Untold Damage (12 page)

Twenty

Mallen rolled over on
his cot as the call went out for everyone to leave. Such was life in a shelter. He'd used his rolled-up coat as a pillow for two reasons: One, it seemed a better alternative to the one he'd been handed; and two, it would keep the gun close to him. He knew that things went missing, and men got stabbed in places like this. Why risk it? When he'd been back in uniform, right before hitching up with Narco, he'd answered a call on a dead man in a shelter over on Eddy, near Larkin. Some old man, stabbed over twenty times in the chest as he probably lay there, sleeping, thinking he was safe. They never caught the killer or even figured out a likely motive, other than it had been “a street thing.”

He'd walked around upper Knob for a while after leaving Jenna's apartment. Even stepped inside Grace Cathedral. Just trying to stay safe and put Eric's death, and his own new life, into some sort of perspective.

The attempt hadn't netted much resolution, but at least it was quiet inside the church, and he felt safe there. A feeling he hadn't felt since getting spotted by Jas and Griffin, and which was only reinforced by the beating Griffin had given him. It was as he sat there that he realized he would need a place to crash where he could feel safe. The local shelters offered that, if he got there early enough.

All in all, it hadn't been a bad night. The usual white noise of a bunch of men all corralled together. Very much what jail was like. He'd been lucky, having arrived just in time to be one of the last admitted for the night. Found a cot right in the middle of the room, one of the last not taken. Sleep had been long in coming—his mind refusing to shut up—but eventually it had, and he got about four hours of decent sleep.

And then the call had gone out for everyone to leave. The inside of his mouth tasted like something better left untasted. He wanted to shower. That was another newly remembered feeling, now that his veins were back to being his own.

In short, he realized he'd have to risk going back to his place. Hell, shouldn't Jas and Griffin have other things to think about other than one lone ex-cop, ex-junkie? He'd have to risk it.

Mallen had just put his boot on the first of the five steps leading up to his building's street door when the gunshots cut the air.

Must be a slow time down at the ol' drug den!
he thought.

They exploded out of nowhere, heavy and concussive. The glass in the lobby door shattered into a thousand glittering shards. Knew instantly the bullets came from the other side of the street. Another volley, and he felt concrete and wood splinters rain down on him. There was the roar of an engine, an engine he now recognized, followed by the squeal of tires. He dove down behind a silver Jetta parked at the curb. Screams and yells from the citizens out on the sidewalks filled the air. It was the second time within days he'd been shot at. Must be some sort of fuckin' record.

“Everybody down!” he yelled, hoping people would duck out and run for their lives. Peered over the hood of the Jetta just in time to catch a glimpse of the black Escalade. A muzzle flashed, and the Jetta's windshield starred from a .44 slug. Griffin was feeling really determined in giving him a scare, that was for sure. And that's what it had been about, too: a good scare. They'd had the drop on him. Could've iced him right there, right then. But they'd chosen to blast away at everything
but
him. It was a follow-up to the beating.

He had to admit that it worked. He had to fight to stop the shaking. He'd been so freaked and out of practice he hadn't even remembered to grab his own gun. Not good. Those thoughts burned in him as he stood to watch the Escalade turn right at the end of the block and disappear.

Then he heard the sirens. The cavalry was on its way. Glanced over at the shattered lobby door. Well, they'd chosen a good position to fire from. If they'd meant to kill him, he'd be dead right now.

There had been no way to get gone before the cops showed. It was a “shots fired” call. That brought all the dogs running, ears pinned back. He'd had enough left as far as awareness went to run and hide the gun, sliding it under the gate that led back to the the trash cans the city picked up once a week. There was a dark patch of gloom there, just near the gate, and he'd managed to shove the gun deep into the shadows. All he needed was a bit of time, then he could go and retrieve it.

After arriving, the cops of course ran his soon-to-expire license. Of course. It was only five minutes later when a plain brown sedan rolled around the corner. He watched as Oberon got out and came over.

“Once again, you turn up a crime scene,” Oberon said. He got the highlights on what had gone down from the uniformed officer first on the scene. Turned back to Mallen. Almost did a double take, as he only then seemed to take in the bruises and swelling on Mallen's face. He could tell by Oberon's expression that the detective figured there would be more to this situation than just some random shooting.

“Mark, you're a very lucky man,” Oberon said. “It wouldn't have anything to do with your … previous habits, would it?”

“No,” he said emphatically. Hoped his friend would believe him. Obie stared at him a moment. At his eyes. Relaxed a bit. Yeah, he'd believed him.

“The officer told me what you told him. Now you can tell me the truth.”

“The truth? What do you mean, man?”

“Oh, Mark. That was quite poor.”

He nodded. “Okay, you win. Do we have to do it out here?”

“No, not really.”

He led Oberon inside the building and up to his apartment. Had it really only been about a week since the cop had stood in the center of this room and told him about Eric? Felt like years. He pulled the Jim Beam from his pocket. Needed a drink after being shot at.
Who wouldn't?
he told himself. Downed it quickly then took another. Turned to see Oberon watching him. “What?” he said. “I just got shot at, man.”

“Of course.” After a moment, he continued. “So, what's it all about?”

“You know, I'm really lucky that guy was a bad shot.”

“And why, if I might ask, is anyone shooting at a
recovering
junkie anyway?” He couldn't help but note the emphasis Oberon had put on the word
recovering
.

“Well, you said I needed a hobby, yeah?”

Oberon sighed as he shook his head. “You are a child of trouble, Mark. Tell me.”

Mallen went and sat on the couch, bottle in one hand, glass in the other. Held the bottle out to Oberon. The cop came over. Took the bottle and found himself a not-dirty glass—no small feat. Filled it with a shot's worth. Slammed it down. Almost didn't cough.

“Well?” Oberon said in a choking voice as he put the glass and bottle back down on the kitchen counter. “What's it all about?”

Mallen took another slug from his glass. Looked down at the clean liquid in the dirty glass. Hoped it was a good visual metaphor for his soul inside his body. He sighed. Looked over at Oberon. “It's about Jas and Griffin.” He then told Oberon about how they'd seen him outside of Jenna's the day he'd been arrested. Then how Griffin had beat on him. Then about the two shootings, one outside of the Cornerstone, and this recent one outside his place.

As he'd expected, Oberon wasn't happy. “You know, I realize you miss the force, but come on now. You're really pushing it.”

“Look, I just wanted to know why Eric had my info in his pocket, that's all. I didn't ask to be seen outside of Jenna's, did I?”

Oberon sighed. Took the Jim Beam back off the counter. Poured a shot. This time downed it like a pro. “First the gun, now this. The next time you get off heroin, can you do it somewhere else, please? I have enough on my plate as it is.”

Twenty-One

It was bad after
Oberon left. Maybe it was the shooting on top of everything else. The Need started. A whisper at first, growing quickly into a steady nagging and tugging at his soul. He could swear that the crook of his right arm was turning warm. He took a hot shower, trying to scald away the growing creature inside him that wouldn't let him rest. It didn't work; he couldn't get his mind off the needle and the golden blood that ran through it. Got dressed quickly in old black combat pants and a turtleneck. Shrugged into his coat. Knew he was getting dressed to go and see Dreamo. Fuck Bill, right? It was his life, not Bill's or Oberon's. It was
his. But then, his hand on the door, he stopped. Closed the door. Took his coat off. Went back to the couch.

He went through this little ballet at least five times. Even got so far that he had the door open and was standing there on the threshold of his apartment. It would be so fucking easy. He didn't even need to go to the Cornerstone. There were at least three other guys he knew of that would be flush with junk. Even some bad shit would be welcome at this point, for Christ's sake. He needed some relief. There'd been too much Life lately. Why did people do Life in the first fuckin' place, right? It was only filled with darkness, anger, and pain. It was pointless. There was just no reason at all he could think of to not shoot at that point. Hell, one of the reasons he'd checked out in the first fucking place was that there'd been too much Life.

No, man … that's not true.

That brought him up. Stopped him cold. No, that wasn't why he'd gotten hooked. He'd gotten hooked because he'd believed he was all Al Pacino Serpico
and shit. That he could handle it. How could Ol' Monster Mallen's son fail to bring in the bad guys? Pops never had. And that was it. He shot to see how it felt, so he could “act” the part better.

Only, of course, it hadn't stopped there.

Looking back now, he laughed at how na
ï
ve he'd been in thinking he could handle it. How he couldn't see the obvious: that the first shot into his arm would bring him like a runaway freight train right to the day where he'd either die from it or get clean. How it would come right down to
this
inevitable moment: struggling to stay home, struggling to stay away from the people who would love to take his money and give him the key to oblivion.

So there he sat on his worn, broken-down couch, coat half on, sweat under his arms as he struggled to just sit right there and not fucking move. Not to the door. Not to his cell phone to call for delivery. Not to his wallet to check funding. He struggled just
to be.

It was an hour later when he realized he'd won the battle, if not the war. He knew it because he suddenly felt completely exhausted. Spent. Maybe it was because of the battle he'd just waged. Maybe it was because of all the running he'd been doing since being cleansed of the crap he'd shot into his body over the last four years. And he knew that if running was one of the things he had to do to keep clean, that's what he'd fucking do. He'd keep up the pace of his life if that meant keeping the needle further and further away.

And almost like some sort of reward, his cell rang. It was the first call he'd received on the damn thing. He checked it and had to laugh: Gato. The universe was indeed trying to send him a message, and that was a fact.

“Gato,” Mallen said, “thought you'd given up on me, man. Everything okay?”

To his surprise, Gato didn't sound like himself. “Long-ass story, bro. Got your message. What's up?”

He told Gato about the shooting and described the beat down he'd taken at Griffin's hands. His friend's voice got very quiet as he said, “Mallen. We need to fuck those guys up, man. Just say the word and we'll send them to the hospital or the morgue. Your call,
vato
.”

“No, man, not the morgue,” he said. “But something. I just have to figure out what that is. You free for a while?”

“Yeah,” came the reply. Again, there was something off in Gato's voice.

“I mean,” Mallen said, “if you're busy, man, I totally understand.”

“No, man, it's not that. I'll come and get you. Call you when I'm downstairs. Where do you live, bro?” He gave his address and Gato hung up without another word. What had gotten into his friend? Was his mother ill?

His cell rang with the text that Gato was downstairs only twenty minutes after they'd ended their call. Mallen spied out the front door window for any black Escalades but saw none. He went quickly to the Falcon double parked in the street. Got in and Gato sped away. Mallen immediately noticed that Gato looked like he hadn't slept in a couple days.

“I still have a license,” Mallen said with a smile. “I can drive and you can relax.”

Gato worked up a smirk. “Nobody drives this baby but her papa, bro. I'm good. Where we going?”

“Out to the avenues. I want to visit my old friend's parents,” he replied. He needed to see if Hal or Phoebe had noticed the same change in Eric that Jenna had seen. Another reason also was that he wanted to see how they were getting on. To let them know he was still there if they needed any help. And he had to admit one other reason he had for going to see them: he wanted to show Phoebe and Hal that he was clean and was intending to stay that way. He gave Gato the address.

“I don't mean to make it seem like you're my taxi, G,” he said. “Just leave me at the corner and we'll hook up after you've gotten some sleep.”

Gato shook his head at that. “I need to keep my mind off of shit, bro. I'll hang with you.”

“What's going on?”

Gato turned the car onto Geary. Flipped on the radio to an AM station that was playing big band stuff. “It's my sister,” he finally said in a quiet voice.

“I didn't know you had one.”

A nod. “She's … gone away. We don't know where.”

“She a runaway?”

“No. She's twenty-one. She's driving
mamacita
crazy by doing this. I've been out trying to find her, or a line on her.”

“Any luck, man?”

Gato's only response was a shake of his head. He looked suddenly very sad. “Don't know if I'll ever see her again,
vato
.”

Mallen wondered if he could ask Oberon to check the PD's computers for him. He really wanted to pay this man back for his help in getting his life back together. “If there's anything I can do, Gato, just say the word, okay?”

A smile played across Gato's mouth. “Just like I said before, bro: there's a good heart beating in that chest. I'll let you know.”

Traffic on Geary wasn't too bad this time of evening. Parking was a little worse, and Gato finally found a place two blocks away from the Russ house. “Really, man, you don't have to wait,” Mallen said as Gato killed the engine.

“I'm good, bro. I'll be here.”

“Thanks, G,” he said as he opened door. “I might be about a half hour.”

He got out of the Falcon and walked to the Russ house. It felt good to be out and in the open air, an air tinged with ocean salt. Wisps of fog were floating by above him as the day moved toward its end. He breathed deeply. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so good. Having beaten The Need earlier had really pumped him up. Given him the energy he needed to continue on with the fight, and with his life.

He turned the corner onto the Russes' street. Was two houses down when he noticed a man standing on the sidewalk across from the Russ house. Black dude. Seemed around his own age. Dressed in a black leather jacket and baggy jeans. Short hair, beard frizzy and unkempt. Was probably nothing, but his old cop sense had kicked on. Why would the guy be standing right there, right opposite Eric's house? Looking at it?

Mallen decided to keep walking. Went to the end of the block and crossed the street so he was now on the same side as the man. The man did not notice him. He strolled back toward the man. Slowly. Casually. When he got closer, about three houses away, he ducked behind some stairs that led up to one of the houses. Watched the man from there.

This guy was obviously struggling with something. He'd look over at the Russ house, start for it, then stop. Pace a little. Weird.

Mallen watched for a little longer, than came out of cover and walked down the sidewalk toward him. Just another guy walking down the street. The man looked at him for a moment when Mallen changed course and headed over to him, staying out of arm's reach.

“Hey, how you doin'?” he said to the man, smiling.

The man nodded. “I know you?”

“No,” he replied, “but I know the people in that house across the street. The one you seem unable to make up your mind about whether you should go up to or not.”

The man looked him up and down. Studied his face. Like he was trying to see if he remembered ever meeting him. “No man, just waiting on a friend,” he finally said as he walked off the way Mallen had come.

Mallen gave it a moment then went after him. There was something wrong about him. He was sure of it, with every bone in his body, every ounce of his being.

He tailed the man to the end of the block. The man turned the corner, heading east, and was lost from sight. Mallen raced forward, not wanting to lose sight of him.

Got to the end of the block. There was a pale green apartment building there, very 1930s in appearance. Pressed himself against the wall and peered around the corner. But then his world turned upside down as he was grabbed by a pair of large, strong hands. He was thrown to the ground with such force that all the air in his lungs seemed to momentarily disappear. A fist planted itself on the side of his head, and he saw stars. There was a part of him then, a part that had been locked up a long-ass time, that got angry. That anger was like a key turning in a lock. It was suddenly like all the training he'd ever forgotten took that moment to come rushing back in, fueled by the anger and panic at having to take another beating.

His foot lashed out with everything he had, almost of its own accord. There was the pleasure of hearing the man grunt with pain. He rolled away as the man lost the grip on his coat. Mallen got to his feet just in time to duck under another swing. He punched the guy hard in the stomach, then followed with a desperate fist to the groin. Hell, he wasn't in this for style points. The man bent nearly double. He took the opportunity to slam his palms onto the man's ears. Must've been like a bomb going off in the guy's head. The man went to the sidewalk, blood streaming from his nose. A couple pedestrians who were walking by slowed up. Maybe to watch, maybe to jump in. Hard to tell.

Mallen quickly frisked the man. Came away with a small automatic. A .22 Firestorm. Good little weapon. Nice stopping power. The discovery of the gun shooed the civilians quickly away. He dragged the man over to the apartment building. Propped him up. Removed the clip from the Firestorm. Ejected the shell from the barrel. Tossed the clip into the storm drain, putting the gun in his coat pocket.

As the man's eyes focused on him, a look of anger and embarrassment hit them. “What the fuck you following me for, man? Don't like it when a black man comes calling on some white fucker's house?”

“Can it. Don't even bother playing that fucking crap. That's not why I followed you, and you know it. I followed because you wanted to go over into that house but couldn't bring yourself to do it. Why?”

No answer.

“Look,” he continued, “that family? Been through a lot, see? Their son's been killed. He was a friend of mine. A cop, just like I used to be. We went back a long-ass way, okay? So you can't really blame me for being a bit edgy about it all, right?”

The man studied him for a moment. As if trying to read what he'd been told was true. Finally nodded his head. Relaxed. “Yeah, I can see why you'd follow me. I didn't handle it well, sorry. My bad. But I don't mean anybody any harm, man. You gotta believe me.” He held out his hand. “The name's Leon Dockery.”

Now it was Mallen's turn to see if he believed what he was being told. He had to admit that he did. Dockery didn't seem to be lying, unless he was a master of the craft. “Okay,” Mallen replied as he shook his hand, “Mallen. Mark Mallen. So, what's it about? Why the pushme-pullyou act out in front of the house?”

At that Dockery shook his head. Started to get up. He helped Dockery to his feet, ready should the man try anything. But Dockery only pulled out a crumpled paper napkin. Wiped the blood from his nose with it. Straightened his clothes. A slight smile crossed his lips. “There, that's better for talking.”

“Okay, let's talk.”

Dockery shook his head. “I can't tell you what it's about, Mallen. I can't. It's for Mrs. Russ's ears only.”

“Mrs. Russ? Why her?”

Dockery only shook his head in response. “Sorry man, I can't say.”

“Can't? Or won't?”

“Both. But you have to believe me when I tell you that I mean that family no harm. No harm at all, man.”

He stood there for a moment, again studying Dockery's face. Looked back at the Russ house for a moment. Dockery obviously knew about Eric's death; his reason for being here was proof of that. Wanting to talk to Phoebe only. He needed to know
the
why,
and if that meant letting Dockery meet with Phoebe, then that's the way it would go down. “Well, if you want to meet with her, okay. I'll tell her.”