"Thank me for what?"
"For taking my call," she said. "I didn't think I'd get through again."
Get through again? If you only knew, girl. "I remember you from last night," I said. "How can I help you?"
"I'd still rather not give my name, Mr. Callahan."
"That's okay. I'll just make up a name."
The breathing again. She seemed anxious. I heard background noise, some music and voices. If this was the same party, she was further away from it than the other caller.
She started slowly. "The truth is that I have something important to ask you about. You see, I'm in love with this guy, but he can't ever make his mind up about me."
"He can't make up his mind? Okay, I'll call you Ophelia."
"Huh?"
"Never mind," I said. "It's a pretty name. It'll do."
"Okay." She was still disguising her voice. "This man, he can be so sweet and wonderful to me, you know? Really. But then sometimes . . ."
"He can be mean?"
Shy. "Yeah. Sometimes he really scares me."
"Is he violent, Ophelia?"
"Not too often," she said, carefully. Heavy denial, then more of the same: "Nothing bad has ever happened unless he's had too much to drink or use. You know that kind of guy?"
"Trust me," I said. "I do. Has he ever hit you?"
"A little, only when I set him off, though. I can get out of hand now and then. Hey, but that's not even what bothers me."
"Oh? Then what does bother you?"
"He's always scamming people to get money. You know how it is."
"Just out of curiosity, how often do you drink or use drugs, Ophelia?"
"Me? Just once in a while, to unwind a little. I don't like to feel all out of control; not like he does."
"He likes to party?"
"Oh yeah. Too much."
"This sounds like a bad situation," I said. "I'm not going to kid you. But since we have a few minutes to go, tell me a little more about yourself. Did you grow up out here in high desert country?"
She pitched her voice even higher, as if terrified. "Yeah. On my Daddy's spread."
"He's dead, then?"
"Can we talk about something else?"
"And he used to hit you too, sometimes. Didn't he?"
Did I move too fast? Damn it. Dial tone. I clenched my teeth, then saw a light blinking and grabbed the line.
"Hello."
A man, slurring his words: "Is this the Loner McDowell show?"
"Loner will be back tomorrow. You're on the air with Mick Callahan."
"Oh. Never mind, then." He broke the connection.
I chuckled ruefully. Now the wheels were really coming off. A few seconds of dead air later, there was another caller. "It's me again," she said.
"Ophelia?"
"Sorry. I guess I freaked out," she said. "You're good at this."
I winced; glanced at the clock and saw three minutes remaining. I had to stretch. "Would you be comfortable talking about any other things from your childhood?" I found myself curious. Something in her tone made me sad. Then she surprised me.
"Mr. Callahan, I can't talk about myself too much. I'm putting my life in danger by calling you."
My pulse quickened, I sat forward. "Do you really mean that, Ophelia?"
"Look, I'd rather talk about this guy who can't make up his mind," she said. If we had been working together in therapy, her eyes would have begun to spill over with tears. It was time to back away.
"Okay," I said. "What about him?"
"He's just so hard to figure. I'm starting to be really afraid of him. Sometimes I think he loves me, and sometimes he acts like he hates me instead. I don't know what to think."
"Have you talked to him about it?"
"Yeah." She was sounding very childlike. "But he says it's all in my head."
"Could it be your imagination?"
"I don't think so. It's the drugs. I think I have a right to be scared. But damn, I don't like how this feels, talking to a voice on the telephone with maybe everybody listening."
"I wouldn't worry about too many people listening," I said, and pinched the bridge of my nose.
"I'm sorry?"
Two minutes to go. "Ophelia, the truth is I'm starting to wonder if we have much to talk about," I said. "If this man parties his bootie off, beats you like your Daddy did, and apparently can't commit to you, then what the hell are you doing there? This is your life, not a dress rehearsal." I had one of those moments of clarity, where you can see yourself a little too clearly, and knew it was a cheap shot.
"It's not that simple," she said. Her voice trembled. "I'm really scared. Oh, I don't know why I called, because I can't really go into it. Not like this. I guess I just wanted . . . to talk to somebody."
Back down, be soothing. "We all need to talk to somebody."
The background noises were getting louder. She was walking towards a large group now. I heard voices, some distorted music, more static ebbing and flowing. Probably not a lot of Friday night parties in the Dry Wells area, so the same one as the first caller? She was on a cell phone and moving around outside, in the night.
"You seem like a smart man," Ophelia said. "I wish we could talk in person."
"I don't do private therapy any more," I said, speaking rapidly. And you sound like you need someone a whole lot better than me. I started to prepare another taped commercial, and the show's closing theme.
"Mr. Callahan, please . . ."
I forced myself to sound cheerful. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, it seems we're out of time. Ophelia, I would advise you to find some private therapy, perhaps a good domestic violence group, even if you have to drive all the way to Elko. As for the rest of you folks, thank you for being such a kind audience. Loner McDowell will be back tomorrow night, interviewing aliens with anal probes, psychics, astrologers, and all of those eerie men from the black helicopters. Again, my name is Mick Callahan. Good night."
I popped in the next station CD, a Loner McDowell promo; dialed down the volume and went back to line one. "Look, I owe you an apology." But Ophelia was gone. I shrugged and tried to let it go. Ignoring the uneasy feeling in my stomach, I tossed the doodles and reminders I'd scribbled to help in the event of dead air. When the promo finished, I shut down the electronics and began to lock up.
It was good to be working again. That on-the-air brawl in Denver had pretty much trashed my career, so when Loner McDowell first tried to find me I'd all but vanished. Fortunately, Jerry had run a cyber-search on Loner's behalf. He'd tracked me down and relayed the offer to return to the Dry Wells area. So now I'd finished three days of non-union work and I was still sober. That's about all I had going for me at the moment.
I trotted down the rickety stairs, past the giant fish tank in the lobby, and turned out the lights. Something about the sudden darkness made my gut clench. I fumbled for the doorknob, trying to shake an uncomfortable mixture of anxiety and remorse, and left the premises.
Two
Saturday Morning, 12:16 AM
Outside the radio station, stars speckled the black velvet sky and the temperature began to fall. I love the desert at night, always have, so the gloomy feeling lifted a bit. I stretched and moaned. My muscles felt stiff. I had worn my old Nike's instead of boots, hoping a long run would help me shake the blues.
I checked the laces on my shoes, rolled my shoulders, and broke into an easy jog, breathing deeply and slowly. The long road ahead unrolled like ribbon in the darkness. I calculated four miles or so to circumnavigate the town; then I'd check-in with my sponsor, grab a shower and some sleep. I let my mind go blank for a few minutes and picked up the pace.
Falling into a steady rhythm now, regular breathing and the sound of shoes on the blacktop; the town silent and shadowy as I passed by. My thoughts began to turn bleak. A few hundred bucks and a bed for a crappy job like this and worse yet, I need the money. I was a cliché. I'd succumbed to all the usual temptations; manipulative women, expensive drugs an
d booze. Two houses had gone up my nose; an investment property in the mountains was confiscated for back taxes. And then the riches, the syndicated television show and the slick Hollywood friends all vanished. I'd blown it.
Behind Sheriff Bass's office, up on the sidewalk. I looped around and added on two lengths of the main street for good measure, thinking I may as well shoot for five miles. I was starting to feel it, now; erratic slapping of worn out shoes, hot stitch in the side. Hurts. Getting thirsty . . .
So now I was just another arrogant and talented guy who ended up bankrupt, friendless, and humiliated. No one returned the plaintive "let's grab a coffee sometime" telephone calls. Show business is like that, when you're yesterday's news.
Run. Faster, faster . . .
I was at the bottom, back where I came from; funky little towns and odd, quirky radio programs for a couple of hundred a night. After one remaining obligation in Dry Wells, to speak briefly at the holiday picnic on Monday, I'd be heading back to L.A. to try again.
On impulse, I doubled back towards the radio station. I slowed down to an easy jog, started boxing the air. The endorphins were flowing now and I was starting to feel optimistic. I trotted past the grocery and went into the alley. A motion detector kicked on one puny Halogen floodlight. I saw something odd near a large, dented trash container but only half registered what it was. I stopped, looked again. A man's naked buttocks, pointing up at the moon.
I almost laughed, thinking it was some kind of joke. Then I looked more closely. There was a lot of blood by the man's shattered head. His hands had been tied behind his back; they were swollen and dripping something thick and dark. His fingertips had been sliced away. I looked down at my feet and realized that I had almost stepped in a slowly widening, crimson pool. I swallowed and silently cursed myself for leaving footprints. I smeared them with the side of my tennis shoe and started to back away.
"Freeze."
Something cold and hard pressed the back of my head where the spine joins the brain. The gun was placed dead solid perfect for a 'kill shot,' in fact exactly where the dead man's skull had been penetrated. My gut clenched. I slowly put my hands up.
"Easy." My voice was hoarse and strained, understandable considering the circumstances. "Don't shoot."
"On your knees."
I was gathering information as rapidly as possible. It was a big man, pretty close to my size. He armed the gun and I recognized the shifting click of a nine-millimeter automatic. I dropped to my knees and also locked my fingers behind my head without being asked. "Sheriff Bass? It's me, Mick Callahan."
The pressure lessened. "The fuck you doing out here, boy?"
I stared at an oil stain in the dirt near my knees. I suddenly had a nasty twitch just under my right eye. "I just finished at the radio station, decided to go for a run. I was on my way back to the motel."
Another small click brought relief as Bass put the safety on. I unlocked my fingers. "Can I get up?" Bass grunted. I got slowly to my feet. I had to lean on the wall of the grocery to hide a bad case of the shakes. "What happened?"
The Sheriff stayed just out of sight in the shadows, as if deep in thought. Then he put his weapon away. "I'm not sure what happened, not yet," he said. "I just found the body a minute ago."
"Who is it?"
"Don't know that either."
I looked at the body. Hands tied behind the back, fingertips sliced away; the wound to the back of the head, execution-style. "Was this a mob hit?"
"Maybe."
I blew out some breath. "Well, I think you can rule out suicide."
Bass chuckled without humor. The light went out, so we stood there in the dark. I couldn't see to read his face. "Callahan, we're not exactly friends, but we both know you owe me. You agree with that?"
I spoke cautiously. "Sure."
"There's no easy way to say this, so I'll come right out with it. I need a favor, and it's big. Give me some time."
"What do you mean, Sheriff?"
"I'm not asking you to lie. I just want you to keep your mouth shut for a few days. Forget what you saw here tonight. Think you can you do that?"
"Sure, but . . ."
"I don't need your testimony. You didn't see anything. I'm fixing to take pictures and measure that blood splatter on the cement. I'd say the shooter took the shell with him, so ballistics will likely come up zero. Doc Langdon is on his way over to check things out. I plan on notifying the state police right after the holiday, but I need these next three days."
"I don't understand."
Bass moved and the light came back on. His face looked gaunt. "Look, I got reasons for not wanting everybody around here upset tomorrow, good reasons. You'll have to take my word. I need you to forget about seeing me, finding this body. Will you do that?"
I thought about having to stay around Dry Wells indefinitely, or maybe having to return to testify at a trial. I thought about the possibility of losing an interview I had scheduled for Tuesday, back in L.A. I didn't like either idea. I probably should have found the Sheriff's request morally repugnant, but the truth was I didn't want any part of this mess. Besides, he had a gun and I didn't.
"What body?" I asked blandly. "I didn't see anything."
Bass patted his thick belt, and the leather squeaked. "Much obliged." He nodded. "You best go finish your run, then."
"Yes, sir." I was reluctant to turn my back, so I jogged sideways for a bit. "You sure you won't need me for anything?"
"Not a thing," Bass said. "Not a thing."
"Fine with me," I said as cheerfully as possible. "Night." I turned at the mouth of the alley and raced away. For one long block, I felt like I had a target painted right between my shoulder blades. That little spot at the back of my neck where the gun had pressed my flesh felt ice cold.
I ran faster. Finally exhausted, I rounded the last building, an abandoned service station. I crossed the rusty, unused railroad tracks and started towards the antiquated motel. I slowed to a brisk walk, bringing the pulse rate back down. My light sweat was cooler in the midnight air.
The Saddleback Motel was a horseshoe-shaped dump, the kind that labeled rooms in the hundreds when there were only eight. The wood was ragged at the edges, and the ancient paint had been pounded by sandstorms and bleached by the sun. Jerry's two-room office was up front. All the windows were dark.
I stood there in the darkness, feeling jumpy as hell, and toyed with the idea of pounding on the door to wake the kid. I felt like I needed to talk. But then I remembered he had company and decided to be kind.
Jerry had given me a so-called "suite" in the back, #500. It consisted of a one-room kitchenette with a couch, a table, a bed, and a small bathroom. I was grateful to have it. There was a scruffy-looking old gray alley cat loitering on the porch. I pushed the vagrant away with one tennis shoe. "You picked the wrong house this time, fella," I said. "No mercy."
I entered the room, stripped off my clothing, and tried to open the back window. Stuck, as always. Irritated, I banged it open with my fist. It was still hot, but the air conditioner was too loud. I wouldn't have been able to sleep if I'd left it running. After a quick shower, I opened my well-worn IBM laptop, slipped in the phone cord, and booted up to check my E-mail. There were two messages. The first came from an E-mail address I didn't recognize.
Dear Mick [email protected];
A friend of yours has given us your name because he or she genuinely cares about your self-esteem. That is why you have received this FREE TEN DAY TRIAL of our MIRACULOUS PENIS ENLARGER for only $29.95. It comes with a rock-solid (pun intended) MONEY BACK GUARANTEE!
Jerry, you idiot. I shook my head and deleted the message. The second E-mail was from Hal Solomon. Callahan, it read, call me in London. A phone number followed. I grabbed a cold soda from the kitchen, used his phone card; waited out the scratchy bongs and pings. Beep. Beep. "Excelsior Hotel. May I help you?"
"Mr. Solomon, please. America calling."
Beep. Beep.
; Hal was my AA sponsor and my rock. He was a colorful guy who had been many things in his time, including a shady investment banker, the foreign affairs advisor to a senator, and an incarcerated white-collar criminal. He had also been a serious alcoholic. Hal was now in his sixties and semi-retired, although he still owned a stake in the media conglomerate that had once employed me. Hal loved food and he loved to travel.
Beep.
"Good morning. Is that you?"
"Last time I looked."
"Just wanted to check in on you, son. What transpires in the high desert? You have completed your engagement?"
"The on-air portion."
"And it went swimmingly?"
"It went. And Jesus, Hal, you're not going to believe this." I told him about seeing the body, nearly getting shot by Sheriff Bass, and then what had been asked of me. "If I had to guess, I'd say it was some kind of a mob hit."
"Strange how the sheriff waved you off," Hal said. "He didn't want you to sign anything?"
"No, he didn't. Like I said, he wants me to keep my mouth shut for at least the next few days. Look, Bass kept me out of jail back when I was a teenager, so I'd best take him at his word. Besides, the last thing I need is to get stuck up here for another couple of weeks."
"True enough. My word, what a frightening experience."
"Funny, nothing concentrates the mind as wonderfully as the business end of a pistol. Hey, how is your trip going?"
Hal sighed dramatically. "I am a vibrant and eccentric gentleman not well-suited for retirement. In truth, I find the lack of activity soul numbing. I have also come to the sorrowful conclusion that at least one well-worn cliché is, in fact, still accurate. The English cannot cook. In fact, the local cuisine often tastes suspiciously of what you westerners mordantly refer to as road kill."
"An epicurean such as yourself must be distraught."
"I am. The dark ale in the tavern below is probably world-class, but since I've been sober since the Jurassic period, that knowledge avails me nothing. And how are your lodgings, young stallion?"
I looked around the room and forced a grin. "Hal, I will remember this night always."
Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 2
