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

by Harry Shannon

  "No," I said, although I did know.

  "I was glad it wasn't me."

  I rubbed my knuckles. "Makes perfect sense. That's what I've heard from everyone I've ever talked to who's lived through something like that."

  "Clients?"

  "A couple of Viet Nam vets I worked with, and one guy who had to kill the kid that ripped off his liquor store."

  "Wow."

  "Anyway, my stepfather, when he wasn't pounding on me, used to tell me things about Viet Nam. He said that when it comes down to it, nothing matters but survival. Forget the movies and the stories you've heard. Push comes to shove, you will kill, and that's the end of it. Your friend dies, you leave him there and keep going. You just want to live through it, and come out okay, that's all. You just want to be able to go home. The feelings, they come later."

  "That's the truth. Mick?"

  "Yeah."

  "He was pretty bad, huh?"

  "Daddy Danny? He was pretty bad, but I think he meant well. In his own twisted way, he was convinced he was doing me a favor by toughening me up. I can see my inner turmoil in the way I dream. Sometimes he's a monster chasing me, and sometimes he sits around giving me advice, sometimes both at once. It's strange."

  "Unresolved?"

  I laughed. "That's right. It's unresolved."

  Darlene stood up and began to pace. I just waited her out again and tried not to stare at her body. Can't you show a little class?

  Finally, Darlene said: "Is your offer still good?"

  For a moment, I was confused. "Oh! Of course it is, and Hal is good for the money. The checks will clear."

  "I don't care about the money, but it has to look legitimate."

  "It will. Why did you change your mind?"

  "I think we need to find out if Fancy is keeping your housekeeper's nephew and a bunch of other kids as sex slaves. That, and because I think he ordered the shooting."

  "Darlene, look . . ."

  "I'm not done yet. And also because until I got to know you better, Larry Donato was the only decent man I had ever met."

  I couldn't think of anything to say to that.

  "And I need your word on something." Darlene walked in close and looked up.

  My heart fluttered. "Okay."

  "I'm going to help you find Mary, Callahan. I'm going to help you find that kid, too, if he's with Fancy. But I need to know you will stick to the cover story no matter what."

  "No matter what."

  "Hal's company hired me to moonlight on my vacation time, because we're friends. I will be advising you on a couple of documentary projects and providing security. That's it, right?"

  "That's it."

  "If we get in any trouble with that bastard Fancy, if it comes out that he ordered the hit on you, I am going to swear on a stack of Bibles that I didn't know there was a connection."

  I stood up and stretched. "We shall take our secret to the grave, Deep Throat. I have to ask you something, okay? Do you blame me for what happened to Larry? I'd understand if you did."

  Darlene crossed her arms over her chest and paced in a small circle. She kept her eyes on the cement. "I did for a while, not now. Are you blaming yourself?"

  I hesitated. "Yes, in a way."

  "Well don't. Mick, one last time I want your word you'll perjure yourself, whatever, to back me up all the way. I really don't want to lose my career."

  "Then maybe you shouldn't do this. It's a big risk."

  Darlene stopped pacing and looked up. Her eyes were puffy, but dry. "Now I want to, because I'm calm."

  "I don't understand."

  "I'm Latino," Darlene said. "And revenge is a dish that tastes better when it's served cold."

  I gave her a hug. She remained stiff at first, but eventually relaxed.

  "Do we have a deal?"

  "We do. And remind me not to piss you off, okay?"

  * * * * *

  . . . The boy was hungry.

  Loco smelled hot soup. He opened his eyes and realized they had decided to feed him again. The food came intermittently, at odd times of the day or night, which only added to his confusion.

  Anxiety flooded through him, and he felt in the back of his pants. They had not discovered the screwdriver. It was still there.

  Loco sighed with relief. He looked around. He was still in the van again, but now only his legs were bound. He realized he'd been lucky. If he'd tried to cut the bindings on his wrist, they might have noticed. He turned and looked down. The three screws controlling the bottom of one metal panel were still loose. He grinned and turned back around.

  The tray sat on the metal floor. It held one large piece of bread, some broth in a plastic bowl, and a glass of apple juice. He ate and drank rapidly, his eyes darting about; chewing like a small animal stealing food from a trap.

  Someone will come for me, he told himself. Someone will come.

  Meanwhile, he knew that time was running out. He knew that the evil ones had decided to kill him. They no longer even tried to hide their faces. The one who brought him food now had a strange way of looking through instead of at him, as if he were already dead.

  FIFTEEN

  "Excuse me, miss?"

  "Buzz off," the girl said. She was a pallid, pimpled white teenager wearing heavy jewelry, torn cut-off jeans, and an egregiously padded bra. She spat on the ground, turned on her slightly wobbly high heels and strode away. I motioned for Jerry to stop filming.

  "Somehow I think you need to come up with a warmer, more effective approach," Jerry deadpanned.

  "Well, we'd best do it soon."

  Jerry's baseball cap was now on sideways, for no apparent reason. His eyebrows danced. He shifted the camera to his right and rubbed his lower back. "This goddamned thing is getting heavy."

  I caught a slight slur on the word 'is,' and it troubled me. Had he been drinking again?

  The Pomona Valley night was sultry, perfumed by trapped smog; the street air thick with the pheromones of unrequited addiction and sexual desire. Flashy, indolent crack dealers were doing a brisk business in the alleys and skinny addicts prowled the burgeoning shadows with flickering, orange pipes.

  Hour after hour, dozens of cars, all sizes and models, rounded the corner one after another. A driver or passenger would buy drugs, or arrange for a sexual favor, and the vehicle would slowly drive off again.

  A bleached blonde in white shorts stepped out of a doorway and stood watching. She wore a plain white blouse, which seemed odd, and something about her struck me as familiar. Jerry was also staring, briefly puzzled, but the girl did not react to us or wave. After a few moments, she went back inside the building.

  "I thought I knew her for a second."

  "Probably from one of your many late-night binges. Heads up."

  A buxom black girl in red hot pants and a white halter came waltzing around the corner, swinging some ample hips. A middle-aged, balding man in a battered black Ford was following, chattering like a wind-up set of teeth. They were negotiating.

  "Aw, don't be that way," the man whimpered. He had the sad, wrinkled face of a bulldog. "I'm all worn out and I need me some sugar. That's all I got, I swear. Shit!"

  He saw me holding the microphone like a low-rent 60 Minutes guy, saw the camera in Jerry's hands, backed up with a squeal of brakes and sped away. The girl swore and stomped the sidewalk. She shot Jerry a withering glare.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," I said pleasantly. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

  "The fuck you doing down here, you lily-white, ugly-assed, broken-nosed muscled-up giant honky mother fucker?"

  I laughed and applauded. "Hot damn, that was a string of invective. Girl, you're a poet. What's your name?"

  She arched a brow, somewhat mollified, and sized me up. "Dolly," she said, strutting towards me. Even the words felt well lubricated. "They call me Dolly."

  "Dolly, look here, I'll pay for your time."

  "That's entrapment, officer," she sneered.

  "I'm not a cop, I'm a televisi
on guy. And I will pay."

  She eyed me with suspicion. "Like how much? My time is expensive, you know. I ain't no common street ho."

  "Any fool could see that," I said, unctuously.

  "God damn right."

  "Would twenty dollars be sufficient?"

  "Twenty dollars don't even buy your ass the right to order me a tropical drink, boy. Damn, you a cheap bastard."

  I pretended to consider my options and then enunciated carefully. "I'm on a limited expense account, Dolly. How about fifty bucks?"

  She sidled over, ran her practiced hands up my pants leg and purred. "Just what did you have in mind, honey?"

  Jerry was caught off balance. All elbows and eyebrows, he stepped sideways to try for a better angle and banged the camera into a metal telephone pole.

  The girl jumped, scowled, and turned her back on him. She leaned close, tickled my bare arm and whispered, "This geek got to be there to watch, Daddy?"

  "Sure does," I chirped, feeling totally ridiculous.

  "That camera thing got to be on, then?"

  "Well, you see, it's like this. We're making a documentary," I said, and moved her educated fingers away from the crotch of my jeans. "But don't worry about a thing. We'll go back and cover your face up later on, before it's done."

  "Make it look all blurry and shit?"

  "Absolutely. All blurry and shit."

  She held out her hand. I paid her and the money immediately vanished into her ample bra. "Okay, handsome." She ran a finger over my broken nose. I tried not to think of where that finger had been. "What you want to know, then?"

  I waved Jerry closer. "Just talk to me, tell me about how you came to be a working girl, things like that."

  "Shit, honey. Why you wanna know?"

  "It's my job, nothing personal."

  "Oh, 'cause me, I get these captain 'save-a-ho' types all the time, want me to talk about my childhood right while I suck they dick and shit. Oops. Can I say dick?"

  "We'll bleep it," I said.

  "Sure?"

  "Absolutely. Bleep. Just like that."

  "That's cool. Funny thing is, everybody always want to know why you a ho. It not all complicated, you know? It's the damn money, honey!"

  "I see. Nobody forced you?"

  "You mean like my Uncle Ray or somethin' like that?"

  "Exactly."

  She dug into her purse for a tissue and blew her nose. I read her at once. She was covering up. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

  She shook her head. "You think talking about that slime-ball, lame-dick, pencil-necked, circus-geek cheesy motherfucker of a step daddy make me uncomfortable? Oh, hell no. Whatever make you think that?"

  "Okay. Just checking."

  "Let's just say this. Mommy, she had her some bad taste in men."

  This was not a wise time or place to do therapy. I shifted gears. "Do you work for yourself, or do you have a pimp?"

  "White boy," she said, "only a fool be out here alone without no man looking after her. I ain't no fool."

  "I can see that. Does he treat you okay? The man you work for?"

  "He okay," she said. She was already shutting down. I was losing her.

  Before I could say anything else, Jerry piped up from behind the camera. "Can you talk a little more about the other thing, like going down on the guy while he asks you questions?"

  "Jerry, shut up."

  "Okay."

  I took one last shot. "What's his name? Your pimp. The man looking out for you."

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why you want to know?"

  "No reason, I was just asking. A first name is fine."

  "You ask questions like that round here, you could end up dead," she said. "You want to be dead?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "Good thinking. We done now?""

  "Well . . ."

  "Kaching!" she said. It sounded like a sneeze. She smiled broadly and closed her purse again.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I done rung up the sale, and you ain't got no change coming, neither." She turned on her heel and walked away. As she reached the corner she looked back over her shoulder and winked at Jerry. "Boy, you get some money together, you come and see me. I don't mind scars at all." And then she was gone.

  "Smooth as ice cream," Jerry said. "What a team. I think we really had her going there."

  I sighed. "Do me a favor, and keep your metaphorical erection zippered next time."

  "It wasn't metaphorical at all, a second ago."

  "That's more information than I needed, Jerry."

  "Mick," Jerry said. "Check it out."

  The girl was a knockout. She wore a long blonde wig, big sunglasses despite the darkness, a tight red blouse and some sprayed-on jeans with sparklers glued on the thighs. She walked in spiked heels that made her hips sway dangerously and cast long shadows along the sidewalk. The girl was chewing gum and swinging a large, pink purse with an autographed photo of a well-known boy band on the side. At first glance, I took her for a teenager with a heroin habit, out to make a buck.

  "Jesus," Jerry said. He whistled.

  "Shut up and use the camera." I glanced over at the alley across from the Carlton Arms and saw a man standing there in the darkness. He stepped forward. Average height, muscular arms, dark skinned. I didn't recognize him. We continued to pace the sidewalk as if shooting film.

  "Damn it, this is business," I barked. Jerry jumped. "Keep your mind on your work."

  Jerry caught on to the charade. "Yes, sir. Sorry."

  The new girl appeared to see us for the first time. She stopped and looked me over. She turned her head and stared at Jerry and his camera. Finally she walked by without stopping.

  "Excuse me."

  The girl ignored me. Under her breath she said: "Pretty wimpy, Mick. Be a little more forceful."

  "Miss," I said again. No response. "Hey, over here, bitch."

  Darlene whispered again. "That's better." Louder, she said, "What's your fucking problem, buddy?"

  Jerry nearly dropped the camera in surprise. I'd recognized her from the outset, but just barely. I spoke with teeth clenched. "Not bad, babe. All those years walking the streets paid off."

  "Screw you, Callahan," she muttered. And then louder: "What do you want? I'm busy, here."

  "I can see that. Can I ask you a few questions?"

  "About what?"

  I caught movement from the corner of my eye. There were two men standing in the alley, now. One was carrying a baseball bat. A tingle jogged rapidly up my spine.

  "We're shooting some footage for a documentary, lady. We will take your face and any objectionable words out of it later, but we would like to talk to you about your work."

  "My work," she said, projecting her voice for effect. "I'm an actress."

  "I see. What kind of acting do you do?"

  Darlene blew a gum bubble. It popped. "First I act like you turn me on," she said. "Then I act like I give a shit about who you are and what you have to say. Then I act like I came. Oh, and I'm expensive."

  A long, dark red Lincoln Town Car slid around the corner, four plump tires sizzling on the hot pavement. A distinguished businessman with perfectly coifed hair sat behind the wheel. He wore an open-necked silk shirt and was smoking a thick cigar. Jerry saw him, lowered the camera and slipped it behind his back. He needn't have bothered. The man only had eyes for Darlene. She smiled. "Check this out."

  "Baby?"

  Darlene walked over, swinging her hips. "Good evening, sugar. Are you looking for a good time?"

  "Absolutely," the man said. He blew two smoke rings, stuck out his tongue and licked the air. "How much for a blow job?"

  For a long moment I half expected Darlene to whip out a pair of handcuffs and arrest the guy out of habit, but she stayed in character. "I was just telling this red-necked country boy over here that I don't come cheap, baby."

  The man stared at me. "Like I said, how much?"

  Darlene held up three fingers. "Three
hundred."

  The man roared with laughter. "You've got to be fucking kidding me, a three yard piece of ass in a neighborhood like this? This isn't Vegas, girl."

  "Take it or leave it," Darlene said.

  "Hey." I walked over and tapped Darlene on the shoulder. "I'll take it."

  The driver blinked. "You're not serious."

  "Serious as a heart attack," I said, loudly enough to be heard by the men in the alley. "And it's three hundred just to have a conversation."

  The driver blew another three smoke rings, deliberately aimed at me this time. He gunned his engine. "Fuck the both of you, then."

  I reached in through the window and used two fingers to flick the tip off the long cigar. Hot sparks fell down onto the driver's silk pants and those expensive leather seats. He took his foot off the brake and the car jerked forward. Swearing feverishly, he tried to pick up the hot coals. That meant taking his hands off the steering wheel. The Lincoln rolled up onto the curb, and the left rear door scraped itself raw on a metal post. The driver shrieked and jerked the wheel too far right, so the vehicle dropped back down into the street with a crunch that bent the left front fender.

  "Prick!"

  Red faced, the driver sped away, still slapping at the seat between his legs. Darlene's mouth was twitching when I risked a sidelong glance.

  There were now three young men standing in the alley, just watching.

  Darlene held out her hand. I peeled off three hundred dollars in twenties from a substantial roll and she tucked them between her breasts. Under her breath, she said: "You're not getting this back, you know."

  I ignored her. "Jerry?"

  Jerry brought the camera up, adjusted the lens a bit. A red light winked on near the monitor, and he nodded. "Rolling."

  "How did you get into this line of work?" I asked.

  "I do what I want to do," Darlene answered.

  "Do you have anybody who represents you? Some of the girls say it's too dangerous to work the street without a pimp."

  Darlene snorted derisively. "I don't need no fucking man taking my money, I can take care of myself."

  "Have you worked this area long?" The men in the alley were conferring among themselves. I tried to pay attention to Darlene as she answered the questions, but I was taking measure of the situation and barely aware of her voice. I only caught a part of her response. My gut tightened and several moments passed.