Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels)

by Harry Shannon

  Callahan sat down in one of the plush chairs and flipped through a copy of LA's great local magazine, Slake, a treat that someone had kindly left behind for others to enjoy. He liked the long articles and short stores. The distraction was welcome.

  It was too soon to pick up Calvin McCann for dinner and the charity event, but Callahan didn't want to go sit around at home alone. Again. He was perfectly clear about what was bothering him, just having trouble come to terms with it. And how much.

  Darlene Hernandez was tall, Latina and one smart cop. She was also the proverbial spitfire, a constant mystery and fiercely compelling. She'd been with Callahan through the gates of Hades and back more than a few times. Mick loved her toughness, her tenacity and loyalty. She was beautiful, physical and a person of character. So why couldn't they keep things smooth for longer than a month or two at a time? God knows they'd been trying long enough. Some small thing, or at least small to Mick, always created turmoil. They'd be doing fine for a while, and then he'd take a late client and bail out on a movie date, normally something she'd understand, even support.

  Suddenly this time was different, he'd delivered a personal affront. Like a lot of women, Darlene expected the man in her life to have estrogen ESP. Callahan was reasonably good at "speaking female" with his clients, but when it came to this woman, he seemed lost. At other times, he'd pick her up nervous because he was running late, already irritable and a tad defensive, only to find her in a perfectly reasonable mood.

  Not for the first time, Callahan sipped iced coffee and for the umpteenth time thought, Physician, heal thyself. Not that it ever did him any good.

  Callahan checked his watch. There was just enough time to catch the afternoon meeting at Radford Hall. He tossed the coffee in the trash and went outside, drove down Fulton and parked on Ventura Boulevard. The actual Radford Avenue runs parallel to Laurel Canyon, a little bit east. There's a television studio there, run by CBS but home to a number of different sound stages and programs. The original Radford AA house was a two-story residential property across from and a bit north of the studio lot. It acted as a sober living facility for a handful of people, and hosted a number of meetings every day. Naturally, it attracted a lot of people from the entertainment industry. Callahan had attended one of his first meetings there, but failed to introduce himself or say a word.

  Although the members tried hard to maintain control of the premises, the neighbors didn't much care for the crowds standing outside chatting and chain smoking three or four times a day, the snarled up traffic, the occasional incident with someone a bit too high for their own or anyone else's good. After many years in and out of court and numerous complaints, the house was eventually closed down. The members rented a pleasant, nondescript storefront on Ventura near Fulton, and continued to host Twelve Step meetings. They even installed a small gift shop for the brisk business of AA tokens, jewelry, tee shirts and greeting cards.

  A homeless guy named Hiram saluted Callahan. Hi looked like a bum, but didn't smell like one, and he'd been sober since the invention of dirt. A couple of teenaged girls in shorts and halter tops were whispering urgently in the corner, one had the white strand of an iPad ear piece dangling from her right ear. Callahan passed on the watery coffee and day-old donuts and found a metal folding chair in the back, where the leader was unlikely to spot and select Mick to read anything, or to share.

  Callahan liked these AA meetings better than the ones over the hill in tinsel town. Valley folks were cool enough to ignore that they'd seen Callahan on some billboard, heard him pontificate on the radio or even—back before he'd crashed and burned so badly—watched him on TV. They weren't looking to sell Callahan something, use him to network, or get his opinion about some new trend. Here, he was just another sober drunk. A small number of these people knew Callahan's sponsor and friend, Hal Solomon, and asked after him from time to time. Mostly they just smiled and kept to themselves. People in the program for a while develop a radar for who wants to talk, and who's just trying to get through the day.

  It was a speaker meeting, and true to form for AA the woman talking delved into her own problems with intimacy and relationships. She happened to be gay, but the issues she raised, a sunburned and sensitive ego, a need to withdraw from her partner for long periods, a feeling of bafflement when it came to sexuality and communication, all rang familiar . . . just as Callahan had expected. Sometimes the best thing to take away from a meeting is the mere fact that you're not as alone as you feel.

  The meeting concluded. "The thing was in the room," as Hal would often say. That ineffable, benign presence. A general sense of well-being and a willingness to rejoin the human race. That welcome glow didn't always happen, but whenever it did things were going to be okay.

  Callahan went to pick up Calvin. He lived on the edge of Van Nuys, near the gang country, the spray-painted barrio of Panorama City. It was a long drive, most of it through rush hour traffic. Mick plugged in his Bluetooth and called Hal on his Blackberry. Hal answered on the third ring.

  "I assume this means you're back on US soil?"

  Hal chuckled. "Never assume anything with me, but yes. I am currently in Chicago, where I was intending to change planes, but I've decided to stay a night."

  "Why?"

  "As you know, this town has some wonderful theater companies, and one of them is doing both King Lear and Macbeth with alternating casts."

  "Sounds like an upper. See if they will throw in a musical version of 'Troilus and Cressida.' "

  "Callahan, you are one of a rarified group of people who would make that joke, understand it, or be twisted enough to consider visualizing the evening."

  "Twisted is my middle name." Callahan honked at an elderly man who appeared to have gone to sleep at the corner of Burbank and Sepulveda. Traffic was thickening, the sky assuming a vaguely orange hew. The driver gave Callahan a wavering, white haired middle finger for his troubles. So very Los Angeles of him.

  "Are you going to work?" Hal asked. "Coming from? Doing service? Going out with the fair maiden?"

  Callahan grimaced. Not talking felt too much like lying. "Darlene and I are not on speaking terms. Again."

  Callahan's mentor wasn't surprised. "What is it this time?"

  "Jesus, Hal, I'm pretty good at dissecting this kind of stuff from the outside, but when it's me, I seem to get lost. She was mad at me for negotiating to leave, and now she's mad at me for deciding to stay. Hell, to a large degree I stayed because of her."

  "Suspect it was your tendency to go your own way without asking for opinions, stallion. You know it, I know it."

  "Yeah. I should have discussed it first." own way, making your own decisions. She mi

  "See, you're not as stupid as you make yourself out to be."

  Callahan stopped at a red light. Some gang kids in baggy pants glared at him like strutting pigeons; bare chests puffed out, inked arms and fingers seizure rigid. Must be the right neighborhood. As the light changed, a tall teenaged girl walked by, swinging her purse like a deadly weapon. She was pretty spectacular and knew it. The gang boyz whistled and cheered, but she marched by without a backward glance, royalty accepting her due, way above it all. Darlene Hernandez must have had that carriage in high school, but she was on her way to the military and a job with LAPD. But this girl? Likely pregnant twice in three years, fat and dried up and bitter after that.

  "Are you still there, Mick?"

  "Oh, yes. Sorry. Just got distracted for a minute. What was it you said?"

  "I instructed you to call the woman and beg her forgiveness. Should she demand you explain your offense, merely take the position that you are a self-centered, stubborn Irish sonofabitch who drank half the whiskey in Nevada, resulting in the death of many brain cells. Prostrate yourself. Beg."

  "And you believe this will work?"

  "Work? I honestly don't know," Hal said, dryly, "but it will probably do wonders for your ego."

  Mick told him he'd take the suggestion under advisement.
Hal wasn't clear about his arrival, but since he traveled first class and at the drop of a hat, he didn't really have to be. Callahan had no idea what Hal was worth, perhaps Hal wasn't sure any longer. Mick did know Hal had dumped a ton of hedge fund and banking investments shortly before the crash. His instincts seemed to be superb, and he'd been an investment broker for the wealthy longer than Mick had been alive.

  "I'm looking forward to seeing you face to face, instead of on a computer screen," Callahan said. "It's been years."

  "Indeed it has."

  "Is there a special occasion?"

  "Be patient. I'll explain when I see you, but do go make up with the girl, Callahan. She and Jerry figure into what I wish to discuss with you. I want to take you all out for an exceptional dinner, and a long discussion."

  Since Callahan had no idea how to pull that last part off, he wrapped things up and ended the conversation to pay closer attention to his surroundings. Smog was smearing the basin blood red as the sunset pounced. People were coming out onto the streets with quarts of beer and mean attitudes. Police cars cruised by as if observing for some foreign government official but not really involved and unlikely to stop. Should something untoward erupt, a lot of these folks would be on their own to get through it. Policemen were a pretty brave lot, but no one enjoys being outnumbered twenty-five to one, especially when using your weapon could get you fired.

  Callahan hit Wilcox and turned right into shadow and abject poverty. The neighborhood was like descending into one of Dante's lower levels. Several of the street lights had been shot out at one point or another. The rented houses were all white or pastel, sagging and splintering. Large, lazy fans with chipped blades turned slowly in open windows. Calvin's rented duplex was at the end of the block beneath a wall of hungry ivy that seemed sent from another planet. He was on the front lawn talking to an obese kid, bald as a cue ball. The guy was packed like sausage into a green sweatsuit that was stained dark at the pits and crotch. At least Calvin had put on a clean shirt and slacks.

  Callahan pulled into his driveway and rolled down his window. "Mick," Calvin said, indicating his companion, "Meet Julius. We should be saving a seat for him."

  The obese neighbor backed away, palms out like a supplicant. Callahan laughed. "Don't worry, kid, sober folks don't bite." Julius was not only bald and obese he had both ears pierced. The large earrings glittered in the glare from Callahan's headlamps.

  "You're the computer genius Cal talks about. My friend Jerry is a member of your club. Personally, I've entered the 21st century feeling like a cowboy teleported from 1897. You guys amaze me."

  Julius shrugged. "Hey, it's all logical." He had a high tenor voice, unusual in such a large man. For a moment, Callahan thought of him as a baby balloon in a Thanksgiving Day parade. The poor guy was ostensibly brilliant and eccentric, but he looked like a cartoon. "If you know math and like to screw around with computers, the rest is easy, you know? Play some zombie games or something, you'll see."

  "Maybe one of these days."

  Julius had odd pupils. Callahan wondered what kind of drugs he was into. Ecstasy, maybe. A pain pill or two? "Well, I'll have to introduce you and Jerry one of these days. You'd like the guy. You have a lot in common."

  "Sure."

  A dog barked down the block. The three men stood there quietly. Callahan couldn't think of anything else. "Nice to meet you, anyway."

  Julius nodded. He stepped around a broken garbage sack and lumbered back into his half of the duplex, bald pate gleaming under the porch light. His doors and windows were heavily barred and shuttered, his lawn was brown and littered. It was as if his home had been abandoned.

  Callahan turned to Calvin. "Ready to go?"

  "As ready as I'll ever be."

  Calvin slid into the car beside Mick and buckled himself in. Callahan glanced in the rearview mirror. Some of the gang kids were strolling their way as if offended by Callahan's presence. The alley next to Calvin's side of the duplex continued on into the next block, so Callahan opted to go that way. They bumped along through some tire tracks and dried mud holes and crunched over a few beer cans. Calvin didn't say anything until they came out onto the next block. Two old women were sitting on their porch in beach chairs, sipping from mugs. One waved.

  "I wanted to use," Calvin said. "But I didn't."

  Callahan hit the turn signal and started back towards the main drag and the entrance to the freeway. "If you didn't keep any dope around the house, it wouldn't have been a temptation."

  At a stop sign, Callahan stared. Calvin broke quickly. "Okay, I took my last hit when you pulled up outside. Wasn't enough to sell, and I'm scared."

  "Gee, why did you wait so long?"

  "Actually, I had another hit earlier." Calvin cleared his throat dryly, probably more to buy time than for any physical reason. "Doc, why am I doing this? I just don't see how it's going to help."

  "Doing service helps you stay sober."

  "Getting sober isn't going to cover my vig with Marvin Roth."

  "You never know."

  Callahan went up the onramp and onto the freeway and headed towards Hollywood and the Children of the Night Event. Children of the Night does great work for kids who have been forced into child prostitution and pornography, providing them with privacy, a safe haven through high school and job training. It would do Calvin good to think of something other than himself for a while. Hell, it was also going to do Callahan some good to think of Calvin instead of his own romantic and professional problems. Quid pro quo.

  "This Roth thinks he's badass?"

  Calvin ran his hands through his ring of thinning hair. "Let me put it this way, he's got a guy named Quinn, his muscle. And that dude scares the hell out of me."

  They pulled off the freeway and followed a long alley lined with metal poles and bent wire. The car rocked and bounced and thumped through potholes and over rocks and bricks and broken sacks of garbage. Cement walls holding out the filthy rain wash. Graffiti everywhere, some artistic and some 3-D puke.

  They arrived. The church had a large backyard, green grass and a half-assed baseball diamond. Families and volunteers were cooking up hot dogs and hamburgers and joking around. They sounded like a choir of ese tenors.

  "So what can I do to help out?"

  "That's the attitude. See that big son of a bitch over there, looks like he used to play defensive line? He did. His street name is Oso, the bear. You and me, we do whatever he tells us."

  "Okay." Calvin exited the car. His face seemed drawn, eyes darting about. "Doc, about the money . . ."

  "We'll figure something out."

  "What, you going to pay them off?"

  Callahan winked. "Maybe I'll make them an offer."

  FIVE

  Wednesday morning

  "Son, you look like you got 'et by a bitch wolf and shat over a thousand foot cliff." Low gravely voice, cowboy accent. Wes McCann tried to open his eyes. The lids felt glued together. The overhead light blurred whoever was above, gave him a halo. Wes tried to sit up and his gut turned to a sack of hot coals. His head pounded. The night before came back like a slap.

  After tossing his cookies, Wes had walked the strip for a while, and eventually bumped into some college football players. They were wildly drunk, and betting significant amounts on which of them could take the most punches to the stomach without falling down. Despite his resolve to stop gambling Wes had flipped his invisible quarter. He was flat broke and desperate. It came up heads. Wes had somehow bluffed himself into the game. He'd figured some kind of punishment was in order anyway. He'd let them pound his six pack black and blue, but never folded or went to a knee. Several shots of tequila later, he'd stumbled away with a roll of twenty dollar bills. Things got kind of vague after that.

  "Oh, man."

  Wes heard everything from far away. He rubbed his sticky eyes carefully. The knuckles of his right hand were scabbed. He managed to sit upright. He was on a hard plastic bench at the train station. The ancient dude loo
king down at him seemed like something from another era; chewing tobacco, stained hat, jeans and a cowboy shirt with a turquoise string tie. The old man sighed.

  "I done that kind of thing myself, about when dinosaurs ruled the earth. Don't look like that feels any better now than it did back then."

  Wes swallowed bile. His abdomen throbbed. He patted his pockets.

  "Don't bother," the old cowboy said. "You got rolled by a couple of street kids more than an hour ago, just as the sun come up. Turns out you were pretty broke, so they kicked you in the nuts for good measure."

  "I want to die," Wes said.

  "Can't say as I blame you."

  "And as quickly as possible."

  "That's obvious." The cowboy limped away to catch a train. He tossed an imaginary football with a perfect spiral over his left shoulder. "Otherwise you wouldn't be working so hard at it."

  Wes got to his feet. Everything hurt, including his package. He rubbed his stomach and stumbled around until he found the men's room. The door banged open, shooting a lancing pain from temple to temple. He paused, staring at himself in the cracked mirror. A little bit of blood on the tip of his nose. One faint, bluish dot about the size of a dime, riding high on the right cheek. A tiny mouse crouched under his left eye.

  Wes lifted his torn shirt. His stomach was covered with multi-colored bruises about the size of a human fist. He'd been blown up a bit in Afghanistan and this looked kind of familiar. Like some Hadji had pounded on his ass with a ball peen hammer and a two by four.

  Wes removed his shirt, and did his best to freshen up in the sink.

  A couple of large kids in Army uniforms came in while he was splashing under his arms. One was lanky with linebacker guns, the other round with muscle and mean. To Wes they looked green, full of piss and vinegar, straight out of boot. Mr. Mean eyed the bruises. His dim mind struggled to form an insult. The lanky one caught the vibe and shook his head. Meanwhile, Wes didn't move an inch. The look he shot their way sent the kids thoughts of beatings they'd gotten back in middle school. They left without saying a word.