I didn't, not at first. "Who is this?"
She broke the connection, as if startled by something. I frowned, looked at the telephone number, and after a long moment tossed it. Eric Clapton played the last lead licks and the record came to an end.
"Gene, that was for you and your faded, graying hippie buddies. I'm Mick Callahan and I'll start taking calls again in just a moment, but first, a quick word from one of our sponsors." I started a new CD; a short commercial for an expensive skin-care product. I slumped forward in the chair, elbows on the console. After a few seconds I reached into the trash bucket, extracted the telephone number, and put it in the pocket of my jeans.
Line one again. I grabbed it, with one eye on the timer. The commercial was nearly over. "Hello?"
"Is this Mick Callahan?" It was another woman, not the same one.
"Yes. Can I help you?"
"I just wanted to say thank you for sticking it to that idiot who called you about the Burning Man Festival. I saw part of a documentary on it once, and it is a Pagan ritual that would be an affront to our Lord Jesus Christ, were He here to see it. Those naked heathens turn my stomach. It says in the Bible that . . ."
I cut her off. "Sorry lady, the commercial is nearly over. Thank you for calling. Let me know when the rapture starts, okay?"
In the nick of time: "Mick Callahan, here. We have just a few minutes left, so I wanted to mention something else that has been on my mind." I looked down at the phones, swearing silently. Nobody, damn it! "We're really busy this evening, and I have so many callers I am going to clear the decks and take caller number five." Can you guys tell I'm lying through my grinning teeth, here? I certainly hope not. "I have two tickets to the opening night of the new James Bond movie to give away, so caller number five gets the last question of the night and two hot tickets. Come on folks, hit the phones and let's see who wins."
I played a disc with an out-of-tune version of the theme from Jeopardy. "Okay, I'm waiting. Time is running out here. Let's get to it. Somebody wants those tickets."
Bupkis, zip, nada.
"How many James Bonds have we had so far?" I asked, desperate to kill more time. "The stone-aged ones had Connery, then some other British dude, Roger Moore, Pierce, and the new guy. That's not all? Tell you what, then. The first caller to name all of the James Bonds, in precisely the right order, wins a second pair of tickets. The clock is running."
Dead air, deep fertilizer. I played a gag CD that featured a host of southern-sounding voices chanting: "Shucks, Mick, I don't know" in unison.
The phone lit up. "You're on the air, caller. Can you name them in the correct sequence?"
"Don't you remember me?" It was the drugged girl again. "I'm so sick. I just want to die."
And that's when it finally hit me. I took us off the air. "Mary? Where are you? I'll pick you up."
"I told them I wouldn't do any more porn, so I'm broke. I had to bum quarters to call."
"Where are you? Please think."
"A called Oranges, maybe? Something like that. I'm sick. I really fucked up this time. Fancy is going to kill me."
"Who?"
"Fancy." She started to cry.
"Stay right where you are."
I put her on hold, stopped the music. "We're out of time, ladies and gentlemen. Tomorrow night I will trot out the same question, so anyone who wants to do the research can win the tickets. Anyway, what the heck are you doing up so late on a week night? Go get some sleep. I'm Mick Callahan, and I'll talk with you again tomorrow evening."
I started the jazz tapes and went back to the telephone.
"Hello?"
She was gone. I slapped my hands on the console; dug into the pocket of my jeans for a business card, dialed a cell number. "Larry? This is Mick Callahan."
"Did you think of something that could help us out?"
"Not exactly. I need a favor, a big favor. Can you have somebody run down a telephone number for me?"
"Come on, Mick. You know I can't do that. You're not a cop."
"It's a professional thing, a client of mine. I know she is in a club or a bar in the 909 area code. She said something about Orange being in the name."
"Try an operator," Donato said.
"I think it's a pay phone. This is important. I'm not kidding when I say it might be a life or death situation."
"Oh, man."
"Please help me out, here."
"Give me the number," Donato said with a sigh. "I'll mark it as following up on a tip." I read it, heard Donato type something into a computer. "Orange Grove Bar in Pomona, on Gary and First. Looks like a really cool place."
"What?"
Donato chuckled. "I'm being a smart ass. It looks like the kind of place you want to check out when you have a bodyguard, an AK47, and some Mace. That's a very sleazy hood. You want I should call the Pomona PD?"
"No thanks, Larry."
"Hey, I'm off duty the next couple of days. Call me if I can help."
"I owe you one."
"Stay out of trouble, big guy."
I tried to call the number. The phone rang and rang.
I packed up my things, locked the studio, and ran through the parking lot. I threw my briefcase into the trunk of the car, removed a black case and took out my Smith and Wesson 357. I grew up with guns, but don't really like them. They have a nasty way of escalating matters.
There were two speed-loaders in the bag, each one filled with six hollow point cartridges. I slipped some bullets into the chamber and spun it, tucked the gun in my belt. I got in and fastened the seatbelt, fired up the engine, roared out of the parking lot and onto the 101 Freeway.
I opened my cell phone. Jerry was on the speed dial. I got his voice mail and flipped the phone closed. I put both hands back on the wheel and headed for Pomona.
FOUR
The city raced by, a wide smear of colored lights and gray concrete. I drove down the freeway in silence, knuckles white on the wheel, gripped by vivid memories of Dry Wells, Nevada and how much I owed Mary. I took the 101 Freeway, then the San Bernardino. Only the presence of the loaded gun tucked into the waist of my jeans kept me from speeding.
The drive took less than an hour. I didn't know the area well, but well enough to get onto one of the main drags.
I drove past nice homes with pruned trees and manicured lawns and then down towards the bleaker ghetto neighborhoods, where the middle class, single-family houses gradually gave way to crumbling apartment buildings, boarded up rental properties, and vacant lots piled high with trash.
Graffiti popped up, left and right; the usual obscenities and some gang signs I didn't recognize. Broken black men with wine bottles sat forlorn on the gummy sidewalk, brown paper bags in their clenched fists.
In the 1960s Pomona had been bordered by orange groves and rolling hills; relatively free of smog, only recently developed. Like so much of Southern California, it had fallen on hard times towards the end of the 20th Century. Now it was smoggy swamp of racial tension, poverty, and gang violence known primarily for its yearly hosting of the Los Angeles County Fair. And sure as hell, a tall Caucasian dude was going to get noticed.
I pulled over to the side of the road, parked directly beneath a street lamp, turned off the engine and checked my watch. It was nearly two in the morning. The sky shook as one large, noisy LAPD chopper flew low overhead, racing east. I shoved the gun into the back of my belt, pulled my shirt out to cover it. I opened the door and hit the street as the droning helicopter faded away.
The funky bar sat sandwiched between a dilapidated joint called the Montclair House and a long, dark alley filled with cracked plastic cans. The neon sign had two oranges sitting in the holes of the capital letter B. The block was nearly deserted. I spotted four nodding needle junkies on a bus bench, leaning sideways. One still had his upper arm tied off with a length of rubber hose. Someone was smoking a joint on a rusty hotel fire escape and the sickly sweet odor of marijuana clogged the humid air.
I crossed the
street, moving diagonally, my cowboy boots scratching at the asphalt like wooden matches. I walked up to the door of the bar, took a deep breath and went in.
The Orange Grove was deserted, except for the short, pudgy, balding man in a stained brown apron who was cleaning up. An incongruously white goatee flowered on his warm, chocolate face. He looked up and immediately dropped one hand out of sight beneath the wooden bar. My stomach tightened but I walked closer, expression neutral and hands in plain sight.
"You lost, son?" The man spoke pleasantly enough, but his posture made plain that he had me covered. "I'm only asking because you don't look all that stupid."
"Truth is I'm probably both. I'll bet you can tell just by looking that this isn't my customary neck of the woods."
"You got that right."
"I'm looking for a girl."
"Who ain't?"
"She's white, around twenty-five years old, maybe five foot seven, brunette, unless she changed her hair around. The lady has got a serious Jones, usually for the sleepy stuff."
"She got a name, this white girl?"
"Sometimes she lets people call her Skanky."
The bartender nodded solemnly, eyes locked solid. He looked down at my empty hands. "Now, I ain't saying it's her, mind you, but a working girl like that been in and out, from time to time."
"Where can I find her?"
"Gotta ask why you want to, son."
"I'm a friend, Pops, not her family or the law. She wants to clean up. She called me, so I'm here. You know how it is."
"I see it from time to time."
"Can you help me out?"
"Long as you swear you didn't get shit from me. Mostly likely she's in a room right next door, bumping her ugly on some stupid bastard didn't go home to his wife tonight."
"I owe you."
"Bullshit, you never met me." The old man relaxed, but only a little. "Now get on out of here. I got to close up my bar."
I turned. "Maybe there's one last thing you didn't tell me. She shot some porn films and somebody named Fancy was going to try and kill her. You ever heard of him?"
The old man stiffened, brought his hand up from beneath the bar, held a shotgun at stomach level. "Get your lily white ass out of here."
I backed towards the door, palms open, facing the bar. "No offense, Pops. You didn't say a word."
"Goddamn right I didn't." The old man came around the bar, backed me out the door. He locked the place, yanked down the shades and covered the windows. The neon sign went dark. I heard a sound behind me and spun around.
A drunk was pissing against the alley wall. Someone slammed a top-floor window in the broken-down hotel. That's when I saw two rough looking, buff young men standing next to my car. They had their hair done up in long, Jamaican dreadlocks and wore black wife-beater shirts, loose, tan pants, and identical, bright red running shoes. Each held a short, ugly piece of iron pipe in one fist. The pipe had been ground to a sharp edge on one end to make one nasty, highly effective street weapon. I tried to offer a brave front and only managed a skeletal grin.
"Hey, guys," I said, cheerfully, "I'm just going to go pick up a friend of mine. It would be downright nice of you fellows to watch my car." I strolled over to the hotel. The two kids looked confused.
The lobby of the Montclair House had peeling linoleum, one geriatric easy chair, and four tacky gold couches, patched with black electrical tape. Two old men sat snoring in opposite corners, clutching screw-top bottles. One wore overalls and had greasy hands. The other wore a tattered suit but no shoes, and had a deck of playing cards fanned out near filthy, bare feet.
I walked up to the counter, looked over at the register. The clerk came out before I could pick it up. He was tall, wide, and wore his hair in a quaint 1970s Afro. His forearms were roped with muscles and cobwebbed with ink. When he spoke, he leaned in and barely moved his lips, an unconscious act that gave his pedigree as pointedly as the jailhouse tats.
"What you want?"
I could literally feel time running out. I pulled out all my cash. It came to eighty dollars. "This is all I've got."
"That's a drag," the clerk said, looking at the money. "But why the fuck should I care?"
"I came for a friend. Her name might be Mary or Skanky. Where is she?"
The clerk gathered up the cash, grinned hugely as it vanished into his shirt pocket. "Thanks. Now, fuck off."
I saw swarms of black dots. I reached over the counter, grabbed the clerk by the thumb and right hand. I twisted the wrist, brought his upper body around, and forced the fingers back and down. The clerk hissed through clenched, yellowing teeth.
"Easy, you're breaking my fucking arm."
"I'm breaking your wrist, to be precise."
"You law?"
"No way, Jose, and that means you are in really deep shit."
"Twenty-one, second floor," the clerk said. I turned the wrist a bit more, felt bones grinding. "I'm not lying, man!"
"Does she have a customer?"
"The john left ten, twenty minutes ago. I'd go kick her out in a minute, anyway. She's probably passed out."
I let go. The clerk grabbed his arm and backed away. He seemed more impressed than frightened. "Thanks for your cooperation."
"Whatever."
The elevator could have trapped me in a confined space, so I trotted up the stairs. The .357 dug into my spine. I peeked around the corner. The red carpet was frayed. The hallway smelled of cigarettes, alcohol, and urine. My heart was thudding like a bass drum as I went flat to the wall, eyes abnormally wide from adrenaline. Too late to back out. If it doesn't work, you're fish food.
I found the room, tried the knob, and went inside. There was one lamp, with a ripped shade burned a color like dried feces. Mary was sprawled on the bed, wearing black panties and a bra. I locked the door behind me, checked her arms and legs, found dozens of scars and fresh needle marks. I slapped her, lightly but firmly.
"Mary? It's Mick Callahan. You have to wake up and come with me, right now."
Her eyes opened, slowly focused. Mary was a plain country girl, with a corn-fed face ravaged by excess. She seemed puzzled to see me. I got her into her dress and shoes, grabbed her purse, and shoved her out the door. She slipped in the hallway and went down, clutching at my pants leg. An old man peeked out from a room down the hall. When saw the girl kneeling before me, he cackled. I slapped Mary again, dragged her upright.
"Get it together. I need you on your feet, or we're both fucked."
"Okay," she said, eyes clearing a bit. She swallowed, nodded. I took her elbow and walked her back down the hall. We carefully navigated the steps into the lobby. There was no sign of the damned clerk. I almost went for the gun, but reminded myself how often guns escalate violence. Still, it took all my willpower to leave the weapon in my belt.
We opened the front door and stepped out into the street.
The tableau remained frozen for a few seconds: Just the two of us standing before the Montclair House, while across the broken, trash-strewn street stood the kids who had staked out my car. Everyone else had vanished. A light breeze moved dry leaves along the sidewalk with a faint, scratching sound, like someone buried alive.
"You just stay right there, my man."
A very small but strikingly handsome black man in a full-length mink emerged from the shadows of the alley. He might have been a flyweight boxing champion or a rap star; his tiny fingers were festooned with diamonds and gold rings, and his perfectly white teeth gleamed bright in an ominous darkness. So this little guy is the main man, Fancy. He looks calm, a real predator.
"Good evening." My voice sounded strange.
"Sir, where in the world do you think you are going?" Fancy said, in a surprisingly rich and cultured baritone. He had an English accent. If it was an affectation, it was well done. "I can't be expected to just let someone waltz on in here and leave with one of my women."
"No offense intended," I replied, as calmly as I could. "She wants out. I'm here to help
."
Fancy laughed, uproariously. The two tall bodyguards joined in. "That's rich, and are you perhaps from a church organization, my man?"
"Not exactly."
He shrugged out of the expensive coat, neatly folded it over one arm and handed it to someone standing hidden in the shadows. Fancy was not only small, his left arm was deformed or slightly arthritic. It was bent at an odd angle and the fingers were curled.
"I see. So, you are on a mission."
"You could say that." I pushed Mary from behind, forced her to walk toward the car. "I'm not competing with you, if that's what you're worried about."
"What in the world would you know about me?"
The tall boys with the pipes stiffened, grunted, and moved closer. I paused near my car. "Look Fancy, I know who you are. And so do some friends in law enforcement. Let's just do this peacefully, okay?"
"Threats?" Fancy scowled, chuckled mockingly. "Now you are beginning to irritate. Perhaps I should not allow you to live."
I tried to act unimpressed, but my legs were shaking. "You want to tell these two gentlemen to back away?"
Fancy strolled closer. A first class Napoleon complex. He oozes power, lives for it. He is totally accustomed to command. I felt like a deer that had wandered a bit too close to the lion's den.
"Do I know you?"
I pulled Mary closer. "No, I get that. I just look like someone you're supposed to know."
Fancy gave the girl a wide, alligator smile. "Do you not wish to remain in my employ any longer, darling girl?"
"I don't know," she said, sleepily.
"You don't know? Wrong answer."
Fancy snapped the fingers of his good right hand. Instantly the two men by the car moved to encircle me, one on each side. My fingers strayed towards the .357, but then I remembered the figure hidden in the darkened alley. I was being covered from there. I took a deep breath.
"Get in the car, Mary." She stumbled to the passenger side. A few beats of silence followed.
Fancy chuckled. "Ah, Mary the virgin, Mary the whore. Mary is a much nicer name than Skanky, don't you think?"
He snapped his small fingers again. The boy on the right tried to hit me with the pipe. The move was predictable enough for me to fall back on Seal training. I stepped back out of the way, grabbed the boy's arm, used his momentum for leverage, then tripped him and drove him face down into the pavement. I dropped my right knee on his upper back and cracked some ribs to make sure he'd be out of it for a while.
Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series) Page 5
