I grabbed the fallen pipe and moved back towards Fancy, not where I'd be expected to go, and caught the other boy off guard. He spun, eyes white in his face, and swung at me.
I stepped under the pipe and brought my own weapon up. Metal clanged and echoed down the street. The boy kicked me in the shin. That hurt like hell. I growled. The pipes clanged together.
"Wonderful, gladiators!" Fancy called. "Most entertaining."
The boy closed again, parried my thrust and raised his weapon. Before he could bring it down, I crouched, punched once at a knee cap and twice at his diaphragm with the blunt end of the pipe. The boy sank to his knees, wheezing.
It was over.
I pulled the .357. Immediately, clicks echoed all around as weapons were cocked up and down the street. I kept mine pointed down at the pavement. "We don't need to take this any further, Fancy. I just want to help the girl, that's all. This is not about business."
Fancy pondered. "It is always my business, friend. She is one of my very best, certain to star in my next motion picture."
"Do you want money?"
"Oh, please," Fancy said. He waved the withered fingers. "You couldn't raise the money I find in my couch. Let me think on this."
"Take your time." I was having trouble keeping my breathing under control.
"I pride myself on intelligent business practices," Fancy said, at last. "Still, one must always change with the times."
"Absolutely, flexibility is a must in any business plan."
"Also, I'm feeling generous tonight. I see no harm in allowing her to retire prematurely."
"Thank you." For not shooting my sorry ass full of holes.
"And as for any repeat performance of this evening's festivities . . ."
Fancy moved his good fingers again, and the shape in the alley stepped into plain sight. He was round and compact, a dangerous looking man wearing a baseball cap and a blue wind blazer. His eyes were deep and haunted, mouth thin and bitter. He carried an Uzi like some men hold a pet.
"I assure you, there will be no repeat performance."
"I'm so happy you see things my way," Fancy said.
I tucked the pistol away. "Well, it's been real. I suppose I had better be going, now."
Fancy gripped his bad left arm with his right. He bowed. "On that we are also in complete agreement."
I got in, started the car and backed it away, my eyes fixed on that automatic rifle. The man tracked me all the way, sunken eyes hungry. Nearby, the shadows rippled as other gang members moved on again, like an army of the living dead.
The car left the pool of light and re-entered darkness. I shoved the .357 under the front seat. My chest was tight, pulse roaring in my ears. Mary made a coughing sound and leaned against the passenger window.
"Please don't tell," she mumbled.
"What?"
"Please don't tell Jerry about finding me. Not yet."
I did not answer.
"You promise?"
"Quiet. Wait a second."
Fancy and his bodyguard finally turned and went back into the alley. I spun the car around and drove a bit too rapidly, back toward the freeway. After a moment I caught myself and slowed down to the speed limit. A minute later, as if in response, a black-and-white squad car emerged from a side street to follow us for a time.
It worried me some, but the squad car eventually trailed off, reversed direction, and went back to the higher crime district. When my eyes left the rearview mirror and returned to Mary, she had passed out cold.
FIVE
I was sprawled on the couch, scratching Murphy behind the ears. A smoky steel guitar solo curled through the room, and eventually gave way to a Randy Travis vocal. The music did not completely cover the sound of dry retching and a female voice swearing up a storm, then the thump of rusty plumbing and the hiss of another cold shower.
Sunrise began to turn the smoggy skyline pale orange. I heard the bedroom door close and careful footsteps. I was up making some coffee by then. When I turned around, a thin blonde woman stood in the kitchen doorway. Suzanne Walton wore a wrinkled blue business suit, flat shoes, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. She yawned and rolled her shoulders.
"Mary will be out for a while." She had the warm, honeyed drawl of an ex-Texan.
"Thanks, Peanut. Maybe we should try and catch some sleep."
Suzanne removed her tailored blue jacket, tossed it on the table, and sank into a kitchen chair. She loosened her tie and the collar button of her white blouse; stuck her tongue out comically, as if panting for coffee. "I am in need."
"I'm on it."
"I can call in sick tomorrow," Peanut said. "It's just some boring old depositions. After that, you'll have to take over your own self, or find somebody else. I'm in court all next week, and there's nothing for it. I've got to be up to speed."
"I'm grateful for whatever you can do."
"As well you should be, cowboy, and don't you worry, I'll call the favor in some day."
I poured some hot coffee with cream and sugar. "How's our girl?"
"She'll sleep some, now. She's messed up. She's been into all kinds of sick stuff to get drugs. Did you pick up on that?"
"Let's just say I kind of read between the lines."
"That's going to make it harder to stay clean."
"That's why I called you. I think she's going to need a woman to talk to."
"Definitely. She did some pornography, fairly raw stuff, I guess with everything but barnyard animals, maybe one or two of those."
"Ouch."
"Mary is going to have to live with the idea of her face and body being in video stores, and other people's bedrooms, for the next several decades. This will be kind of like coming out of a long blackout, and she may not be able to handle what happened."
"Or maybe she will."
"She's going to need to talk to a lot of lady drunks before she can love herself again."
"I figured you'd know one or two."
"One or two," Peanut said. "She keeps going on about something or someone burning. Do you know what she means by that?"
"Not a clue." I rubbed my face.
Peanut sat down and put a hand on my arm. I flinched at the unexpected contact. "I know you fairly well by now, Mick. You're holding something back."
"Not intentionally." I lie poorly.
"Horse shit. Where did this filly come from? How well do you know her?"
"Not very well. Why, does that matter?"
"It depends," Peanut said. "Hey, I think I deserve to know the truth."
I considered her hours alone with the vomiting, crying girl. "Okay, but there's not a lot to tell."
"Don't be evasive, cowboy. It doesn't become you."
"You really are a lawyer now, aren't you?"
"Damn straight."
I sighed. "You remember me telling you about all that trouble I got into back in Nevada, where some people died?"
"Let's see. You were trying to start the comeback. The only job you could find was in Dry Wells, over Memorial Day weekend. A young girl called you on the air and the next day she got murdered."
"Sandy was her name. And there was another dead body I saw the night before. Listen, you remember my hacker friend?"
"The one with the burn scar?"
"He got me started in the right direction. Hal helped out. At first we just wanted to see what happened to Sandy. Then it got messy."
"Mary had something to do with the murderer?"
"The trail led to a ranch owned by the Palmer family. A bunch of bad ass drug dealers lived there. They kidnapped Jerry, and I went in after him. They caught me and clocked me. When I came to, we were both tied up in a potato cellar, waiting to get our throats cut."
"Jesus, cowboy, you sure do get around." Peanut sensed what the memory was doing to my pulse rate. She patted my hand.
After a moment, I continued. "Mary was running with the gang. She was assigned to watch us. I got her talking and convinced her to untie my hands. That's
how we got away."
"You owe her." It was not a question.
"Peanut, we wouldn't have had a chance without her. Later on, a big, crazy son of a bitch named Donny Boy came at me. He was tweaked on crystal. I was going down for good." I swam against the current, lost in the memory. "Donny was mean, a pure sociopath. He just kept wandering around mumbling 'oh boy' to himself while he hurt people." I felt like a haunted house.
"And?"
"And Mary whacked him with a shovel. Jerry and I got away. She saved my life twice that day. I promised her if she ever wanted to get clean that Hal and I would help."
"She told me everything else, I think," Peanut said.
"What did she say?"
"According to Mary, she disappeared from sight for several months. Then she finally calls you. You drop everything and race your ass down alone into the ghetto, stare down a pimp and some nasty guys with pipes and guns and shit, and take her on home. That about the size of it?"
"More or less."
"And you act like you still have something to feel guilty about. Callahan, look up neurotic in the dictionary. It has your picture next to it."
I laughed. "True enough."
A sobbing wail from the other room. "I'm going to be sick again!"
Peanut got up, stretched. She finished her coffee. "Sit your country ass down. This is still my shift. You stretch out on the couch and catch a few winks. I'll look out for the wounded bird."
"Never mind," Mary called. "It's just the fucking dry heaves. Oh, God, I feel so bad."
The retching came again, followed by the sound of water running in the sink. Bare feet stumbled down creaking floorboards, then the bedroom door closed again. Peanut shrugged, returned to the kitchen table. She poured herself another cup of coffee.
"I've been meaning to ask you something," Peanut said, "even though I probably know the answer."
"Fire away."
"Do you ever rescue men, or just attractive young women?"
I reddened and considered for a long moment. "That question scares the hell out of me."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a shrink, so the idea that I might be unconsciously exploiting people makes me . . . uncomfortable."
"Exploiting in what way?"
"Favoring young women over men wouldn't be very professional, and it would mean I might be getting some kind of subconscious sexual or romantic thrill out of working with females."
Peanut grinned. "Like me?"
"I guess."
She sat forward. "Never fear, Luke Skywalker. I'd suspect you are ever true to The Force. You remember how we met?"
"What's that got to do with it?"
"There are men in the program who would have taken advantage of the shape I was in. I had been beaten up by my husband for so long that kindness was actually a turn-on to me, not to mention the idea that I could be more than just a body to someone. I'm not sure you even noticed."
"What time is it, anyway?"
"Did you?"
"What?"
"I asked you a question," she said. Her gaze held firm.
So I found something fascinating to examine in the wooden paneling. She laughed at my discomfort. "Relax, Callahan. I wasn't your client. You don't have any professional boundaries to protect."
I grunted. "What was the question again, counselor?"
"Did you realize how much of a crush I had on your sorry ass back then?"
"I thought maybe I could use that to help you."
She raised an eyebrow in mock consternation. "Why, you cocky son of a bitch."
"You didn't place much value on yourself in those days, Suzanne." I shocked both of us by using her real name a second time. Doing that felt surprisingly intimate.
"No shit, bubba. I had real bad taste in men."
"So if I allowed myself to be significant to you, and then made staying sober a way to please me . . ."
She finished the thought. "I might stay sober long enough to realize that being sober was a better way to live. So you knew I had a real thing for you?"
"Yeah, I did. But I never looked at acting on it as a real possibility. I just figured I'd tinker with your taste in men."
"Oh, you did, did you?"
"Yup, I thought I could maybe improve on it some."
"Like I said, you're cocky, Callahan."
"I've heard that before."
"I've got to let you off the hook, because I know Mary is just another addict to you, except she happens to be a female . . . and this time it's a little more personal. My question was rhetorical."
"It was?"
"I'm a woman who's been lonely quite a while. I could really use me a big, strapping man to hang out with. I gave you my best shot, and I never even got me a goodnight kiss. A girl remembers things like that."
"Suzanne, look. You're a spectacular female, and . . ."
"Oh shut up, Mick. I'm done talking yet. Now, I have also seen you go up to the street bums after meetings. Although street bums don't generally get a crush on you, and then do what they're told, do they?"
I smiled. "Mostly not."
"And didn't you let that redneck bastard Tim W. sleep on your couch for a couple of weeks last month, while he looked for work as a truck driver?"
"Yeah, but he went and got high again. I had to throw him out."
She shrugged. "Can't get them drunk and can't get them to sober up either. It's all a matter of choice. I rest my case."
"As Hal would say, you are valued. You're a knockout, and some good man is bound to see that sooner or later."
"Fuck later, Mick. Make it sooner."
"I'll keep my eyes peeled, but I want you to choose wisely. You're special."
"The feeling is mutual," she said. "Now go saw some logs. You look like death warmed over. What do you have on your schedule today?"
I groaned. "Oh shit, that's right."
"What?"
I shook my head. "I have some photo shoots, publicity stuff. The kind of crap I really hate. And now I'm going to look all bloodshot and wrecked. Half of California will think I'm drinking again."
"Can you put it off?"
"I don't know. I'll get some sleep and call them when they're in the office. Maybe I can postpone it for a couple of days. It's the L.A. Times Sunday magazine thing. They want to write something about the show."
"Go crash, Mick. I'll just sit here with my eyes closed. When do you want me to wake you up?"
"Give me until ten." I kissed her on the cheek and stumbled out to the couch. The sun disturbed me. After a few moments I went into the bathroom and rooted around in the cabinets looking for an old, black sleep mask from a Virgin Air flight I'd taken to England. As I passed the kitchen I saw Peanut fast sleep, despite the coffee, with her long legs up on another kitchen chair.
I went back to the couch, sprawled out, and slipped the mask over my eyes. I still felt restless. My mind saw Donny Boy laughing, and the fierce blade of a sharp hunting knife moving towards my exposed throat. I forced myself to meditate on the image of a calm pool of water. Within a few moments I was under.
. . . In the dream I was a young boy again in the sunshine of Nevada, riding bareback on a Palomino, clinging to her pale, streaming mane. I was one with the animal, loping along over hard-packed, white desert soil; moving as if in slow motion through clumps of turquoise sage dotted with yellowing flowers. I felt shoulders baked red by the dry heat and lips parched from thirst, but rode on. The horse faltered and complained. I stroked her thick neck and murmured that there was a small stream deep among the cherry trees at the top of the mountain. Finally we entered the cool shade of the grove. The horse nickered at the sound and smell of rushing water and quickened her pace . . .
"Get your filthy hands off of me! Let me the fuck out of here!"
I sat up, startled, and looked around. I was blind. Panicked, I knocked over the table lamp by the couch before I remembered the sleep mask. I pulled it away from my face and checked my watch. It was eight thirty in the mo
rning. Mary was going crazy in the bedroom, and Peanut was fighting to keep her there.
"I can't fucking do this," Mary screamed. "I can't take the pain. I'm sick, goddamn it, don't you understand?"
I stretched and trotted over to the bedroom door, started to open it. Peanut pushed it closed again. "Stay the hell out of here, bro. We're kind of buck naked right now."
"Did you bring anything with you?"
Peanut knew what I meant. "One last pill, so relax. I've got it covered, cowboy. Go back to sleep."
I heard Mary mewling. "Please just let me go. I can't take it. Please."
Peanut said: "Just hang on, sweetie. You're halfway home. I've been there myself, and I'm here to tell you it does get better."
"But I hurt all over," Mary cried. "I can't take any more of this."
"Yes, you can. And you damn well will."
"You have to give me something. Please."
"You can have this one last little Vicodin. It will take the edge off the withdrawals, okay? But I'm going to want you to drink some broth with it. Callahan, you still there?"
"I'm on it."
Mary sobbed incoherently. I felt a twinge of sympathy but shook off the feeling, walked away from the door and went out into the kitchen. The harsh morning sunshine hurt my eyes. I yawned, stretched, and threw some cold water on my face.
I made some fresh coffee and found a bouillon cube. I started the teapot and boiled some water; made a cup of hot chicken broth and wandered around the kitchen, killing time. I even rearranged the little magnets on the refrigerator; some were tiny cartoon characters, some bar ads for beer and whiskey; others were caricatures of religious figures such as Gandhi and the Buddha.
One said: Experience is what you get when you don't get what you want.
I took out the official business card Officer Larry Donato had given me and stuck it on the fridge, with the LAPD logo and the private cell number visible. I stared at it for a long moment. A passing chill told me the number just might come in handy.
Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series) Page 6
