Untold Damage

by Robert K. Lewis

  “Mallen, huh?” the first cop said. “Yeah, I heard about you from my sergeant.” Looked him up and down. Not impressed. “Take this fucker downstairs and put him in the back of the cruiser.”

  He had to sweat it out for about an hour. All that time, he sat in the back of the police cruiser, trying to ignore the looks from the locals and other officers that had arrived. One of them, a plainclothes detective, smirked at him as he passed. His hands were going numb from the cuffs. He kept flexing his fingers, sitting sideways in the backseat to keep the pain to a minimum. It was hot, too. Stuffy. All the windows were up. Partway through his time in the car, he watched Jenna get wheeled out on a gurney and into the back of the ambulance. With a roar of siren and lights, the vehicle tore away up the street. He hoped she was going to be okay.

  He glanced again out the window, trying to not see the stares, glancing constantly around to avoid the eyes trained on him. He felt like a circus act gone wrong. Someone had snapped the high wire. His knives had killed the beautiful assistant.

  And that was when he saw them.

  At first he didn’t recognize the two men standing there in the crowd. And he, or the junk, couldn’t be blamed for that one, as it had been four years and some change since the last time he’d seen them. Had to admit that the last time he’d been around them hadn’t been a fucking heartfelt goodbye party anyway. He’d never been on great terms with either of them. Never liked them, and they’d never liked him. Just a “junkyard dog” thing, he’d figured. And then when he knew for sure, he didn’t want to admit it was really them.

  Jas and Griffin.

  Soldiers he had run with, back when he’d been “under the waterline,” or undercover in the drug world. Guys that he’d seen many times take orders from Franco, the man at the top, to make sure some dope-stealing son of a bitch never stole again. Sometimes it would be an order to stomp a rival that was showing too much attitude. And they’d been good at their trade.

  Very good.

  Jas was just standing there. Staring right at him. Griffin, just as Mallen had remembered, was on guard duty, eyes scanning up and down the street. Like a secret service cat watching over the president. He felt suddenly that he was living a nightmare, that a day this bad just had to be a dream, and all he had to do was just wake the fuck up.

  He looked away, bit his tongue, hoping that it wasn’t real, knowing he was being lame. Looked again into the crowd. Yup, there was Jas. Mallen wondered what Jas was thinking right about now. Mallen had dropped out of that world when he’d been kicked off the force. Would they know now about who his real employer had been? They would wonder, sure. Might do some digging. Hell, he’d made some enemies on the force, too; cops that would be only too happy to give over the truth for some bread. Probably be fuckin’ eager. There was nothing worse or more unsafe than being an undercover man, uncovered.

  If Mallen had been sweating before, he was really sweating now. He worked to keep his eyes level with Jas’s, and it took every bit of the last shreds of his manhood to do it, but he did. He even nodded at the man, trying to be all, “Fuck, man … look at my sitch, will ya?”

  But Jas just shook his head. Grinned like a death’s head. Turned and walked away through the crowd, Griffin in tow.

  So. They did know what he’d been. And Jas had just handed out his death sentence. Mallen knew then, at that moment, that he’d have no peace anywhere in town. Not until those two were either brought in or put down.

  A unmarked brown sedan then pulled to the curb. To his everlasting relief, Oberon got out. The detective didn’t look too happy. Oberon was about to go into Jenna’s building when he spied Mallen in the back of the black and white. He came over and opened the door. Mallen took a deep breath of fresh air.

  “I heard where you were found. And under what circumstances. Just what were you trying to accomplish?”

  “I was just coming to see her to offer my condolences, man.”

  “And?”

  He caught the look in Oberon’s eyes. “Yeah, okay,” he replied, looking at the ground. “I wanted to ask her if she knew why Eric had my name and address on him when he was killed.”

  Oberon looked at him for a moment. Shook his head like a disapproving parent. “I better go up there and see what I can see. Don’t go anywhere,” he added as he shut the door and went into the building.

  Anxiety crawled inside Mallen’s chest, choking his air. The wait seemed to go on forever. Finally Oberon returned. He again opened the door, then indicated Mallen should step out of the car. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Oberon didn’t reply right away. He put a hand on Mark’s upper arm. Guided him over to the brown sedan. Opened the back door. “Get in,” Oberon said in a flat tone.

  “What? I didn’t do anything!”

  “I know that. But those Police up there told me they found you standing over a woman who had been beaten into unconsciousness. Her apartment has been torn apart with a great degree of violence. Like someone was looking for something. Like maybe a junkie, looking frantically for money, or maybe his dead friend’s stash. They know about Eric’s struggles, as well as your history. They found prints, too, Mark. Would some of those be yours?”

  The temperature in his face skyrocketed. He was sure he was beet red. All he could manage was a sad nod of his head. Oberon cursed under his breath. “Some of them will be, yeah,” he replied. “But come on, it’s all horseshit! So my prints are there. Okay. That’s not proof I was the one who beat her and tossed the place!”

  “Like I stated, I know that,” Oberon replied calmly. “But they have enough to hold you, if only for twenty-four hours. And, Mark, they’re very intent on doing so. The only thing I could do was call in an old marker and ask them to let me take you downtown and have you booked. That way, I know for sure you won’t be put anywhere you’re not supposed to be. You know what happens to Police that go inside. Even ex-Police.”

  Oh yeah, he did. He’d heard the stories. Every cop knew those stories. “Thanks for standing for me, Obie. I’ll find some way to pay you back.”

  “You can pay me back by staying out of my quickly turning white hair,” Oberon said as he put Mallen in the back of his car and shut the door.

  His mind raced. Panic was firmly in place now. The Need was already awake, crying for its needle. He was going away for at least a day. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, whispered the quiet voice inside once again. He found himself not disagreeing with that voice as much as he thought he would. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the real bottom of the well. He had to admit, his crash-out appeared pretty fucking complete.

  Oberon got behind the wheel. Started up the sedan. “You were a great Police back in the day, Mark,” he said quietly. No masking the disappointment there.

  Mallen thought back to those days, his time carrying a badge. Yeah, he’d been good, all right. Lots of times better than good. And then he suddenly realized he wanted to be good again. At something. Anything. But he never would be, not if he stayed hooked. And there it was: the abyss standing between him and his life. Between being a junkie, and being clean. The addiction was a huge chasm, and he needed to get over it to the other side. Could he possibly find a way to jump that gulf? Images of Anna and Chris came to him. His throat was tight. Constricted. But he knew what had to come next.

  “Do me a favor,” he told Oberon. “Tell them to put my booking jacket on the bottom of the pile for a couple days.”

  There was a pause before Oberon responded, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Excuse me?”

  “Just do it, will ya? Might be the only way for me to get clean. A few days in jail. Then maybe I can actually try and do something good for a change.”

  Oberon looked at him in the rearview mirror. Searched his eyes for a sign of truth. “You mean it,” he said, stating the fact that Mallen felt growing inside.

  “I have to do
something. Maybe this is the time.”

  Oberon nodded. “I’ll make sure you’re out in three days, okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want me to sign you up at a clinic?”

  Methadone. Same shit, different day, he thought. “No,” he replied, “I know me. It wouldn’t work. Thin edge of the wedge.”

  “Okay,” the detective said as he turned the vehicle onto Hyde Street. “Let’s get it started then.”

  Oberon led him into central booking. Mallen hadn’t been there in about six years. That last time had been while on a case. Captain Oxford badly needed to talk with him. The top heroin suppliers were watching him all the time, so jail turned out to be the safest place to hold a long discussion. Plus, it made his cover look all that more solid. Stuff like that happened every once in awhile, by arrangement. He’d get picked up and taken in for questioning. Sometimes he’d even take a couple body blows from a fellow officer. Anything to make his cover tight like a drum head.

  The walls were still the same dull institutional color. The constant white noise of prisoners yelling, doors clanking open and shut, and names being called over the PA system filled the hot air. He followed the yellow line, Oberon guiding him by the elbow.

  “Look,” the cop said in a voice only he could hear, “I’m not booking you, okay? You’re being held on suspicion of burglary. If I can pull this off, you’ll get to even skip the lovely cavity search.”

  “Oh man,” he answered, trying to sound upbeat, “and that was the part I was looking forward to.”

  He glanced around at the cops and criminals. There was a face or two that he recognized, on both sides of the law. Those that he once worked with seemed to quickly shutter their eyes and look right through him. The criminals he knew winked or nodded in brotherly affection. He was suddenly so tired of it all—the shitty apartment, the threadbare clothes, the constant scrounging. Not least, the junk. He wanted out. As far out as he could get.

  Well, let’s see how far that can be.

  The pain began within hours. The sweating, spasms, vomiting, and the runs. Oberon hadn’t been able to keep him in the holding cells. They were too overcrowded. The best, last resort had been to get him into the drunk tank. How he’d done that, Mallen couldn’t figure out. Probably had to call in yet another marker. The list of how much he owed Obie was quickly growing out of control. In the drunk tank he’d be safer, left mostly alone to sweat it all out. After one bout of passing out from the agony of The Need, he found someone had taken his shoes. His pants were probably safe from suffering the same fate only because he’d thrown up all over them. Another prisoner—one of the trusties who walked around mopping the corridors and doing general cleaning—had given him a towel at one point to help him wash up some. He was a short, wiry-looking guy. Latino. Intelligent eyes. Black hair shaved close to the skull. Small mustache and thin goatee. Looked to be about twenty-five or so. Forearms sleeved with jail tats. He even brought Mallen some water to keep him hydrated. When Mallen asked why he was helping him, the trustie just pushed up his left sleeve. Showed him the track scars in the crook of his elbow.

  “The Lord tells us to look after each other, my brother,” the man said to him. “Simple as that, vato.” He then rolled up Mallen’s coat for him. Stuck it under his head for a pillow.

  “Thanks, man,” Mallen told him. “What’s your name?”

  “Gato. My friends call me Gato.”

  “What are you in for?”

  “B&E. Been here a year. I’m almost home, man, and I ain’t never coming back. Had enough of this shit. Be out tomorrow night. Free to fly.”

  He relaxed his neck muscles. Seemed like the first time in years he’d done so. The gesture of Gato rolling up his coat for him made him feel, if only for a moment, less alone. It was a gesture he wanted to remember for the rest of his life. “You know a bar called the Cornerstone?”

  “Yeah, man. I used to hang there, once in awhile. Why?”

  “The name’s Mallen. When you get out, go there if you need anything. Any help, or anything. I used to be good at helping people. Might be good again, I hope. Leave a message with the bartender. Bill’s his name. He runs the place. I’d like to do what I can for you.”

  Gato put out his hand. “Thanks, bro. There’s a good heart, beatin’ in that chest of yours.”

  Lifting his hand was like lifting a concrete block, but he managed. Gave Gato’s hand a weak shake. The trustie then picked up his mop, put it over his shoulder. “Try to keep in your mind what my padre always used to tell me,” Gato said.“Sometimes the darkest moments of our life give us the brightest chance at our redemption.”

  Mallen liked that. Smiled the first real smile he could remember in a long time. “Keep your head down, brother.”

  “The Lord looks after me. I’m good,” Gato replied as he genuflected. He then left the tank, the door clanking shut behind him.

  Mallen closed his eyes as another spasm of cramps racked his body. He was on fire. Breathing was hard. It felt like he’d vomited up every last bit of liquid he’d ever drank. Even his eyes burned. Every time a cramp hit him, it was a giant’s fist low in the stomach. Cries were ripped from his cracked throat; he moaned that he wanted to die. He was only vaguely aware of the answering catcalls and laughter from the drunks around him.

  One time he woke up and found himself staring up into the pockmarked, scabby face of a bearded man who smelled of sweat, old wine, and urine. His coat was in the man’s hands.

  “You won’t be needing this, friend,” he told Mallen through a grin of yellow, rotting teeth. “You look like you’re gonna be dead, so I’ll give this a good home.”

  Mallen tried to rise, but no go. He could barely move his mouth to speak. “Take it with my blessing, asshole,” he muttered. He turned over and tried sleep, but couldn’t. His dreams were filled with visions of Eric’s body lying in an alley, hypos sticking out of his arms, chest ripped open by bullets.

  Someone was shaking him awake. He groaned as he opened his eyes. Retched at the smell of dried vomit. Took him a moment to realize the smell came from him.

  “God, I need a shower,” he said to no one in particular. A young uniformed police stood over his bunk. The kid was picture perfect, not a hair out of place or blemish on his uniform. Had rookie written all over him.

  “You’re correct there, Mallen,” the kid said. “You smell worse than a bucket of rotting meat. Come on, you’re outta here.”

  “Been three days?” Felt like he had fallen into a black hole for at least a month. As he sat up his vision cleared. He was weak as a baby. How the hell could he get home, or find a meal? Could he even eat? His stomach felt like it was mostly holding its own. Maybe he could.

  “Yeah, three days. Inspector Kane wanted me to give you a message: go home, get some rest, and he’ll see you later. Can you make it?”

  He stood up, wavering on his feet. His apartment was a long-ass way away. Getting on a bus looking and smelling the way he did wasn’t an option, no matter how sick he was. He didn’t want to be seen by anyone for awhile. “I don’t know.”

  “You got some money on the books. You can catch a cab outside.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah, we booked it in when we booked you.”

  Obie. “Okay, thanks. Yeah, that’ll be fine.”

  “Come on then, life awaits.”

  Eight

  Mallen watched as Chris picked up her bowling ball, went to the line, got set, then proceeded to throw another gutter ball. Her list of curses would’ve sent a sailor running for cover. He laughed as he got to his feet to take his turn. “I told you,” he said as he picked up his bowling ball, “try not to cross your arm across your chest.”

  “Oh bite me, Mr. Bowler Man,” she said with an answering laugh. He’d always loved how competitive she could be, in everything. Back in college, she’d always compet
ed with him and the other students. Even in bed, it seemed she was competing to see who could have the biggest orgasm. That part, he had to admit, he didn’t mind at all.

  Eric sat at the score deck. He yelled at Mallen, “Try to keep it in our lane this time, man!”

  He laughed at that in reply. Mallen was killing them, as he knew he would. His dad, Ol’ Monster Mallen, had been a great bowler, and had taught him all he knew about it. Monster could’ve gone pro. Had bowled semipro at a couple points in his life but had chosen to knock down bad guys rather than seven-ten splits. But even in something like bowling, the old man had done what he’d usually done: taught his son to never settle for anything less than perfection. Fuck that “second best” crap. All that training and yelling had made Mallen a pretty fair bowler.

  Now he set his feet, glanced down the lane, chose that sweet spot on the first set of arrows painted on the lane, and let her rip. The ball sailed down the lane like a laser-equipped missile. The clash of the ball hitting the pins, resulting in a nice, clean strike, drew a wave of groans from Chris and Eric. He smiled as he went and sat down next to Chris, resting his hand on the nape of her neck. He glanced over at Eric.

  “Okay, punk,” he said in his best Dirty Harry voice, “your move.”

  “I find myself suddenly hating bowling,” Eric said as he got up and went to take his turn.

  Mallen worked his way through the heavy Friday night crowd in the emergency room at SF General. He’d told Franco only that something had come up, that it involved a bitch he cared about, and that she was sick, taken to the hospital. Franco had been pissed and a bit wary. There were big things going down, and the drug dealer was feeling pressed, from what felt like every point on the compass. He was getting edgy, paranoid, sometimes reminding Mallen of Hitler in his bunker. That feeling was filtering down to everyone in the upper echelons. So this needing to go and see Eric couldn’t have come at a worse time, but what the fuck was he going to do? Not go?