Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (18 page)

"You're from Texas?" I asked. "I had it in my head you were from Arizona or someplace."

"That's from my bullshit web bio. I hail from Paris. Texas, not France. But I don't advertise the fact."

"You still have family there?"

"I doubt it. My folks are dead." Loner stood up and dusted the wide seat of his black jeans. "Maybe I still got some distant kin in the flats around there, who knows. Say, haven't we ever got around to talking about this before?"

"Don't think so."

"Then why ask now?"

I rose too. "I was thinking that in this business you can work around a man, get hired by him out of nowhere, and still not know his real first name or where he's from. Just struck me as odd."

"Based on the other night," Loner said, "I was figuring that there was more than curiosity behind those questions. Okay, here we go. My first name, and I will break your jaw if you ever repeat it, is Milton."

My jaw dropped. "What? Excuse me, I didn't catch that."

"Fuck you, Callahan."

"
Milton?"

"God damn it, if you were named Milton McDowell and wanted to be an outlaw radio star, wouldn't you change
your
name to Loner?"

"I guess I would at that," I said. I sat on the couch, motioned for Loner to park in the stuffed chair. "So Milton McDowell from Paris, Texas is an FM jock somewhere, changes his name, and then what?"

"Some lady called in to tell me some ESP story instead of a request. I was bored, so I put her on the air with me. People called in to the station the next day and said that they dug it. The genius part is I realized most of them weren't calling to make fun of that lady. They liked listening to her and wanted to
believe
what she was saying. It hit me that there might be a market for oddball stories told straight. Then when I heard that there was this little radio station in Dry Wells that was for sale, I went for it. I knew I could pump doing this show from a place known for UFO sightings. With syndication, I could send it out
anywhere
. Plus, I like my hookers legal, and I flat
love
to gamble. Nevada made sense." Loner realized how much he'd revealed. He squinted at me and cocked his head. "Seems to me you gave me some crappy excuse for asking me so many questions a couple of minutes ago. What was it again?"

"Some kind of bullshit about wanting to know you better, I think."

"Oh, that's right. So what's the real reason?"

"Okay," I said, studying the big man's eyes. "I'm here to ask you what you know about how Sandy Palmer died."

Loner shook his head. "Well, I'll be damned."

"What?"

"The other night when you were asking questions I thought no, not Mick Callahan. The Mick I know is burned out. He's too busy trying to keep himself out of trouble to worry about somebody else's problems." McDowell motioned to the door. "You walked to talk? Okay, but let's go get us a beer."

We stepped outside and Loner locked the door. Out on the street, he seemed uncharacteristically subdued. "Mick, what do you know about the Palmer family?"

"I know that Lowell Palmer made a lot of money, most of it the wrong way. I know the rumors about Wilson not keeping his pants zipped. What else is there?"

"A lot," Loner said. "And you didn't hear it from me, okay?"

"Fair enough." Our boots drummed the dirt for a moment.

"You want to understand," Loner said, "you got to ask yourself something. How does a man who went belly up three times, the big BK and everything, end up with a large ranch and nice cars anyway? How does an old dude in a wheelchair whose son don't do jack all day but knock up women, how does this old man pay the bills? You getting my drift?"

"That had occurred to me."

"Good," Loner said. "Because I can't go a lot further than what I just said. I'm too fond of breathing."

I stopped in the street. "Give me a break, man. Save the melodrama and just tell me what people around here are so wound up about."

Loner shook his head. "Can't do it, friend." He lowered his voice, but kept his facial expression pleasant. "Not right out here in the middle of the street, in front of God and everybody. Let's go inside."

Tap's plywood bar was deserted. Sunlight streamed in the window and danced a jig with motes of dust. Loner dropped a mangled bill on the counter. He reached into the refrigerator, popped open a beer and offered one. I shook my head. Loner laughed. "Don't you get tempted?"

"Not today."

Loner took a long pull, belched, and leaned over the bar. "I don't understand you, man. I mean, you were more fun drunk than you are sober. How long has it been this time?" I didn't like the subtle emphasis placed on
this time
.

"A while."

"And what has it gotten you? You don't have any more good times. You make less money than you did when you were high. You probably ain't been laid since you got cleaned up. What does this sobriety shit do for you?"

"I enjoy remembering where I was yesterday. I don't have as many bad dreams. Let's just say it's for the best."

Loner downed the rest of the beer, left a second bill on the counter and popped open another bottle. "This thing you started fooling around with here in Dry Wells, it probably ain't for the best you keep it up."

I waited, my expression blank.

After a moment, he continued, "Small towns are funny. Everybody knows everybody else's business. You take Sandy Palmer there, the little girl just loved to party, and she wasn't particular about who she partied with. But then, right after you got it on, she'd not talk to you for days. Act like she was pissed, or maybe nothing personal even happened. She was a strange girl."

I studied his face carefully, then broke eye contact and fiddled with a coaster. "It's clear she had problems," I said.

"That would be an understatement," Loner said. "She'd say things while you was necking and getting ready, like 'can I call you my boyfriend?' And you'd always say 'sure thing,' even though you knew it was crap and that she was saying the same thing to everybody else. Hell, I probably would have felt sorry for the kid if I had stopped to think about it."

I looked up again, my gaze cool. "But then, you never were the stop and think about it kind, Loner."

Loner howled. "Ain't that the truth? I never was, not like you, Mick. So anyhow, the way I see it, Pop Palmer had to know exactly what was going on. Both of his brats were way out of control."

"He didn't interfere?"

"Not even before he had the stroke and got stuck in that chair, assuming he really is crippled. He's a piece of work, that one. But the kids just ran wild. Maybe Lowell didn't give a damn."

Someone walked by outside, big black boots thwacking the cracked pavement. Loner looked nervous, but no one entered the bar. He waited for the sound to fade away before resuming the conversation. "Way I figure things, Lowell screwed up so bad being gone and in trouble with the law; maybe he didn't have the heart to crack down on his youngsters. You got to believe a Pop loves his kids, right? Of course, I may be being a bit too charitable."

"Maybe."

"Why are you looking at me that way, Mick? I'm your friend, okay? Not some poor bastard you got trapped on camera."

I just stared.

Loner said, "
What
, damn it?"

The heat in my gut blossomed and rose to my cheeks. I thought of the porn video, gritted my teeth. "A young girl is dead, Loner," I said. "And to tell you the truth, it doesn't sit well with me that nobody gives a damn."

Loner looked uncomfortable. "Hell, Mick, I've always been a pussy hound. You know that. Leopard don't change his spots."

I closed the distance, leaned over the table, my tone sarcastic. "You held her in your arms, Loner. You touched her skin and kissed her and ran your fingers through that long blonde hair. And then you told her lies."

"So did a lot of guys." Loner was squirming.

"And they can speak for themselves. What I'm seeing right here and now is a selfish, inconsiderate, narcissistic prick who can't even suck it up enough to take pity on a dead girl."

McDowell twitched in his chair. I kept my hands loose and in front of me, in plain sight on the table, and held my breath. Loner sat back again. After a long pause, he said, "Fuck you, Mick."

I breathed out again. "I'm sorry, Loner. I don't know what the hell has gotten into me lately."

"You didn't mean that?"

I wasn't calm enough to lie. I shrugged. "Let's just say I didn't have the right to say it."

"Christ. How about some sensitive therapist talk?"

"It's my day off."

McDowell sighed. He took a moment to peel part of the Coors label off the beer bottle. I waited him out. A fly buzzed by my ear. "Okay," Loner said. "I'm a dick. I know that. I did care about the girl, man. I'm not totally heartless."

"You could have fooled me."

"Maybe it
did
fool you. This is confidential, right?"

"Probably."

"Now there is a comforting answer. Look, she was beautiful. She was funny. She was full of energy, and she was a fucking great piece of ass. Of course I cared about her."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm listening."

"But it's pretty hard to let yourself have deep feelings for somebody who is screwing half the town at the same time, you know? It's hard on a man's ego."

"Especially if he didn't know."

"Huh?"

I leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Did you find out about the other guys before or after you started sleeping with her, Loner?"

"Jesus, you really are wondering about me too, aren't you? You think I would do something like that, hurt a girl?"

"Oh, I think you did plenty to hurt her."

Loner turned red. "Who the fuck are you to judge me? A man has got to live before he dies. Just because you can't rock and roll doesn't mean the rest of us need to be preachers."

"True enough." I broke eye contact to ease the tension. I had pushed all the right buttons.

Loner was frothing at the mouth. "I've had my own rough row to hoe, partner," he said. "I did a three-to-five stretch with hard cons, real white trash. I was living with weight-lifting queers and sick tree-jumping child molesters twenty-four seven. Don't you go telling me I can't enjoy my freedom any damn way I choose."

"The truth is I don't generally much care about what you do," I said. "But you still didn't answer my question. Did you find out about the others before you slept with her, or after?"

"Oh, come on, Mick. This is a tiny little fucking town, where everybody knows everybody. That's why my partner Manuel and I are trying so hard to get the hell out. I've lived and worked around here for a few years now. I knew the Palmer family and that Sandy had a reputation." He finished his beer. "You want to talk to somebody who might have been surprised, try that Bobby Sewell, the kid I you punched out this morning. That boy is dimmer than a hillbilly IQ, and he's got a nasty temper."

The most dangerous moment had passed. I felt the tension leaving my body. "What do you know about Bobby, Loner? I know he was set to play pro ball and got hurt, but that's about it."

"Hangs around with a bunch of whacked-out kids like Donny Boy, the one with eyes like a bull on loco weed."

"How does Sewell make a living?"

"Most of those boys can stay busy doing one thing or another on somebody's spread. Even in the dead of winter, cattle got to eat, so somebody has to take the bales up into the hills and feed them. A boy with a strong back can make three squares and a cot almost any time, if that's all he's looking for."

I started to get to my feet, but Loner dropped two more ones on the bar and waved me back to the stool. He popped a third beer for himself and a can of Diet Pepsi. "Got to have some kind of a drink with me," Loner said. "Leaving so soon ain't neighborly. Now what are you up to, here?"

"Poking around," I said, and sipped the soft drink. "I'm just talking to people, trying to put all the pieces together. I feel like I'm interviewing a dysfunctional family, and nobody is being straight with me."

"It's one non-functional town, all right. Don't mind telling you I'm flat sick of it. Like I told you, I've been waiting on this hombre I do business with, a little guy I believe is going to help me get the fuck out of here for good."

"How?"

Loner tapped his skull. "Might sell the station. I got a brain for business, Callahan. That's all there is to it."

"You surely do."

"Gotta ask you something," Loner said. He wasn't angry any longer, but I had come pretty close to getting punched in the nose.

"Shoot." The soft drink was ice cold, and tasted pleasant. I took another sip and waited.

"Did you insult me a minute ago on purpose, thought about it carefully before you did it and all?"

"Sure did."

"You were trying to shock me into saying something I didn't mean to say, weren't you?"

"Yeah," I said. I took a long gulp of the drink and finished it. Loner looked at me differently, seemed vaguely impressed.

"You play some dangerous games."

I crushed the Pepsi can in my fist and examined it for a time. There was nothing else to say. I yawned and got to my feet. McDowell looked up, bleary-eyed. He was becoming maudlin, now. He'd be hugging me soon, telling me he loved me.

"I'll tell you something, Loner," I said. I started for the door. "You end up in a bigger place someday, one that has shrinks; you might want to go."

Loner guffawed. "Oh, come on."

"You're a fun guy to hang around and a lot of laughs, but I think there's a little piece of you missing."

Loner seemed amused. He leaned his bulky body back in the wooden chair and smugly finished the bottle of beer. "And what piece is that?"