The cop tore some paper out of his book. "Hey, can I get your autograph?"
"As long as it's not on a ticket." I was hoping Leyna was impressed. I looked. She wasn't. I signed.
Donato took the paper, folded it, and stuck it in his shirt pocket. "Thanks a lot."
"You're welcome."
Larry chuckled. "Funny story, Mick. My cousin says she busted you once, but let you go. Nice girl, tough as nails. Works Hollywood, mostly in prostitution. Name of Darlene Hernandez. You remember her?"
"Yeah." I shrugged, genuinely embarrassed. "I did a lot of things when I was drinking. Getting arrested wasn't usually one of them. It stands out in my mind. Uh . . . tell her I said hello."
Leyna Barton blinked. Her jaw dropped open. I struggled to save the situation. "It was a long time ago, Leyna. I had some serious problems. I don't drink any more, you know that."
Larry Donato gave me his card. "I'm not kidding. I really was a fan. Take this and hold onto it. It has my cell number on the back."
"Why?"
"In case you need to reach me."
"What for?"
"A favor. Whatever. I'm a cop, remember? And I'm thinking you might need me."
Leyna Barton said, "Why is that?" She was pale and seemed one pubic hair from emitting a shriek.
Donato chuckled. "He pisses people off sometimes, Miss Barton. It's part of his act."
I sighed. "Oh, give me a break. Couldn't it have been a simple armed robbery?"
"Maybe."
"But?"
"Why a little twenty-two, except maybe to keep the noise down? This parking lot is pretty out of the way. Me, I'd say the perp knows you. Otherwise, why was he right here waiting?"
I had one eye on Leyna Barton. I was losing ground rapidly. I felt like kicking Donato in the shin.
"Hey, it seems to me somebody was out to do you for personal reasons."
"Think so?" It was the partner. He had just tuned in. "Maybe they should come with us and see some mug shots."
"You see too much television, Bobby," Donato said. "Besides, they said he was wearing a mask, didn't they?"
"Oh. Right."
I was watching the death throes of my love life.
Leyna went grim. "You really think this might have been something personal, Officer Donato?"
"I'd say it's more than possible. This is the parking lot of a radio station, lady. Not a lot of cars around here, so we sure can't rule that out."
They filled out the rest of the paperwork in a hurry. "You guys don't need to come down to the station," Donato said. "It's not like I don't know where to find you if I need you."
"Thanks." I tucked the business card into the pocket of my jeans. "And thanks for this, too."
"Don't mention it. Thanks for not laughing at me when I asked for your autograph."
"I never laugh at people with guns."
We were both numb and exhausted, but I followed Leyna home, over Benedict Canyon and down below Sunset. When we parked, I approached her car and tried to lighten the mood with a joke. She got out in silence. I walked her to her apartment building, but she stayed two feet ahead on the pavement, head down. She would not kiss me goodnight.
"You act like that was my fault," I protested. "What the hell did I do wrong?"
"I don't know." Leyna looked down again and far away, into some other reality. "You had an expression on your face, something I'd never seen before. You scared me."
"He was going to kill us."
"I know. And I thank you for fighting back." Leyna punched her code into the keypad. The gate buzzed open. She stepped through and let it close behind her. Her apartment was the first in the row. For a long moment, I thought she was going to go in without looking back. Finally she turned.
"I can't see you any more," she said.
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
"You're kidding, because I fought the guy?"
"No, Mick," Leyna said, as she entered her apartment. "It's not that. It's because you looked like you enjoyed it."
She closed her door. I waited until I heard the series of clicks from her deadbolts. I waited until her porch light went off. I waited until I finally got the message, and then went back out into the night alone.
This sucked. I drove the long way home, watched the city lights from the top of the canyon until my eyes grew weary.
At home, I tossed for an hour, consumed by guilt about having not called Jerry back and some vivid sexual frustration. I finally slept heavily, dreamed feverishly; became lost in a pastiche of fantasy and memory . . .
Snapshots: A boy, fist-fighting other kids for money; a Seal jumping from a hovering black chopper; one lost weekend and an explosion of random, meaningless violence; a tall, hellish fire cackling up a wooden skeleton towards the unforgiving stars, until it finally burned a ragged hole in the fabric of the universe.
TWO
I came to face down on a damp bed feeling rode hard and put up wet. The knuckles of one hand were raw. I had a sharp pain in one rib and a sore lower back. My forehead was throbbing and a small lump had formed above my right eye. I moaned into the pillow and rolled carefully over onto my left side. The day was already scorching.
I slipped my legs out from under the damp, twisted sheets and swung my feet to the wooden floor. I got down, rolled over and pulled my knees up to my chest to stretch the lumbar muscles, then twisted the rib back into place and popped the lower back.
"You looked like you enjoyed it," I muttered. "What a bitch."
I sat up, crossed my legs and did some meditation. I've never had enough patience for Zen, but have gradually become comfortable with a brisk form of visualization. I followed my breath, rode the dragon, and opened my eyes again.
The modest house wasn't much, but it was mine. I'd purchased the 1950s-style, three-bedroom, one and a half bath, North Hollywood property only a few months before. The down payment had come from my first signing bonus in three years. I had a cozy, fenced front yard, a small pool, and a sunken fireplace with a thick rug. I'd given it a Southwest décor, with pastel colors and Navaho designs, to remind me of the desert. It had finally started to feel like home.
I finished meditating, padded to the bathroom in my underwear, leaned over the sink and checked for damage. The chipped mirror reflected a small scab between my short black hair and broken nose. I popped two knuckles back into place, but with a wince and a hoarse groan, and ran some cold water over my scratched hands. I took a shower and searched for Murphy.
Murphy, named for Murphy's Law, was a torn-up, ancient male alley cat that had moved in to my motel room while I was doing a brief radio stint near my home town of Dry Wells, Nevada. I hadn't wanted a pet, but couldn't leave the battered old feline behind. Now Murphy, one ear missing and the other nearly chewed away, was lazily grooming on the back porch. I brought kibble and water. Murphy did a purring square dance move between my legs and gulped his food.
After some strong coffee in a tall mug, a protein drink with creatine, and a bowl of oatmeal, I felt ready to face the day, one I'd intended to start in a different bed. I strolled into my small office—a madhouse of books, papers, and memorabilia—and booted up the computer.
He stopped lovin' her today . . . Some classic George Jones whined out through large, brand new speakers. I'd been a virtual technophobe until that one long Memorial Day weekend in Nevada. Jerry had opened my eyes. I'd upgraded the computer promptly upon arrival in L.A., and now regularly used video-conferencing, as well as high-speed DSL for research. I pulled up the email. Hal Solomon, my AA sponsor, wanted to reach me.
What the hell are you doing in Australia, old man? Hal was a retired investment banker, media mogul, and sometime venture capitalist. He now traveled incessantly, as if the grim reaper had his name on a warrant. I checked the time and called via the Internet. He was online, as expected. After a pair of false starts, we connected. Hal's silver hair and patrician features formed on the over-sized monitor.
"Good morning
Callahan," Hal said. "You look like hammered owl excrement."
"I love it when you try to use my pithy little western phrases. Only you would change shit to excrement."
"Call me a fecal alchemist. Seriously, you look like you relapsed and thoroughly insulted half of Los Angeles."
"You got the latter part correct. He was big enough to be half of Los Angeles."
"Who?"
"I don't have a clue. He jumped my date and I as we left the radio station last night. The guy had me by a couple of inches and maybe thirty pounds."
"That's big," Hal said. He winced and bent forward for a moment. "Oh."
"All you okay, Hal?"
"Certainly," Hal said. "A bit of stomach trouble."
"That's been happening a lot, lately."
"It's probably just from the change in diet. How is Miss Barton doing?"
"She was fine when I took her home. A little rattled, obviously. Oh, and she arbitrarily decided to dump my sorry Irish ass."
"I see," Hal said. His face flickered, returned to normal. "I suppose all this would explain the sad, cruelly battered countenance I see before me now. Really, no idea who it was?"
"Just a big bastard with a strange tattoo. I guarantee you his nuts will be swollen for days."
Hal snickered. "You and your temper."
"That's what she said."
"Who?"
"Leyna Barton. And that's why she decided to end our semi-transcendental relationship, just as it had begun to blossom."
"Son, you lost me."
I leaned forward, head on cupped palms, and stared down at the keyboard. "You know how it is. I've told you about my childhood. I guess I lost it and went a little berserk. It upset her."
"Oh."
"I was starting to think I'd left the anger behind, but it came back fast."
Hal blinked. "Did you tell Leyna about Nevada?"
"No." I sat back in the tan executive chair. It rolled away from the desk. "I guess I wanted to keep that part of my life for later. She's a rich city girl, you know? And here I'd be describing that ugly mess with the Palmer family, Donny Boy, a mess of dead people. Jesus, it was a melodrama. I guess I was afraid that would turn her off."
"At the risk of sounding predictably sage, you know you can't run away from who you are."
"I'd like to."
"Get in line."
"Leyna has class, you know? A college education, and not from the crummy schools I went to. She's the real deal."
"Meaning you're not? Come on, Mick. That's pretty neurotic."
"Hal, I'm just a cowboy with a diploma, and that's not very impressive at the core, is it?"
Hal shook his head. "Some people think highly of you for solving a murder and eliminating a drug ring. Of course, what do we know?"
"I almost got Jerry killed before I figured things out."
"That man was your friend," Hal said. "You didn't want to believe he was responsible. How is young Jerry these days?"
"He's still searching for the girl who helped us get away. No luck so far, but he keeps trying. Me, I just want to forget about it."
"That will take some doing, Mick. Lowell Palmer and his family were as evil as they come. Good riddance."
"Donny Boy and Frisco got away."
"Still, I submit that's a fair amount of work for one weekend."
"Oh, hush, I'm blushing like a schoolgirl."
Hal laughed, winced again. What's wrong with him? Is this worse than he's letting on?
"I'm just pointing out that had young Ms. Barton known the whole story she might not have reacted so badly last night." The screen went blank. It came back in flickering colored squares that eventually normalized. "After all, you have been seeing her for some time."
"So you're suggesting?"
"That you just try to remember something. That you are not of some inferior station in life."
"Think I should call her?"
Hal shrugged. "No one has ever accused me of being an expert on the female, but it would certainly seem worth a try."
"I'll think about it. Now what the hell are you doing down in Australia, Hal? I thought you were in Greece."
Hal smiled. "I have far too much money, you know that. My last hedge against the dollar paid off handsomely. Now I must find ways to divest myself of such an embarrassing sum before I am exploited by beautiful young ladies the world over."
"That is one problem I do not have. Right now I would strike out with a crack whore on Sepulveda Boulevard at three o'clock in the morning."
"Ah, sweet memories."
I laughed out loud. "Fuck you, old man. By the way, one of the cops that took our reports last night was a kid named Larry Donato."
"Yes?"
"He's somebody's cousin. You remember me wanting to track down a vice cop named Darlene Hernandez for my Ninth Step, because I thought I should make an 'amends' to her?"
"Vaguely," Hal said.
"God, I must have held you totally mesmerized with my life story, if you've already forgotten."
"Don't get smart."
"I was in a blackout one night, wandering around Hollywood for some damned reason, probably looking to score some cocaine. When I came back to my senses I was in a coffee shop on La Brea with this pretty brunette who was an undercover vice cop. She was just going off duty. I walked up to her and offered fifty bucks."
"Now I remember." Hal reached across his table for a cup of tea, stirred it. "You were so ashamed when you did your fourth step."
I rearranged some papers near the keyboard. "Let's just say it wasn't my finest hour. Anyway, as you'll recall she could have busted me, but she didn't. She had seen me on TV and didn't want to ruin my career. I felt like I should look her up and apologize for my behavior that night, but you said not to."
"I still think that. An amends is a change in behavior. The best thing you can do for the young woman is to keep your life in order."
"And maybe say thank you?"
"If you happen to run into her." He bent forward and grimaced, then shook off the distress. "Damned stomach. Anyway, I don't think I would go out of my way to remind her that she failed to do her civic duty that night. She could have been severely reprimanded for not arresting you."
"Asking for trouble, right?"
"Asking for trouble."
"God knows I keep running into enough. Where are you, anyway?"
"I am ensconced in Perth." He sipped his tea. "It's quite lovely, actually, if a bit cold. It's winter down here."
I glanced out the window at the haze. It was going to be a smoggy day. "I envy you. This summer is going to be brutal. Well, I've got a couple of private clients this morning. I'd best get going."
"Shalom," Hal Solomon said. "You are valued. Be at peace."
"I'll try." I cut the connection, sat for a moment looking down at the desk. You're not from some inferior class, right? I dialed Leyna Barton's telephone number. She answered on the third ring.
"Hi, it's me." That was just brilliant, Callahan; fresh and imaginative. "How are you feeling today?"
"Mick," Leyna said, quietly. "Please don't."
"Don't what?"
She left me listening to a dial tone.
Well, that certainly went well.
I went outside and locked up the house. A battered, dark blue station wagon pulled slowly to the curb; the tailpipe rattled and coughed up one large, black fist of smoke. A short, sturdy Hispanic woman got out and slammed the dented door. Her sleepy cousin drove away. The woman approached me. She had leathery skin and an angular, bony body. She carried a green plastic bucket filled with cleaning supplies.
"Morning, Blanca."
"Good morning, I sorry to be late."
"No problem. I'm just on my way to the gym. How are you doing today?"
Blanca did not meet my eyes. She shrugged. The bucket of supplies rattled. She muttered something in Spanish that sounded like 'God is in his heaven' and moved to step around me, toward the door. I turned sideways and let
her pass.
"Blanca?"
She was all business. "You no set the alarm?"
"I left it off. You have your keys, right?" I opened my car and tossed the gym bag into the passenger seat, turned to face her. "Blanca, have you heard anything from the police?"
Her face went dark and pinched. "No, sir."
"Damn, it's been over a month now, hasn't it?"
"Si." Blanca fumbled for her keys. Her shoulders slumped forward and she looked down at her purse as if fascinated by the contents. I tried to comprehend her pain.
"Please, don't give up hope. Perhaps they will find the boy soon and bring him home."
"I pray to God."
* * * * *
Golden Gym is located near the intersection of Victory and Laurel Canyon boulevards. It is a funky, cramped space devoted to hard-core body building and cardiovascular exercise. Several treadmills, spaced only inches apart, face a bank of three television screens. One is perpetually on MTV rap videos, one stays on CNN Business News, and one runs soap operas all day.
At the back of the parking lot a large billboard featured radio station call letters—and my face, smiling into a microphone. I found it hugely embarrassing, and it hadn't even gotten me laid.
Inside of the gym there were rows of recumbent bicycles, stair climbers, and efficient and well-maintained exercise machines. One entire corner was devoted to the use of free weights. It was an odd gene pool: Haughty starlets and porn actors mingled with trainers, actors, and steroid users with giant muscles and pimpled skin. I was just one of the minor celebrities who worked out regularly.
I strolled through the glass doors, bright blue canvas gym bag over my shoulder, nodded to the ripped kid at the turnstile. I didn't see Ronnie.
I stuffed the gym bag into an empty cubicle and got on the treadmill. Ronnie Sanders was a tall, handsome black man who had played wide receiver for the San Diego Chargers. He was often late. Sanders had also worked briefly as a social worker. It was nice to have someone to talk to.
Given a choice between generic rap music, "As the Stomach Turns," and business news, I watched the stock market rise and fall while talking heads alternately expressed joy and consternation. Ronnie walked in. He was wearing tight red spandex with blue piping.
Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series) Page 3
