Untold Damage (2 page)

Two

The cold, brutal wind
hit Mallen like a pissed-off nun's slap on Sunday as he came out of his building and headed west on Eddy toward Polk. The collar of his dingy overcoat was pulled up against the elements, not that it did much good. The rain seemed to find its way into every opening. Every torn seam. He was drenched before he got half a block from his door. As he trudged along, he thought of Eric. They hadn't spoken for a very long time. Why would Eric have his address? What would have been going on in his head? He racked his brain for the street Eric's parents lived on. Somewhere out in the avenues. Out near California and 6th? Maybe 4th? He'd know the place if he saw it.

There was a rumble of thunder overhead. Angry and bitter. He figured to go see Eric's parents once he was done with Dreamo. Yeah, that would work. However, for the first time he could ever remember, he wasn't looking forward to copping. The feeling surprised him. For just over four years now it had been all about copping the next high, or about protecting the current stash from prying eyes and sticky fingers. A dope hound's world was all about sleeping with one eye open and one hand on the stash. Whatever it took to protect the e-ticket ride to that distant, golden shore.

Sirens erupted nearby, filling the air as they approached. Two black and whites tore around the near corner. Shot past him, all Code Three. Stopped at a building down the street. It was hard to fight down the urge to walk back, see what was going down. The siren acted on him like some bullshit Pavlovian experiment. He stood and watched for a moment longer then turned away and headed down the street.

The inside of the Cornerstone was darker than usual. Funereal in its inky, still dimness. The bar felt to him like a holding cell in Hell: easy to get into, but leaving was a whole different matter. A large, dark mass came down the bar toward him. Took him a moment to realize it was Bill.

“Jesus,” he said to the bartender, “turn on some lights or some-
thing.”

Bill put a huge, meaty hand on the bar. “You got a problem with the dark? After all those dark alley deals you did as a cop?”

“I keep telling you I was never a cop. Only a junkie on vacation.” He said it with a smile, but it always kept him on edge. People around the neighborhood knew he'd been a cop. It couldn't be hidden, not here. You never knew when that bit of noise would carry to the wrong ears and someone might decide it was time to come for a pound of flesh. Over the years he'd arrested a lot of guys, burned a lot of people, shattered a lot of people's faith in their fellow man. Again, he asked himself, for the three millionth time: why didn't he leave and go to another town? And again the answer came back, as it always did: Chris and Anna.

“Dreamo in his office?” he asked. The bartender indicated the back hall with a tilt of his bullet-like head.

“Thanks.” He walked to the back, noticing a few shadowy figures sitting in the corners. Pale hands wrapped around glasses, heads close together as they whispered to each other. Tenderloin lifers, doing deals; people whose entire world was lived out in that strange isosceles triangle of San Francisco: the bottom demarcation line being Market Street, the western border stopping at Van Ness, the top running no farther north than Bush Street. That one small area of real estate known as the Tenderloin held, per capita, more child abusers, drug addicts, thieves, and just all-out bad people than any other part of the city.

The hall was illuminated by a single naked bulb that turned the graffiti carved into the old wood walls to a sort of bas-relief. Ancient runes, carved by drunken ancestors. The men's room door was slightly ajar. He thought he could hear soft breathing coming from inside.

“Dreamo? It's Mallen, man.”

“Yeah. Enter, my child,” came the thready reply. He could tell instantly that Dreamo was already loaded.

He pushed into the small restroom. Decades of pen work and phone numbers made the walls a swirling nightmare under the hard light of the bulb over the sink. There was the sharp crack of glass under his boots. Bill hadn't swept in here since the Clinton administration, at least. Dreamo was in the second stall, the one against the wall, lying back against the stained porcelain toilet tank. The dealer looked even more high than usual.
Must be some good shit.
The crook of his arm suddenly itched—a metal detector sensing gold.

Dreamo pushed some of his sagging blond mohawk back away from his face. It reminded Mallen of a tired bird's tail. “Hey, Mal. You don't look so good. What's up?” he rasped.

“Nothing man. It's nothing. Just got some bad news on an old buddy is all. No worries.”

“No shit? That's fucked up, man. I hate it when shit happens to people I know, or used to know. What happened, man?”

“He was shot. Killed.”

“Damn,” Dreamo said as he adjusted himself into a more comfortable position. “ ‘I care not; a man but once; we owe God a death.' That's Shakespeare, man, you know that?”

“No, didn't know that. Philosophy was never my strong suit.”

Dreamo snorted with laughter. “Fuck man, why would it be? It's all horseshit. I just know it's from fuckin' Shakespeare because one of my other customers told it to me. Mal, you kill me, sometimes.” He straightened up. Tried to erase some permanent creases in his shirt. It was his “getting down to business” move that Mallen knew very well. “How much you lookin' for?”

For an answer, Mallen reached into his pants pocket. The severance package the PD had given him when they told him to leave­—paying him off with the air of getting an unwanted baby aborted—was something he was thankful for every first of the month when the check came to his PO box. Hell, he'd actually been thankful every day of his misbegotten life. He would never forget Captain Stevens's look when they made the offer to him to go away and keep his mouth shut. Stevens looked like he wanted to puke. Nobody at City Hall and none of the brass wanted anyone to know, especially the fuckin' press, that they'd lost an undercover cop to the very world they were so desperately trying to get rid of.

Mallen shook his head then, trying to keep thoughts about the past from running away with him. He pulled off a couple twenties. Hopefully there was enough to make it to next month. He'd noticed lately that he'd been running closer and closer to the bone as the months went by.

Dreamo attempted to whistle with amazement at the money thrust at him, but it only came out a leaky steam pipe. “Man, you should really talk to my friend. Dealin's the way to keep shootin' and livin', my friend.”

“I don't want to. Quit asking.”

“I could get you some real weight. Could push it for you.”

“Yeah, push it right into your own arm. Just give me three, okay?”

Dreamo's only reply was a shrug. Pulled out three small glass vials each the size of a .45 slug. “And the Lord said, ‘Let There Be Junk!
'
” he said with a laugh that mutated into a jangled giggle. Mallen sometimes wondered if the insane edge to it was forced for effect.

“You know,” Dreamo continued, “society is lucky to have us, Mallen.”

“Oh really? How so?”

“We're the bell curve. We show society how bad it can get. And because of that, they subconsciously bounce off us, higher than they would go otherwise. If it weren't for
us,
there would be no
them
.” Another broken giggle.

“Dream on, Dreamo, dream on,” he replied, shoving the vials into his underwear. No way anyone would ever grab him that close to his dick. Or at least it hadn't happened that way yet. But as he stood there, the feeling that it was all wrong somehow struck him, struck him right down to bottom of his soul. The whole transaction bugged him for some reason. Like he was an actor in a play he didn't really want to see and couldn't enjoy. Maybe it was just the beginning of the comedown off the junk. Maybe it was waking up with the pin still in his arm.

Maybe it was hearing about Eric.

H
e'
d turned to the door to leave when Dreamo spoke again, his voice having receded even further away into what the dealer always referred to as the Users Realm. Dreamo would be asleep soon, he knew, dreaming again. Golden thread and silver needles, weaving images of sunshine and shadow.

“Dude, just remember this,” Dreamo rasped. “We show 'em how bad it can be. We're the monsters.”

Three

Mallen stood outside the
Russ house, huddled up in his coat in an attempt to keep out the harsh, cold wind coming from the north. Gazed up at the off-white stucco row job, complete with flower baskets along front windows. He'd been supremely proud of the fact that he'd remembered where it was. Proud as if he was a kid, wanting a fuckin' gold star for the day.
Is that what it's come to?
he suddenly wondered.
Remembering where a fucking house is located now merits pride? Jesus H. Christ …

The place looked as cared for as the last time he'd been there, long years ago. Would they even recognize him? Would he really want them to? The longer he stood there with the ocean wind creeping into the very fiber of his being, the more he wanted to turn away and leave. The vials of H in his shorts seemed to be like a neon sign in his pants, he was so self-conscious of them.
You don't need to involve yourself with their world,
his junkie monkey chattered at him. The world had shown him it didn't need his involvement. It could get on fine without him, thank you very much, so go home. But then he found himself putting his boot on the first step, and then the next. And the thing that made him do it was remembering what Oberon had said. Eric had been an addict. Had been trying to kick it. But it was the
why
of Eric writing down his name and address that was the clincher. Mallen ran his fingers through his dark, tangled hair, trying to neaten it. Took a deep breath before knocking on the front door.

After a moment, the door was opened by a woman who he knew was about sixty, but looked seventy. Phoebe Russ. Her eyes were past tired, moving quickly beyond extremely exhausted. She folded a strand of gray hair out of her eyes to tuck it behind her right ear. “Yes?” she said, “Can I help you?”

“It's Mallen, Phoebe. Mark Mallen? Remember?”

She did. Looked at him again. Couldn't hide the shock on her face. “I … I'd heard you left the force.”

“Did, yeah.” There was a silence that started up. One that made him wish he'd kept away. “Heard about … what happened. Just wanted to come by. Offer my condolences. To you and Hal. I was really sorry to hear that Eric had … had trouble.”

“Thank you, Mark,” she replied, then shook her head with tired exasperation. “Where the hell are my manners! Please, please come in.”

She opened the door wider to let him in. He found himself in an entryway that hadn't changed much since his last time here. On his left was the living room, through a wide, high arch. Great room. Had always been one of his favorites in the place. Now it seemed filled with a heavy, sad air. On the mantle was an 8 1/2 x 11 black-and-white photo of Eric. Taken in full uniform. Eric's death already felt like it'd woven itself into the very fiber of the house.

Phoebe led Mallen back to the large, eat-in kitchen. The round wooden table that sat four was still there, right under the large windows that overlooked the backyard. It was late into winter, the flowers nothing but stalks. She gestured for him to sit. “Coffee?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

She retrieved the bag of coffee from the freezer, filters from the pantry. Set the machine up. Hit the On button. Put a pint of half-and-half on the table along with a sugar bowl. Sat opposite him. The silence grew uncomfortable. She seemed to want to say something but instead kept tracing invisible designs on the table with her index finger.

“If there's anything I can do to help,” he found himself saying, “just let me know.”

She failed to hide her skepticism, though she tried. Another curb stomp to his soul. He'd broken bread with these people, bled with their son. It took him a moment to regroup. Took all his failing inner strength to find his voice. “I spoke with Oberon Kane.”

More designs traced. “Oh?”

“Yeah. He filled me in on Eric. A little. Told me … about some of it.”

A moment. Then a nod. Eyes were wet now.

“I had no idea he … was in trouble,” he continued. “Oberon, well, he told me that Eric had my name and address in his pocket.”

Phoebe got up from the table. Went to the coffee machine. Stood there, still as stone, for ten very long seconds. Poured two cups. Came back. Put them on the table. “I'd heard about you, Mark,” she said, anger creeping into her voice. “I'd heard about how it'd turned out for you. What you gave up. Your family. Everything.” Glared at him. “I figured he had your name and address in his pocket because you were selling him that stuff he was putting into his soul. That you were his dealer. Making money off of other people's addictions? That's what you are, right?”

Finding his voice was like finding a needle in a haystack. “No, Phoebe,” he replied with as much conviction as he could grab on such short notice. “I never dealt to him. Hell, I hadn't even seen him in years. Didn't know about his addiction. I'm telling you the truth: I didn't deal to him. Ever. To him, or anyone else.”

“You only take it, right? Isn't that right, though? You shoot it, don't you?” Angry. So angry. He understood that, and there was enough of him left to know that she wasn't angry at
him,
but at what he was. At the brand he bore:
junkie.
He waited her out, wishing he'd never come, knowing that was a bullshit feeling.

After a moment, she relaxed. Shoulders sagged. Wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. “I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “I know you haven't been around. He mentioned you a lot, though. Missed you, actually.”

“He did?”

She looked right at him. Looked right into him. “Yes. He did.”

He filled his coffee with a lot of sugar. Partly to stall for time so he could collect his thoughts. “Wish I'd known that.”

“I don't know why he had your address, Mark,” she finally said. “We had no idea about his starting up again. About him … going back.”

“How's his wife taking it? Jenna?”

A nod. “About how you'd expect. They weren't really together, but … they were still close.”

He stared at the black, oily liquid in his cup. “How's Hal taking it?”

For an answer, she indicated the door behind him. Hal's den. “He's in there.” Tears started. Hard. He didn't know what he was really doing, but he got up and went to her. Put his arm gently around her shoulder.

“I'm so sorry, Phoebe. I'm going to miss him, too.”

He could feel her nod. Let her go. She wiped at her eyes. He went and pulled a tissue out of the box that had always lived on the kitchen table. Handed it to her. “I'm going to go talk to Hal, okay?”

She nodded absently, eyes staring down into the cup in front of her. Maybe she was watching some old memory of her son as a little boy. Before he ever became a cop. Or an addict.

The den door wasn't shut all the way. Mallen wondered how much of their conversation might've been overheard. The huge old desk was still there, taking up one entire corner. The blinds were drawn tight, leaving the light from the outside world dull and gray. Old bowling trophies glinted in the weak light.

Hal Russ sat in the big faded leather easy chair he'd owned since way before Eric had been born. The man only appeared as a vague shadow in the dimness. Head was down on his chest. Like he was sleeping. There was a slight glint from a half-empty bottle on the side table near the chair. He thought Hal might really be asleep, but then the man spoke.

“Mallen,” he said quietly as he raised his head. His voice was wasted. Tired and thready, like from shouting at the world. “Wondered if you'd show. Hoped you would, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You went through the academy with him. That bonds guys together, doesn't it? Like going through boot camp.”

“Very much like that, true.”

“He'd be glad to know you came by,” Hal said, adding, “I heard about … your troubles. Eric had kicked it, you know? Worked hard to do that.”

“Well, he had that strength, and then some.”

“He did,” Pride there now. But it sounded like being proud of the
Titanic
.

Mallen walked over to the bottle. Glanced at Hal, who nodded. “Be my guest, Mallen.” He poured a half glass of whatever it was. Didn't care at this point, just needed it. The vials were yelling at him for attention. He wanted to quiet them. Needed to, while he was here.

“Hal,” he said, trying to keep his voice even and strong, “he had vials in his pocket, along with my address. We hadn't talked for a long, long time. Have to wonder if the police will be coming up with leads. You know why he'd have my address in his pocket?”

The man's soft chuckle filled the space between them. “You know, you still sound like a cop. I think that makes me happy, Mal.”

“You can take the junkie out of the cop, but you can never take the cop outta the junkie. Or so they say, anyway.” He made a silent toast, regretting his choice of words. To his surprise, Hal held up his glass, and the two men drank one in silence.

Hal then adjusted his large stomach. “So, you came by to offer condolences?”

“Yeah. And any help you might need. You know, if he wanted to talk to me, well …” he took another sip of his drink, “well, to be honest, I wish I hadn't missed out on the chance.” And he was being honest. The longer he stood there, the more he wished he hadn't missed out on the one last chance to talk with his old friend. Maybe he could've … but no, that was for people who could actually do shit. Accomplish things. Not for junkie burnouts. “I guess I'm just looking for answers, like the rest of the fucking world.”

“Answers,” Hal echoed. “I heard those were extinct.”

“Maybe,” Mallen responded as he took another sip from his glass, feeling the alcohol in his system now. “But I recently heard the state of their demise has been greatly exaggerated.”

Hal laughed silently. Held up his drink in another toast. Drained it with a gulp.

“I'm getting the impression he was trying to turn his life around,” Mallen said.

“Had,” came the firm, definite response. “He
had
turned his life around, damn it. Was doing fine. Just fine. Working on getting back with Jenna. Looking for work. Everything.”

“What do you think happened then? An old score, settled? The vials suggest—”

“I know what they fucking suggest!” The yell echoed out in the room, swallowed up by a deep silence. Then Hal filled his glass again, from the nearby bottle. Shrugged. “I still can't—will never—believe it.”

And why would any parent believe it? If it'd been his Anna? Taken way earlier than she should've been? He shuddered then, as though the arctic air had suddenly blasted through the windows. “Was there anything going on with him lately?” he said. “Anything … out of the ordinary? Had he mentioned me to you or Phoebe at all?”

Hal's soft chuckle filled the room. “You really can tell you used to be a cop, kid. Ever miss it?”

“Only when I get a speeding ticket.”

“Come on, do you?”

He didn't even bother trying to play it off. “Yeah, I do.”

“I can tell.” Hal took another sip, then continued, “No, nothing. I'm telling you, Mallen, if my son had something going on with him, he never told me.”

Mallen finished the rest of his drink. The Need was preying on him now, stronger and stronger. And he found himself hating it more and more, along with the rest of his life. “Thanks for the
drink, Hal. If you need any help with anything, just let Oberon Kane at the department know. He'll find me.”

His hand was on the doorknob when Hal's voice cut through the gloom. Choked with emotion. Raw. Bare. “Mallen?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for caring.”

He nodded, not sure if Hal could even see it. Left. Phoebe still sat at the kitchen table. It looked like she hadn't moved at all. Her eyes were red and moist. She daubed at them with a crumpled tissue.

“I was … hoping to get Jenna's address,” he murmured, instantly ready for Phoebe to shoot it down. “Thought I could go and offer my condolences. She came along just before I … left. But I'd like to, just the same. If it would be all right.” And his soul cringed with the begging quality in his voice. More so because he knew that was the truth of his position.

Phoebe sat there thinking about it longer than he'd hoped she would. In the end, though, she heaved herself up like her soul weighed a thousand pounds. Went to a scratch pad attached to the refrigerator door by a magnet shaped like a rainbow. Scribbled an address down on it. Came and gave it to him. Jenna was over on California, just east of Hyde.

“Don't … don't make her feel worse, Mark,” she said as she handed it to him. Then pursed her lips, regretted saying it. The words stung, but what could he say? To her, he was a walking disaster zone. Barely kept together by the very thing that was tearing him apart.

“I'm really sorry for what happened,” he told her quietly, his face hot with the effect her words had on him. “I wish there were … answers … for what happened to him.”

She was about to reply when she stopped. Like she'd just remembered something.

“What is it?” he asked. It was like the old cop motor had suddenly kicked on. Rusty and broken, needing oil, but the damn thing still fucking ran.

“It's just something he said to me the day before … it happened. I wondered about it at the time, because it was so out of character for him.”