Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (3 page)

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 and 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.

"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."

"And other than the dead body in the alley, you are feeling . . . ?"

"Sober, Hal. It's good to be working."

"Repeat after me. I never had it so good."

"I never had it so good."

"You are a joy to sponsor. Seriously, how are you holding up? It must be difficult being back in that area, after so long away."

"It is. Hell, after living in cities it's downright strange to see all this open land with nothing on it. Everything is blue jeans, sweat-stains, and shit-kicker radio."

"Are you going home?"

I chewed my lip. "I'm not sure. I'd kind of like to see my mother's grave. But my uncle's ranch has been abandoned for a lot of years, now. It might be more disturbing than healing."

"I think you should go."

I changed the subject. "You know what gets to me?"

"What?"

"The smell of the sage, Hal. When I was a kid I
loved
that smell and riding bareback in the dry heat, swatting the horseflies away. Part of me always meant to come back here. You know that. I just meant to do it as a conquering hero, not as a washed-up drunk."

"You are far from washed up, Callahan. In fact, you and I can resume our drinking careers at any moment. Has your young hacker friend been behaving himself?"

I laughed. "Jerry's incorrigible, as usual. He just sent me an ad for penis enlargement. Metaphorically, he might have a point."

"Nonsense."

"I need to get back into the game, suit up and show up. The truth is I'm
scared
. I can't seem to re-engage."

"That's probably because you never were engaged in the first place," Hal said dryly. He plays rough. "You made a living exposing other people's dirty laundry, without once looking at yourself in the mirror. Sober was bound to be more difficult."

"Yeah, I know. I'm just having a rough night."

"
Oy
," Hal sobbed. "This may be the saddest story I have ever heard."

I laughed. "Screw you, old man." Then I allowed myself a moment of self-pity. "Hell, I've just screwed it all up so badly. I feel like saying . . . why me?"

"Why
not
you, counselor?" Hal said. "What the hell is so special about you? Stop whining. You are ready. Get back into the game and resume your life."

"Okay."

"Until tomorrow, then."'

"Wait a second," I said, still feeling needy. "Don't go yet, Hal. Are you off for Vienna, as planned?"

"Maybe. I may take a train to Zurich instead. You return to Los Angeles . . . when?"

"After the three-day weekend," I said. "I have two interviews next week. One job is radio, and one is at a fair-sized television station."

"Investigations again?"

"No, another talk show. But it's a good one."

"Who's the honcho?"

I sighed. "Unfortunately, it's that little prick Darin Young."

"Zounds."

"Yeah, but he's got clout. This may be comeback time, so cross your fingers."

"I could make a telephone call or two. Bring a bit of pressure to bear on our Mr. Young."