Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series)

by Harry Shannon

  "I'm on my second mile," she said. "You wanted to go to the gym this morning, right?"

  "Uh, right."

  "Well, I was feeling good so I thought I'd go for a jog first. Wow, what a terrific morning!"

  "Yes, it is nice, isn't it?"

  "Is something wrong?"

  I studied her carefully: Freshly scrubbed face, no make-up, dark hair pulled straight back; large, soft brown eyes that seemed empty of guile. She was not a woman of classic beauty, but very attractive. She blushed under the close examination and looked down.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "I'm just a little sad. My housekeeper's nephew was kidnapped a few weeks ago, and it turns out he's still missing. She's pretty upset."

  "That's too bad." Something flickered in her eyes. Was she lying? But if she knew something about Fancy being involved with kiddy porn too, why wouldn't she say so?

  "They called the cops, right?

  "Sure. It didn't help."

  "That's a drag."

  "Mary," I said, as casually as possible, "was Fancy into anything . . . strange? Like, other than garden variety pornography, I mean?"

  "I doubt it," she said, firmly. "He's scary, but straight as hell. He wouldn't touch anything too kinky. You're asking because of that kid?"

  I shrugged. "Just thinking aloud."

  She touched my face. "You don't look so good. What's wrong?"

  "I thought you were running away. I was worried about you."

  "I wouldn't do that," she said. "Not now. Although the truth is, I probably should just get the hell out of here."

  "Why?"

  "Because you've been so kind to me."

  "I don't understand."

  Mary crossed her arms over her chest, the classic posture of someone keeping secrets. "I'm just trouble, Callahan, I always have been. More trouble than you can handle."

  "Mary, what is it that's burning?"

  "I don't know what you mean," she said. She was lying again. That's twice now.

  "When you were sick and coming down off the drugs, Peanut told me you kept talking about something burning. She said whatever it was it seemed to scare you. What was she talking about?"

  "I was sick," she said. "Who knows?"

  "You ever hear of something called the Burning Man Festival? It's held out in Nevada?"

  She pursed her lips, shook her head. "I don't think so."

  That's three lies. What the hell is she hiding? I decided to change course. "I had another nightmare about Dry Wells this morning. It happens every now and then. I think we're back in the cellar with that big, crazy speed freak coming in after us."

  "I know."

  "It's all such a jumble, now, with the Palmer family, my friend Loner, everybody dealing drugs and Bobby Sewell in on it. That was one hell of a long weekend, Mary."

  "Yes."

  "Do you still think about it?"

  "More than you could know. And it fucking freaks me out every time."

  "But you don't know what Peanut was talking about when you said something was burning?"

  "I don't have a clue."

  I held her gaze for one long count. She's not going to give an inch, at least right now. I wonder if she's somehow involved with whatever's going on? The thought truly disturbed me. I bought some more time. "I'd be dead if it weren't for you."

  Her lower lip trembled. "And I'd be dead if it weren't for you, so I guess that makes us even."

  "Jerry really wants to see you again, Mary. He's been very upset, very worried. I think it's time we called him."

  "Wait just a little longer," she pleaded. "I'm not ready."

  "Mary, look . . ."

  "Mick, please wait, okay?"

  "Okay, another day or two. But I need to know why."

  Mary studied her fingernails, but her eyes looked far into space. After a time, she said: "He cared about me when I was nothing but a coke whore. I want to be as together as possible before I see him again. Can you understand how I could feel that way?"

  It seemed like the truth. "I understand."

  I leaned back and rolled the window down. A pregnant Hispanic woman in a white dress was pushing two other babies in a stroller. She entered the crosswalk, saw me and nodded pleasantly.

  "Mary, are you hungry?"

  "Not yet, I had an apple."

  I measured my words, spoke again. "We'll eat later, then. Look, somebody from the FBI approached me."

  "Oh, God."

  "Don't worry, I haven't told him anything, not even your name, but I'm running out of excuses. I'll probably have to contact him, if he doesn't look me up first. I'm going to ask you one more time. What is it I don't know? Is this about working for Fancy, or something else?"

  Mary didn't say anything, but her face changed color again. It went white with fear. "Jesus, all you ever think about is Fancy and Donny Boy and the cops! Can't we talk about something nice?"

  "Let me in on what's going on."

  "Look, I got myself into some real trouble this time. And I'm trying to think of a way out."

  "Then maybe I can help."

  "Maybe you can, Mick, but not just yet."

  "What is Fancy up to? What does he want with me?"

  "Give me one day, Mick," she said, urgently. "Twenty-four hours, that's all I'm asking. I have to think things over, and very carefully. I have to be sure I'm doing the right thing."

  "I don't understand."

  "I can't just go off half-cocked. Trust me for one day."

  "Do you think you're in real danger?"

  She grimaced. "We both are."

  "And that's the real reason you don't want me to call Jerry yet, isn't it?"

  "I want to protect him. I'm sorry I'm bringing so much trouble down on you, Mick. Really I am."

  "Don't be. I can take care of myself."

  That line sounded artificially macho, even to my own ears. Fortunately, she ignored it. "Listen, I love Suzanne, but I actually felt relief when she finally went back to work. I was afraid something bad would happen to her too, and after she had been so kind . . ."

  "I have an idea." We give her the day, but then that's it.

  "What?"

  I took her hand. "Look, you've been clean for two weeks now, right? So maybe tomorrow we'll just move you to a women's sober living house. Nobody will know where. And then I'll get in touch with Jerry to let him know you're okay."

  A pause. "What would it be like in sober living?"

  I smiled. "We can drive by a place I know and check it out. Usually it's two or three women to a room. Everyone goes to AA meetings and works to pay their own way, but the rent is reasonable. There's a curfew. Drinking or using gets you thrown out on the spot, but other than that it's pretty comfortable. And it's one step closer to being out on your own."

  She leaned into me, one hand on my thigh. She ticked my hair. "Okay. But can't I just stay with you for a few months?"

  I moved her hand. "Don't, Mary."

  "Why not?" she whined.

  I tensed up, searched for the right words. Mary took her hand away and laughed. I suddenly realized she was teasing again. A smidgen of self-esteem had returned, enough to let her crack a joke at her own expense.

  I grinned. "Smart ass."

  "Got you, Mick."

  "Yeah, you did."

  "Are we going to work out, or just sit here in the car all morning?"

  At Golden Gym, Ronnie stretched her out carefully, droning on in his way about drugs and toxicity and health food cures. Meanwhile I jogged on the treadmill. Then the big trainer worked us both simultaneously, smoothly transitioning from one machine to the next, chattering all the while. He seemed half smitten with Mary, which did her ego a great deal of good.

  I paused to refill his water bottle and stood for a moment, watching them from across the large, mirrored room. Her body language was totally different. She seemed composed and confident and it was now impossible to ignore Mary's lithe figure and bright smile.

  I scanned the g
ym and noticed several other men had zeroed in to watch. A few of the regular women seemed annoyed. Feeling a bit guilty, I drank cold water and considered the situation. I studied Mary carefully but finally dismissed the idea. Back off for Jerry. She's not a client, but close enough.

  We spent a long, leisurely few hours at the mall, watched a movie, and ate lunch at a small Italian restaurant called La Pergola. I found myself at ease in a way I hadn't been in a long, long time.

  "Let's go in there," she said, suddenly. It was a loud video arcade intended for bored teenagers. I protested, but Mary won out. We wasted thirty dollars and more than an hour blowing things up and racing virtual cars side by side. Blanca had left by the time we got home and the little house smelled of furniture polish and air freshener.

  That night, Mary accompanied me to the studio. She fell asleep while I was still on the air. While packing up, I paused for a long moment to watch her. She was now dressed in one of my old blue work shirts and a pair of swim trunks and she lay curled in a ball on the floor, using the yellow pages as a pillow. She looked like the fifteen year old who'd first run away from home.

  I woke her gently, and half carried her to the car, all the while sniffing the wind and eyeing the brush like a suspicious predator at the watering hole. I drove home carefully, tucked Mary into the guest bed and locked up the house.

  "'Night," she mumbled.

  "Mary?"

  "Huh?"

  "Twenty-four hours, Mary. That means we talk tomorrow, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Good night."

  "How concerned are you?" Hal asked later, from the video monitor. His lips were perfectly synchronized for a second, an effect so rare it seemed almost comical. Suddenly his voice crinkled like cellophane and got louder. "Tell me."

  "I'm very concerned." I reached forward and dialed the speaker volume down. "Can I get you to have your people do a little nosing around?"

  "About?"

  "Well, this Burning Man thing in Nevada, for starters. It's pretty well known, so it won't take them long."

  "What do you want to know about it?"

  "Beats the hell out of me, it just keeps popping up. I don't know if I told you this, but I went once, years ago. It is kind of a half-naked, sixties-style art festival. It cumulates in the group torching of a forty-foot stick figure."

  "That sounds fascinating." Hal coughed. "I must remember to put it on my itinerary when next in the wilds of Nevada."

  "I had so much fun I lost a couple of days. But one of the things I do remember is freaking out and hitting some innocent people."

  "So?"

  "So at least one of them was a black girl, who was maybe in her twenties at the time. Look, this is a bit of a long shot, but please check out whether or not this African-American pimp named Fancy, or perhaps one of his relatives or associates, has ever somehow been involved with that festival."

  "Will do. You don't have any cognomen other than Fancy?"

  "No. Could be first, last, or just a nickname. But maybe a cross-reference on computer will tie him into the Burning Man."

  Hal smiled. "I'm way ahead of you, young stallion. I shall see what we can discover about your festival. And what was the name of that gentleman who purported to be an FBI agent?"

  "I already called the bureau and the office number he gave me," I said. "It was definitely his voice on the voice mail. Of course, that call could have been rerouted somehow."

  "Certainly."

  "The name was Jack Fields. I didn't get names for the other two. He's probably legitimate, but see what you can find out, okay?"

  "Are you starting to wonder if the disappearance of your housekeeper's nephew was in any way targeted at you?"

  "That's exactly what I'm worried about."

  "Let us hope you're wrong."

  "Let's hope. Thanks, Hal."

  "I will have a couple of employees jump through hoops. I'll get back to you in a day or two. How are things otherwise?"

  "You mean with Leyna Barton? She still won't talk to me."

  "That is a pity. Perhaps she'll come around."

  "I don't know if I give a damn."

  "Pride goes before a fall."

  "I'm serious. To tell you the truth, I always had the feeling she was looking down her nose at me, like I was a bug under glass or a noble savage."

  Hal donned his reading glasses and shuffled some papers. His mind seemed to wander. He grimaced, signed something, and looked up again. He's not himself. He's really distracted.

  "I know I'm getting boring, Hal, but are you feeling all right?"

  "Certainly."

  Not true. "Are you sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure," Hal said. "Back to Ms. Barton. So perhaps it is all for the best, then?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Or perhaps you are merely rationalizing a stinging defeat."

  "Fuck you."

  Hal laughed. "In the meanwhile, you have a beautiful, deeply wounded young creature on the premises. Has that particular situation tempted you in any way?"

  "Remember what you told me a long time ago? I asked you how to stay out of trouble with women, and you said that if I didn't go to the shoe store and hang around all day, I was not likely to buy myself a pair of shoes."

  Hal nodded. "So, you have been staying out of the metaphorical shoe store then, despite the fact that it is located in your own guest bedroom?"

  "Indeed I have, and you know what?"

  "What?"

  "It's a drag being the good guy all the time."

  "Tell me about it." Hal winced and held his stomach. "Damned gas pains again. I must away, stallion. Take care."

  The screen went dark. He was keeping something from me, I felt sure of it. I sat thinking for a few moments, then dialed Jerry's telephone number, but stopped on the last digit. Then I punched the final number, but didn't let in ring. Instead, I broke the connection and lowered my head. I was trapped in a maze and wild beasts were chuffing hungrily all around me, just out of sight.

  * * * * *

  . . . Loco came to his senses. He was looking into the eyes of a little girl. Her face was heavily made up, and she was wearing false eyelashes. He was lying on top of her. She, also, was clearly drugged and very confused. He felt someone push his head down her body, towards her little belly. He cooperated, but his mind was fighting to clear itself.

  He looked up. The room was empty, save for a video camera on a tripod, a bed, and a fake wall with an artificial window. He raised his head higher, and tried to struggle.

  "Quiet him down," someone said in English.

  Loco felt a sharp sting in the flesh of one buttock. He fell asleep again.

  NINE

  "You got rocks in your fucking head or something, Jackson?" The raven-haired Latino woman was leaning over the speaker phone with one hand on a stack of papers, the other flat on the desk. She was in her thirties; tall, strong, big breasted and obviously fit, and wore a 9mm and a badge on her belt. "I told you not to talk to my goddamned witness."

  "I was trying to help," a man said, his voice tinny from the speaker. "Hey, I'm sorry."

  "Oh, you helped all right," the woman said. Her tone was razor sharp. "You helped her decide to go back to Mexico." She pronounced it correctly, Meh-HIE-co. "Nice going. Just like a man."

  "Maybe it'll still shake down okay. I'll back the hell off, and she'll talk to you again, okay?"

  "Bullshit," said Sergeant Darlene Hernandez. "Her lips are tighter than a gnat's asshole."

  I was wearing a sticker that said "guest" on it, although I doubted anyone would have mistaken me for a cop. I stood silently, and watched her with genuine admiration. She shuffled through some wanted posters, found what she wanted and tore it up. Darlene wore tan slacks, a tight white blouse, and dark, flat shoes. She seemed aware she had an audience, but probably assumed it was one of the other LAPD detectives.

  "Okay." The man sighed, exasperated. "Well, what the fuck do you want from me?"

  "I want you to con
sider going into some other line of work," Darlene said. "I think you'd make a great fireman."

  She slammed down the phone and then, feeling eyes in her back, turned to face me. It took her a while, but then she focused. Her smile flickered and widened.

  "Well I'll be goddamned," she said softly, "it is the star himself, my own personal Hugh Grant."

  I blushed and forced a smile. "Your cousin was supposed to have told you I would be stopping by. He left my name for a guest pass."

  "The one that's half Italian, Donato?"

  "Yes, ma'am, Larry."

  "He didn't tell me anything," she said flatly. "Or if he did, I forgot."

  "I hope this isn't too much of an intrusion."

  "Oh, not at all," Darlene said, deadpan. She came around to the front of her desk and perched on the edge. "I had nothing else to do today except babysit some pampered, boy toy celebrity."

  "Ouch."

  "Get to it, Callahan."

  "Can I buy you a cup of coffee? I mean, since we're off to such a good start here, and all?"

  Darlene Hernandez cocked her head like an angry parrot. "Jesus. Why in the world would I want to go get a cup of coffee with you of all people, Callahan?"

  I considered. "Okay then, how about a chili cheeseburger?" Her mouth twitched. Encouraged, I pressed my case. "But only if you're done roasting my nuts over an open fire."

  "A chili cheeseburger? Okay, that's better. Just let me grab my coat and sign out."

  The Hollywood Police Station is on Cole Avenue, on a side street, and flanked by several craftsman cottages. Black and whites pull in and out constantly, both solo and clustered in formation. Darlene Hernandez set a blistering pace. The crowded, pale green halls of the police station were filled with cuffed perpetrators and scurrying detectives. She shoved the patrolmen out of the way, or proceeded as if they were expected to scatter like pigeons.

  She marched me out the front door and down the concrete steps. I had to struggle to keep up with her. At the foot of the steps she stopped abruptly and I ran into her from behind. She looked back over her shoulder and flashed a sarcastic, thin-lipped smile.

  "Back off, or at least kiss me first."

  "Where exactly are we going, Sergeant Hernandez?"

  "You can keep calling me ma'am."