“No, and we’ve both asked him a couple times. We don’t know what to do.”
“You want me to talk to him? He might talk to another guy about it.”
“I know Phoebe would appreciate that.”
“Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He ended the call, then called a cab. Things were happening. He could feel it. The threads were still tangled up, but there was that feeling that even though all the threads were tightening now, they would either become a knot, or he’d pull the right one and they’d all come free. The case was hanging on the proverbial knife’s edge, and—
Case? Really? That’s what this is, Mallen?
Yes, damn it, came back the answer.
The case.
And again, he was good with that. Very fucking good, actually. He was helping again, trying to help people that needed some help. Would he find out all the answers? Not sure. Did that matter, as long as justice had been served for Eric’s parents? Again, he wasn’t sure … but he was at work again, had finally crawled from the wreckage of his life to start out on a new road. One he could walk without feeling ashamed or like a piece of shit.
Yeah, he thought. The case.
Thirty-Three
Oberon tossed the report onto his desk and pulled off his glasses. Rubbed the bridge of his nose until his headache lessened. It was getting late, but here he still sat, going over the Jenks case, wondering for the fifth time that day if he was just getting too damn old to keep up in the job. Tossed the glasses onto the report and leaned back in his chair. Sighed. There were things there, in that case, that bothered him. And he thought he was finally getting close to what they were, just like someone who swings at a piñata and finally brushes it.
And those things that nagged were really two very simple items:
1. The single drop of blood on the bedroom floor.
2. There were no prints anywhere of anybody other than Jenks or his girlfriend.
Jenks never mentioned the attacker wore gloves, even though he’d been asked to describe the person he’d fought hand-to-hand. Oberon couldn’t for the life of him imagine a fight where either man didn’t reach out to catch himself on a counter, or surface. Somewhere, someplace, that would leave a print. In fact, if you slanted the reported facts a certain way and put the fight between only Jenks and his girlfriend, with no assailant, it could maybe just work. But why would Jenks want to kill his girlfriend? Everyone in the building said they were crazy about each other. The man was rebuilding his life. No one had heard any arguing. However, the building and its units were well made, the walls thick. He might have to have another look. It could be possible a screamfest could happen there and no one would know.
Picked the file back up. Looked again at Jenks’s record. There was a history of violence there, but he had to admit, it was back in the past. And this foundation and speaking gig he’d started for himself since he got out was indeed some good work. The man had been helping people 24/7 since he’d been released. Well, not right away, actually. There’d been a period of about six months where he’d dropped out of sight, only to appear again with this speaking/life coach career already set up. And why did that bother him so much?
Maybe he’d have to pay Jenks a visit again. Talk to him while he was still raw with what had happened. It was just that there were no prints from a third party. The other physical evidence backed up Robert Jenks’s story, or appeared to, but again—it was what wasn’t there that really bothered him. Jenks kept saying he didn’t know the man, didn’t recognize him; however, with his background and history, nobody should be surprised if some ex-con he’d known inside wanted to get even for something that might’ve happened in a different kind of place, when he had been a much different person.
Oberon laughed then—he guessed he just didn’t like the man. Not at all.
Thirty-Four
It hadn’t been hard, of course, to get the junk.
What had been hard was lying to Chris, telling her that he would be away with his crew. She knew what it usually meant: that they were going to make a major buy. This was the job. Getting underneath the wire. Burrowing deeper and deeper into the organizations that bought and sold H in the city. She knew it. But he also knew she was hating it, regretting her decision to follow his play. Hell, what Police’s spouse wouldn’t have those feelings?
Only this time, there was no major buy. What he’d done was grab a little bag from Punchy, his go-between that stood between him and the street dealers. There were so many levels to travel up, so many more rungs in the ladder as he worked his way up toward the Big Boys. It had been getting pretty hairy, and that’s why he’d done what he did. He had to be … authentic. He had to know. No way he’d fuck it up. Ol’ Monster Mallen’s son? No fucking way.
He’d driven to a Travelodge he’d found down on Highway 1, just south of Half Moon Bay. Taken a room under his street name. And now he sat on the bed, the H in his hand, and the rig on the scarred side table. He’d bought a bottle of Jack Daniels and some sandwiches. Also some Alka-Seltzer. He’d seen a lot of guys puke their first couple times shooting, and he hated to puke. Hoped the seltzer would help that.
Picking up the items for the rig was nothing, of course. There were boxes of needles lying all over Punchy’s place, and where that shitbag got them, Mallen could only guess. Probably some strung-out nurse at SF General, wanting to build up some cadre with her supplier. The tubing to tie-off, and something to cook in, the proverbial bent spoon … it was all there for the taking. Just everyday bullshit items that lay around any house in Anonymous USA. Items that could be put to so many other uses. Hell, hadn’t he just read about a woman who walked into a fuckin’ Walmart and found everything she’d needed to start cooking meth, and had done so, right there in aisle nine? Jesus fuck …
As he sat there on the edge of the bed, looking at the little plastic bag in his hand filled with a drug that had ruined more lives than all the wars fought in the last century, he thought about this whole “drug world” thing. He’d always been amazed at what a great brotherhood this drug world was. How people would share a needle if you needed one—if they soaked it in bleach first, natch. Wouldn’t share dope, except rarely, but would for sure share the equipment. Even help you figure out some dough to buy some junk, if they could take their reward out in H.
He needed to know. That was why he was here, in this room. He’d been watching guys shooting and getting high for a long time now and had managed to keep away from doing it. It had been offered to him, more than a couple times. Now that he was an up and comer, he knew shooting would be frowned upon. Who would trust a junkie, right? Guys like Big Z, and Franco … they didn’t touch the stuff. They had, back when they were teenagers, but he knew for a fact they didn’t now. Now they just moved the pieces on the chessboard, no longer having to spill the blood themselves, or mix it in with the Gold.
He’d tried to pull off pretending to be high a couple times, because he’d had to. He’d actually been drunk, but it just didn’t seem, or feel, real. Hell, his father would’ve probably shot the shit just to see what everyone was so up in arms about. His father would’ve been able to just walk away after that, so why not him, too? He was Monster Mallen’s son, right? He could do this.
Being undercover was everything he’d ever thought it would be: exciting, dangerous as fuck, and way cool. It was like being Serpico, and he had to admit, he loved it. Chris, however, did not. But, to her everlasting credit, she’d given him what he’d needed so he could walk this particular career path. He knew she hated it and worried all the time, even more so since Anna was born. He knew she would only relax if he left undercover work and went and did something like Homicide, where it seemed you rarely pulled your weapon. His argument had been that if he could pull this assignment off, and nab Big Z or Franco, or maybe even the guys above them, then he’d be able to write his own ticket. He’d have his choice of assignments, pro
bably. Hell, Eric was still on the beat. But there was no way he could’ve done the beat for any amount of time. He’d been only too happy to put on street clothes and go undercover.
He stared at the needle, still in its plastic medical wrapper. Nice and clean and virginal. The spoon was already bent backward, just like he’d first seen in a movie back when he was a kid. The H was in its baggie.
Just heat and serve!
He cooked the shot, just like he’d seen other guys do way too many times. So many people spent so much time trying to escape. Trying to get away. Could he really blame them? The world was fairly ugly, except for his Chris and Anna. He knew what Chris would say if she suddenly barged in and saw what he was about to do. She wouldn’t give a shit that he felt he needed to know just so he could better play the role he’d taken on. She wouldn’t want to hear that it was for the job, and really … for his safety. And there was a part of him, way down deep, in the furthest part of his mind, that felt she would of course be totally right. But another part of him argued that he needed to be the best actor he could be if he were going to survive the next levels of the organization and come home safely to the both of them.
He tied off. Just like if a nurse had done it to him before giving blood. And in a way, and he smiled here, he really felt that he was giving blood.
Blood for his job.
Blood for his life.
However, putting a needle in your own arm is very different from having a trained nurse do it. He hesitated when he felt the tip press against the vein, that little pinprick that Roger Waters sung about in “Comfortably Numb.” But then he let out his breath, and glided in the needle, pushing gently down on the plunger …
It wouldn’t be until about fourteen months later that he’d realize how stupid and naïve he’d been at that moment. How he’d been bullshitting himself the entire time. How he’d let everyone in his life down, including the ghost of his dead cop father, worse than if he’d just downright pulled a gun and shot himself.
Thirty-Five
Jenna let him into the house. She obviously hadn’t slept. There were bags under her eyes you could pack for Europe in. She clutched a cup of coffee like it was an oxygen tank.
“He’s in the den,” she told him. “We’ve tried to talk to him, but he won’t budge. He’s already drinking.”
“Where’s Phoebe? Upstairs?”
A nod. “Trying to get some rest.”
“I’ll go see him,” he added, making his way down the hall.
The den was like the last time he’d been in there. This time though, it felt even heavier. It seemed the strongest light in the room came from the glint off the glass in his hand.
Mallen went to the window and began to pull aside the curtains. Hal spoke up, his voice scratched with alcohol and sadness. “Leave it, will ya?”
“Well, I wanted to see how bad it was.”
“It’s fuckin’ bad, okay? Now will ya leave it?”
“Sure.” Put the curtains back. Moved to the bottle and glasses. Poured himself a belt of the vodka. Stood closer now to Hal. He’d been beaten badly about the head and face. Lots of swelling. A black eye coming up. Split lip. Looked like the nose was intact. The front of Hal’s shirt was covered in dried blood.
“What the hell happened?” he said as he took a drink.
“How the hell should I know? Didn’t see him.”
“He got you some good ones on the face, Hal. You saw him.”
Hal took a sip of his drink. Agitated. “Looked like your mama, okay? Happy?”
“Other than getting your ass kicked for no reason, how are you holding up?”
“Peachy, kid. The world’s all wine and motherfucking roses.”
“Come on: so you got your ass kicked. Happens to all of us. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve had my ass handed to me.”
“Well, being a junkie, yeah … I can see that.”
“Ex-junkie, Hal. Ex.” The man raised his glass in response; an apology for the cheap shot. “Why’d this guy beat you up?”
“I was at a bar,” Hal said quietly, “having a drink. I do that now. Being here is … well, it just is. Anyway, this drunk guy gives me the business while I’m sitting there. Thinks I stared at him or something, I don’t know. The bartender calms him down, and after a while I leave. I mean the mood was sorta fucking ruined.”
“Yeah.”
“So then I’m outside, and he comes out of nowhere and wham! Hits me. Fucking asshole cold-cocked me. Screamed how I’d been staring and did I want to fight?” Took a sip of his drink. “I’m just not that young anymore, ya know?” Shook his head, touching the swollen side of his face. “Different world we seem to find ourselves in these days.”
“What bar, man? Some of those down in the Loin can be real holes. Maybe you should only drink north of California Street.”
“Why the hell are you asking? You don’t believe me?”
He didn’t want to say it to the man’s face, but no, he didn’t. There was something off. Hal was covering up something. All his years on the force and all his years shooting dope while surrounded by liars told him this man was lying about what’d happened to him. The air filled with tension, and that wasn’t what he’d expected to be there. He’d come to help. So he changed the subject.
“I think I have some news on Eric. Not sure, but maybe. Spoke with one of the men who did time with him. A sorta friend of his.”
Hal took a long drag of his glass. Filled it right up again, the soft sloshing of the liquor a dull sound the dark room. “Yeah? So? That was a part of Eric’s life he wanted to forget. I do, too,” he added softly.
“Julian Wood. Talked with him for quite a while. Told me some things that might help ease your mind, and Jenna’s.”
Hal shifted in his chair. “I don’t care what you heard. It’s a part of my boy’s life that was over the day he walked out of that hellhole. If you want to focus on that part of his life, that’s your fucking prerogative, Mallen.”
“He told me about the … about how it was for Eric in there.”
“Well, fuck. I thought he talked about how my boy arranged flowers while he was inside.” Hal wiped at his eyes. Suddenly hauled himself out of the chair and went to the window. Dragged the blinds open, blinking in the gray light. Mallen could see the tears. Looked away as he took a sip of his drink.
“When did Eric tell you?” Mallen asked quietly.
“When he got out,” came the reply.
“Does Phoebe know?”
A shake of the head, then a drink from the glass.
“He never wanted her to know. Was embarrassed. I mean, how many people would you tell in your life that you’d been forced to take a cock up your ass? Been beaten because you refused to suck another man’s dick? He tried to fight ’em, you know. Julian tried, too. Eric told me that. Almost killed the both of them this one time he resisted. Then it was worse. Like on the football field, when one side knows it’s bigger and badder than the other? They do what they want, when they want. My God,” he said, his voice breaking, “my boy, unable to protect himself. All alone! Nobody did a fucking thing!” he roared. Took a long pull from his glass. Drew a ragged breath before continuing. “His life was broken. Him and me, we worked hard to fix it back up.”
Mallen looked down at the glass in his hands. He knew the statistics on the rapes that go on in prison. The dynamics. The fallout. If one guy got to you, then the rest would follow. You’d never be left alone. Ever. “Then you did a good fucking job, Hal,” he said, “because Eric did get his life back on track.”
“My boy did that. Not me. Those drugs that were found on him? I know that was total bullshit. I know it, Mallen!” Was about to take another drink, but stopped. Stared into his glass. Growled, deep in his throat as he put the glass down on the table. “I was there for him, but he did all the heavy lifting. I shoulda—�
�� Stopped suddenly. Picked the glass back up. Filled it, shoulders sagging. Went back to his chair. Fell onto the cushions and sighed.
“Should’ve what?” Mallen asked.
“Nothing … forget about it.” Hal looked down into his glass like he was looking into a deep well and hoping he never found bottom. “I’m not talking about it anymore, okay? I’ve had enough therapy for today.”
Mallen got up. Finished his drink. Put his glass on the side table as he got to his feet. “I have no idea what Eric went through, and I can’t know what you’re going through now, but I want to let you know that if there’s anything I can do to help you, I will.”
Hal nodded absently. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”
Mallen stood there a moment longer, but there was nothing else to say. He quietly walked out of the room.
Jenna and Phoebe were down at the end of the hall, by the front door. Waiting for him. “What was that all about?” Jenna asked.
“He’s just upset. Frustrated.”
“Did he tell you about the fight?”
“Just that he got his ass handed to him. For a guy like him, the embarrassment is pretty heavy to carry. He’ll … be okay.”
She looked down the hall to the den door. “You think so?”
“Hope so, that’s for sure.” He made his goodbyes and walked out, not liking the feeling inside him.
Felt sort of like leaving a drowning person in the deep end.
Thirty-Six
Mallen pulled out his phone as he left the Russ house. Called Oberon.
“Inspector Kane,” came the usual answer.
“It’s me. Mallen. I might be onto something.”
A pause. “Regarding my open murders?”
“I think so, yeah. Can we meet?”
Another pause. “Where and when?”
There was a place on Clement Street he remembered. The Bitter End. Served food. Not seedy. Was out of the way—well, far away from the Loin anyhow. He gave the name to Oberon. “I’ll be there within the hour,” Oberon replied, then hung up.
Untold Damage Page 21
