Oberon got to his feet. Ripped his cell out of his pocket and called in what had just happened. Alerted dispatch to his situation as he dug under the couch to retrieve his weapon, cursing at the wasted precious seconds. Ran out the front door and down to the street. Dockery was nowhere in sight. Figuring the man would run to the nearer end of the block, Oberon bolted to his car and leapt inside, gunning the engine. Tore off in a howl of burning rubber down the street. Brought the car to a screeching halt in the intersection. Her glanced up and down both streets, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
Dockery was gone.
Twenty-Eight
The first thing Mallen did when he got back to his place was call Gato. The man picked up on the third ring. “Si?” Gato said.
“It’s Mallen,” he said. “How’s it going, G?”
“Vato!” came the reply, relief more than evident in his new friend’s voice. Could hear traffic noises in the background. His friend was on the road. “Where the fuck you been, man? I’ve been trying to call you, but it said your number is no longer working. What happened?”
“Remember those two guys I told you about?” He then gave Gato a breakdown on his trip into the bay, and then what happened at the hospital. He left Chris and Anna out of it for now.
As he expected, Gato was pissed. He let loose with a string of swearing in Spanish, then said, “That’s it, Mallen. Just say the fucking word and I’ll get them found.”
Mallen thought about that offer. Longer than he’d expected he would. He needed Jas and Griffin off his back. And how much could Oberon really help him? He needed to tell Oberon about it, sure, but what sort of priority could he actually expect the cop to make it, in the great scheme of things that must be Oberon’s world?
“Look,” he finally said as he paced the floor of his studio, “I’m giving you the word, but just to find them, okay?”
“Well, what good will that do? Finding them won’t stop pendejos like that. You have to put them down and out. You know that, right?”
“I do. But for now, I just want to know where they’re holed up, what their movements are. And this has to be done very quietly, G, okay? They might believe I’m dead, and I want them to keep on thinking that.”
“Okay,” came the reply. He could tell his friend was disappointed. “You want me to come and get you? You still have that gun? You need another one to keep it company?”
Mallen laughed softly. “What are you, man, a gunsmith? Well, yeah … if you’re offering, you know? I’ll take better care this time, I promise.”
“When do you want to meet up?”
“I gotta find some food, first, so I’ll call after that, if that works.”
“That’s cool,” Gato said. They said goodbye, and Mallen put his phone back in his coat pocket. He stood there for a moment, in the center of his dilapidated studio, wondering about how life worked sometimes, putting a person like Gato in his world.
He didn’t go far for food. After scrounging around his pad for some money, he’d come up with just enough for an Indian buffet joint around the corner. It wasn’t great, but at least he could eat a lot for a set price and he wouldn’t get ptomaine poisoning. Well, mostly sure he wouldn’t. A part of him just didn’t want to be seen on the streets too long, if at all possible. Had to chalk that up to his brush with death, in the guise of Jas and Griffin. As he ate at the table farthest from the window, way back in a dark corner, he went over in his mind everything that had happened since Eric’s death and his own seeming rebirth. Dockery’s appearance, right after Eric’s death, meant that he had to know something. But what could it be? Could it have something to do with Eric’s falling down the rabbit hole of drugs in the first place? He wished again that he’d been a better friend to Eric. He should’ve listened more or … something. Anything.
He pushed away the plate in front of him, like he was pushing away his own guilty feelings over Eric. Left the best tip he could, and walked to the door.
The street felt quiet. Almost subdued. It was late in the afternoon, but not yet the rush hour. As he walked quickly down the street back to his building, he kept on alert for any black Escalades or any other street demons that might look like they were taking an interest in him.
His key was in the lobby door and turning when he heard heavy footsteps rushing up behind him. He spun around to charge at whoever was attacking him.
“Mallen! It’s me,” Dockery said as he backed off a step, empty hands up at chest level. “Chill, man. It’s me. Dockery. Remember?” It was easy to see the man was strung out with frayed nerves. Wound as tight as a guitar string.
“How’d you get my address?” he asked, scanning up and down the street, every sense on high alert as he looked for any sign that might indicate Dockery wasn’t acting alone.
Dockery put his hands down. “Did some asking. Was told you sometimes hang at the Cornerstone. The ’tender there, Bill, gave me a general 411 on you. Told me what kind of guy you are. I told him I needed to see you, and bad. He didn’t say shit, wouldn’t give an address. So, I been cruising this goddamned place for hours, man, askin’ after you. Finally got this line on your pad.”
“What do you want to talk about that’s so urgent? Is it about Eric?”
Dockery nodded, glancing up and down the street nervously.
“What’s going on?” Mallen said. “You act like you’re being followed or something.”
“I am,” came the reply. “Some fuckin’ car keeps showing up, tailing me.”
“You sure?”
Dockery looked at him. “Hell man, I know what being followed feels like. Don’t you?”
“I did, but that muscle got a little rubbery. Workin’ on building it back up. Why would somebody be following you? You’re staying out of trouble, yeah?”
“Tryin’, man. Hell, don’t most people got reasons for being followed?”
“Good point. So, it’s about Eric?”
The man’s face showed nerves gone frayed. “I don’t know that for sure, but I think so. We done that kid wrong, man. Wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Me and Carl. Tony, too. There was—” He flinched as a loud truck rolling by backfired. “We gotta do the rest inside,” he said. “Not here, okay?”
Mallen nodded. Opened the lobby door …
That was when the shots rang out. Ugly shouts, slicing the air. Dockery’s stomach exploded red and he folded to the ground. There was the roar of a car engine. Mallen banked on the fact that Dockery would have his gun, and he was right. Found it in the coat pocket. Ripped it out, bolting to the curb as the air filled with the peel of burning rubber. A dark sedan tore down the street. Maybe a Japanese make. He grabbed his left wrist to stabilize his aim. Fired twice. Heard one bullet hit glass, but then the car was gone, disappearing around the corner.
He cursed then. He should’ve been more intent on a plate number than doing damage. Ran back to Dockery, who was now surrounded by a few people from the street.
He bent down to check for a pulse. Nothing. Dockery was dead.
The street was now a cop-car convention. Seemed like everyone had been sent. There’d been some uncomfortable moments when Homicide found that Dockery’s gun had been recently fired, but he held nothing back. Told them exactly what happened. Gave them his background in law enforcement. Some of them had known it. Known him. Seemed they fell into two camps: one was glad to see he was obviously staying clean, the other still despised him for ever falling.
“Why’d you leave the force?” one detective asked him. A small, short Police. Carried a tight, angry expression. Probably pissed at being born short.
“Accidental self-inflicted wound,” was his only reply. Hated he couldn’t give an ID on the car. It had all happened too fast.
Detective Short Man’s Disease looked at him a long moment. Shook his head, then looked down at the y
ellow tarp covering Dockery’s corpse. “Why do you think they were after him?”
“Wouldn’t know. I barely knew him. Met him for the first time a couple days ago.”
The cop leveled his gaze at him. “You positive there was a car?”
“Come on,” he replied, “all you have to do is check ballistics. What’d you think? That I talked with Dockery, excused myself to the other side of the fucking street and then shot him, running back just in time for everyone to see me standing over his body?”
“You could’ve shot him from the street and then tossed your gun down that storm drain right there.” A shrug. “You could’ve then come over and shot off Dockery’s gun, and that’s all she wrote. All we have is your word you actually spoke with the guy.”
“And why would I do all that in the first place?”
Another shrug. “Vendetta? Maybe you owed him? For ripping you off for some drugs, or money, or whatever else gets you people worked up enough to take a human life.”
He was about to reply when a vehicle pulled up. Oberon got out. As he came closer, Mallen was surprised to see that he sported a large bandage over his left cheek, and that the other side of his face was swollen dark blue and black. He didn’t look happy, either.
With a noticeable limp, Oberon went over to where Dockery’s body still lay. Pulled the tarp back. Studied the body. Replaced the tarp. Came over, shaking his head.
Short Man Detective looked about as happy at seeing Oberon as a guy seeing a sore on his prick. “Kane,” he said.
“Horton,” Oberon said with faint nod. The air changed. Mallen could tell. There were two dogs here now that didn’t like each other, not one fucking bit.
“What are you doing here, Inspector?” Horton asked. “I caught this one.”
“I know,” Oberon replied, “but the body you have here is a man who I was questioning not two hours ago, and who resisted arrest and took off.”
“You know him?” Mallen said. “How do you know him?”
Oberon’s sigh was legion. “Please do not tell me you know this man, Mark?”
“I don’t. I mean, not really. Only slightly. Met a couple days ago.”
“Hey,” Horton interrupted, “you guys mind if I do the interview? I’m considered pretty good at it.”
Oberon’s only answer was to take a step back. “Sorry. Of course.”
Mallen then had to tell the story one more time, probably because Horton was pissed and just wanted to make Oberon wait like a little bitch at the curb. When he was done telling it all over, Horton folded up his notebook and stalked off without a word, throwing one final glance at Oberon. Dockery’s body had been removed by this time. Mallen noticed a couple other detectives still questioning the locals. He walked over to Oberon, who was waiting near the chalk outline of Dockery’s body.
“I can’t believe Dockery got the better of you,” he kidded as he came up, but his friend didn’t seem to be amused. “Sorry,” he added quietly.
“I must be getting too old for this job,” Oberon replied. “Maybe I should pull the pin. Retire to my garden. Long after the significant other I never had.”
“What would the city do without its staunchest defender? You gonna be its best gardener?”
“Please quit with the obvious attempts at flattery. I am not buying.”
“Okay,” he laughed. “What were you doing with Dockery, any-
way?”
“I’ll ask the questions.” Here Oberon looked at him again, like a scientist studying a disease he can’t quite figure. “You know what I’ve realized?”
“What?”
“You always popping up in my cases lately. It’s not a trend I wish to continue.”
“Trust me: not continuing in that trend would make my fucking day. You want a drink?”
“Yes.”
They walked down the street to the nearest bar. One simply named Overflow. He tried to ignore the stares from his neighbors as they left. The place was dark, thank God. The decor was along the lines of an old sea grotto. Blue and green lights. Fake coral all over the ceilings and walls. Fake seaweed crawling up all over everything. Mallen liked it, though his loyalty was with Bill and the Cornerstone.
They went to the stick. An older, hefty Chinese lady took their order. When it came time to pay, Mallen had to look over at Oberon. The cop just sighed. Mumbled something about the weight of the world as he fished out some dollars from his wallet. After both of them were situated and the waitress had left, Oberon then pulled out his notebook. Consulted it. “So,” he began, “how again did the man I was arresting earlier today come to be shot on your doorstep?”
“Why were you after him?”
“One would think you were a bit wiser than to repeat your past mistakes so flagrantly,” Oberon chided.
“And you’d be right,” he replied. Thought for a moment. What to tell Oberon? Took a sip of his drink. “Okay, this is how I know Dockery. I got curious about Eric’s shooting. Especially with my name and addy in his pocket. Why wouldn’t I be, right? So I think, I want to look into this. Dockery shows up outside the Russ house. I just happen to be there, too, wanting to talk to Eric’s parents. Happenstance, I think they call it? Dockery won’t tell me why he’s there. Only that he ‘owes Eric’s mother an apology.’ We tangle about it, but then he splits. I leave it.” He took a sip from his glass. Shook his head. “I shouldn’t have. Then he pops up on my doorstep, scared and freaked out. Says he’s being followed. Tells me that him, and a guy named Carl and one named Tony, did Eric wrong. Real wrong. Was about to tell me why, I think, but then he got dead.”
Oberon shook his head. Stared down at the drink in his hand, lost in thought. After a long moment, Mallen asked, “So, what did you have on Dockery?”
“Me? He was clean, for all intents and purposes. I just wanted to know if he knew a couple dead men I have on the books. A Carl Kaslowski, and one Anthony ‘Tony’ Scarsdale. Got put out when I talked to him. He struck me as an extremely paranoid and scared individual. This individual happened to possess a gun under a chair pillow when I visited. He had the record, so I figured to take him in and press him a bit on his known acquaintances before I booked him for the gun.”
“How were those guys killed?”
“Shot, just like Dockery. I have a feeling that the bullet will match up with the other killings.”
The old sense of excitement welled up inside his chest again. He was smack dab in the middle of a good case. No way to deny it. And his drive to solve it had taken him over. Hadn’t felt this good in years. “Those two other guys? Carl and Tony? Any reports of them saying they were being followed?”
“No, nothing.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Yes. Stay out of my way. You’re doing something on your own, and I’m not happy about that, but I have to say it’s better than sticking needles filled with junk into your arm all day. However”—and here he stared Mallen straight in the eyes—“don’t do anything to screw up my side of it. Are we clear on that point, Mark?”
Mallen glanced down at his drink before answering. Struggled over how to frame the thing he was about to ask Oberon. Fuck it: the only way inside was through the door. “Obie,” he said, “let me help you on this.”
The detective stared at him for a moment. Laughed without humor. “You are joking, right?”
“Come on. I could help. You know that. Now that I’m clean.”
“Now that you’re clean,” Oberon echoed. Shook his head. “True, but you’re not even close to being kosher when it comes to being a detective. No license. No nothing.”
“Well, how about this?” he said as he ordered another drink with a nod of his head. The hefty Chinese bartender came over. Winked at him. There was the dull sloshing sound as she filled up his glass, more than what was probably the usual amount. Winked at him again as she wal
ked away. “I’ll work for you, not with you,” he said to Oberon. “Maybe I can dig up something? Like that both Kaslowski and Scarsdale were worried they were being followed, too, maybe?”
Oberon shook his head, took a pull from his glass. Sighed. “It’s certainly of interest that Dockery knew both of those dead men, and Eric Russ. They all seem to have done time together. I don’t like it when cases grow tentacles like this, Mark.” Oberon finished his drink. Put the glass quietly put down on the stained and scarred wood. “If you screw this up and draw fire in my direction, I will disown you. Completely. Got it?”
“Got it,” he replied with a smile. “I’ll just do a little quiet digging. See what I can see, okay? Come on, I’ll be a help to you. It’ll be just like the old days.”
“I am so going to regret this,” the detective replied as he shook his head. “I just feel it in my bones. Mama Kane is right now turning over in her grave at her poor son’s stupidity.”
Twenty-Nine
Mallen woke to the sound of Anna’s whimpering. He got out of bed, Chris murmuring something to him he didn’t catch. Probably something about Anna’s medicine. Chris had been sick, too—as sick as Anna. Chris’s fever had only recently broke. Whatever had brought both his girls down so low had been traveling around the city like a cheap hooker at a convention hotel.
He padded across the hall to the bathroom and got the bottle of red liquid the doctor had prescribed earlier in the day. Grabbed up the teaspoon next to it.
It had been a risk to come home, he knew, but if his little girl was sick like she was, he had to take the chance. He’d received Chris’s coded text early yesterday morning, before the sun had come up over the Berkeley hills. He’d been asleep in the loft he lived in, south of Market. The place everyone in his undercover world thought he’d bought with drug money made back east before he’d moved to San Francisco. Luckily, no one had been crashing on his couch, which sometimes happened when one of Franco’s gang didn’t want to see their old lady, or if they thought maybe the cops might be watching their usual haunts. He knew it must be serious if Chris had sent the text. She wasn’t one given to overreacting. That was him more than her.
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