death, the true meaning of suffering. We are sentient beings and intellectual arrogance is one of our many sins. It is difficult to accept how little we actually understand about the universe. He who thinks he knows, does not know. He who knows he does not know . . . knows. Rabbi Hillel, I think."

  She brightened. "There is something similar in the Hindu Upanishads, yes?"

  Callahan chuckled. "The truth is the truth."

  The air thickened. A kind of recognition passed between them in the stillness. The moment lasted long enough to throw Callahan off stride. A touch or a hug would have felt intrusive and inappropriate, yet the exchange begged to be acknowledged in some way. Seconds later, Callahan felt he'd failed her. Just one of a long list of clumsy exchanges he'd had of late, probably too subtle to bother his clients, but annoying just the same. He was doing his job well enough, but was often moody and only partially present, which didn't seem at all fair.

  The woman gathered herself. Mick Callahan, at six-two towering over the client, walked her through the waiting room and out into the LA sunshine. The morning's overcast had burned off and the temperature was steadily climbing into the 90s. The somber mood lifted. They shook hands formally, and she walked down the hall to the elevator, already back on her cell phone and into her professional life. Callahan remained behind for a while. He frowned, stared out at the small rainbow dangling in the mist above an automatic sprinkler. When he looked down the hall again, she was getting onto the elevator. She did not look back and to Callahan's amusement that bothered him a bit. My, my how fragile we are . . .

  Callahan had a two-hour break before the day resumed, and had intended to go to the gym for a long workout, though somehow he just didn't feel up to it. He had notes to collect for the new cable television pilot he and his partner were working on. Some meditating would have been in order, but life kept intruding. As did his own pesky feelings, the ones he had been avoiding just like everyone who paid to see him. The truth was that his lady friend, Detective Darlene Hernandez of the LAPD, was out of his life again, and Callahan didn't know for how long. They hadn't spoken in quite a while. Mick felt hurt, lonely, and weirdly bored. That last feeling had little or nothing to do with Darlene. It's the curse of the alcoholic Irishman, we long for peace and then can't abide it when it happens. As Tennyson wrote, "The great Gales of Ireland are the men that God made mad—all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad."

  Callahan went back into his office. Faint music, air freshener, cooler temperature. Now that the chemist had left, he felt that vague sadness intrude. He knew he'd missed a beat. In her last few moments in the office, the client had wanted to say something else, but had refrained, perhaps due to lack of time, or another kind of reticence. Clients often did that, and then had to wait until the next appointment to again try to summon up their courage. He wondered if she'd been about to broach the subject of her marriage. She had barely mentioned her husband this session, and they'd been having problems. It seemed logical that Callahan's instinct regarding something left unsaid applied to him. If so, Callahan knew he had let her down by not exploring the topic. He resolved to pursue it next time.

  He grabbed his old fashioned day planner. Callahan never kept notes, mostly so that nothing could be subpoenaed, but he wrote the letter M and a question mark next to the client's name for the following week, just as a reminder. Perhaps if he took the lead and suggested they discuss her husband's reaction to her arrest, he'd open the door to whatever she'd left out of this most recent conversation.

  Callahan felt his Blackberry vibrate. Someone pinged. He checked. Now both of the afternoon clients had cancelled. Earlier one due to a bad sinus attack, which made sense in this kind of weather and at this time of year. The other, a fifty-six year old sometime high school math teacher, was a gambler and a stoner. Callahan's bet was that Calvin had done a bit of "wake and bake" and was too embarrassed to come in wasted. In any event, now Mick had nothing but time on his hands.

  Uh oh.

  Callahan was abruptly cornered. He was in a position most depressed humans would do almost anything to avoid. A ticking clock, silence in the room, Mick not feeling hungry or thirsty or sexual or angry. Just existing there alone with his own feelings, not safely ensconced in analyzing someone else's. He sat on the client couch, rubbed his temples and leaned back. To be honest, he'd felt very little excitement about the new television possibility, even though it would offer his hacker friend Jerry Jover a tremendous opportunity. Jerry could achieve his new dream of becoming a producer. Such a show would be inexpensive and certainly easy enough for Mick to handle, but his private practice had been thriving since the last stint on local radio. Callahan wondered if this new job was even necessary. Was he doing it out of greed? Just for Jerry? Or perhaps just to assuage his own ego, since he'd
once punched a guy on camera and crashed his first television career.

  In short, did he even want this? And why have I waited so long to ask myself that question?

  Things had been fairly quiet the last few months, after a mess caused by an old friend from the Navy Seals, Bud Stone. "Bone" had asked Callahan to do him a simple favor, to watch over his mistress while he repaid a gambling debt. The situation had exploded into chaos when Bone opted to rip off a drug dealer to raise the cash. Mick had been dragged back into violence and uncertainty, his old way of life. By the time the pieces finally came together, several people were dead. Mick had once again involved his hacker pal Jerry, spent his sponsor Hal's money, and stressed out his lady Darlene by dragging her into a situation that could have destroyed her law enforcement career. On top of all that, Mick's friend Bud turned out to be working for the Feds all along. They'd all been set up in a game involving fish a lot larger than the mob guys.

  After a brief period of exceptional closeness, perhaps in reaction to those intense and violent days, Darlene Hernandez and Callahan had drifted apart again. She was a cop through and through, as tough as they come, as stubborn as Mick. Well, almost. They'd gone back and forth, and then reluctantly decided recently to "see other people." Well, she'd decided. Naturally, his ego wouldn't tolerate that, so they had stopped speaking altogether. Mick's ongoing jealousy irritated him almost as much as the crushing boredom. Yeah, I know, "if you're bored, you're boring." True. The world was full of good books and films and musical instruments and athletic and intellectual pursuits. Boredom was generally a mask for depression, and Callahan was definitely depressed. Pride goeth before a fall.

  Bach Cello in G startled him as his Blackberry rang. The number was set up for emergencies or last-minute cancellations. Caller ID said it was Calvin McCann, the second client to cancel. Callahan almost let it go to voice mail, but a flicker of guilt made him answer.

  "Hello, Calvin."

  "I'm gonna pay you for your time, Doc. Honest."

  "What's up?"

  He hesitated. "Look I'm not stoned out if that's what you're thinking."

  "That's good to hear. What is it, then?"

  "Uh, it's that other thing, you know?"

  Calvin was outside somewhere, wind blowing, male voices in the background. He meant his gambling problem, was clearly reluctant to be specific. Callahan figured it was one or the other, so he wondered why Calvin had bothered to call.

  "So next week, at our regular time?"

  "Here's the thing," Calvin said, and lowered his voice a notch. "If I can't cover the fee for a while, can you carry me? Maybe just for a couple of weeks, I'm not talking any big amount of money here."

  Callahan closed his eyes, tried to be patient. "Calvin, we've discussed this before. Your tendency is to get into debt with people and institutions, then dig an even deeper hole by gambling to get out. I won't support your bad habits."

  "I know, I know. Never mind. I apologize. Can I come in tomorrow?"

  "I think tomorrow at nine is okay."

  "I'll be there with bells on. Thanks, Doc."

  "And Calvin? Be sober."

  Callahan clicked the phone off. Silence returned to the empty office like a thick shroud. A cloud passed over the sun outside the blinds and invisible tendrils gave him another chill. How was it possible to spend so much time talking to so many people about so many things, and still feel this alone?

  Call Hal, so he can nag you about going to a meeting.

  One thing about having a smart sponsor is that you can eventually write both sides of a conversation that hasn't yet taken place. Still, Callahan missed the old bastard. There was something comforting about Hal Solomon's speechifying, and the easy roles they'd fallen into over the last several years, mentor and student, father and son , friend and friend. Mick packed up, went on the laptop and found Hal via Skype. Hal answered after a few seconds. The picture was slightly stretched, as if he were leaning down over a handheld device.

  "Are you on a plane again?"

  "No." Hal Silverman smiled on camera. His silver hair was thinning and mussed. He seemed tired. "I'm in a stretch limo in Monte Carlo." As usual, his suit probably cost as much as someone else's new car. Hal breathed rarified air.

  "Why, whatever for?" Callahan said.

  "Just to irritate you, stallion."

  "I know I've asked you this before, but don't you ever want to stop in one place for a year or two and put down some roots?"

  "Maybe Lake Lugano, and only maybe." Hal cleared his throat. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

  "What, I can't just call to say hello?"

  "Not really. You're too self-centered for that, unless this happens to be one of your more transformative days."

  "Ouch."

  Hal chuckled. "Relax. It takes one to know one. How are things with the lovely Detective Hernandez?"

  Callahan didn't answer. He hadn't told Hal anything yet. Mick had wanted to be composed about things when the subject came up, instead of insanely insecure. Plus, Hal tended to be a bit of a modernist. Callahan was old fashioned. He didn't believe people could just switch from lovers to friends with no in-between stages. You have to say goodbye before you can say hello again. Hal jumped into the silence as if sensing something.

  "So what are you doing besides working?"

  Callahan thought for a long moment. "Working some more?"

  "I have a bit of news for you," Hal said. "How long has it been since we sat down together?"

  "In the same damned room? Years." Callahan felt his heart thump a bit faster. It would be so good to see Hal in the flesh. "Are you coming through town?"

  "Next week," Hal said.

  "That's terrific! How long will you be here?"

  "Just for a day or two tops, hoping to schedule a leisurely meal with you. I have a board meeting to attend. Cannot handle this one over the internet, since I plan to kick my subordinate in the testicles. Figuratively speaking, of course."

  "Of course. If you wanted it literally, you'd have asked me to come along."

  "Most certainly. That is your area of expertise."

  "It will be wonderful to see you, old friend."

  "Yes, and Mick? I believe it is finally time for me to meet Jerry and Sgt. Hernandez face to face as well."

  Darlene? This is setting up to be another difficult week, Callahan thought.

  After they signed off, Mick went to the gym after all. He kicked his own ass for two hours. Callahan was still on the sunny side of forty, but only by a couple of years, and closing fast. It frustrated him to make so many concessions to worn knees and sore shoulders. Still, it had to be done. His workouts were getting a bit lighter and safer. Time marched inexorably along. The broken bones and sprained tendons and cracked ribs were starting to catch up. Too many fights in too many bars. There were huge chunks of his time in the Seals that Callahan couldn't even remember, still others he often wished he could forget. Thanks in part to Hal Solomon, Mick Callahan was now sober a number of years, and slowly becoming sane.

  Whenever Mick returned home to the quiet house he wondered why he didn't break down and take in another cat. The place seemed so damned empty. He still missed the torn-up Tom cat he'd called Murphy, and didn't want to dishonor the old coot's memory. That was his excuse, anyway. Of course, pets just die. Again. And women leave. So perhaps he just feared yet another loss.

  Callahan forced down a protein drink and some carrots. He pretended to watch television for a while. The world outside spun more slowly, honked less often, dimmed its lights and pulled up the covers. He turned in early. Despite consistent exercise, Callahan still slept poorly, and during a seemingly endless night he dreamed again of Dry Wells, Nevada.

  Steam rising from bright sand, cactus drooping as if pleading for moisture. The scent of blue sage. A crowd murmured and laughed, whistled and grunted. Callahan was a boy again, sweaty and streaked with dirt, fighting another kid for money, with Uncle Danny cheering him on . . .

  W
hen Mick crunched the other boy's nose, the awful sound jarred him awake. He found himself sitting up in bed, flailing his arms in the dark. His mouth had gone dry and tasted foul. His pulse hammered, anxious thoughts babbled.

  A violent childhood, the alcoholism in the family and his mother's untimely death all led Callahan to drink heavily. He took a shot at serving the toughest way he could imagine, the Navy Seals. In retrospect, that was a stupid decision. Callahan had neither the temperament nor the resolute patriotism required. The younger Mick Callahan was a raging alcoholic with a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Rushmore. He'd made it through, but never wore that trident. He'd washed out at the last minute over an affair with an officer's wife. Callahan then got some counseling after an arrest and suspended sentence for brawling. Although the counseling didn't fix much, it had awakened a serious interest in psychology.

  Callahan had gone back to school and through a series of happenings became a media therapist. Made a lot of money and a few enemies. He was kind of a star. Well, until he punched someone on live television. After that debacle, Callahan had sobered up at last, met Hal Solomon, who had owned the conglomerate producing his show, and finally started over. Despite a checkered history of violent episodes and misadventures, the starting over part, like the sobriety, was still going strong.

  The nightmare had disturbed him. Callahan got up and went to the window and looked out at the streetlights doing battle with a quarter moon. Everything was quiet, though one worn Toyota sat parked in front of a neighbor's home. Someone inside the vehicle was smoking. A threat? Maybe a client's pissed off ex-boyfriend?

  Callahan studied him for a while, got a vague sense of the profile, but nothing suspicious happened, and eventually the man just drove away. Eventually Mick's heart slowed down as the adrenaline left his system. A first class case of PTSD, but nothing much he could do about it, except maybe go back into therapy himself. Or tell Hal what was really going on. Callahan felt a pang imagining being able sit with Hal again, a strange mixture of anticipation and fear. It had been too long.