Untold Damage (14 page)

“Both,” came the reply. He noted the edge the voice had taken. He'd heard it in his own. Dreamo wanted to shoot. Like now.

Before closing the first-aid kit up tight, he pulled out a couple bandages, along with some aspirin. Laid them on the toilet paper dispenser, maybe just for shits 'n' giggles, but really maybe hoping the guy would use them if he needed to. “Thanks for the help, man,” he said as he turned to leave. “If I get my hands on the guy that beat on you, I'll make him regret it, Dream.”

He was at the door that led back out into the bar when Dreamo said, “Mallen?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the extra Band-Aids.”

Mallen returned to the bar. Bill was busy with a customer but then came over. Mallen gave him back the first-aid kit and the “Out of Order” sign. In exchange, Bill put a double scotch down in front of him with a smile. “On the house, Florence fucking Nightingale! Is he going to be okay?”

“Yeah, as far as I can tell. Just got beat on, is all. He'll be fine.” Took a sip of his drink, then looked up at Bill. “B,” he said, “why do you care? This guy is committing a crime—a big crime—that could fuck your world all the way to Illinois and back again. I don't get it. I've been coming in here for years, and for like ninety-five percent of that time, I've been copping H in the men's room from Dreamo. Why do you care if he got beat on? Would seem you'd
want
some way to get him out. What's up?” He'd always just assumed that Dreamo “rendered unto Caesar”—gave Bill a little on the side. But that really didn't seem like Bill. If he thought he was going to be surprised by the answer, he was totally blindsided as Bill picked up a glass and filled himself a shot of whiskey. Downed it. Looked around, like to be sure no one would hear. Went to fill the glass again.

“He's my sister's kid.”

Mallen couldn't help himself: he glanced back at the men's room door, then at Bill. The world had just taken on an entirely new shape. “Bill,” he said, “seriously? Dreamo is your nephew?”

For an answer, Bill downed the second shot. Put the glass in the sink. Nodded. “Yeah. She died about … twenty years ago now? Anyway, Justin … well, he's had it hard. I tried … try to help him. You know how it goes.”

“Justin?” Mallen again looked back down the hall.
Justin.

“I wasn't uncle material, for Christ's sake,” Bill continued. “I certainly wasn't going to be a surrogate father. I just want to keep him in the light.” Now it was Bill's turn to look down the hall. “I failed. What can I say? I lost him. But goddamn it, I was going to at least make sure he would be as safe as possible.” He washed the glass he'd just taken a drink from. Dried it slowly. “What else was I going to do?” Bill continued quietly. “Let him shoot up and deal in doorways? Alleys? He would've been dead years ago.”

Mallen held up his glass in toast. Bill waved it away, but there was a smile there. A smile that said, “Thank you for not judging how I worked this out in my head.” Mallen finished his drink and slid off the stool. Wrote his cell number down on a napkin. Handed it to Bill.

“Anytime you need to use it, you use it, B.” He started for the door. “And thanks for the talk, man. Thank you.”

It was later than he'd realized as he left the bar. Turning into night now. Cold, with fog lying heavy on the city. Mallen shoved his hands in his coat pockets as he struck off down the street, heading back to his place, not knowing where else to go. Thought back to Bill and Dreamo. How weird and wondrous life turned sometime. Uncle and nephew. Crazy.

He was on the next block when he heard the roar of an engine. Eight cylinders.

A black Escalade screeched around the corner ahead of him, and he knew he was a dead man. The vehicle skidded to the curb as he remembered the gun and dug his hand frantically into his coat pocket.
Too out of practice, idiot!
The front doors flew open. Griffin charged toward him as Jas fanned out in case he tried to run. The look in Griffin's eyes said it all: this was going to be terminal. He finally got the damn gun out and aimed, but the shot went wide. He heard a car window go out. An alarm start. That's all he had time for before Griffin came in, knocking the gun from his hand, grabbing him in a choke hold.

“Now, wait a minute …” he muttered, but didn't get the chance to finish, because he was clubbed in the temple. Proverbial stars then. Barely felt it as he was dragged to the luxury SUV. He was thrown in back face first. Griffin leapt in behind him. Something that felt like a sledgehammer slammed him in the kidneys a couple times. His legs went numb. The door crashed shut behind them. By the time he was able to sit up, the car had already powered away from the curb. He was stuck.

Jas glanced once over his shoulder at Mallen. Spoke to his partner. “Told you it was money well spent. Fuckin' cops, always out for a fucking dollar.”

“Long time, no see, guys,” Mallen said after finding his voice. “How was prison?”

“Fuck you, civilian,” Griffin said and punched him in the face. He tasted blood. Spat it out on the floor.

“Hey, asshole,” Jas said to Griffin, “you're going to have to clean that shit up. Gag the narc bastard.”

“I was just doing my job,” Mallen said. “You woulda done the same, man.”

“It's all over for you,” Griffin said, and he had to admit, the man was probably right. “I hope you saw your family recently. Be the last time.”

A coldness set in between his shoulders. Like a mantle. Sweat broke out under his arms. He looked around the backseat. It was a prison, of course, with no way out. “You won't get away with it,” he said, knowing he was lying. Of course they fucking would.

Jas laughed as he turned the Escalade onto Market Street. Headed toward the water. “You know what will happen, if someone even bothered to dig into it?” he said. “They'll find nothing but a recovering junkie who fell back on the spike and OD'd. End of pathetic fucking story.”

“Who's going to give a shit about you anyway?” Griffin added. “No one, that's who. You're a piece of shit junkie civilian now. On the bottom of this city's shoe, motherfucker.”

Jas tossed something in a baggie over the seat to Griffin. Dread filled Mallen when he saw it was a syringe. Griffin held it up. Grinned. “Maybe I'll shoot this into your tear duct, you undercover son of a bitch.”

“What's the matter?” he said, “your mother take your guns away?” There was a forced bravery in his tone. He knew they could tell it was a fucking lie.

“No. Just figured this would be more fun.”

Mallen looked out the window. The panic was a growing knot in his stomach. He was just turning it all around. There was too much at stake now to let it end this way. Anna's face was suddenly there in his mind's eye. She would believe the story. Would grow up thinking her dad OD'd on smack. Chris wouldn't even try to say otherwise. Whatever the cops would say would be believed. He
needed
to stay alive! He hadn't felt that way in a very long time. But now he needed to make it to tomorrow. And beyond. He had to find a way out.

The SUV turned onto the Embarcadero. Headed south. There was little traffic at this hour. They pulled up at Pier Three. Parked behind an old van. Jas killed the engine. Both men silently got out.

Griffin stood back as he got out, ready for anything. There was nothing Mallen could think of to do. They were being too careful. They'd taken his gun. But he just couldn't fold it all up and let them have their way.

He had to try something.

Anything
.

“Come on, asshole. Move it,” Griffin said.

Mallen climbed out. Jas pulled his gun. Held it steady, aimed right for his chest.

They pushed him along the north side of the long, low, crumbling building. The air was heavy with salt. There was the occasional soft splash as a wave hit one of the crumbling pylons that held the up warehouse.

“Watch your step now,” Jas said sarcastically. The pier was so dilapidated that a lot of the cement had crumbled away in places, leaving large, dark holes that opened to the cold bay below.

The water would be frigid this time of year. He would have no time to try to swim anywhere. Even if he could manage it under the rush of the huge shoot they were bound to give him, he was as good as dead; if the water didn't kill him, the junk probably would.

They guided him down toward the end. He knew time was running out. He faked tripping, fell to the ground as he kicked out with his right leg. Kicked at Jas's right knee with everything he had. It surprised the man, hit him square in the ACL. The gun fell from Jas's hand and discharged, the shot ringing out over the bay. Griffin swore loudly as he went for his own weapon. Mallen bolted away back toward the SUV. Got only seven feet before he felt Griffin land on his back and drag him down. He tried to rise, but it was too late. Griffin pistol whipped him across temple, stunning him.

Jas limped over, swearing a line of curses. Could barely put any weight on his now-screwed knee. “You okay?” Griffin said.

“I don't think it's broken,” Jas said. The small man growled as he punched Mallen in the stomach, which was still in rough shape from his last beating. His insides exploded in agony. He curled up. Tried to breathe. Tried to protect his ribs. He barely registered the fact that Jas might've just busted one.

He felt his coat pulled off his shoulders. His sleeve rolled up. This was it. Now or never. He could swear he heard Anna's voice in his head, whimpering as if she were in a bad dream …

“Fucking get over here and help, damn it!” He heard Griffin snarl. Felt Jas clutch at his other arm.

“No …” was all he could muster as he, with the last of his strength, fired another kick. It was a blind kick, a kick of sheer panic and desperation, and he felt it connect with something. Jas cried out again and he suddenly felt more freedom, then he rolled away, not knowing what else do to, knowing he only had this one thing he
could
do at that moment: roll. A seagull cried out. The sound echoed through his head and away back toward the beginning of time. Then the rolling ended and he was dropping, falling fast.

The holes in the pier!
It felt like he was falling, falling forever. Then he hit a wall of ice, slamming into it at what felt like eighty miles an hour. Then it was quiet, and strangely warm and numbing. He might like it here. Then he heard Anna again, whimpering, calling out for him. He knew he should do something, go and help her maybe, but it was hard to move, and he was so cold, so very cold. Then he heard her voice in his head.

Daddy!

He kicked to the surface, his lungs screaming for air. Broke the water. Above the sound of the waves lapping at the pilings, he heard Jas and Griffin cursing. Saw the flash of a penlight beam. He just had to wait them out, he knew, but how could he? He was already numb from the water's temperature. There was a piling only seven feet away, and he kicked for it, trying to stay quiet and out of the beam of light that skittered over the water. He made the piling, its surface slick, sharp, and grimy, covered with barnacles, algae, and slime. Moved to the far side, to put the piling between him and the hunters. Now he just had to hang on long enough and hopefully leave himself enough energy to find his way out of the water.

It seemed like a year, his body shaking uncontrollably from the frigid water, but the penlight was extinguished, and then he just stayed there until he counted to thirty. He was rewarded by the faint sound of the Escalade's engine starting up and the vehicle driving away.

He'd always been a decent swimmer. Not great, but good enough. His coat weighed him down, but he had no energy to spare to shed it. Spied a dock to his left, looked almost a football field away, but it could've been just over twenty feet. Could he make it? Would he?

Only one way to find out.

The swim was an agony that far eclipsed anything he'd every endured in his life, and that included the withdrawals in the drunk tank. He was down to seconds before he knew he'd succumb to the cold, but he made it and managed to drag his wet, heavy body out of the water and onto the pier, where he lay panting and shivering.

He heard footsteps, but at the moment, didn't give a shit who it was. Only cared if they had a blanket and some hot fucking coffee. A flashlight beam swam over him like a lighthouse giving solace to a lost ship. He managed to reach out, croaking, “Help—” then passed into darkness.

Twenty-Three

Eric crumpled up the
empty beer can in his hand. Got to his feet. Stood at the rail at the top of the stairs of the northern windmill in Golden Gate Park. Mallen knew what was coming. This had been the place they'd always come to when either one of them had a problem that came from wearing a badge. He knew immediately something was working on his friend. The phone call asking for the meet had felt unusually urgent, uneasy. That wasn't like Eric. To call was to risk Mallen's cover. There was something going on. He knew Eric at least that well. Just like he knew enough to let his friend come to saying whatever he had to say in his own time, his own way.

Eric stood there, leaning against the rail, a black shadow against the night sky. He took a deep breath and sailed the beer can through the air in a great, glinting arc. It reminded Mallen of a falling star. He heard the can whistle through the air, followed by a faint crashing sound as it sailed in through the open back window of Mallen's car.

“Two points for the uniform,” Mallen said with a laugh as he clapped his hands. Fuck … he knew he could never, ever have made that shot.

Eric shrugged as he came back over to where they were sitting. Grabbed another beer and opened it. Took a long gulp. Eric was getting pretty drunk, and he still had to drive home.

Again, not like the Eric he'd known.

“Hey,” Eric said, “remember that day I had to hit you? Then arrest you? You ever think about that?”

“Sometimes,” he replied. That had been last year, but he couldn't help thinking it hadn't been a screw-up. Someone had wanted to make his life … difficult. He'd spent a long time going over it, again and again. Had even made a list of the people he thought might have it in for him. It wasn't long, but it could be considered lethal. Dietrich had set up the raid. Stevens had okayed it. But there were at least four other guys who could've dropped a dime on him, and would've. Not like he'd worked to be anybody's enemy, but sometimes dogs just hated other dogs for no reason, and that was a fact. He'd tried to keep those thoughts away. How could he do his job if he had to worry about not only the bad guys, but the good ones, too? It was too Serpico, and he laughed at that, because he'd wanted to be Serpico.

Just not in this way.

Mallen finished his beer and grabbed another. They sat there in silence for awhile. Eric put his beer down on the wooden planks that made up the causeway running around the windmill. Cleared his throat. Mallen knew that whatever it was that had gotten under Eric's skin, it would be coming out now.

“Mark,” Eric said as he leaned his head against the shingled wall. “I don't know if I want to do this anymore.”

“Okay. Then stop. But, you gotta know for sure, right? Nine out of every ten Police have felt that—
feel
that. More than once in their career for sure, probably every fucking day, man. Especially guys on the street, in uniform. Guys like you. Why don't you go for detective or something? You'd make it, easy.” And that was the truth: Eric could make detective no sweat. Eric was that good. Better than he was. They had taken different roads, yeah, but they'd both cared. He'd cared about taking down big dealers, stopping the devastation of the drug world. Eric had cared about the guy on the street, just trying to make it through another day so he could protect and provide for his family.

“Eric,” he said, then took a drink. “What the hell would you do, if you left?”

A shrug. “Hell, I dunno. Sometimes I just want to … forget about me, and who I am.”

“Dude,” Mallen said with a chuckle, “you're gonna regret this conversation in the morning, my friend.” He took a swig from his can. “Maybe you need to put in for some pussy, or some deskwork? Go and just fill out forms, or maybe fill in a vagina. Take a break.”

Eric finished his beer with one long swig. Put the empty back in the paper bag. Not too steady. “I dunno what I need, Mark.” Got up then. Paced for a moment. “No,” he continued, “I do know what I need.”

“Okay. What?”

“I need to do what you do. I need undercover.”

That brought him up short. Wasn't what he'd expected at all. “Eric,” he replied, “your strength is in being a beat cop. Maybe just for now, sure, but that's the way it seems, don't you think?” The truth of it was that he just couldn't see his friend living the life he did. Something that would be a positive for Eric was that he didn't have a girlfriend for longer than a month. No ties, no weak spots that could be exploited, except inside the cop himself. But still … Mallen just couldn't see it.

Thankfully, Eric nodded. Grinned. “I know, I know,” he said as he sat back down. They sat in silence for a moment as the moon rode high above. A car cruised by on King Jr. Drive. Mallen tensed, thinking he might've been seen. He had to be so careful, all the fucking time. It was wrecking his nerves. But as he sat there, he had to admit he was addicted to the rush of these kinds of busts. Maybe that's what Eric felt he was missing out on? Maybe taking down street thugs and notes on robberies had finally paled next to busting guys who sold a ton of dope and thought they were above the law.

“Eric,” he said to his friend, “if you are even entertaining the idea of a transfer or leaving the force, you need to deal with that. Really think about it, man. Not everyone is­—”

“I know!” Eric shot back. He was angry, the alcohol probably feeding him now like coal in a steam engine. He sighed then, like he'd been beaten at an argument Mallen didn't even know they were having. Sat back down. “You know what my old man would say if I told him I wanted to leave?”

So
that
was it. That was something Mallen knew very well and dealt with everyday. What would the world say if Ol' Monster Mallen's son didn't love, eat, fuck, and shit the police force? Why, the world would end! Jesus would come down on rubber fucking crutches and smite every Mallen that was still alive, effectively ending the line. He himself would serve an eternity in some whacked-out perdition made up of a booking room and an endless line of public urinaters and prostitutes.

No. This wasn't the life for his friend. He could see that. But now it was Eric who needed to see that. He grabbed the second to last beer. Cracked it open. Took a long slug. The night had been cold, so the beer still was.

“Then quit, man,” he said. “If you're that miserable: quit. Fuck whatever anyone else says. Hell man, you're a cop! You're putting your life on the line, right? Not every motherfucker out there can do that, right? If they could, we'd have a much safer society.” Took another drag from the beer can. “Or, I guess a police state, yeah?”