Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series) (6 page)

"I don't remember now," she said with a giggle.

I did my best to cover the dead air, and my poor choice. "Most couples are not fighting about what they think they're fighting about. There are always underlying issues, generally relating to our childhood experiences."

"Okay."

"You can think of those issues like plates in the earth that shift seismically from time to time and cause earthquakes in the relationship. The trick is to understand one another well enough to see those quakes coming. We have to either head them off, or at least process them in a more adult manner."

"I see," she said.

"Good. Thanks for calling."

"Thank you for the advice."

That was three pounds of uncut, semi-profound bullshit,
I thought.
And no matter how you slice it, my country ass is in deep trouble tonight
. I took another caller.

"My name is Gene," the man said. "I was thinking about the sixties.
Free
love, whatever happened to that idea? That we could all just, like, hang out together, get high, and kick back. I really thought that was cool. I mean, the closest thing we have now is that Burning Man Festival out in Nevada. You're from Nevada, right?"

"Right," I said, somewhat cautiously, "from up north, around Dry Wells."

"I just thought you might have gone to that Burning Man thing out there. It's coming up again."

"I know a little about it. As the old joke goes, I spent a year there one weekend. I was pretty blasted at the time, and I had just gotten thrown out of the Seals for fighting."

"For
what?
"

"I know. Kind of like getting tossed out of a casino for gambling, isn't it? Anyway, it's a blur, but the Burning Man Festival kind of represents everything I have tried to change about my life, so I'm not enthusiastic about attending again."

"If you can remember it, you weren't there?"

"I do recall that it's pretty pagan, and originated near San Francisco."

"Look, I loved it. People come together and paint themselves blue, man. They run around naked and create art with just their bodies, or whatever is lying around. You can make a statement. Take 'shrooms or acid, smoke a lot of great weed, all kinds of good shit. Oops."

This time I didn't move quickly enough. The offending word went out over the air. "Careful, I don't want the FCC down on my neck. I don't have Stern's deep pockets."

"Mick, check it out again, might be more fun sober."

"I doubt it. I think I wandered around in shock the first time, and I was pretty wild back in the day. It just seemed too hippie."

"Huh?"

"Sorry. My stepfather was a real redneck who served in Viet Nam. He didn't care much for that lifestyle. I think that rubbed off on me."

"Those were the good old days," Gene said wistfully. "We had our priorities straight."

"Oh, really?" I said, dryly. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, we were out to change the world back then. We stood for something. Now look at what's happened."

"I hate to echo a conservative like George Will, who is just to the right of Attila the Hun, but think it over, Gene. Let's take a closer look at what free love and recreational drug use in the nineteen sixties have given us here in the 21st Century. Ready?"

"Okay. Sure."

I went off on a rant. "We got AIDS and some new forms of sexually transmitted diseases that are highly resistant to antibiotics. We got pot that is up to twenty times stronger than what John Lennon smoked. We got miles of inner cities devastated by a cocaine and crack epidemic and now also reeling from the abuse of crystal methamphetamine, Vicodin, and Oxycontin. We have truly staggering levels of drug addiction nationwide, a total disintegration of the nuclear family without a logical, disciplined replacement on the horizon, and the genders at war in a way previous generations never dreamed could happen."

"Yeah, but . . ."

"I'm not finished yet, Gene." I got up and began to pace. "We have lost respect for men, for integrity, and to an extent even for the women feminism was intended defend. Someone explain to me how pornography has liberated the ladies, okay? We have reactionary fundamentalists manipulating some news outlets and trying to turn the clock back. Wars, deficits, apathy. And listen, I recognize that I contributed to this chaos. We all do. Our politicians are sleazy, corrupt, and we no longer revere Congress, the Senate, or the Presidency. And you want us to run off to some festival in the desert to re-live the glory years? Come on. That's what we got from the last time around. We got screwed. We're a mess, Gene."

Gene paused. "Okay," he said finally. "But we did get some freaking great rock and roll music."

I roared. "Okay, I'll have to give you that one. We certainly did. And it's also a good thing that we learned to question our government more than we ever had before. Thanks for calling in."

I cut the line, sat in the chair, flipped through some CDs, spoke over the musical introduction. "And here, just for the Hades of it, is a song from Gene's favorite flashback. It is a little piece by Cream, with Eric Clapton on guitar. It's called 'Sunshine of Your Love.' I'm Mick Callahan, and I'll be back with you in just a moment."

The music rocked on and I reached into the small refrigerator near my feet, grabbed a Diet soda. The air-conditioning kicked in and a soft rush of cool wind blew past my shoulders.
If that doesn't stir something up, I don't know what will. If it stays dead tonight, maybe it's time for another career change.

Line one. I took the call during the song. I couldn't hear the voice at first, just noise; the cacophony of competing rock music and some static, voices murmuring in the background. Someone was trying to call from a bar or a night club.

"Hello?"

Slurring words, trying to whisper: "I need you."

I glanced at the caller ID, jotted down the number. It was long distance, a 909 prefix; so somewhere out towards San Bernardino, Pomona, or maybe even Claremont. Was this a prank? "Please, speak up. Don't waste my time."

"I need your help," a woman said. She sounded drunk or drugged. "Don't you remember?"

I didn't, not at first. "Who is this?"

She broke the connection, as if startled by something. I frowned, looked at the telephone number, and after a long moment tossed it. Eric Clapton played the last lead licks and the record came to an end.

"Gene, that was for you and your faded, graying hippie buddies. I'm Mick Callahan and I'll start taking calls again in just a moment, but first, a quick word from one of our sponsors." I started a new CD; a short commercial for an expensive skin-care product. I slumped forward in the chair, elbows on the console. After a few seconds I reached into the trash bucket, extracted the telephone number, and put it in the pocket of my jeans.

Line one again. I grabbed it, with one eye on the timer. The commercial was nearly over. "Hello?"

"Is this Mick Callahan?" It was another woman, not the same one.

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"I just wanted to say thank you for sticking it to that idiot who called you about the Burning Man Festival. I saw part of a documentary on it once, and it is a Pagan ritual that would be an affront to our Lord Jesus Christ, were He here to see it. Those naked heathens turn my stomach. It says in the Bible that . . ."

I cut her off. "Sorry lady, the commercial is nearly over. Thank you for calling. Let me know when the rapture starts, okay?"

In the nick of time: "Mick Callahan, here. We have just a few minutes left, so I wanted to mention something else that has been on my mind." I looked down at the phones, swearing silently. Nobody, damn it! "We're really busy this evening, and I have so many callers I am going to clear the decks and take caller number five."
Can you guys tell I'm lying through my grinning teeth, here? I certainly hope not.
"I have two tickets to the opening night of the new James Bond movie to give away, so caller number five gets the last question of the night and two hot tickets. Come on folks, hit the phones and let's see who wins."

I played a disc with an out-of-tune version of the theme from Jeopardy. "Okay, I'm waiting. Time is running out here. Let's get to it. Somebody wants those tickets."

"How many James Bonds have we had so far?" I asked, desperate to kill more time. "The stone-aged ones had Connery, then some other British dude, Roger Moore, Pierce, and the new guy. That's not all? Tell you what, then. The first caller to name
all
of the James Bonds, in precisely the right order, wins a second pair of tickets. The clock is running."

Dead air, deep fertilizer. I played a gag CD that featured a host of southern-sounding voices chanting: "Shucks, Mick, I don't know" in unison.

The phone lit up. "You're on the air, caller. Can you name them in the correct sequence?"

"Don't you remember me?" It was the drugged girl again. "I'm so sick. I just want to die."

And that's when it finally hit me. I took us off the air. "Mary? Where are you? I'll pick you up."

"I told them I wouldn't do any more porn, so I'm broke. I had to bum quarters to call."

"Where are you? Please think."

"A called Oranges, maybe? Something like that. I'm sick. I really fucked up this time. Fancy is going to kill me."

"Who?"

"Fancy." She started to cry.

"Stay right where you are."

I put her on hold, stopped the music. "We're out of time, ladies and gentlemen. Tomorrow night I will trot out the same question, so anyone who wants to do the research can win the tickets. Anyway, what the heck are you doing up so late on a week night? Go get some sleep. I'm Mick Callahan, and I'll talk with you again tomorrow evening."

I started the jazz tapes and went back to the telephone.

"Hello?"

She was gone. I slapped my hands on the console; dug into the pocket of my jeans for a business card, dialed a cell number. "Larry? This is Mick Callahan."

"Did you think of something that could help us out?"

"Not exactly. I need a favor, a big favor. Can you have somebody run down a telephone number for me?"

"Come on, Mick. You know I can't do that. You're not a cop."

"It's a professional thing, a client of mine. I know she is in a club or a bar in the 909 area code. She said something about Orange being in the name."

"Try an operator," Donato said.

"I think it's a pay phone. This is important. I'm not kidding when I say it might be a life or death situation."

"Oh, man."

"Please help me out, here."

"Give me the number," Donato said with a sigh. "I'll mark it as following up on a tip." I read it, heard Donato type something into a computer. "Orange Grove Bar in Pomona, on Gary and First. Looks like a really cool place."

"What?"

Donato chuckled. "I'm being a smart ass. It looks like the kind of place you want to check out when you have a bodyguard, an AK47, and some Mace. That's a very sleazy hood. You want I should call the Pomona PD?"

"No thanks, Larry."

"Hey, I'm off duty the next couple of days. Call me if I can help."

"I owe you one."

"Stay out of trouble, big guy."

I tried to call the number. The phone rang and rang.

I packed up my things, locked the studio, and ran through the parking lot. I threw my briefcase into the trunk of the car, removed a black case and took out my Smith and Wesson 357. I grew up with guns, but don't really like them. They have a nasty way of escalating matters.

There were two speed-loaders in the bag, each one filled with six hollow point cartridges. I slipped some bullets into the chamber and spun it, tucked the gun in my belt. I got in and fastened the seatbelt, fired up the engine, roared out of the parking lot and onto the 101 Freeway.

I opened my cell phone. Jerry was on the speed dial. I got his voice mail and flipped the phone closed. I put both hands back on the wheel and headed for Pomona.

The city raced by, a wide smear of colored lights and gray concrete. I drove down the freeway in silence, knuckles white on the wheel, gripped by vivid memories of Dry Wells, Nevada and how much I owed Mary. I took the 101 Freeway, then the San Bernardino. Only the presence of the loaded gun tucked into the waist of my jeans kept me from speeding.

The drive took less than an hour. I didn't know the area well, but well enough to get onto one of the main drags.

I drove past nice homes with pruned trees and manicured lawns and then down towards the bleaker ghetto neighborhoods, where the middle class, single-family houses gradually gave way to crumbling apartment buildings, boarded up rental properties, and vacant lots piled high with trash.

Graffiti popped up, left and right; the usual obscenities and some gang signs I didn't recognize. Broken black men with wine bottles sat forlorn on the gummy sidewalk, brown paper bags in their clenched fists.

In the 1960s Pomona had been bordered by orange groves and rolling hills; relatively free of smog, only recently developed. Like so much of Southern California, it had fallen on hard times towards the end of the 20th Century. Now it was smoggy swamp of racial tension, poverty, and gang violence known primarily for its yearly hosting of the Los Angeles County Fair. And sure as hell, a tall Caucasian dude was going to get noticed.

I pulled over to the side of the road, parked directly beneath a street lamp, turned off the engine and checked my watch. It was nearly two in the morning. The sky shook as one large, noisy LAPD chopper flew low overhead, racing east. I shoved the gun into the back of my belt, pulled my shirt out to cover it. I opened the door and hit the street as the droning helicopter faded away.