Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (22 page)

Annie looked baffled. "Let me get this straight. You're a man. You're sweaty and half-undressed. You're out on the empty porch with a beautiful woman you used to get it on with, and it's all on a hot spring evening, and you say sorry but not
now
? Mick Callahan, what the fuck is your problem?"

"It's really complicated," I said miserably. "I'm sorry."

Annie got to her knees and dusted the seat of her jeans. "I meant it when I said I never forgot you."

"I know."

"Mick?"

I couldn't see her, but her voice trembled. "The baby I lost, that abortion that screwed up my insides? It was
your
baby, Mick."

Against my will, my mind pictured a little child with my dark hair and black-Irish features. I felt stunned, slapped in the face. "My God, Annie. Jesus."

"I thought you should know."

"I don't know what to say."

She sighed and her breath teased my neck. "There's nothing needs saying."

"I am
so
sorry."

She sensed my resolve and pulled away. "But the answer is still no?"

I did not reply. She got to her feet and stretched. Her breasts were outlined by the cool, yellow moonlight. I looked away and down at the ground. Annie bent over and pinched my face. "I think I get it, now. This is about some other woman, right?"

After a long moment, I said, "Maybe it is. Something like that."

"Okay," she said. "I've been waiting a long time. I can wait a little longer. You'll be back."

"Could be," I said.

"Oh, I'll have you all right." Annie walked away smiling, with an exaggerated swing of the hips. She called out over her shoulder, "It's your loss, cowboy."

I moaned. "Don't I know it."

Annie flipped me the finger. She vanished into the gloom. I sat still for a while, waiting for the rush of sexual heat to die down. I couldn't explain it to her because I didn't fully understand it myself. My mind was in a kind of spasm. Something was going on in the unconscious. I needed time alone to think, which was difficult when I felt like a horny teenager. I took a long, cool shower. I hummed an Irish ballad Danny Bell taught me, "Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms." I wondered, not for the first time, if my mother had known it. The thought of another woman dying young depressed me even further.

I toweled off and then lay naked on the bedspread in the darkness, willing my mind to slow. I meditated for a while, thought things over.

From my readings about Taoism and Buddhism, I knew that a wise teacher would discourage "dualism" and the illusion that distinctions such as good and evil are meaningful. In the East there is only the one universe, which is a cohesive whole. It is said that polar opposites have no place in an enlightened mind. But such abstractions were of little comfort now, because although I told myself that evil did
not
exist, I could not stop seeing Lowell Palmer's obsidian eyes, so bottomless and dispassionate. They had seemed entirely devoid of empathy, curiosity, or virtue. The man had a presence that was truly chilling, and very hard to define.

I pictured the dead man in the alley, hands tied behind his back and fingertips sliced away. Saw that ugly wound at the back of his neck, made by a pick or perhaps a hunting arrow. And I wondered how the hell he factored into this chaos.

I opened my copy of
Synopsis of Psychiatry
and read about Borderline Personality Disorder. BPD sufferers are intense, self-involved people who are impulsive, lacking in boundaries, out of control in areas like spending and sex. They can be prone to melodramatic outbursts and angry, tempestuous relationships. I refreshed my memory, then rubbed my eyes and put the book away. My eyes wandered back to the clock.

I swore and looked at the time again. I debated, then grabbed my cell phone, opened and dialed it. The phone rang and rang. I rubbed my face. Finally a woman picked up. I made myself sound happy. "I'm calling for Darin, please. This is Mick Callahan speaking."

"Just a second," she said, curtly. She was clearly unimpressed. I heard rock music and laughter. Several moments passed. I forced a wide, toothy smile and whispered a variety of obsequious opening sentences. I felt like a prostitute and loathed myself for doing this.

"He said to tell you he's busy," the woman said.

"Excuse me?"

"He's out in the pool playing volleyball. I'm supposed to tell you to call back and leave a message on the machine."

"But . . ."

"Bye, now."

I closed the cell phone and massaged my temples. After a moment I opened the telephone again and hit the redial button. I waited through the voice mail message. "Hey, Darin old buddy, it's Mick. You wanted me to call you back regarding our meeting Tuesday afternoon at 5:00 at Warner Brothers. It looks like it's going to be fine, okay? And I'm
really
up for it. See you then."

I slowly closed the phone, dropped my head into cupped palms, and shuddered. I wondered if I had set a high enough price for my very soul. I sat for a long moment, then jumped to my feet, went to the refrigerator and poured some milk into a saucer. I opened the door and clicked my tongue. A few seconds later the old gray cat strolled over and wound itself around my ankles.

"How's it going, Murphy?"

The cat purred.

"That's your name, you know. Murphy, for Murphy's Law."

More purring.

I put the saucer down and listened to the animal drink. I stroked his scarred ears and matted fur, savored the ragged, affectionate sounds he made. When Murphy was finished he farted and strolled away.

"You're welcome."

I went back inside and tried to sleep.

Monday Morning, 8:45 AM . . . Memorial Day

I struggled; thrashed around and coughed; fell out of the bed and onto the area rug. The crash woke me. I stayed on all fours, panting, and watched several sweat drops splash down onto the heavily varnished floorboards. The clock ticked. I looked up and saw that it was nearly nine.

"God damn it!"

I got up on toes and fingertips and did push-ups until my muscles started shrieking; then rolled over and did stomach crunch movements until my abs were on fire. I considered going for another run, but decided to hustle. I took a long, cold shower and scrubbed myself, desperate to rub away the dream. And then I thought of Annie Wynn and the touch of her fingers.

No doubt about it
, I thought.
It is most
definitely time to get the hell out of Dodge
. I grabbed the telephone.

"I am sorry sir," the Swiss clerk said with precision. "It seems that Mr. Solomon has left the hotel. He mentioned that he might take a train down to Ticino. That is very near Italy, by the lake of Lugano. There are many fine restaurants there."

"Thanks." I set the phone down. It was all up to me now. I considered my choices. I was a blur of motion the millisecond the decision was made. I closed up the computer and packed it away in its black padded case. I circled the room, tossing clothes and books and yellow note pads into the worn, plaid suitcase.

Outside, I tossed my baggage into the hatchback and slammed it shut. I walked briskly over to the motel office and knocked, without really expecting an answer; then knocked again. Jerry's red scooter was still missing. A cold feeling swam into the pit of my stomach.
Maybe it's already too late
.

"Glad I caught you," someone said. I whirled, my hands coming up.

"Whoa, bubba!" Loner cried. "Easy there."

"Christ, you scared me."

"Sorry about that."

"What are you up to, Loner?"

"Gonna be quite a fireworks show tonight. I'll be watching from the station because we're on the air live. But hey, you look like you're already on your way out of town."

"You're right."

"Then I better do it," McDowell mumbled.

"Do what?"

Loner seemed pale and tired. His eyes were red. His hands were trembling. He cracked his knuckles, scooted his left boot through the dirt awkwardly, and cleared his throat. He looked twelve years old. "I don't know how to say this."

"Just say it."

"I'm an asshole, Mick. I've been thinking about what you said about me not caring about anyone. First it pissed me off but then it really started to bother me."

I just wanted to get this over with. I shrugged, smiled gently. "If it bothered you, maybe that proves me wrong."

"Hear me out," Loner said. "This isn't easy. I've done a lot of stupid and selfish things. Never gave them much thought. To me, that's the way the world is. You take what you can get. But somebody is dead, and here I am acting like nothing happened. I don't like seeing that in myself."

"Two somebodys are dead. Will appears to have hung himself yesterday."

"Oh, shit. Damn." Loner sagged as if he were about to lose his balance. "What the hell is going on?"

"Lots of people seem to be wondering that very thing."

Loner sighed. "That does it."

"What?"

"I'm gonna finish up tonight with the Memorial Day program, and the live broadcast of those fireworks out to Starr Valley, and then I'm outa here."

"You? But you own the radio station."

"Got an offer last week. I just decided right here and now that I'm taking it."

"What about your friend Manuel?"

"Fuck him. I've waited long enough."

"I'm surprised," I said. "You seem to like it here."

"I have a serious need to raise some cash, Mick. It seems my partner ain't coming, so I'm on my own, and I've got some king-sized gambling debts to settle. There are other jobs and other places. I always did like Tahoe too, you know." Loner couldn't look me in the eye. "I'm actually glad you're going, old buddy. There are a lot of weird things going down around here. I don't want you to get mixed up in them."

"What things?" I asked, not really expecting an answer.

"Better you don't know," McDowell said. "Let's just say there's a lot of money involved. Sorry I dragged you up here and got you mixed up in all this."

I shook my head, ruefully. "Not half as sorry as I am."

McDowell grinned. "I believe you."

"I'm tempted to ask you to explain what you just dangled out there. But the truth is I got it in my head to get the hell out of here. And I'm gonna stick to the plan."

"Believe me, I understand."

I looked around, hands on hips, and tried my best to seem annoyed rather than worried. "Loner, you got any idea what happened to little Jerry? Have you seen him this morning?"

McDowell shook his head. "I'm looking for him, too. I just dropped by to say goodbye to you and pay your room charges. Seems like the least I can do."

We shook hands. McDowell punched me on the shoulder. It hurt. "Good luck over to L.A. I like you, even if you did make me admit I'm an asshole." We smiled, nodded at one another. Finally we hugged.

"Thanks for the job, Loner. Stay out of trouble."

Loner nodded. "That's what I'm going to do," he said, turning away. "And it's smart of you to do the same." He threw back over one shoulder: "Gotta go, the show will be starting early today. Don't you worry about Jerry or the motel bill. I'll handle all that."

"Thanks."

"
De nada
." Loner stopped. He looked at me for a long moment, seemed about to say something. Finally he shrugged. "
Adios, amigo
," he said. He walked away.

I stood there until the big man was gone. I contemplated my situation once last time, went over what I knew and what I now suspected. Several moments passed. I became aware of a distant, scratchy voice blaring from a loudspeaker and brass band music coming from the park. The Memorial Day show had begun. It was time to leave.

I willed myself to move, but my body remained still. I remembered the dream I'd had about Sandy Palmer and shivered, although the day was turning hot. I pondered everything and went over my options.

I didn't really have any.

Once the decision reaffirmed itself, I turned and got into that old green hatchback Mustang. I started the engine and drove rapidly away from Dry Wells.

Monday Morning, 10:15 AM . . . Memorial Day

I took the 93 cut south and drove on past the Palmer ranch, looping off towards the west without a sideways glance. I almost missed the back entrance because a thicket of tumbleweeds and a pile of old cement blocks obscured the start of the dirt road. I grabbed my cell phone and clipped it to my belt. I parked the hatchback on the far side of the dead brush. I swallowed deeply, opened the trunk, lifted the spare, and removed the body of the jack; hefted it, testing its weight as a weapon. It would have to do. I stayed low to the ground, hunched over, and moved as quickly and quietly as possible onto Lowell Palmer's property.

I could smell the sage and my own dank fear. Blistering sunshine pounded my shoulder blades. Horse flies buzzed and a horde of grasshoppers began to click and rattle. A solitary cow mooed from low and to the left; she was probably grazing down in the gully. I stopped from time to time, just to avoid being a constantly moving image on the barren desert floor. I scanned the horizon, then the windows of the houses to see if I'd been discovered. Saw nothing; caught my breath and moved on.

I came upon the three empty mobile homes near the back of the property. I would have to cross a long open stretch to reach them. Between the dented fenders of two of the old vehicles, I spotted three very large, chest-high steel containers. I braced myself.