Callahan seldom indulged in ego-driven drivel about work, because he believed that what a therapist thinks of his work is largely beside the point. What counted was the client's reality. The way they remembered and interpreted their own experiences from childhood, the way a particular therapy session went for them. He could have a richly detailed plan in his head, go in like a surgeon, and end up without a single "ah ha!" moment in fifty-plus minutes. At other times, Callahan felt like the biggest bomb since "Fat Man and Little Boy," but sometimes a client would come back the next week raving about the insight gained during that period of apparent ineptitude.
The lesson seemed to be just keep on trucking. Keep doing your best to help out. You ain't God, and the results may not even be any of your business. Just work to be present, and loving, and pay attention to the little things. Notice habits and patterns and tendencies and rhythms, and comment on them whenever you can. Help people to see what they already know, and do so with some kind of moral clarity. After all the books and studying and hours of practice and lectures and radio shows and AA therapy of one's own, maybe it all boils down to love. Just try to give it, and simultaneously struggle to feel worthy of it.
Callahan let the last client out around dusk, and then checked for email. Well, and to see if Darlene had tried to get in touch. Other than some junk mail, someone asking for a recommendation in Chicago and the file on Marvin Roth Jerry had sent him, the mailbox was empty. Nothing from Darlene. Well, what the hell did you expect? She told you it was over, she wanted out. That it was different this time.
A sullen mood overtook Mick. He'd been so disappointed in and by women, from the early death of his mother through several bad relationships and the recent betrayal by his half-sister, Mary Kate, a woman he hadn't even known existed until she'd shown up out of the blue to introduce herself. That one hadn't ended well, either. And now Darlene. Part of him recognized the self-serving narcissism of that victim status. Oh, yeah. Poor me, poor me, pour me another one.
The convenience store across the street sold protein bars and shakes, fruit and other decent items along with a ton of junk food. Callahan got a power bar and some unsalted nuts and a bottle of apple juice and ate dinner in the car, facing west. Smog hung heavy in the summer air. Most of the streets in the San Fernando Valley are ruler-straight, and the weary commuters headed home in their cars looked like rows of bright beetles fleeing pesticide spray.
Callahan finished eating and tossed his garbage into a smelly green plastic container outside the store and checked his watch. Jerry's emailed file indicated that Marvin Roth held court most evenings above a deli on Ventura Boulevard called Noah's Arc. The cops thought he was a partner in the restaurant. It was assumed that the waiters acted as lookouts, warning Roth if anyone suspicious entered or tried to climb the stairs. In the old days, bookies had to write everything down on scraps of paper, so the cops could harass them into burning their book, and at least slowing the action down. These days, everything was electronic. Encrypted and easier to trash.
The parking lot near the corner of Laurel Canyon and Ventura was fairly open. Callahan parked behind Noah's Arc and went up the alley next to a chain book store. The name was plastered on a robin's egg blue and stark white awning above a large picture window. The decor inside was old fashioned, still blue and white, plastic booths and oddly shaped tables. The clientele was older, seemingly sixty and up, most of them couples who chatted quietly, or stared blankly while munching pickles. Callahan stood in the doorway wondering how rapidly he'd become old, how it would feel to slow down that much, have so many complaints. How long the nights seemed. Whether or not he'd end up as alone as he felt at that moment.
Callahan shook off the mood and went through the door. A blast of air conditioning slapped him on the cheeks, as bold and bracing as wind on the sea. A smiling young woman stood there holding a note pad. She wore a pale blue outfit to match the color scheme, a light and lacy dress that would have seemed ridiculous on someone else. Her eyes were blue and her hair was pulled up and away from a perfectly chiseled face and ended in a long pony tail. Her name tag read STELLA. She was like something out of Callahan's childhood in Nevada, a country girl in gingham and lace and Mick half expected her to say howdy.
Callahan had been staring too long. The smile wavered and then faded from Stella's pretty face. She said, "Would you like a seat at the counter, or were you expecting someone else this evening?" He couldn't place the accent, but it wasn't pure LA.
"I wasn't expecting you." The moment the words were out of Callahan's mouth he blushed. What an idiotic thing to say. And then he noticed Stella blushing too, and thought maybe not so idiotic after all . . .
"Do I know you?"
She seemed honestly confused, and after a moment he realized why. She'd probably seen Callahan's picture on a billboard from the radio show, or something in the press when he was still on the air. Bringing all that up seemed profoundly egotistical, so Callahan didn't. "I don't think so, Stella. But nice to meet you. Actually, I'm here to have a word with a Mr. Marvin Roth."
"I don't think there's anyone here by that name," she said. She scrutinized her note pad, apparently assuming he'd meant one of the customers.
"Mister Roth is upstairs, Stella."
She stared blankly. Then said, "I haven't worked here long. Let me go ask someone. If there is such a person, can I tell them who's asking after him?"
"Mick Callahan."
"Mr. Callahan, why don't you have a seat and I'll be back after I help the party behind you."
A group of elderly customers had arrived and crowded in behind him like a row of pall bearers. Callahan stepped out of the way and stood looking out the window at Ventura Boulevard. There were patches of the street that remained faux European, with brightly lit shops and decent restaurants and regular foot traffic, round tables outside with people sipping espresso. You did have to ignore the racket, that persistently chugging traffic. And here and there, like faded patches on a quilt, sat the abandoned pastel storefronts, small businesses tactfully boarded up, still bearing witness to the Great Recession.
Someone grabbed Callahan's elbow. The man was tall and wide, with a firm grip, and hand-to-hand instincts nearly took over. Mick's first thought was to yank his own arm forward and drive that elbow up and back, into his solar plexus, then spin and go for the face with his left. Mick did nothing. He swallowed the adrenalin and allowed himself to be turned.
Shaved head, thick black eyebrows, maybe six-three and change, going about two-forty. Callahan smiled broadly and went hick on him. "Good evening, I'm Mick Callahan. I'm here to have a word with Mr. Roth, please."
The big guy looked down at Callahan, something he was not really used to, and did not return the pleasantries. Just stared. Callahan saw Stella out of the corner of his eye, and her gaze flickered back and forth between them like a woman expecting a fight. She reached out to touch the big guy, but didn't complete the gesture. Probably wise.
"Quinn? Is everything okay?"
"We're fine, Stella," Callahan said. Turned back to Quinn. "Let me try this again. From the start, in case you missed it. My name is Callahan, and I'd like a word with Marvin Roth."
The larger man cocked his head. A big dog on the porch looking down at a yapping puppy. "I think you'd better leave. Sir."
Quinn managed to spray graffiti on the words. He had a weird voice, kind of like pebbles sliding around in a metal pail. Callahan gave Quinn an even wider grin, now approaching painful. "This is about money, my man. Money someone owes him. I think he'll see me."
Quinn frowned as if annoyed. He went for the elbow again. Callahan tensed. "Don't fucking do that."
Just then Stella snapped her fingers. "You're that guy from the radio, right? The Mick Callahan Show! My mother used to listen to you all the time."
She definitely knew how to phrase things. Callahan sagged a bit. "Come on, have mercy. I'm still well on the right side of forty."
Quinn actually twitched him a s
mile. The big, ugly steroid-enhanced son of a bitch thought this was funny.
Stella said, "No, really. She liked you because she was born in Nevada. Around Elko, up your way. I've never been anywhere but Vegas, myself. Anyway, I heard you on the radio at her house a few times, when I was in college. My poor Mom died a few years ago. Cancer."
Her lower lip trembled. Quinn and Callahan, they both melted. Callahan said, "Sorry."
"That's okay," Stella chirped. "It was a long time ago. Quinn, I'm sure Mr. Roth wouldn't mind talking to a celebrity for a minute or two, right?"
Damn, this girl was smooth. She'd managed to defuse the situation, distract Quinn, and ease Callahan in the door with a couple of well-phrased sentences. Quinn let go. She'd minimized Callahan as a threat. At least she hadn't said minor celebrity.
"This way."
Callahan followed Quinn through the restaurant. Only then did Callahan realize how quiet things had gotten. The staff had caught the tension and even some of the customers had fallen silent during their confrontation. They resumed chattering now as the group went by, though a few of the men shrank back when Quinn passed. At least, Callahan thought it was Quinn who spooked them. He might have been a tad surly his own self, by that point. Once they were out of sight, Quinn patted Callahan down.
Satisfied Callahan wasn't armed or wired, Quinn took them into the hallway leading into the steaming hot kitchen, pulled aside a small drape and revealed a hidden door. He opened it and inside was a narrow set of wooden steps leading upstairs. Callahan went first, though the hair on his neck didn't like letting this big bastard get behind him in a dark space. The stairs turned sharply, and they came into a large room, empty except for a desk and a couple of chairs. No pictures on the walls, no carpets, no nothing. Callahan was not sure what he expected, supposed a bookie had to wrap things up pretty damned fast from time to time.
A man sat behind the desk, sipping from an oversized red plastic water bottle. Callahan recognized his face from the file Jerry had emailed him. Old-school buzz haircut, short beard, penetrating blue eyes and lips that were always a bit pursed, like he'd just tasted something sour. Marvin Roth was a smallish man, decent suit and tie, with a rumpled "Uncle Marv" air about him. The kind of dude who gave candy to your kid for no reason. Only the cold eyes gave him away.
"So?"
Callahan stepped twice to the right, to keep Quinn visible. "Appreciate your time. I'm here about Calvin McCann, I'm told he owes you some serious money."
Roth exchanged looks with Quinn. He shrugged. "Five large and counting."
Calvin, you lying little son of a bitch . . . "I was under the impression it was a bit less than that."
"You were told wrong." A pause. "Anyway, it's gone up with the vig."
"Okay, here's the thing. I'm going to get him a job. He's going to stop gambling altogether. And I'm going to guarantee you get your money back."
Roth shook his head slowly. "Excuse me, there's something wrong with my hearing tonight. I thought you said you were coming here to guarantee his debt."
Callahan just looked at him.
Quinn said, "He's already a week behind, Mr. Roth. You told me to teach the guy a lesson."
"And you haven't found him yet?"
Quinn swallowed. "Working on that."
"I'll just bet you are." Roth leaned forward. He straightened some papers on his desk, and aligned his open Notebook perfectly, like a man with serious OCD. "Here's my problem. I can't let people be late with payments, because word gets out, my credibility goes out the window. It's cliché, but when an account screws up, Quinn has to do something to put things right. Get his attention focused on paying us back. McCann has a beating coming. Those are the rules. No exceptions."
Quinn saw an opportunity. He stepped closer and patted my left shoulder heavily. "Unless you want to take that on, too?"
"Well, Mr. Callahan?"
Callahan thought for a long moment. Then he said, "Sure."
Weeks' worth of frustration and grief exploded. In a half second, Callahan reached over Quinn's hand with both of his, leveraging Quinn's wrist backward. Quinn's legs gave so Callahan kicked at his shin with his boot and forced him to his knees. Switching angles, Callahan tightened his grip and brought Quinn's bones close to the breaking point. Quinn broke out in a cold sweat. He stared up at Callahan, furious, but didn't say anything because Callahan's eyes told him he'd do it, put his arm in a cast for months. Callahan looked over at the desk. Roth hadn't moved or changed his expression.
"Will that do?"
Roth nodded. "You can let him go now."
"Will that do?"
"Yes, Mr. Callahan. That will do. Quinn, back off."
Callahan let go. Quinn rose. He wanted to skin Callahan alive on an internet show, but stepped away instead. Callahan produced another smartass cartoon grin. They were going to meet again, no doubt about it.
"When can I expect my money?"
"Tomorrow," Callahan said. He nodded so Callahan backed out of the room. Quinn nursed his sore wrist and glared. As Callahan vanished into the dark stairwell, Roth called after him.
"May I ask why you are doing this?"
"Good question, Mr. Roth. Maybe I'm a sucker. Maybe I'm bored."
"Or maybe you have a death wish of some kind."
"Maybe."
On the way out, Callahan gave his email address to Stella and thanked her for intervening. He didn't stay long, because he didn't want to risk getting her into trouble. Callahan stepped aside to allow two old ladies to enter and held the door. Whistling, he went out into the warm summer evening with a distinctly different attitude.
A much lighter mood.
What the hell, Mick thought, guess that ought to stir things up . . .
SEVEN
Wednesday afternoon
A summer-hot stretch, up off Sepulveda, where the streets stink of rotting garbage and grinding poverty. An enclave in the barrio. After two turns that took them past jeering kids who were all bare skin, black ink gang tats and baggy pants, a green taxi cab pulled up in front of the sagging white wooden structure Wes McCann shared with his father. The sweaty driver, a handsome middle-aged man of Indian descent, clearly didn't care for the neighborhood. He wanted to be long gone before dark. The guy was muttering what sounded like obscenities in Arabic. His mood didn't improve when Wes failed to give him a decent tip. The driver struggled and failed to pronounce motherfucker, then roared away.
Wes stood outside for a while, holding the small green plaid suitcase. Looking down at it, wondering what to do with the damned thing, whether or not to open it, or just use it as an excuse to connect with the girl, Jessie Keaton. The suitcase seemed to whisper something Wes couldn't quite hear. He had a feeling of someone or something tugging urgently at his sleeve. Destiny or the devil? Finally, Wes figured if he took the suitcase into his house it would be fair game for the street rats, the addicts that broke in regularly looking for shit to pawn. Better hide it.
Wes looked at the other side of the duplex, where Julius hung out with his vast array of computer gear and cameras. Julius didn't seem to be there, but in fact you never could tell. And it was hard to know who was watching. So just to be careful Wes went around the blind side of his dad's house, down the alley and into the gloom. He checked around both houses but the windows were shut and the drapes were closed. Wes ducked low behind some overflowing plastic trash cans. He crouched down, popped loose the wire mesh covering the crawlspace under the deserted house next door. Wes slid the suitcase into the darkness and off to the right side, out of sight. He got up, dusted the knees of his jeans.
What am I going to tell the old man?
There is bad news and then there is really bad news. Cal had a way of putting emotional frosting on everything, getting himself sugared up about a new formula to win at blackjack, or a way to play the races, or a business idea. He saved stuff he was sure would be worth a fortune someday, but failed to take care of it, so that it slowly fell apart. People might
want a toy from the 1970s, but not a piece of crap that was chipped and had batteries rusted into it. It's like the old man just didn't know how to do life very well. Yeah, and a lot of that has rubbed off on me.
Wes walked around to the front of the house. He felt a hollow space growing inside, wide as the freeway. An old feeling. Kind of like winding ropes, checking ammo, clearing his pack of battle rattle. Or crawling through the rocks at night to set up a listening post, exposed skin cringing back from something that may never happen. Like wondering where the Hadjis are, and if they've got you zeroed in already. That kind of nervousness. What the fuck?
He looked up. A pale moon that hung pregnant in the afternoon sky. Soon the sun would give up the ghost and sink into the mountains, then a few stars would force their way through the curtain of pollution. This was not his life. He belonged to another time and place. Someone somewhere else always called to Wes, both muse and siren, he just couldn't tell where she lived. Maybe she owned a plaid suitcase.
One lone plane roared overhead on the way to Burbank Airport, trailing a high-pitched whine. It sounded like an injured puppy. Wes McCann trudged up the wooden steps and stood on the porch, rubbing his face. Something tickled his forehead. He looked up, and a small spider web was dangling from a shattered yellow bulb. The porch light was broken, and neither of them had bothered to change it. He dug out his key and let himself in. The house was dark as usual, the windows always nailed shut and blocked to save on air conditioning and discourage burglars.
The television was on in the living room, one of those annoying talent shows. Since his father was indifferent to such things, Wes knew Calvin wasn't alone. Which was good in a way, because it would delay him having to fess up to fucking up. Wes moaned softly and stretched a bit. He had pain where there weren't any muscles.
Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 7
