As soon as he was outside, Mallen broke out the phone and booted it up. Stuck the bottle of JB in his right coat pocket, the gun again residing in the left one. He topped up the cell and quickly dialed Gato’s number. Got voicemail and left his new number, telling Gato to congratulate him for joining the twenty-first century again.
He was half a block from his house when he heard a voice behind him say, “Hey man, you got a cig?”
The voice was recognized immediately, just as he immediately recognized the fact that he was too slow as he spun around, hand digging for the gun in his coat pocket. He never saw Griffin’s huge fist as it rocketed in, smashing him in the temple, stunning him as he fell to the ground. Griffin grabbed up a handful of his collar and yanked him halfway off the sidewalk. As his vision cleared, he noticed that Griffin now sported a scar that ran down the side of his face.
“You look even more like Frankenstein now, Griff,” he croaked at the huge man. Griffin looked like his wiring shorted out for a second, he was so fucking surprised at Mallen’s not whimpering for mercy. Maybe that’s what he expected from someone he thought was a junkie.
That didn’t stop him from slamming Mallen in the mouth though. Mallen tasted blood. A lot of it. He spit it out before he choked.
“Hey, Mr. Undercover Man,” Griffin said to him, then bounced Mallen’s head off the sidewalk. Mallen’s vision went like snow on a TV screen for a second. He thought he was going to die. That the silver .44 would come out now and he’d be shot in the head and left for dead.
But then Griffin said to him, “Hope you’re doing well, Mr. Undercover Fucker, because me and Jas have a lot of fun in store for you. Prepare to enter hell, you lying sack of shit.” This was followed by a series of blows Mallen no longer even felt because he was numb all over from the beating he’d already taken. He couldn’t even register the fact that he wasn’t going to die today.
Sixteen
Anthony Scarsdale no longer had to worry about money. He lay on his back, sightless eyes staring up at the foggy sky above the crumbled ruins of the Sutro Baths, a huge indoor pools facility that opened in 1896 only to burn down sixty years later. Anthony had been found lying on the edge of the cliffs overlooking what was left of the old baths’ concrete foundations. A woman out jogging with her dog on the path above had spotted the body. There was a bullet hole in the back of Scarsdale’s head, the blood having stained the dirt and pine needles black.
Oberon stood next to DeJesus as she went through her routine and wondered briefly if his comment to Mallen about karma had been correct after all. Watched as DeJesus pulled Scarsdale’s wallet from the corpse’s back pocket, then hold it out to him. He took it in a gloved hand. Riffled through it. Inside were sixteen dollars, an ID, and a business card for a parole officer named Denise Lewis. There were also a few scraps of paper with phone numbers or email addresses scrawled on them. No names. He looked down at the body. There was no blood pattern around to indicate that Scarsdale had met his end here. The fallen, dried pine needles created a carpet that hid all signs of passing. He was probably shot somewhere else and dumped here. And pretty quickly, too, if he was still bleeding from the wound enough to pool under him like it had. The kill site couldn’t be too far away. He’d get some uniforms to search around.
Oberon glanced again at the parole officer’s card. Jotted down the name and phone number. “Madam DeJesus, can your office let me know as soon as possible if this bullet is from the same weapon that did in Kaslowski?”
“Sure thing. Looking at the entry hole made me think the same as you.”
“That, and the fact this gentleman here might also have a history that involves one or more of our criminal institutions.” He pulled out a plastic bag and put the wallet inside. Logged the time and date on the outside. He handed it off to a nearby forensics tech and then walked over to the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean. Pulled out his phone. Dialed Denise Lewis’s number. Waited as it rang.
“Officer Lewis,” said the voice on the other end of the line. Crisp and businesslike.
“Hello, this is detective Oberon Kane, SFPD, Homicide. Are you assigned to an”—he checked the name he wrote down—“Anthony Scarsdale?”
There was a sigh. “What did that asshole do now?”
“Well, he got himself killed sometime last evening.”
After a moment she said, “I can’t say I’m surprised by this.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“I guess I just didn’t believe he’d make it on the outside. He was having trouble finding work. Was unable to make any sort of connection with the right people. That usually leads to a return to prison.”
“What did he go in for?”
“Assault and battery, with some drug dealing thrown in for shits and giggles. Went in an addict, came out clean-ish, as far as I know.”
“Was his victim a woman or a man?”
“A woman. He had a lot of trouble forming relationships with them, from what his psych eval said.”
“Where did he serve his time?”
“Folsom.”
That tugged at him. How could both victims have criminal records and serve at the same facility? It could be a coincidence, but then again …
“Can I have a look at his file? I’d like to spend some time with it.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Well,” she said, “if you don’t mind signing a paper taking responsibility for it while it’s in your possession, then sure.”
“I’ll be by your office in about an hour.”
“Okay,” she said and hung up. Was there a connection between the two killings? It was a theory he was certainly going to entertain, as it would make his life easier, and he could use a little of that right about now. He walked back to the body to see if DeJesus had anything else for him.
Mallen slowly opened his eyes. Took a moment for them to come into focus. He’d been propped up against a building. About six feet away he could make out a splatter pattern of blood. His. The side of his face was on fire. His left eye was already swollen up, the vision not super clear. The right side of his rib cage felt like an elephant has danced on it. He carefully sent signals out through his body. They all came back: no broken bones. That was something anyway.
There was a homeless woman standing nearby, leaning on her shopping cart. She looked about forty, but if she’d been on the streets for any length of time, she could actually be twenty. Stared at him as he tried to get to his feet and failed.
“You’re Mallen,” she said matter of fact.
He nodded his head. Regretted it. “You the one that propped me here?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. How you know my name?”
“You arrested my brother once. Years ago. I was a teenager then.”
“I did? What’d your brother do?”
“Dealt drugs.”
He checked to see if his wallet, phone, and gun were still on him. They were. So was the bottle. He looked over at her curiously. “If I arrested him, why’d you help me?”
“He was also fucking me, that’s why. Felt I owed you one.”
Had Griffin missed the gun, or just not given a shit? Probably the latter, he thought as he pulled a twenty out of his wallet. One of his last for the month. The effort alone made every muscle in his body scream in anger. “You know what?” he said as he held it out to her, “I think I’m still in your debt.” She came over. Took the bill. Folded it up very small, disappearing it inside one of the dirty and torn layers she wore.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Trina.”
“Well, Trina,” he said as he got to his feet with a groan, “you ever get into trouble with anyone, over anything, go to the Cornerstone. Talk to Bill. Tell him I told you to do it. He’ll let me know.”
“Okay,” she said. With that she turned and pushed her ca
rt off down the street. He watched her go for a moment. Got out his phone and dialed Gato’s number. He got voicemail again, which made him nervous. Left a message about what had happened, and to watch his back as they might be looking for the Falcon and its owner too. Gave a description of Griffin. Then he tried to text him, but couldn’t focus so well. Had to leave the message at “call.” Well, so much for his little foray outside. The Need knocked at his door then, in response to the pain. He was already very fucking tired of feeling pain, and he’d only been feeling it again for like three or four days. Took a deep breath, reminded himself he’d gotten off easy, all things considered. Hell, if they wanted to play him like a mouse in a box, it would buy him enough time to figure out how to bring those two fuckers down, and hard.
He made his way back to the corner liquor store. There was a small section behind the counter filled with all sorts of first-aid and emergency supplies. A guy could get in a lot of fights around here, he mused. If the Indian guy behind the counter had thought before that Mallen was a piece of shit from the neighborhood, he only had his opinion reinforced now. Mallen asked the man for alcohol, bandages, and aspirin. He couldn’t wait to get the chance to toast his recent success. Hell, he’d survived the first beating he’d taken in a hell of a long time. Why not celebrate that fact in style?
As he approached his building, his steps slowed, then stopped all together. Being in his place didn’t seem like such a good idea now. As he stood there, he realized the best thing to do would be to just keep off the grid as much as he could. That would be tough, but if he made it hard for Jas and Griff to find him, maybe they’d just give up for awhile, give him some breathing space. The space he’d need to figure out about Eric. He turned and headed off to the Cornerstone. If it weren’t for Dreamo’s office being there, he’d be able to maybe sleep on the floor for a couple nights. As it was, he’d have to figure something else out. Maybe only for the short term, if he were lucky.
The Cornerstone wasn’t very busy. There were only few people inside. Not even the regulars seemed to be in attendance. Bill sat on the last stool, looking dejected, a couple empty glasses in front of him. He glanced up to see who had entered his world. Went back to staring at his drink when he saw who it was. Mallen strode over. Slid onto the empty stool next to the bartender. “How’re you doing?” he asked.
“Been better.” It was then that Bill could really see the effects of Griffin’s work. “Jesus, Mallen … what the hell happened to you?”
“Long story,” he replied as he pulled out the alcohol and bandages from the plastic bag. Looked again at the sparse crowd as he made his way to the bar mirror to clean off the blood from his face. “What did you do? Raise prices?”
“I should be so lucky,” came the reply. “As long as motherfuckers drop in and shove people around, everyone will stay away. You know how word spreads around this hood.” Bill took a drag from his glass. “Come on, kid, what the fuck happened to you? You need a doctor?”
“No, I’m good. Just need to clean up.” Bill’s comment about people coming and shoving people around surprised him. The Cornerstone had always seemed to be neutral territory. No one ever seemed to pull shit in this place. “Who was playing the heavy hand, man?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Tell you?” The words were barely out of his mouth when it hit him. Jas and Griffin. It was strange though. Not like them to rile up the herd animals, even for sport. It bothered him they’d shifted from known tactics.
Bill nodded. “I thought you’d know them.”
“Why’s that?”
“They asked about you.”
He tried to put up some indifference. “Yeah?” He threw a couple red-stained paper towels into the trash. Reached over and took Bill’s drink away from him. Drained it, then pulled out his cigarettes. “What’d they ask?”
Bill leaned over the bar for the bottle of well whiskey and refilled his glass. “Oh, they asked about what your favorite movies were, did you like walks on the beach, what size your fucking shoe was. What do you think they fuckin’ asked? They wanted to know where to find you.”
Mallen grabbed a nearby glass to use as an ashtray. “They can go fuck themselves,” he said.
“I don’t think that’s in the playbook, Mallen.”
“Probably right.”
“Anyway, I didn’t tell ’em nothing. What I could say? I don’t know where you live. Never wanted to know.”
Jas and Griffin would have to wait. Even if meant letting those two bastards run around after him, it had to wait. Mallen checked to see no one else was listening. Moved closer to Bill. Leaned on the bar. “B, I need to talk to you about something, okay?”
“Why? What for? What the fuck are you involved in? It is those two pricks, isn’t it? Shit …”
“Unhitch your bra, all right? It’s not like that. I’m trying to, well …
find out what happened to a friend.”
“You?” came the reply. “You have friends?”
He grinned, knowing that the bartender was just upset at being fucked with by guys he couldn’t touch. That would’ve fucked with anybody, anytime. He told Bill what had happened to Eric, falling into drugs and then trying to get back out. Told him about how Eric had died. He told Bill what Eric’s name was, described him. “You ever hear about another cop that went needle, like me? There can’t be that many, right? You hear a lot, B. You ever hear the name Eric Russ?”
Bill gave it his best shot. Thought about it for a long moment. But in the end, he ended up only shaking his head. “Sorry, Mal. Only cop that did that I know of is—was—you.” Bill looked down into his drink again, and Mallen could tell something was tugging at him.
“What? What is it?” Mallen said. “Something come to you?”
For an answer, Bill only glanced over his shoulder, over at the hallway that led past the bathrooms to the storeroom. “He might know.”
Dreamo. Yeah, how funny that it would come down to that, right? Now he’d have to walk in there and ask his old dealer for a favor, rather than some vials of heroin. He would’ve laughed at it all, if someone had told him the story. Shit. On. Me.
“You think he might know something? Really?”
Bill almost looked hurt at the question. “You fucking think I’d even suggest it, otherwise? Look, if this guy Eric is as important to you as you say, well …” He left the rest unsaid.
For an answer, he patted Bill on the shoulder. A brotherly expression, and he hoped it came off that way. He moved toward the hall.
“Mallen,” Bill said.
“Yeah?”
“If you’re not out in five,” Bill said with a slight smile, “I’m not only busting in there to drag you out, I’m cavity searching you for drugs.”
“At this point,” he replied, “I’d hope you would, B.” He then went to the men’s room door and pushed his way inside. Glass, as usual crunched under his feet. He’d never realized the stink of the bathroom before. How it smelled like beer piss had somehow become a part of the very room itself. There was no air. Something else he’d never noticed before.
“Mallen,” came the thready voice from the second stall. “Was wondering when you’d come back to me.”
And it struck him how comical, and dangerous, it all had been. It was all crazy, like some sad, comedic play. He went and pushed open the stall door. There was Dreamo, sitting on the toilet seat, a couple scented candles burning on the tank behind him.
“Feel like I’m visiting an Oracle.”
Dreamo did a slow double take at his face. “Dude,” he rasped, “what the living fuck happened to you? You look like shit, bro.”
“Not part of our story, man.”
“Yeah, I hear ya,” came the response. Dreamo then sat up a bit, and Mallen caught himself unconsciously reaching into his pocket for a wad of bills. Stopped his hand. Look at me, Pavlov
’s dog .
Dreamo caught the movement with his quick eyes. Eyes that could be so glassy and lazy but could also zero in on the smallest detail like a laser. “Ah,” he rasped, “you’re unfunded, man.”
Mallen stood there, knowing that Dreamo was about to offer him that dark and deadly Holy Grail of the dealer/customer relationship: credit. It would be so easy … so fucking easy, and then it would all go away and he could just—
The sound of a glass crashing to the floor in the hall cut through his thoughts. He heard Bill cuss, followed by the man’s heavy step as he probably went to dig out a broom. Perfect timing again. He was starting to feel blessed, in a way, and that was a fact.
“No,” he said then to Dreamo, “I mean … I mean that I’m not here for that.”
Dreamo pushed the sagging mohawk out of his face. Tried to regard Mallen with clear eyes, but that was impossible. Shrugged.
“Another one of my flock has fallen,” he said with sadness, but then Mallen caught the grin in Dreamo’s eyes.
“You know a guy named Eric Russ?” Mallen said.
“Why? Why you want to know, ex-customer?”
Mallen leaned against the wall. Lit a cigarette. Blew the smoke at the ceiling. “Because I was a good customer, that’s why. I’ll never ask of you something I don’t feel you can’t answer safely. I won’t ask shit of you if I know it will put you in dutch, okay?” And here he leaned in, putting his face closer to Dreamo’s, so the dealer would see his eyes. “I’m clean now, yeah? There are bad things happening out there, to people that we both know, and the cops won’t do shit. Maybe I can help them, right?” And as he spoke, he got it: maybe this was exactly the thing he needed—he’d help people.
As much as he could.
Any way he could.
It would help keep The Need away, and that was a fact.
Untold Damage Page 9