Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels)

by Harry Shannon

  "Perhaps you should."

  "It's late. I think I'll go for a run, get some sleep, and drive to the airport early in the morning. I can still make my meeting on time."

  "Darin Young? That's still on?"

  "He wouldn't let me reschedule."

  "He is a penis."

  "He is indeed. How is the weather in Zurich?"

  "The sun will be shining on the Banhofstrasse shortly, and I intend to take a stroll. I will indulge in a dab of fresh yogurt, a hot buttered croissant, and eine milch café to start my day. You have a pleasant jog and a decent sleep, young man. I believe you have done an important thing here."

  I snorted. "What the hell have I done?"

  "You have allowed yourself to truly care about someone, to grapple with the circumstances of her suffering. That is an important step. Responsibility may be the bane of a boy's existence, but it is the true content of a man's. And you know I am fond of saying all that is necessary for evil to triumph is for a good man to do nothing."

  "Is it that simple? I can say I tried?"

  "Perhaps."

  "We'll see. Have a good morning, Hal. I will call you again from L.A."

  "Do that, please. Now repeat after me. I never had it so good."

  "I never had it so good."

  "Shalom."

  I changed, went outside. The evening air was surprisingly brisk. I tried to hold myself back and jog lightly, but the emotional pain was too great. I felt angry, weak, and ineffectual. My shame drove me into a full run perhaps a mile too early. I burst around the corner, jumped across the railroad tracks and raced through the park, panting, under an impassive night sky. The skyline was black velvet, rimmed with dark blue and speckled with silver stars.

  My breathing grew ragged. I rounded a tree and loped along beside the creek where Sandy had drowned.

  I could not bring myself to stop there.

  I increased my pace yet again, right side stabbing with pain, stride becoming a stagger. When I could no longer bear the hurt, I slowed to a jog and then, panting, walked down Main Street. I heard someone coming. I froze, sweat dripping from my face, and once again flashed on the dead man in the alley. Instinctively, I stepped back into the shadow of the storage bin behind Doc Langdon's office.

  Doc Langdon and Bass were strolling up Main from Caldwell, moving towards the sheriff's office. The sheriff was smoking a cigar. They were arguing. When they were on the opposite side of the street, across from Annie's closed diner, I heard what they were saying.

  "I don't like it, Glen."

  "You don't have to like it. Just do what you're told."

  "And then?"

  "And then this little problem we got will work itself out."

  "You think this is a little problem?"

  "Of course I don't," Bass snarled. He bit down on his cigar and the orange tip sprayed miniature fireworks. "But I don't have any good choices here, Doc. Neither do you."

  Doc stopped, almost directly across from where I was hiding. Bass took a few steps and then turned. Doc raised his arms up in frustration; lowered them slowly as if surrendering. "How you feeling, Glen? You sleeping okay these days?"

  "Fuck you."

  "No," Doc said, "fuck the both of us."

  Bass resumed walking, and eventually Doc followed. When they resumed their conversation, they were out of earshot. I turned back towards the bar. Tap's place seemed warm and inviting, and the addict voice in my mind whispered: What's the difference, man? You can't change the world. It has always sucked and it always will suck. May as well party, right? I looked down and found my hand on the ancient, dented brass doorknob. I had no idea how long I had been standing there, or how I had gotten so close to a relapse.

  I yanked myself away, moving almost comically, and began to jog again. I deliberately added another mile to punish myself, and then finally limped back into the motel parking lot. The office was closed. Jerry's red scooter was missing. I felt exhausted, emotionally and physically; it was a welcome release. I stopped at the bottom of the steps, searched for the room key.

  Someone was crouched above me in the darkness.

  I jumped back, my hands balled into fists. The figure stood, stepped forward out of the shadows. The old gray cat hissed, meowed, ran a few steps and crouched down again.

  "I knew you were scared," Annie Wynn said. "But this is ridiculous."

  I sagged. "You really spooked me. I didn't stop by. Sorry."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "I'm not having a great night."

  "Maybe I can improve it some," she said. "I came by to officially invite you to be my escort to the fireworks in Starr Valley tomorrow."

  "Unfortunately, doesn't look like I'll be in town," I said. "I'm flattered, though. Maybe you'll give me a rain check?"

  "You're leaving?"

  "For California. It's business."

  "Shit."

  She sat down on the porch and lit a cigarette, offered me a drag. I shook my head. "One of the many things I've given up." I sat next to her on the top step, still slowing my breathing. I was enjoying her presence.

  "You smell like a horse," she said.

  "Sorry."

  "No," she said, edging closer. "That's okay. I like horses." And then she kissed me. Her lips were full and soft, and the first I had tasted in more than a year. I felt myself hardening. It took all of my willpower to not take her right there, on the porch, under the stars. Finally it stopped. She blew her breath out and giggled.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Chemistry," she said. "No way to explain it, but it's there or it isn't. You and me, we always had bushels. I've missed you, Mick. I don't want you to go."

  "I have to," I said. "And the truth is I don't know as I belong here any more."

  "Truth is, I didn't want to come back to Dry Wells either," Annie said. "Mom needed me, though. Getting old alone is a sad thing." The cat strolled by her feet, on the way to somewhere mysterious. She scratched his tattered ears. "He's your cat, Callahan," Annie said. It wasn't a question.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "He's all beat up but still a stud and he doesn't have a regular place to live. Seems like a fit."

  "I guess you're right," I said. We held hands and looked up at the night sky. The blues singer howled again, and a second coyote joined in. A few wordless moments slipped away.

  Annie grew pensive. "You ever think about lost chances?"

  "Sure. An analyst friend of mine calls it 'the road not taken.' We ponder that old sweetheart, the career mistake, the big investment opportunity we missed. Everybody does that."

  Annie lowered her head. She smiled a wry smile and said, "Mine was you."

  "I'm honored."

  I hugged her. Stark images of her trailer-park childhood, alcoholic mother, and abandoning father flooded my mind. I remembered how we had been as troubled teens; how we'd counted on and idealized one another. The sexual magnetism had been, and still was, intense. But I wasn't a kid any more, and neither was Annie. And I couldn't unlearn what I knew; not even for a second chance.

  "Callahan, can I ask you something?"

  "Sure."

  "What was that fight with Bobby Sewell all about?"

  "Boys will be boys," I said, dismissing her concern. "It was one of those size-of-the-dick kind of things."

  "Come on, I'm serious," she said. "Just what are you up to, and why are you pissing everybody off?"

  I searched for safe words. "I wanted to try to put things right."

  "Past tense?"

  "Most likely."

  "You said you were sticking around because you knew something about Sandy's death. And then I heard you say those nasty things to Bobby Sewell. Tell me the truth, do you think somebody drowned Sandy Palmer?"

  I sat for a long moment before I answered her. "We may never know for sure, one way or the other."

  "What happened yesterday? I wasn't there."

  I shrugged. "Sandy talked to me, I walked away. She died a few minutes later
."

  Annie shook her head in the darkness. "How'd you ever get tangled up a mess like that?"

  "That's a long story."

  She snuggled in close and stroked my arm. "I've got nothing but time," she said. Her body fit mine so comfortably I trembled. She knew. "Tell me all about it," she said. "Don't bullshit me. I mean, if something bad did happen to Sandy, why would anybody be all that surprised?"

  "A few townspeople have told me they saw trouble coming."

  Annie chuckled dryly. "The world has changed a lot since the pill, but not that much. There's still a huge double standard. Women can't get away with things that a man does every day."

  "Yeah."

  "And those Palmer kids? They always were trouble. Look, I even made the mistake of dating poor Will a while back."

  I straightened. "You're kidding."

  Annie nodded ruefully. "Unfortunately I'm not. I knew his reputation, but I thought . . . I really liked him. And then I got my ass kicked. Sometimes you got to learn things the hard way, right?"

  I thought about my own history. "Right again."

  "Sandy never learned, though. Look here, Mick, a girl who chases down every man a little town has to offer is just asking for a world of hurt. One of them is bound to go loco on her, sooner or later. And that's probably what happened."

  "She made me feel sad," I said, abruptly. "I remembered her as a child. I felt sorry for her."

  "I can understand that," Annie said. "But a slut took my last husband. Callahan, think about it. She was little Miss White Sunflower Dress, twitching her cute little butt all over the park, making men fight over her day in and day out."

  "What are you driving at, Annie?"

  "You shrinks are supposed to be big on taking responsibility, Mick. Isn't she to blame too, in a way? What did she expect?"

  "Yeah," I said. I felt intensely uncomfortable, all of a sudden. "You're probably right."

  "Damn straight," Annie said. "Sandy wrote her own story."

  "What about you?" I asked.

  "What about me?"

  I slowly inched away. I was still trying, but failing, to keep sex out of this conversation. "Are you back in Dry Wells for a reason this time, or did you just have no place else to go?"

  "No place else to go," she said, honestly. "My first husband was a deadbeat, so I dumped him. Like I said, the second one, he was a dumb-ass rodeo cowboy, kept fucking around on me. He made me crazy denying it, but I knew. So I followed him around one night. I caught them together."

  "Ouch."

  "No shit."

  "He's still breathing?"

  "Actually, yes. But she was bleeding when I left," Annie laughed. "Anyway, I found myself suddenly single. I waited tables in a casino for a while, but you got a brain, you get sick of it pretty quick. There's good money in those tips, but you have to get used to strange men groping your ass."

  "Strange being the operative word."

  "Maybe ass being the word," Annie said. "Now, 'strange' you get to take for granted, after a while, when it comes to men."

  "Present company included?"

  She didn't answer. I could smell her perfume and something else. It was the musk scent of the two of us together. I swallowed and edged further away. Annie noticed. "What's wrong," she said. "I got fleas or something?"

  "No," I said. "It's not you."

  "Didn't think so, not the way you kissed me a minute ago. Can I get me another one of those, cowboy?"

  I ran my fingers through her hair. She reached for me, but I turned my head and kissed the tip of her nose. "I just can't. Not right now."

  Annie looked baffled. "Let me get this straight. You're a man. You're sweaty and half-undressed. You're out on the empty porch with a beautiful woman you used to get it on with, and it's all on a hot spring evening, and you say sorry but not now? Mick Callahan, what the fuck is your problem?"

  "It's really complicated," I said miserably. "I'm sorry."

  Annie got to her knees and dusted the seat of her jeans. "I meant it when I said I never forgot you."

  "I know."

  "Mick?"

  I couldn't see her, but her voice trembled. "The baby I lost, that abortion that screwed up my insides? It was your baby, Mick."

  Against my will, my mind pictured a little child with my dark hair and black-Irish features. I felt stunned, slapped in the face. "My God, Annie. Jesus."

  "I thought you should know."

  "I don't know what to say."

  She sighed and her breath teased my neck. "There's nothing needs saying."

  "I am so sorry."

  She sensed my resolve and pulled away. "But the answer is still no?"

  I did not reply. She got to her feet and stretched. Her breasts were outlined by the cool, yellow moonlight. I looked away and down at the ground. Annie bent over and pinched my face. "I think I get it, now. This is about some other woman, right?"

  After a long moment, I said, "Maybe it is. Something like that."

  "Okay," she said. "I've been waiting a long time. I can wait a little longer. You'll be back."

  "Could be," I said.

  "Oh, I'll have you all right." Annie walked away smiling, with an exaggerated swing of the hips. She called out over her shoulder, "It's your loss, cowboy."

  I moaned. "Don't I know it."

  Annie flipped me the finger. She vanished into the gloom. I sat still for a while, waiting for the rush of sexual heat to die down. I couldn't explain it to her because I didn't fully understand it myself. My mind was in a kind of spasm. Something was going on in the unconscious. I needed time alone to think, which was difficult when I felt like a horny teenager. I took a long, cool shower. I hummed an Irish ballad Danny Bell taught me, "Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms." I wondered, not for the first time, if my mother had known it. The thought of another woman dying young depressed me even further.

  I toweled off and then lay naked on the bedspread in the darkness, willing my mind to slow. I meditated for a while, thought things over.

  From my readings about Taoism and Buddhism, I knew that a wise teacher would discourage "dualism" and the illusion that distinctions such as good and evil are meaningful. In the East there is only the one universe, which is a cohesive whole. It is said that polar opposites have no place in an enlightened mind. But such abstractions were of little comfort now, because although I told myself that evil did not exist, I could not stop seeing Lowell Palmer's obsidian eyes, so bottomless and dispassionate. They had seemed entirely devoid of empathy, curiosity, or virtue. The man had a presence that was truly chilling, and very hard to define.

  Please forgive me Pop. I feel terrible about what happened to Sandy.

  I pictured the dead man in the alley, hands tied behind his back and fingertips sliced away. Saw that ugly wound at the back of his neck, made by a pick or perhaps a hunting arrow. And I wondered how the hell he factored into this chaos.

  I opened my copy of Synopsis of Psychiatry and read about Borderline Personality Disorder. BPD sufferers are intense, self-involved people who are impulsive, lacking in boundaries, out of control in areas like spending and sex. They can be prone to melodramatic outbursts and angry, tempestuous relationships. I refreshed my memory, then rubbed my eyes and put the book away. My eyes wandered back to the clock.

  I swore and looked at the time again. I debated, then grabbed my cell phone, opened and dialed it. The phone rang and rang. I rubbed my face. Finally a woman picked up. I made myself sound happy. "I'm calling for Darin, please. This is Mick Callahan speaking."

  "Just a second," she said, curtly. She was clearly unimpressed. I heard rock music and laughter. Several moments passed. I forced a wide, toothy smile and whispered a variety of obsequious opening sentences. I felt like a prostitute and loathed myself for doing this.

  "He said to tell you he's busy," the woman said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "He's out in the pool playing volleyball. I'm supposed to tell you to call back and leave a message o
n the machine."

  "But . . ."

  "Bye, now."

  I closed the cell phone and massaged my temples. After a moment I opened the telephone again and hit the redial button. I waited through the voice mail message. "Hey, Darin old buddy, it's Mick. You wanted me to call you back regarding our meeting Tuesday afternoon at 5:00 at Warner Brothers. It looks like it's going to be fine, okay? And I'm really up for it. See you then."

  I slowly closed the phone, dropped my head into cupped palms, and shuddered. I wondered if I had set a high enough price for my very soul. I sat for a long moment, then jumped to my feet, went to the refrigerator and poured some milk into a saucer. I opened the door and clicked my tongue. A few seconds later the old gray cat strolled over and wound itself around my ankles.

  "How's it going, Murphy?"

  The cat purred.

  "That's your name, you know. Murphy, for Murphy's Law."

  More purring.

  I put the saucer down and listened to the animal drink. I stroked his scarred ears and matted fur, savored the ragged, affectionate sounds he made. When Murphy was finished he farted and strolled away.

  "You're welcome."

  I went back inside and tried to sleep.

  Twenty-One

  Monday Morning, 8:45 AM . . . Memorial Day

  Sandy Palmer's blue eyes looked up at me through inches of clear, cold water. Her mouth spewed bubbles as she begged for her life . . .

  I struggled; thrashed around and coughed; fell out of the bed and onto the area rug. The crash woke me. I stayed on all fours, panting, and watched several sweat drops splash down onto the heavily varnished floorboards. The clock ticked. I looked up and saw that it was nearly nine.

  "God damn it!"

  I got up on toes and fingertips and did push-ups until my muscles started shrieking; then rolled over and did stomach crunch movements until my abs were on fire. I considered going for another run, but decided to hustle. I took a long, cold shower and scrubbed myself, desperate to rub away the dream. And then I thought of Annie Wynn and the touch of her fingers.

  No doubt about it, I thought. It is most definitely time to get the hell out of Dodge. I grabbed the telephone.

  "I am sorry sir," the Swiss clerk said with precision. "It seems that Mr. Solomon has left the hotel. He mentioned that he might take a train down to Ticino. That is very near Italy, by the lake of Lugano. There are many fine restaurants there."