Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels)

by Harry Shannon

"Hot damn, Annie." I stuck out my hand, and she shook it.

  "Hot damn is right," she said. She surprised me with a bear hug.

  Flustered, I turned to Jerry. "Have you met? This is Madge Wynn's niece."

  Jerry snorted. "Met? Hell, I only eat the food here every damned day so I can look at her." Then he shrank back as if he had revealed too much.

  To her credit, Annie just smiled. She kissed him on the cheek, right next to the lower end of his burn scar. "Why, Jerry, what a sweet thing to say!"

  Jerry swallowed. "S-So you two know each other too, huh?"

  Annie slid closer to me. "Mick here was a couple of years behind me in middle school. We knew each other real well."

  My mind visited a lot of old places and hot memories. I smiled, determined to keep things light. "I seem to recall you had a pet turtle when we were in elementary."

  "That I did, Callahan. And you gave me a pretty miserable time about it, as I recollect. From there on, and all the way through." She smiled brightly again, but bitterness crouched between the lines. Jerry wriggled his eyebrows at me.

  "I hurt you some. Especially by up and leaving for the Seals like that," I said, softly. "I'm sorry."

  She shrugged, but it was clear the apology meant something. Annie let the tips of her fingers brush my arm. She moved a few inches closer. Startled, I stepped back and cleared my throat. "You haven't been living here the whole time, have you Annie?"

  She shook her head. "I moved to Ely for a while. Right after I lost a baby."

  "Oh, I'm sorry."

  Tone chipper, smile forced: "It was a while ago. Then I tried Reno. I had a couple of marriages bust up, still no kids. Now Mom's getting on in years and needs help . . . so, here I am. Hey, I caught your show on the radio."

  "I'm afraid it wasn't very good."

  "I don't know about that. Probably better than you think," Annie said. She licked her lips. "You remember me now, right?" She meant sexually, not socially.

  "Oh, I surely do, ma'am."

  Annie gathered confidence from my discomfort. She looked me over as if I was up for auction, taunted me. "You're all grown up and filled out, boy. Television don't do you justice."

  Jerry looked envious. I blushed. "You look great too, Annie."

  Satisfied she'd made her point, Annie turned and walked away. She seemed to put a little extra energy into swinging her hips.

  "Lord God," Jerry whispered. "I just got to be famous someday. You gonna tell me about her? I'm all ears."

  "You're all hormones," I said. I dropped the check on the table and searched my pockets for money. "Let's stick to the point. Look, Jerry, I promised myself I'd get another job right away. I vote we hit the road for Elko, and I mean ten minutes ago, and send the girl a bus ticket. You with me?"

  Jerry dug for change. "You go on, then," he said, sadly. His body sagged. "I'll stay here."

  My mind flashed on that dark alley and the dead man's bloody fingertips. "Jerry, I'm telling you this as a friend. Best let the law handle it."

  "Mick, you know it's not just about Sandy Palmer's death. I told you, that girl matters to me." He seemed surprised by his own intensity. His scar pulsed. "I'm staying."

  "Okay, okay."

  "But Sandy Palmer shouldn't get swept under the rug, either. She was a nice girl."

  I covered the check, left a good tip. "You pick up the next one."

  "Thanks. Mick?" Jerry made a show of studying the horizon. "If you need a job, if this is about money, I have five hundred saved up. I could pay you to help me out."

  Emotions flickered by; shame, irritation, an urge to laugh out loud. I started to walk away, even covered a yard or two of dusty pavement but then my well-oiled mercenary streak kicked in. Solving a murder could mean the kind of publicity that generated high-profile employment. I stopped, turned. I may live to regret this. Against my better judgment, I said: "Give me five."

  "I don't have the whole five hundred on me, I meant . . ."

  "Give me five, Jerry."

  He saw I didn't mean a handshake. Jerry moved from dim bulb to genius, found five ones and passed them to me. I stuck the money in my pocket. "Okay," I said, "I'm hired. I'll hang in here for the night. Unless there's a Lion's convention coming to town and my room is rented out."

  "Fat fucking chance."

  "That's what I figured."

  We headed for the door. I felt a female gaze boring into my back. I turned in the doorway. Annie Wynn was grinning with frank appreciation and a hint of fire in her eyes. Meanwhile, her mother glared daggers from the kitchen.

  "By the way," I called, a bit louder than necessary, "did you hear what happened in the park?"

  Annie shook her head.

  "They found Lowell Palmer's daughter in the creek. She was murdered."

  Old Madge froze and looked up. Annie frowned. "Sandy? Why, that's terrible. What happened?"

  "Oh, I have an idea or two about that. I'm going to hang around and see what I can prove."

  "Wow," Annie said. "Be careful, Mick. See you again soon, I hope."

  We waved goodbye and walked out. "Why the hell did you do that, Mick? I thought you said we don't know shit."

  "It's a small town," I said, "and Madge has a big mouth. Word will get around fast. Somebody around here is a murderer. What I said is bound to make them nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

  "Oh."

  In the car, Jerry said: "Some day you got to teach me that bit you do with your face, that bright red 'I'm so modest' thing. I've always wanted to know how to fake sincerity."

  "Jerry, shut up. Look, I'm just going to stir things up and poke around a little. If we find anything solid, we turn it over to Sheriff Bass. He can drag in the state police. And I am out of here by Memorial Day, one way or the other. Any part of this you don't understand?"

  "You're a good friend. Thanks."

  "I'm doing this for a few different reasons. I'm no fan of the Palmer clan, but Sandy was a good kid. I spoke to her at the rehearsal. She reminded me of someone I owe. But I am hard core about staying out of any serious trouble. No hero stuff."

  "No hero stuff. Right."

  "And you're not getting the five bucks back."

  Back at the Saddleback, it seemed to take forever to loosen the knots holding the red scooter to the top of the Mustang. I lost patience, used a pocketknife to cut the motorbike free. "Give me a couple of hours to figure out how to approach this."

  "You got it." Without another word, Jerry rolled his scooter back to the office.

  I guess I expect the heroic sound of trumpets and a swelling chorus of violins. Instead, I felt irritable and apprehensive. I went back to the little motel room to think things over. It seemed even more stuffy and oppressive than before.

  The scruffy gray cat was by the door again. This time I knelt down and petted him for a moment. His breath was pretty gnarly.

  "Aren't we a pair?"

  I went inside, set up the laptop, checked for messages. There were none. I composed a quick E-mail.

  Dear Hal,

  Someone nice died today. I have been unofficially asked to find out why. A question for the Oracle: How do you know for sure when it's time to get back in the game?

  Pls. advise.

  Mick

  I grabbed the phone; sat quietly, composing myself, and then punched in the cell number of a Hollywood producer. As the phone beeped I reluctantly envisioned the arrogant little prick: tanned, sneering features, with a trendy haircut. I shuddered.

  "Who is this?"

  I instantly reacted to the man's voice, but swallowed my comeback. "It's Mick Callahan."

  "It's a fucking holiday weekend, Callahan," Darin Young said. "I am here floating in my pool because it's a fucking holiday weekend."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "And you had better not be calling to disappoint me about the meeting next Tuesday."

  "I just thought I'd ask if that date is absolutely firm."

  "Firm? Th
e date is very fucking firm, Callahan. Are you fucking drinking again?"

  "No."

  "Good, because I have put my ass on the line for you, Callahan. You fuck this one up, you can forget about working again. Do you read me?"

  "Look, Darin, I'm not screwing around," I said. "I have a real problem. I may need to push us back. A friend of mine just died, so I really may not be able to make it to L.A. by Tuesday afternoon. This can't be helped."

  Young was silent.

  "Hello?"

  "That response does not please me, Mick," Young said, finally. "It doesn't please me at all. Okay, I am going to see if it is possible to postpone the meeting. It may not be possible. Do you understand?"

  "Perfectly."

  "If it is not possible to postpone that meeting, then I want you to think very carefully about what will happen to your life if you don't show. Are you reading me?"

  "Can you call and let me know?"

  "Like I said, I am floating in my fucking pool. I do not have a pencil to take down the number. So I want you to call me back tomorrow night, you pain in the ass. Are we clear?"

  "Perfectly," I said. Shut up, don't say it, don't rock the boat. You need this job.

  "Good. Now go away again."

  "I'll call you back tomorrow night."

  "Fine."

  I closed the cell phone and sat hunched forward on the bed, head in my hands. Somebody murdered Sandy, and if it wasn't Bobby Sewell, then who? Why? And how the hell am I supposed to find out in a couple of days?

  I needed to clear my mind. I turned out the light and listened to some country songs on the bedside radio. One golden oldie made me remember Annie Wynn: Those honky tonk angels, they light up the night. I closed my eyes and heard the sexy little crooning sound Annie made during sex. I pictured her young and naked, and felt myself stir . . . until Sandy Palmer's corpse intruded, her vacant blue eyes shimmering under an inch of clear creek water.

  I jumped and sat up again, heart stuttering and stammering in my chest. After a time, I put the air conditioning unit on high. This time the racket it made seemed comforting.

  Seven

  Saturday Afternoon, 4:20 PM

  Afternoon shadows were lengthening in the park and litter blew lightly in a warm, welcome breeze. Most of the crowd had gone home. The area around the dilapidated fence was nearly deserted, except for Glen Bass and Doc Langdon. Someone had driven small posts into the dirt and draped yellow "police" ribbons all around the bank of the creek. The ribbons looped across the water, back and forth. The water was clear. Her body was gone.

  "Mr. Callahan," Bass said. "You promised to leave."

  "I need to talk to you first."

  "About what?"

  I looked at Doc, who shrugged. "You don't got to pussyfoot around. I know you saw that body."

  "Where is it now?"

  "Callahan," Bass said pointedly, "we had a deal for you to get your ass out of town. No offense."

  I smiled brightly. "None taken."

  "You believe this?" Doc grimaced. "Two bodies in two days. You remember Dry Wells, Callahan. Hell, nobody around here dies of anything but old age."

  "That guy last night? That looked like a mob hit, maybe. But what the hell happened here?"

  Doc looked at Bass. "Somebody knocked Sandy around some, a man, judging by the upper body strength. She fell or was shoved backwards at the end, landed on a rock. The back of her head was a mess."

  "Does all this tie together, Sheriff?"

  Bass grunted. "Don't get carried away. As of now, I don't think this incident is connected with last night. Can you give me a reason to?"

  "Maybe."

  Doc turned slowly; eyes widening, face washed out like a man startled by a flash bulb. He shook his head slightly, as if to signal a warning.

  Bass said: "I'm all ears. This had better be good."

  I looked down at the creek. The sheriff seemed to swell in size and I could see him growing dark with anger.

  "There's this young gunslinger," Doc said, softly. "He asks an old pro for advice. Old guy says to draw and shoot the bow tie off the piano player. Kid does it. Old guy says, now cover your gun with grease. Kid says, why cover my gun with grease? Will that help my shooting? Old guy says, no, but that's Wyatt Earp playin' the piano, so it won't hurt as bad when he shoves it up your ass! Har har har."

  I ignored the warning buried in the joke and let some more silence feed the fire. I remembered Sandy Palmer's bright smile and waited for Bass to erupt.

  "Mr. Callahan?" Bass barked impatiently. "You were saying?"

  "Where's her body?" I had intended to sound detached. I was surprised to hear my voice break.

  "Over to my office, in a big old fridge," Doc said. "So is that stranger. I'll keep them both cold until the state can set up an autopsy."

  "You won't be doing it yourself?"

  "Hell no, boy. I'm a vet, not a coroner. But a body is a body. They're just dead meat."

  Bass was really steaming. "I'm all ears, Callahan. What was it were you saying there before?"

  I faced him. "A young lady called my show last night. She said had a serious problem with her boyfriend. She sounded terrified, said her life was in danger. I didn't want to get into it on the air, so I ended the show. Then when I tried to get back to her, she'd hung up. Today, Sandy comes over to talk to me. She uses the name I gave that girl on the radio, Ophelia."

  Puzzled looks. Bass frowned. A brief gust of warm wind ruffled our hair and swirled around a row of dry, multi-colored leaves near my feet. There was a faint sound like bacon frying in a pan.

  "Ophelia was a character in Shakespeare's play about Hamlet. Sandy reminded me of Ophelia when she said her boyfriend was acting crazy. But it sounded like there was a lot going on . . . drugs, for example."

  Bass seemed intrigued. "So that's why you were sitting with her when those boys came over?"

  "Yes. And by 'boyfriend,' she likely meant the kid who was in my face, Bobby Sewell, although she never gave a name. Look, I remember Sandy Palmer as a little girl. I liked her, Sheriff. I want to see the body."

  Bass frowned. "No."

  Doc squinted and spat. "Why would you want to, Callahan? That's a bit morbid, ain't it?"

  "I'm not looking forward to it," I said, truthfully, "but I talked to her last night and again this morning. She asked for help, in fact she was almost a client. What's the problem?"

  "Look, I said no," Bass said. He glanced at Doc Langdon. "This is a police matter."

  Doc sighed. "The Judge may end up wanting to talk to him anyway, Glen. And he's bound to ask for a statement as to how she called the show."

  "Doc is right. I can't stay out of this, not now. And Bass, you owe me."

  "Like I said before, this is police business." Bass was clearly upset.

  "Look, it would be almost impossible to get back here from Los Angeles if you needed a statement later. If we can get this over with now, I'd be much obliged."

  After a long pause, Doc shrugged. "Why not let him look," he said. "Won't take but a minute."

  "All right," Bass said, reluctantly, "I suppose it won't do any harm. She's not a pretty sight, though. The back of her head got bashed in."

  "I know."

  Doc said: "Then let's go."

  As we were walking, I asked, "Did you get any pictures?"

  Bass smiled thinly. "I didn't have to. I just confiscated all the film those civilians shot. It's a long holiday weekend, Callahan. Things get busy in a one-horse town with one cop, especially when dead folks start popping up. That don't mean I can't do my job."

  "No offense."

  "None taken."

  We walked. "Hey Callahan," Doc said. "You know why the penis has a big head on top of it? That's so your fist won't slip off, hit you in the forehead, and knock you out cold. Har har. Get it?"

  There were two entrances to Doc's vet hospital. The front of the building faced Main and the back door was on Station Street. The three of us crossed the railway tracks
and the empty, littered parking lot. Doc fumbled for his keys and unlocked the back door. He slid open a large metal panel.

  The interior of the lab was surprisingly spotless. Stainless steel sinks and tables; clean and gleaming surgical instruments. There was a large refrigerated area near the back, where pathology work could be performed on livestock that had died under suspicious circumstances. Doc slid another huge metal panel to one side. The sound rang and clanged like the door to a cellblock.

  Two rolling carts stood isolated in the middle of the room, each covered with a white sheet. The man from the alley lay on his side because rigor mortis had locked his hands behind his back. He had black hair; his coarse features were distorted from the blow to the back of his head. His digits were like little swollen sausages, the amputated fingertips grotesque. I studied him for a moment; stalling, because I didn't want to look at Sandy.

  Bass spoke. "You keeping your mouth shut, like I asked?"

  "I haven't said a word to anyone in town," I said, truthfully. Hal didn't count. "Any luck identifying him?"

  Bass shook his head. "Not yet."

  "He was shot, right?" I asked. "You said you were looking for a cartridge but you couldn't find one."

  "Wasn't a gunshot," Doc drawled. "Not in my opinion. Up close, that wound reads like penetration with a pointed object, maybe an iron pick or a spike, something like that."

  I nodded. "Less sound that way."

  "And then the perp tried to smash out all his teeth, but he missed a bunch. Maybe got startled before he was done. So the coroner might be able to ID this guy from dental records, once they have an idea who he was."

  "Let's get this done," Bass said. He motioned to the other cart and the white sheet covering it. I saw small, vulgar reddish stains. A shock of long blonde hair emerged from one end of the sheet, tiny bare feet from the other. I shivered and had an absurd urge to rub her toes, thinking she must be cold.

  Doc strolled over and pulled the sheet down with a flourish, baring her to the waist. Sandy Palmer's once-lovely features were now flat, bruised, and waxen. Her eyes were still open, the left one bulging and dark with blood. She was naked, her breasts exposed. It seemed obscene. "I thought you weren't going to do an autopsy?"