Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels)

by Harry Shannon

  He closed the curtains, read part of a novel on his Kindle and finally managed to fall asleep again.

  This time there were no dreams, at least none he could remember.

  TWO

  Tuesday morning

  Callahan woke up to the gurgling of his new pool as it begged for a few inches of water. Forty thousand dollars for a concrete bowl primarily used by guests and other people's children. It seemed like a good idea at the time, or perhaps all the construction chaos, recently concluded, had been just another way to avoid missing Darlene.

  He opened his eyes. The California heat slammed down like a fist, pinning him to sweaty sheets that should have been changed days before. The alarm went off a few seconds later, a country station played an old Dwight Yoakum single. Tuesday was going to be a scorcher, and fast-paced from the get-go. Callahan went outside, turned the hose on and gave the pool a drink. On impulse, he jumped in and flailed around for a while. The mind-numbing routine came back quickly, and before Mick knew it he'd done forty laps. He got out and toweled off.

  When Callahan jumped into the shower to lose the chlorine stench, he rubbed his face. He hadn't shaved the night before. He let it slide. The broadband and cable folks Jerry Jover and Callahan were meeting would just have to accept him with a very trendy celebrity stubble.

  Callahan had first met computer whiz Jerry Jover while back in his hometown of Dry Wells. He'd been in Nevada doing a radio show for Memorial Day weekend. Jerry ran the funky local motel. A girl who'd called Mick's program was murdered, and Jerry had helped Mick figure out who was responsible. Unfortunately, the guilty party and a gang were running drugs. Some of them followed Callahan back to Los Angeles, and by the time it was over, Jerry and Mick were the kind of friends who'd seen combat. They might get on each other's nerves from time to time, but deep loyalties were never called into question. They would always be brothers.

  Callahan pulled on a tee shirt and jeans and dragged out his favorite battered cowboy boots. The executives expected a certain persona, and it wasn't much of a stretch, for despite his Master's Degree in Psychology and his years of practice, he was still a cowboy at heart. While he was brushing his teeth and checking his schedule Callahan remembered making the 9:00 appointment with Calvin and stepped up the pace. On the way out the door, Mick noticed how dusty and messy the house had become. What was it about the presence of a woman that made a man clean up his act?

  I am giving her memory too much power, damn it. Way too much.

  The Ventura freeway was mobbed with a cluster of gas-farting, expensive sardine cans, the irate drivers texting one another about running ten minutes late. The Starbucks at the corner of Victory and Hazeltine was always packed, today as well. It really needed a second floor parking lot. Callahan loved coffee when it was hot and strong enough to sandpaper your stomach lining. The cream? That was just to make sure he started the day with a few carbohydrates.

  Callahan hurried down surface streets to his Studio City office and parked beneath the building. He liked the area, and he could see the Sheraton Universal from the balcony. Callahan recognized a young woman on the elevator, just shy of thirty and fit as a gymnast. She did something or another for a casting agency in the complex. She tried to flirt a bit, but the romantic effect was ruined by the latte foam moustache that sat like a caterpillar above her smile. Callahan touched his lip with a grin as he exited. The meaning registered just as the doors closed behind his, and she reddened. He wondered why he'd once again failed to make any kind of move to get her number. There was no more relationship to protect. His loss.

  After a few years, the routine of opening up an office and getting into the correct frame of mind was as automatic as anything else in one's life. Callahan worked a lot, so he kept his place relaxing, like an apartment. The large waiting room had a dark green couch, a comfortable chair, two wooden bookcases staunchly defying the dawn of Kindle and Nook, a television set, a portable DVD player, low-sitting beige lamps and an ample stack of magazines. The radio was set to a classical station. He could open the middle door, enter his sanctuary. Another large couch and an easy chair, more books, bright windows with some slatted blinds set at a sleepy angle. Mick checked his email on his Blackberry, eliminated some junk and was just completing a reply to an appointment request when the door opened. Calvin McCann entered.

  "Morning." Callahan's greeting was an invitation inward. Calvin was in his fifties, hair long departed except for a monkish ring that looked like a rust stain on his scalp. He was a slightly paunchy man now, but had obviously been a jock back in the day, long arms and stout legs. Not one to trifle with. Decades of dope and financial stress had softened him up.

  Calvin was also Old Hollywood gone broke. His family came from show business, and both chemical dependency and wanting to be a big shot seemed carried in their genes. Unlike his father, a top Hollywood agent, Calvin had networked like crazy but failed to make the grade. He was a sometime screenwriter, a failed actor, now a tired man who reeked of cigarette smoke and anxiety. Calvin had been seeing Callahan on and off for a number of months. Calvin seemed to try. He'd get a bit of sober time, drop the gaming, then get his obsessions going again, think he'd developed some kind of a foolproof system. That part was true enough, Callahan supposed. Whatever he tried was at least guaranteed to soak up all the rent money.

  Calvin wore shiny grey suit pants, a white short-sleeved shirt and a salmon tie. He plopped on the couch. "Doc . . ."

  "This makes about twenty times. Just call me Mick."

  He grinned. "Really gets your goat when I do that, don't it?"

  Calvin was right, but Callahan didn't want to start off on that foot. Calvin was a charming con man who'd grab any advantage if you let him. Better to take charge. Callahan shrugged. "Just seems a bit disrespectful to real doctors to call me that. I'm a counselor." Okay Calvin, Callahan thought, you wanted me off balance for a reason. Why?

  Callahan leaned forward, elbows on knees to close the distance between them. But Callahan was six-two and went around two-fifteen, a real advantage when it came to intimidation. "What happened yesterday, Calvin? You blew me off."

  Calvin got flustered. "Sorry, I didn't mean to blow you off, things just got crazy on me, and I was worried about being able to pay for the session."

  "So you decided to stand me up and cost me an hour I could have filled with someone else instead?"

  Calvin shrank like fabric too long in the dryer.

  Callahan eased up on the throttle. "I need to know what's going on with you, Calvin. Are you drinking again?"

  Calvin shook his head. He studied his fingernails for a minute. "It's the other thing. You know."

  "I can guess, but tell me. Put it into words."

  "SSDD. Same shit, different day. I thought I'd figured something out, right? It came to me that a multiple of four couldn't miss on the fourth of the month, not in a race running at four. Fuck, I don't know what I was thinking, it made sense to me at the time. It always does."

  "So you bet on the fourth horse or something?"

  Calvin shook like a shaggy dog stepping out of the swimming pool. "I'm in trouble, Doc."

  His voice cracked. Calvin seemed pathetic. It would have been mean to bust him on calling Callahan Doc again.

  Callahan felt a genuine pang of concern. "What is it, man? Did you get in too deep again?"

  "A few large."

  "Jesus, Calvin. What are you going to do?"

  "My son, Wes? He's going to help me out. He's got something of his own figured out, wouldn't tell me what."

  Compulsive gamblers and their schemes. Callahan shook his head. "Do I even want to hear the end of this story?"

  "The ending has yet to be determined," Calvin said. "Look, the point is, I think I've had it. I want out. I want to stop." He looked up at Callahan, hound dog sad.

  "But you can't afford to pay me."

  And it is really convenient how you do this, Calvin. Decide to get well only when you're out of money, and h
ave used up all your resources. It's a strange way of testing other people, too. If you're a sociopath I'm making a big mistake by going along with this. If you're sincere, it may be your last hope . . .

  Calvin couldn't meet Callahan's eyes. Either Calvin was a damned fine actor, or he was crushed. And very scared.

  "Marvin Roth is a serious man. People have gotten very hurt over this kind of money." Calvin eyed Callahan's broken nose and winked. "No offense."

  "None taken."

  "Anyway, I've missed the vig twice, you know? I'm not kidding when I say I'm in a spot here, all jammed up. I shit you not."

  Hound dog again. Callahan grimaced and considered the situation. Part of him felt manipulated, confused about proper boundaries, and wanted time to think this over. Part of him felt the old itch to mix it up and just walk into the saloon with his guns blazing. This time the crazy part won.

  "I'm going to cut you a deal," Callahan said. "You do three hours of charity work for every hour I give you. No guarantee how long the arrangement lasts, but at least for the next month. Understood?"

  Calvin nodded. His eyes brimmed. Callahan closed the trap. "And Calvin?"

  "Yes, Doc?"

  "You start tonight."

  Calvin didn't flinch or look away. Good sign. Maybe he was feeling worried about dragging his son into the disease. I can use that, motivate him, Callahan thought.

  "There's an event going on to raise money for Children of the Night," Callahan said. "A potluck supper with volunteer entertainment. I agreed to show up and get my picture taken with some other minor celebrities. You're coming with me, and you're going to do whatever they ask you to do. Wait tables, wash dishes, seat people, whatever. Do we have a deal?"

  "Yeah, Doc," Calvin said. "We have a deal."

  Callahan sat back. "Your son is named Wes, right? Do you want to have him come in with you one of these times?"

  "I've mentioned you, he's heard you on the radio and shit. Wes is a good boy, but he doesn't think much of therapy."

  The people who need it most seldom do, Callahan thought. Said: "Ask him to come with you next week, just for half the session. No bullshit, no big AA pitch, just some facts and figures about what this kind of addiction does to people."

  "I haven't smoked since yesterday morning, Doc. I did a wake and bake. That's when I called the bookie and got in too deep. Don't know what the fuck I was thinking, you know? Or maybe I wasn't thinking."

  "Look, Calvin. That stuff is something like 25 times stronger than it used to be back in the day. Nobody has any idea what that level of THC does to the human brain: the short term memory, the emotions or the limbic system. One thing I know for sure is that nobody can smoke weed all day long and live a rational adult life. It is simply not possible. Does Wes have the same issue?"

  "No, the boy is like you. He's a brawler, and Wes drinks too much sometimes."

  Callahan laughed. "Well, that settles it. Then I really, really want to talk to him next week. Tell him it won't be boring or a lecture. I'm just worried about you guys. Oh, one more thing. Give me a dollar."

  "What?"

  "Give me a dollar." Calvin peeled off a one, which didn't leave him with much. Callahan took it and handed it back. "Now you've employed me, and anything you tell me is in secret. I work for you. Okay?"

  "What about Marvin Roth, Doc? What do I do about paying him off?"

  "Let me think on that." Callahan glanced at the clock. "Let's change gears for a while. Last time you were telling me about that time your father lost it during a family reunion and started screaming he was tired of being everyone else's punching bag."

  "You have a good memory."

  "You were maybe ten years old. You tried to hug him and he slapped you."

  He trembled, looked away. "Do we have to talk about that?"

  "Yes. We do."

  When they were done Callahan had Calvin jot down his street address. He lived in a funky area of Van Nuys, near the San Diego freeway. Callahan told him he'd be by to pick him up around dusk. Professional organizations frowned on that kind of counselor/client contact, mixing your personal and professional life, but sober folks did it all the time. Sometimes the line between sponsor and therapist was pretty thin when it came to dealing with addiction.

  But Callahan was rationalizing and knew it. Part of him recognized that he needed the connection as much as Calvin did. Callahan was feeling dark and self absorbed, sorry for himself. That's a dangerous place for a drunk. Little red flashes were going off at the corner of his eyes when someone cut him off in traffic. A roaring sound came up when people were rude. Mick needed to get out of his own head, and AA says "When all else fails, work with a newcomer."

  The lunch meeting with the television guys was at an expensive barbeque restaurant on Ventura Boulevard called "Boneyard Bistro." The chef was brilliant, but definitely out to clog arteries and cause premature death. Jerry was outside waiting when Callahan walked up. People strolling by tried not to stare. When Jerry was young, his mother went psychotic and burned his face with a hot iron as punishment for some imagined transgression. They hugged.

  "You look good," Callahan said. "Been working out?"

  Jerry grinned, scars rigid on one side. "I hired a trainer, does it really show already?"

  "Yeah, it does."

  "Dude, I have never felt better in my life. Unlike you, broken-hearted loser of the year, I am feeling like an absolute babe magnet."

  "Wow, what a nice thing to say."

  "Think nothing of it.

  "Look, Mr. Buff Boy Gym Rat, be careful what you eat in there. The desserts are killer, but they'll set you back six months."

  Jerry rubbed his new six pack. "Thanks for the warning."

  Callahan turned to face the restaurant. Gestured. "So who are we meeting again?"

  "John Kennedy, no relation, and his partner Alice Henderson. They are both former executives at CBS. Let me do the talking, bro. The idea is just like I told you, we do a broadband live show with volunteer clients, kind of a cyber Dr. Phil thing, but cool and contemporary. If your people want their faces blurred out, their voices altered, piece of cake. All we need is two cameras and some time to edit."

  They went inside. Jerry continued to babble on about production costs. The restaurant was cool and dark. The purple and brown decor made it feel something like a classic mob spot located in New York City. They were seated near the front window. The contacts texted Jerry that they were running a bit late, like pretty much everyone else in Los Angeles.

  "Here's our twist," Jerry said. He leaned on the table and a candle clicked against his empty water glass. "We are doing inexpensive broadband content, but you have quite a reputation. You've done radio, you've done television, and you're in private practice. So we premiere the show on handheld devices and computers, okay? First come, first serve. And then we assemble and edit a kind of 'best of' for the On Demand folks, and eventually for cable or network television. All I need is some capital up front to pay you, compensate the crew and the guests for their expenses. I can pretty much handle everything else myself. I'll cut it on a Mac, add library music in and out of breaks, all of it."

  "Sounds fine to me, Jerry. But how do they recoup their money, aren't the network sales just speculative at this point?"

  He snapped his fingers. A handsome young waiter appeared—white apron, an actor's grill of a grin. Jerry ordered some obscure German beer. Mick asked for a glass of iced tea.

  "I've already investigated all that," Jerry said. He produced a folder from his briefcase, three-ring binder, full color graphics. The guy probably did it all himself before brushing his teeth. Callahan had never seen anyone so easily master new technology. "I can prove to them that the money is as good as in the bank. There are people already interested in buying time at the broadband level. The cable and network stuff will be a piece of cake. Just like that, Mick Callahan is back on TV and I'm a producer."

  They shook hands. Jerry looked up and smiled with the good half of h
is face. Two impossibly attractive, toned, well-dressed young executives entered the restaurant.

  "Hi, you guys. Meet Mick Callahan, the old pro who is going to become your newest star."

  THREE

  Tuesday evening

  Wes McCann spotted her while killing time at the train station. The girl was standing in the kiosk, chewing gum and thumbing through a stack of gossip magazines. Ms. Hot had long blonde surfer hair, big blue eyes and wore jeans and a pink tank top that focused the mind on a bare midriff and a pair of long, seemingly endless legs. Wes cocked his head to the right and lowered the shades he'd been trying on. The price tag tickled his cheek. Just then a weary businessman with a shock of wild white hair and a drinker's nose strolled across the hall, dragging a black suitcase on uneven wheels. The two men exchanged pained looks. Ms. Hot was a real work of art. Staring at her actually hurt, although in a good way.

  And Wes McCann thought: Damn, if I wasn't here for a reason . . .

  The businessman paused. He took in Wes, the buzz haircut and stiff posture. "Good luck, soldier. That looks harmless enough, but it could kill a man."

  Wes chuckled. "I hear you."

  The man shrugged. He glanced down at his crotch. "You know, this thing has already cost me about two hundred thousand an inch." He paused for a long moment. "And that's when it's hard."

  Wes laughed out loud this time. "Ouch."

  "Yeah. Be smart, head for the bar."

  "Maybe I will," Wes said. "Enjoy your day."

  The traveler went off without looking back. Wes put the sunglasses back, tried another pair. He turned his back to the girl, rolled the cart around to study her reflection in the mirror. Her face seemed vaguely familiar, but Wes had read somewhere that all pretty women were 'genetic celebrities,' people who looked like they'd already starred in a television show or done their share of print ads, so that didn't necessarily mean anything.