Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels)

by Harry Shannon

  Callahan spoke first. "I took the liberty of ordering, since the choice appeared to be plain grease, thick grease on a bun or humungous grease on greasy French fries. I did order diet drinks to be kind to my one and only body."

  She sat down heavily. "Mick, how do you manage to create these fucking situations? That's what I want to know."

  Callahan sputtered a bit. "Hey, that's not fair, you have to admit to some responsibility. You haven't been the easiest person to get along with lately." Callahan paused. "I sound whiney and pathetic."

  Darlene shrugged, "You said it."

  They both looked down. Callahan took a bite out of the meatless burger. Darlene located a napkin and reached across the table to clean errant chili from his lips. That one gesture, heartbreaking and effortless, made him blink back tears. "Thanks."

  Darlene touched Callahan's hand. He waited for the move towards reconciliation. Instead, she said, "How well did you know the guy? This Calvin McCann. I mean, was he really just some program guy you dragged to meetings? I need to know if you knew all that much about him."

  She moved her hand. Callahan wished she hadn't. Callahan said, "You wouldn't ask if you didn't have a good reason. So I'm getting a very bad feeling."

  Darlene leaned closer. "You know the drill, Callahan. You didn't get this from me, okay? I saw the crime scene in detail. I got a quick verbal update from the lab guys, some off the record, premature stuff."

  "It looked like a professional hit, I know that much."

  "It was more," Darlene said.

  "What happened? I only saw him face down."

  "For one thing, it wasn't just a solo perp, Mick. Probably two guys, one fairly large because he'd have to have held Calvin tightly."

  "Okay. The other?"

  "The other, who knows? The Lab got some smaller shoe prints from the yard, but that could have been anyone. Here's how it went down. Whoever this was, they moved fast, stuck a gag in his mouth. Then they used box cutters and some kind of alcohol swabs. Mick, they tortured that poor old man."

  Callahan closed his eyes. It didn't help. The images he saw were immediate, vivid, permanent. "Oh, Jesus."

  "Yeah," Darlene said. "Fast and efficient torture. Cut him, used the alcohol to make it burn, asked the question, cut him again. At that speed and with that method it probably didn't take long to realize he didn't know what the fuck they were talking about, so we figure they rolled him over and popped him."

  Callahan shoved the food away. "This wasn't about collecting money. It was about information, or some kind of heavy retribution."

  "I'm betting on a fast interrogation about something entirely different, something Calvin probably couldn't answer." Darlene sat back. "I shouldn't be telling you any of this, but I really thought you should know. For old time's sake. Stop now. Stay away from this one, Mick. It's ugly and getting uglier."

  "Okay."

  "I know you," she said. "You're going to want to dive in head first. Don't. From what you've told us, we're already looking hard at Roth the bookie and his muscle guy, Quinn. Stay away from them. But my instinct is there's something else here; maybe a drug shipment, money laundering ring, but something much bigger than some dipshit gambling debt."

  "Thanks, Darlene. I appreciate it."

  "You going to listen to me?"

  "Probably," Callahan lied. "Sounds way out of my league."

  They made a bit of small talk. Callahan told her about Jerry's idea for producing a brand new show on the internet, something that could kick start that part of his career. Then a book idea Callahan had blown way out of proportion hoping to impress her. It didn't. He found himself stalling for time, wanting to keep her near. Wanting to probe about Dennis. Ask if she was serious about the guy. But Darlene had those walls up, walls Callahan understood perfectly. She had places inside she flat out didn't care to go, at least not right then. Damn, she looks tired. Those sad, brown eyes broke his heart.

  When the time came, Callahan thanked her again. He let everything else go. Sat quietly and just watched her walk away. For the first time he let himself wonder if this breach would be permanent. The answer seemed to come back affirmative. The resulting explosion in his belly sent him jogging for his car.

  He slammed the door. Callahan raised Jerry the second he got inside. While the phone was ringing, Callahan checked the rearview mirror and drove out into traffic. Someone honked and squealed by, outraged. Mick stared straight ahead.

  "Hey, how's Darlene doing?"

  "Fine."

  The following silence apparently clued Jerry in. He coughed and shuffled papers. "Got something for you, boss."

  "What is it?"

  "Our boy Julius, the computer whale? He gave a statement through an attorney while you were having lunch. It just popped up on the computer at LAPD." Jerry didn't say how he'd seen it and Callahan knew better than to ask.

  "And?" Callahan ran a red light. His stomach was clenched. He needed something to do, someone to challenge. Now.

  "Nothing we didn't expect. Says he didn't see anything, didn't hear anything. Was out all night, came back and saw all the fuss and stayed with a friend until things settled down. The usual. However, it gets better. See, according to Donato's people, he's now back at his house. We still have the same guys sitting on the place. Lights are on, somebody's home."

  "Then I can see him."

  "You going now?"

  "Later." Callahan considered. His gut made the decision, too quickly and for all the wrong reasons. "Jerry, so if I drive to the deli right now, this minute, what do your little birdies say I'll find there?"

  "Broad daylight, lunchtime? A horde of customers and witnesses, boss."

  "Yeah, and Quinn?"

  "Unless the bug in his cell phone and GPS are lying to me, Quinn is upstairs, Roth is across town at a meeting with his divorce attorney."

  "Well, I'm on my way. Guess this ought to stir things up."

  "Oh, man. I hate it when you say that. Mick? Mick?"

  Callahan screeched into the parking lot, a creature out of hell. He slipped into a space under the retro striped canopy of a hair salon. He wouldn't be there long enough to answer to anyone for occupying the space. He strode past a husky guy collecting change for the Salvation Army. Something about the look on Callahan's face made the guy drop his eyes and his pitch.

  When Quinn had walked Callahan upstairs he'd noticed the emergency exit into the parking lot behind the deli. Also that someone had left a doorstop in it to keep it from closing. Callahan's guess was a lot of people coming and going with envelopes of cash and packets of drugs made locking and unlocking doors inconvenient. Callahan found it and let himself in. He stood in the dark gloom. The air was thick and moist from steam and heavy with scents from the kitchen. Last chance to change your mind. This is pretty nuts, even for you.

  Callahan edged down the hall and came to the kitchen doorway. Heard musical Spanish, the sound of Mariachi music from a small boom box. A couple of guys in white aprons went by carrying stacks of dishes. They looked expertly anywhere but at the intruder, young men quite used to playing hear no evil, see no evil. No one tried to speak to Callahan or stop him in any way.

  Callahan walked up the narrow, winding stairs. As he got closer, he could hear Quinn pacing, the man talking to someone. Callahan took a chance that he was on a cell phone rather than having a private conversation. He took a deep breath and moved through the curtain, straight into the unfurnished room. He'd been wrong. Quinn was indeed pacing with a cell phone, but two men in suits were in the room with him. Huge dudes, leaning in two corners like a pair of coffins. One was black, with wide surprised eyes and a thin pencil moustache. The second was right out of central casting, a fat Italian man, loud Hawaiian shirt jammed open by a thick carpet of chest hair.

  Quinn stopped talking at once. The three men stared at Callahan. He reconsidered his original plan in a heartbeat. Taking a swing, three on one would just get him beaten to death and tossed in a dumpster.

 
"Howdy."

  "The fuck you doing here?" The Mafia guy in the loud shirt.

  Callahan ignored him. "I need a word with you, Quinn."

  Quinn muttered something into his cell. He closed it and smiled. His composure infuriated Callahan, but it was clear he had the advantage. Callahan's temper had once again gotten the best of him.

  "This is a private office, Callahan." The one with the thin moustache. "You don't got an appointment, fuck off."

  Callahan walked closer. That meant losing sight of moustache, which caused the hair on Callahan's neck to rise and flutter a bit. He listened carefully for the sound of movement on the wooden floor, tried to map a way to defend himself. The black man had a long torso and short legs. His testicles were fair game. The Mafia stereotype would be tougher, especially with Quinn close in, so Callahan would have to get Quinn in between them as a shield. Keep him from using a blade or a gun. The key to survival, if this suddenly blew up, would be to incapacitate Quinn with a fast strike to the neck or the nose, then spin him around to get a choke hold. Take their boss hostage.

  Yeah, right. Three men, at least two of them armed . . .

  The simple truth was Callahan had screwed up. They all knew it. The guy in the loud shirt changed position. Callahan shifted immediately, which gave away his nervousness. The man chuckled. Callahan's face burned. Quinn just stood there, head cocked, eyes flat and reptilian.

  "My friend Cal is dead."

  Quinn gave Callahan nothing. "My condolences."

  "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

  "Why, should I?"

  Callahan's face darkened. He was helpless. You are a fucking hotheaded idiot to have put yourself in this position. They know it and you know it. Just drop this. Walk away.

  Quinn upped the ante and the temperature. He stepped closer. "Hey, you want to pick things up where we left off last night or something? That's cool with me."

  The Italian guy snorted. The other man shifted this time, and again Callahan was forced to move. He slid to the side. "Did you make him pay my freight, Quinn? Because that would be a pretty chickenshit thing to do."

  "Hey?" Quinn leaned close enough to kiss. His breath reeked of garlic. "I'm starting to think maybe you feel guilty about something."

  Callahan's fists clenched. The two bodyguards went for their guns. Just then someone trotted loudly up the stairs behind Callahan. All four of the men froze. Quinn motioned for silence.

  A woman's voice called, "Mick?"

  Quinn eased back, immediately de-escalating the situation. Callahan took the opportunity to stand down. He moved back to where he could see all three of them clearly. He turned to look.

  "Hey, there you are. Ready to go? I have the food in a bag." That huge smile, those 3-D eyes. Stella was in a new dress, beige with lace, and looked fit and ridiculously optimistic, like a college cheerleader.

  "Still into this?" Stella asked, brightly. Callahan manufactured a smile and a nod. She grabbed Callahan's hand and waved to Quinn. "I'll be back for the dinner shift, Mr. Quinn. Enjoy your day."

  Callahan let Stella lead him out of the room, through the curtain and down the stairs. She chattered the whole way. "I grabbed some stuff from the kitchen, they let me do that from time to time, some lettuce and grilled chicken and tomatoes and fresh veggies, and so we can just make a salad and hang out. I have a bottle of wine, but then I remembered listening to you on the radio, and you don't drink, right?"

  The kitchen crew did look this time, but it was just to check out her body. One shot Callahan a respectful glance. An old man in a wife-beater tee shirt grinned and whistled.

  They went out through the back door. Stella held on tight to Callahan's right arm. "Just follow me, okay? It's close."

  Callahan followed her. Feeling humiliated and grateful and more than a little confused. She got into a battered black Honda and drove out of the lot, around the corner, and down the street to an apartment building. The sun beat down like a fist. Callahan followed and lucked into a shady place to park. Her building was older, but well kept, brown with black trim. Looked like a mix of apartments and condos, where older people might live. She waited for Callahan at the security gate. Stella clutched a bag of groceries in both hands. Out of the corner of his eye, Callahan saw someone jog to the end of the street, peer at them for a minute and then duck back out of sight. They'd been followed. Quinn's man, or someone else?

  Biting his tongue, Callahan followed Stella into the elevator. When the doors closed behind them, "Thanks for that."

  "What were you thinking?" She said. Her eyes were laughing. "Three against one? Even the mighty Mick Callahan . . ."

  "Would have gotten his ass kicked. I know."

  Up one floor. The elevator doors opened. Stella's place was right across from the elevator. She let them in to a small, clean studio condo furnished with antiques. White rugs and curtains. White furniture. More like a spinster's place than a babe's. Clean as a dentist's tooth. Callahan felt guilty for wearing boots and jeans. Stella went into the kitchen, unpacked the grocery bag. She was talking, but Callahan wasn't really listening. They weren't there for lunch. His throat was thick with a mixture of anxiety and sudden desire. His head was going ninety miles an hour. His ego had taken a pounding. This was a huge compliment. He kept rationalizing why it would be fine. After all, Darlene was already in another relationship. What difference would it make? It might make a difference later. Or to Stella. Think, and use the right head . . .

  Stella washed and spun the lettuce. She made short work of the tomatoes, like a woman comfortable with knives. There was a long piece of fresh bread on the counter. Callahan put it on the table with some plates. Everything seemed far away, the crowded condo too warm. As if reading his mind, Stella pulled the curtains. She asked Callahan to cut the garlic. They stood side by side at the sink. The kitchen was now darker and soon a bit cooler. Their proximity upped the intensity to another level.

  Callahan finished the garlic, shoved it in a small pile. "Stella, how did you know I was even up there, much less that I needed to be rescued?"

  Stella didn't answer. He looked up. She was staring directly at him, lovely face half in shadow. She reached out, captured Callahan's arm, rubbed it, then sighed and leaned against his shoulder. That one touch made conversation moot.

  Their sex was urgent and questioning, eyes wide open, but all silent, which somehow emphasized that they were still virtually strangers. They never even made it to the bedroom.

  FOURTEEN

  Thursday evening

  According to the report filed by Ms. Sinatra, the Neighborhood Watch block captain for Hart Street, someone reported that the three kids parked in the banged up white van had been smoking their brains out from the beginning. They came around the corner slowly, something deep in the engine wheezing and banging, and pulled to the curb in front of a three-bedroom home that was bank owned, overgrown with ivy and long abandoned. The driver side window was open just a crack, probably to allow for some actual oxygen to enter the vehicle, and almost immediately a steady stream of gray oozed through into the fading sunlight.

  The block captain got her first complaint from a local nanny who strolled by with twins in a walker. The driver of the van, a buzz-cut dude, apparently shot the nanny a nasty look she interpreted as the "evil eye," anxiety causing her to hurry home with the children and phone the appropriate neighbors. Hart had a pretty good bunch of volunteers, including several retired folks generally home during the day, so the word spread quickly. The sun was going down, and the nearby street lights were placed inconveniently, so Ms. Sinatra knew it would soon be difficult to keep an eye on the interlopers. She called her local LAPD contact at the Van Nuys Division, an officer named Kasper who had been to her home several times to speak to the group, and reported the incident. The officer asked Ms. Sinatra if she could safely acquire a license plate number. She agreed to try.

  Ms. Sinatra was an attractive woman in her late forties with short bla
ck hair and an athletic build. She owned two guns, did not suffer fools gladly and experienced her investment in the neighborhood as something both emotional and financial. A few minutes later, at 6:59 PM, she grabbed a plastic baggie and a glove and her water bottle, buckled on a butt bag with a flashlight and her .38 in it, and took her small terrier Coco for his evening walk. Not wishing to alarm the probable gang members camped on her street, and half hoping they would drive away on their own, she took the long way around.

  Bernie the retired attorney was watering his yard in Hawaiian shorts and flip flops. He had beetle brows, an ample belly and a thatch of chest hair that sat astride his chest like a huge, bleached scouring pad. Bernie waved, and she waved back. Water pooled at his feet. He nodded at the van at the end of the block, wordlessly expressing concern. Sinatra angled her head, indicating he should stay outside and keep an eye out as she investigated things.

  The dog was in a serious sniffing and pissing mood, so it took several minutes to make a believable trip around the block and get close to the van. At that point, Sinatra took out her cell phone and pretended to dial. She was actually sending a text to Officer Kasper's cell phone, giving him the letters and numbers so that he could run a check on the van.

  Coco the dog, as if comprehending the seriousness of the situation, decided to do his Number Two in the yard next to the abandoned property. While he squatted with a look of intense, Zen-level concentration, Ms. Sinatra sent the text to Officer Kasper and closed the phone. A cloud of smoke was indeed pouring from the filthy, dented vehicle, enough that at first glance the radiator could have blown, or the engine caught on fire.

  Significantly, according to Sinatra, who was once a child of the '60s, it was impossible to mistake the odor of high priced skunk weed. She often wondered what the THC content maybe twenty-five times stronger than anything the Hippies ever smoked might do to a developing brain. She suspected that the most likely outcome was little actual development. The kid with the buzz cut watched her walk by and Ms. Sinatra rapidly realized that what the nanny had mistaken for an evil eye was basically a reddened, fried-beyond-repair stoner's eye. The boy's pupils appeared to have left for Cleveland rapidly enough to cause brain damage and without leaving a note. To her, he appeared far more clueless than violent.