Untold Damage (8 page)

Twelve

Chris had offered to
drive him back to his place, but he declined. Told her he needed the exercise. Truth was, they'd never been to his street or his place, and he just didn't want them to see it. She probably had an idea, of course, but he just couldn't do it. Didn't want Anna to see the Loin, that was for sure.

He had Chris drop him off over on California, in front of Grace Cathedral. It was all down hill from there, anyway. Kissed Anna good-bye, told them both he'd see them soon. Stood and watched Chris drive away down the street, his daughter waving at him from the back window.

The walk felt like nothing. He couldn't remember ever feeling so fucking good. Like he'd made a significant move to getting his normal life back. One more step in what was sure to be a long-ass journey.

Mallen walked the blocks at a brisk pace. Just another guy hurrying on his way home, or maybe to a drug deal. As he neared his block though, he slowed, beginning to walk a patrol pattern that would keep him moving against traffic on the one-way streets in this part of town. Saw no black Escalades, and no sign of Jas or Griffin on the streets.

Once he got to his building, he went quickly inside, jogging up the stairs instead of waiting for the derelict, practically useless elevator. Couldn't remember if the building even had an on-site manager anymore. It'd been so long since he'd last cared about the state of anything, or anybody. Now he was beginning to wonder. The elevator. The halls. Eric. His broken-down studio.
It isn't too late,
he told himself. There was time to fix his life. Start over, now, before he was swallowed up and shit out the other end.

He came in and shut the door. Took off his coat. Tossed it over the edge of one of the folding chairs at the card table. He then quickly gathered up all of Anna's money, which he'd forgotten the last time he'd been here. Rolled it back up and stuck it in its hiding hole. Went and fixed himself a drink. The only thing he had was some cheap whiskey he couldn't even remember buying. Checked the freezer. No ice cubes.
Well, ice cubes just take up space, right?
He poured a double.

He tuned the cheap AM/FM radio he'd bought at a dollar store over on Pine Street to the college jazz station. Sat on the couch, trying to relax. Suddenly felt The Need. Badly. Took a drink. Took a breath. He told himself it would be okay. It would be … be a wave that he could surf, until he either made it to shore or wiped the fuck out.

Fuck it. It would be what it would be.

He'd just started on his second drink, way lost in a daydream, when a loud knock at the door startled him out of it.
That would not be Jas and Griffin
, he reassured himself. Those two would've just broken in, rained lead, and left. And if they'd gotten the apartment number wrong, oh well. Mallen looked around for a moment. Wasn't sure he was really in his apartment, he'd been so lost in his dream. He'd been imagining he was with Chris and Anna again. They were at Golden Gate Park, way out west near the soccer fields. There was a good wind. He and Anna were flying the kimono kite. A happy family. Could that happen again? Should he dare to hope?

There was another knock. Insistent. He could swear it was Oberon's knock. Got to his feet and went to the door to answer it.

It was Oberon all right. The first thing he noticed was how tired the detective looked. Mallen beckoned him inside with a smile. “Can I get you something to eat?” he asked. “I have some old bread that can made into old, dry toast. Maybe you want some vanilla ice cream?” Now that he was clean, he realized he would need to go buy some real, actual groceries at some point. The thought didn't thrill him.

“No coffee?” Oberon asked hopefully.

“Sorry. Not yet,” he said with a grin. “Come back during the third week of my being clean, and I'll fix you a bacon and cheese omelet that would rival Han's over on Sutter.” Went and sat on the sagging couch. “What brings you out this way? You look beat, Obie. Catch another case?”

“I was just in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop by for a cup of joe.”

“Oh yeah?” he replied, knowing full well that was bullshit. Oberon would come to it, in his own time.

It was then that Oberon noticed the state of the place. “What happened, Mark? You get into an altercation with your supplier?”

So
that
was it. Oberon had come by to see if he'd fallen back into his old ways.

“No,” he replied. Pushed up his sleeves and held out his arms. “Go ahead, man. Check 'em.”

“Stop,” Oberon replied. “I came by yesterday to see how you were getting on after being released. Didn't find you home, and well … can't blame an old Police for feeling a bit cynical from time to time, can you?” He went and sat down in one of the rusty folding chairs that Mallen had at one time called part of his dining room set. “I'm very glad to see that it seems to be holding, Mark.”

“Thanks. I have to say, Obie, that I owe it all to you.”

“I will come and collect on that, one day, I assure you,” the cop replied with a slight smile.

“And I'll pay off with a grin, trust me. Hey, you got my message about Jenna, right? She home okay?”

A nod. “Attacker struck from behind as she came into her apart-
ment. Must've interrupted whatever they were doing.”

Mallen wondered how much time to give her before he went and saw her. The more time he waited, the more she might forget, but he didn't want to push her, either. Not with Eric's death so raw and recent. “I know you, Obie,” he said, “I know that look. You caught another case. A bad one.”

“I must being going through some sort of karmic comeuppance. Just a nice young man with a wife and new baby at home. Takes two in the back as he's on his knees, probably begging for his life.”

“Not your week, is it?”

“Son, not my lifetime.”

“Anything to go on?”

“Nothing. Everyone liked him. He'd done time, in Folsom, but was actually turning his—no,
had
turned
his life around. I'll just have to keep digging.”

“You need a partner.”

Oberon laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “That would be taken under ‘budgetary consideration', I'm sure.”

He found himself happy to be talking to a cop about a case again, after so long. “Were there any signs of torture? Like maybe a vendetta getting paid off? Was your victim beaten at all before he got it?
”

“Like I said: he was married.”

Mallen laughed. “The confirmed bachelor rears his ugly head and spits at the world. Nice.”

Oberon bowed from the waist as he got to his feet.
“
‘I have always thought that every woman should marry, and no man.
'
”

“Woody Allen?”

His friend registered a look of disappointment on his face. “Disraeli, of course.” He passed by Mallen's coat hanging over the edge of the other chair, accidentally knocking it to the floor. The coat landed with a dull thump. All he could do was watch as Oberon picked up the coat to put it back, only to have the .22 Gato had given him fall out onto the floor with a crash that sounded like the shot heard round the world.

Oberon slowly bent down. Picked up the pistol. Eyed it for a moment. Smelled the barrel. “Well, at least it hasn't been fired recently. Would you like to explain this here, or downtown?”

“Come on, it's not mine. I'm just holding it for a friend.”

“For shame, Mark. That was quite poor.”

“It's the truth. Well, mostly the truth. Look, it belongs to a friend. He's going through some things. I don't want him to get into trouble, so I took it from him.” His insides cringed at the lying, but he didn't know what else to do. He thought about telling Oberon about Jas and Griffin, but there was a little voice inside that told him to keep quiet, that he could work it all out on his own. And that voice also told him that if he involved Oberon, then he knew there were other people on the force who would think badly of Oberon for helping him in the first place. He couldn't do that to his friend, not when he was so close to retirement. He knew full well how the hard the game was played in the department. No, he couldn't do anything that would maybe, even slightly, hurt Oberon.

The cop stared at him for a moment, then back down at the gun. “And you're just keeping it in your coat pocket for safe keeping? Is that what you're telling me?”

“This just happened. I haven't had a chance to find a safe place for it.”

Oberon dumped the coat on the couch. “I know a very safe place for it.” Checked it for bullets. Whistled softly. “And fully loaded, too. How joyful.”

“Look, just trust me on this one, okay? I'm just trying to … help out a certain man who is now not among the living. That's all.”

“Ah!” Oberon responded. “You mean like when I helped you to the extent that I risked my pension to have you put in the drunk tank so you could clean the junk out of your veins? You mean like that?”

He looked Oberon dead in the eye as he said, “Yeah. Just like that. Trust me on this one, okay? I won't let you down, Oberon. I won't.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as both men looked at each other, trying to gauge what the other one would do if things ran one way or another. After a long moment, Oberon came over. Handed the gun to him. “I'm trusting you, Mark, more than I've ever trusted another human being in my life. If that gun comes onto my radar again, especially if it was used in a crime, I will fall on you like the devil himself. Are we clear?”

“Completely.”

“If Mother Mallen could see me now,” Oberon said as he shook his head and went to the door, “she'd have my hide for letting you keep that thing. Don't make me regret it, Mark.”

Thirteen

“You're making me regret
this, Mark,” Chris said quietly as she stirred the cup of coffee in front of her. “Can't you go back to regular police work?”

They sat in the diner that belonged to the Seal Rock Inn, a small motel way out at the west end of the city, overlooking the Pacific. They sat huddled together at a small table, the one farthest away from the windows. The meeting place had been his call, one he'd made on the fly. It wasn't great, and he couldn't be seen being here for long, not in this place, not with a woman who was so obviously not a hooker or a pusher. But she'd sent the text, using the code they'd together set up before he went underground. She'd sent him the code that meant it was desperate, and he'd texted back to meet at the first place he could think of that would be safe, using the least amount of time.

“Look,” he told her, “I'm close now. I'm moving up the chain. I'm close.”

She shook her head. “When you said you wanted to be cop? Back after college? I thought you'd be in homicide or something, capturing murderers. Maybe even moving up, getting promoted, so you wouldn't even be out on the streets with all the crazy, dangerous people.”

“I know,” he answered. “But to get to that, I need to make a case for myself and my abilities. That's this work, Chris, the work I'm doing now.” He sat back. Looked out the windows at the ocean. What he wouldn't give then to just be on a boat with her and Anna, sailing away to a new life.

“What if something happens to you? What if something happens to Anna, and I can't reach you?” She shook her head. Took a sip of her coffee. “It's too dangerous. I'm not sure I'm cut out for you being on this duty.”

“Come on,” he said, reaching out and stroking her hair, “you know that even if I agreed with what you were saying, you know it wouldn't be right away, right? I just can't … disappear. And do you think Stevens, or the guys above that fucker would let me just walk away? Now? I can't, Chris.” He took her hand. Held it to his chest. “I promise you, once this case is over, I'll see what I can do to get pulled … to other duty. But right now? Right now I need to bring in these guys and send them to jail.” That's what Monster Mallen would've done, and that was a fact.

She looked into his eyes then. Really studied them. He'd let her into his life more than any other person that he'd ever known. Even more than his own parents. If there was one person who could read him, it would be her.

After a long moment, she looked away. Took a sip of her coffee. Looked out the window. “Okay, Mark,” she said, “I'll wait for this to be over.”

Fourteen

Scarsdale finished his late
lunch. Put his plate in the sink. He'd hear about it if he didn't.

“Don't forget to wash the dishes!” his mother yelled from the den. He sighed heavily. Hopefully loud enough that she'd hear. Turned on the water and proceeded to quickly wash the chipped plates, old glasses, and mottled silverware. In a small act of defiance, he left a string of spaghetti on the plate he'd used.
Have fun chiseling it the fuck off, Ma.

He decided to go to the bar, the house suddenly too small to hold him. Went downstairs to his room. Put on some different pants. Combed his thinning hair back. Dug out the free sample of men's cologne he found in last month's
Penthouse
. Reached under his shirt and rubbed it all over his chest and stomach. You never could tell: maybe he'd be able to score a bitch for free. Stranger things had happened. Left the house. Walked off down the street.

The Cove was located fifteen long blocks from the beach, but the decorations tried hard to make you think the surf was washing up on the doorstep. The place was thinly populated. Mostly the usual crowd of burnouts and old Chinese men. That depressed him, as that meant there'd be no way to pick up some tail. All the women who usually drank here knew him.

He went to the bar and ordered a beer. Sat there for about an hour, first drinking his beer, then moving up to shots of whiskey. It was toward the end of that hour that he figured out his problem. It didn't make him happy, but what else was there to do? Yeah … the only way out was to start dealing again. Fuck his mother. It would be
her
fault if he got caught again. Determination filled him up. Fuck it. The best way to get the stake he would need would be to steal it from her. He took another shot as he wondered how to go about doing that. Goddamn it … it would serve her right, the bitch. Why did women have to be such bitches all the damn time? He wasn't a bad guy. Only had a bad hand dealt to him. If his father had stayed around, maybe it would've been different. But hell, could anyone blame the guy? Look at what he married. Poor, stupid asshole. He was getting more and more angry the longer he sat there. Now he really wanted to find a hooker. Didn't have the dough, though. So, like an ultimate defeat, he hoisted himself off the barstool and left.

It was late afternoon and cold. Fog was rolling in, sending wisps and tendrils down the street, ahead of the main curtain of gray he could see heading into the city. He had no idea what time it was and didn't really care. The ocean air cleared his head somewhat. He decided to walk for a bit. Turned west, heading down toward the beach. Maybe he'd run into some people partying there, and they'd invite him to join in. That would be nice. He could tell them horror stories of prison. They'd think he was a tough motherfucker. The chicks there would dig that. He'd be “dangerous.” That usually excited the bitches.

He walked slowly, hands in pockets, enjoying the air. Being locked up could do that for a guy. Make him enjoy the sea air more. His shoulders sagged at the thought of being inside because he really didn't want to start dealing again. Because that might land him right back in prison again. Fuck that shit. He'd had enough of prison to last him a lifetime. And he liked fucking girls, not guys. Fucking guys to unwind was not something he wanted to do again, ever. The beach was coming up ahead, and he smiled. It was freedom, the beach. That's what it meant to him, anyway.

He didn't notice the two-door sedan pull to the curb ahead of him. He was lost in thoughts of freedom and women. When the blow slammed into the back of his head, the only thing he could think was that he was about to be mugged.