Untold Damage (15 page)

Twenty-Four

And Mallen woke to
light and noise.

Opened his eyes. He was in an emergency room. Knew it immediately by the curtained-off space and the white noise. Took a moment to realize he was in SF General. He knew that by the volume and quality of the white noise. Weird how that could act on the deeper parts of the brain. Like how a peculiar odor could bring back memories.

He'd never been here as a patient, only as someone bringing in somebody. Strangely, he'd never done that as a uniform. That was for the paramedics. After he'd gone undercover, he'd dropped a couple guys at the doors. Had even left Davy
inside
,
in a chair, and told the receptionist his friend really needed help.

That was what he'd
had
to do. That was one of the things that was the hardest about doing what he did. Doing what he
had
to do. Later on, after he'd left the force, he found himself still bringing guys to the emergency room, but then it was walking in, getting it all set with the nurses, then leaving as fast as he could without giving a name, even a fake name. Funny how being undercover he'd had a fake name, but being a junkie ex-cop, he hated giving a fake name. The reason for that had always gone … unsolved.

Just chalk it up to the usual junkie bullshit
, he told himself. But at least he'd brought those guys here. A lot of other people would've just left them on the street. It was hard, figuring out that thin line between the right and wrong in the junkie's world.

As he looked around now, lying there in the bed, he almost laughed: all the years he'd brought people here, as a cop, or as a junkie, he'd never been here himself. Felt like his journey was now complete, full circle.

There were white curtains on his left and right. Nurses occasionally walked past the open end of his little world, not seeing him, not noticing he was awake. He made a few movements with his limbs. Everything seemed to still be there. Did a visual, just to be sure. Two working hands and arms, that was good. Two working legs. After that, the only thing he found himself caring about was time …

How long had he been here?

How much time had passed?

A nurse came into his little cordoned-off space. Short. Tired, but caring. It was then he noticed he had an IV in his left arm. Looked at his right. Recent marks there.

“Your veins weren't up to the challenge,” she said as she began to check his blood pressure.

“Yeah, they wouldn't be,” he replied. “It's going to take them awhile to heal, you know? Workin' on that.”

She looked at him again. Studied him. Dispassionately.
How many strung-out motherfuckers must she see in a night?
he wondered.
Probably more than I ever did when back on the beat,
came the reply. He looked around for his wallet and clothes.

“I'm feeling good to go,” he said. “By the way, how long have I been here?”

“The boat captain who found you brought you here about four hours ago.” She checked his chart, glanced at him. “If you're … healing, you really need to eat.”

“Got it. My clothes?”

She indicated a plastic bag on the nearby metal and cloth chair. He hadn't noticed it. “They're still wet. We're not a laundry service, sorry.”

And then he really got it. To them, even with the now-healing holes in his arm, those holes were still there. He'd been … over there. Over the fence somewhere, on that other side, in the darkness. Running away from the light. That was okay, he could understand it. Nobody understands why a junkie becomes a junkie. He smiled at her. “Thank you for your help. I can go, right?”

“Yes. There's some papers to sign, but after that, you can go.”

She even helped him sit up. He was feeling pretty good, actually. Like he'd been through an obstacle course and had come out the other side mostly in one piece. “The police were here, earlier,” she said to him then. Very softly, so only he would hear.

“Really?”

“Do I look like a liar?” she said, then her expression softened.

He looked down at the bag containing his clothes. “Do you think I have time to catch my death of cold by throwing on my wet clothes and leaving quickly?”

“You might, but only if you sign your release papers.”

“Good enough.” She left him to get dressed. And as he picked up his cold, salt- and grime-encrusted clothes, he knew that dressing was going to be a fucking misery. Found his cell phone, amazingly still somehow lodged in his coat pocket. Of course it was useless, though, from taking a late-night swim in the bay. Tossed it in the trash. He'd need to get another one. He would've broken down altogether at the thought of the long, freezing slog back to his place had it not been for the news of the police asking after him.
Not now
, he thought,
not yet.
There was work to do, and he had to keep on doing it. That space between him and the needle needed to be maintained, at all costs.

The nurse appeared again, this time with a clipboard. She almost shoved it at him, like she really wanted to help him get the fuck outta Dodge. “I appreciate the special treatment,” he told her as he signed his name on every blank line, regardless of what it might mean or what he might owe. He knew he'd make it right, at some point, once he figured out what the hell happened to Eric.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said, then added quietly, “My sister beat it, two years ago. It was hard. Very hard. But she did. You can, too.” She took back the clipboard with the forms. Stood up straight and said loudly, officially, “Hope we don't see you again”—checked the clipboard—“Mr. Mallen.”

Twenty-Five

It wasn't an easy
decision for him to make. But really, there was nowhere else to go. The need to lie low and off the grid couldn't be denied. He had to get off the streets for awhile. Maybe Jas and Griffin would even think he'd drowned. That would buy him time. Beyond that? Well, he just needed a rest. Being clean had turned out to be way fucking more stressful than being a junkie, and that was a fact.

He exited the bus downtown. Transferred to another, making his slow way to his destination. Now that he was heading over there, he wasn't so sure about it all. He'd thought about calling first, but in the end he felt it would feel way more dramatic, way more hysterical than just showing up and ringing the bell.

He took a deep breath as he walked up the familiar steps to the door. She'd been good about trimming the ivy on the stairs. Better than he'd ever been. Rang the doorbell. There was no answer and he actually breathed a sigh of relief. But then the light came on. The door opened and Chris was there. She blinked once. Not sure it was him. He tried a smile.

“Hey,” he said. “Sorry for not calling. If it's a bad time, I—”

She stepped forward and opened the heavy, wrought iron security gate that kept the rest of the world at bay. “No,” she replied, “it's okay. Just a little out of the ordinary, is all.” Her eyes went big with fear. “Oh, God … did you take a blood test?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It's, well … complicated. Can I come in and clean up?”

She nodded. He went up the stairs and into the house. In the kitchen, he used the sink to wash his hair of the salt and his arms and hands of whatever the hospital used to disinfect him. Was only too conscious of her gaze when he took off his filthy, crusted shirt. It felt weird to be there, in his old kitchen, using his old sink, after so many years. The water felt sepia-tinted with memories. It was after a moment that he realized Chris continued to watch him intently. “What is it?” he asked.

“Are you … ? You know,” she said quietly, evidently trying hard to hide her anger and disappointment.

“No,” he said vehemently. “No, no way,” he added in a more quiet tone.

She indicated his clothes. “You just look like you've been … forgetting about things again.”

He actually found himself smiling at that. Of course that's what she would think with him showing up at this hour, in this state. He hesitated, because the truth wouldn't make her any more relieved. He went and sat down at the table.

“No, I'm not using again,” he said as he stared her in the eye. After a moment of staring back at him, she nodded. Let out a breath.

“Okay,” she said evenly, “then what happened? Are you in trouble, Mark?”

“Maybe. Yeah, probably.” He then told her the entire sequence of events since Oberon had entered his apartment to tell him that Eric had died. And he even told her about Jas and Griffin. Told her everything about what had gone on in his search for the reason why Eric may have been killed. It actually felt
good
to let it all out, almost like old times.

There were moments when she looked like she was going to pop a gasket at him, followed by moments where she stared at him like she hadn't seen him in a long time. When he was finished, he sat back and ran his hand through his wet, stringy hair. “And well, it's gotten a bit hairy, I suppose you could say. And they always say getting clean is good for an addict,” he added with a smile.

“And what if something happens to you?” she said. “You're not on the force anymore.”

“This isn't what I planned on, sure, but this is Eric. I feel like I owe him some help.”

She nodded in response. “I don't know what to say. I guess I should be relieved.”

“Relieved?”

“Yes. It's a good sign. If you're involved in this, then you're serious about staying clean.” She smirked at him, and he realized it'd been many years since the last time he'd seen her do that. “You just can't help playing a knight in tarnished armor, can you? Damn romantics. You guys kill me.”

He laughed then. Long and hard. Again, he was hit with the feeling he wanted to be back here, with her and his little girl. “I was wondering if you'd let me crash in the basement. Somewhere quiet so I could get some rest?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Oh,” he said. “Okay. I understand. Yeah … I mean­—”

“Stop,” she cut in, “what I mean is that you can have the damn couch. I'll drive you back to your place in the morning. And, well … Anna will get a treat when she wakes up.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And I think I even have one or two of your shirts packed away somewhere.” She grimaced as she glanced at what he was wearing. “And you should thank me for that, Marky. You look like shit.”

She got up and left the room leaving him sitting there, dumb-
founded.

Dumbfounded but happy. She still had a couple of his shirts. Maybe he could take that as a hopeful sign.

Twenty-Six

Anna's squeal of delight
grabbed him from sleep and dumped him back onto the couch. He woke with a start, instinct kicking in as he reached for a nonexistent gun.

“Daddy!” she said as she leapt on him. He laughed and covered her with kisses. Rubbed his beard on the top of her head. She peeled off a long squeal that hurt his ears. Struggled to get away, but he just hugged her tighter. Noticed that his clothes, which he'd left on the floor just before he'd fallen asleep, had now been cleaned and neatly folded. There was even a fresh, dark gray turtleneck. He hadn't seen that shirt since he'd left. The clothes brought a smile to his face. Chris had always hated him going around in things worn more than one day. His crusty seawater clothes would've set her hair on fire.

“Hey, A,” he said as he let go of his daughter. “How's it going, citizen?”

“You smell,” she replied. “Don't you shower?”

“Only when I know I won't be seeing you.”

She made a face. Struggled to get away again, laughing. He let her go. Smelled his shirt. “Damn,” he said with an astonished air, “you were right!”

Chris's cell phone rang from the kitchen. He heard her come in and pick it up. “Hello?” she said, then after a moment, more quietly, “Today? Well, maybe later. I have something I have to do this morning. I'll call you after I'm done. Yeah, I'd like that. Okay. Bye.”

He sat there, knowing what the call meant. Heard it in her voice. Could now see all chance of him and Chris getting back together flying out the window like a bird with a new set of wings. After a moment, she walked into the room, phone still in hand. “You heard?”

He nodded. “But I know that I don't have
the right
to hear anything, if you get me.” Anna didn't understand what was going on, but got the crashing change in vibe. Sat down next to him. Leaned her weight on his arm. He petted her head. Just like he used to.

“That's true,” Chris told him. “But, are you sure? I don't want—or need—to have compartments in my life.”

“I don't want to know the particulars. Honest. Like I said: not my business. I do have to say, though, that I'm glad I know.”

“Why?”

He got up. “I dunno. You know me: always have to know the exact measurement of the playing field before suiting up. Can you take me back to my place? And really, thanks for letting me crash. I owe ya, okay?” he said, finishing with the best smile he could.

She seemed to appreciate his attitude. Again gave him one of those long looks that used to drive him crazy because she was impossible to read at those moments. Finally she smiled back. Pulled her keys from her nearby purse, saying, “Okay then. Let's hit the road, people!”

Just like the last time, he wouldn't let them see his place. Being clean was like windshield wipers for his eyes. The neighborhood was bad enough, but his place was downright embarrassing. Before he got out, he kissed Anna on the cheek. “I'll have a new kite for you, real soon,” he said.

“Promises, promises!” Anna said, putting on her best Cockney accent. After he was done laughing, he told Chris one more time how much he appreciated her letting him crash on the couch. She smiled at him, saying, “No matter what's happening in our lives, I want you to know that as long as you're like you are now, you'll have total access to our daughter.”

“That's a lot. Thanks.” He watched her car until it turned the corner. As if to make sure they got out of the Loin alive. Went down the street and into the corner liquor store. Bought another phone. He noticed that his appearance only reinforced the opinion of the guy behind the counter that he was nothing but a scumbag junkie. He laughed at that as he left, reveling in the fact that it wasn't the truth anymore, no matter what anyone fucking thought.

Dockery hung up the phone. Stared at it, shell-shocked. Carl Kaslowski was dead. Couldn't believe it. Man, his woman had sounded all in when she'd told him, heart ripped to pieces. The guy hadn't been one of the bad ones, either. Not an evil one. Def not like that piece of shit Tony S.

Damn, man
, he thought. Shot.
That's fucked up. Fuckin' life, man … every time you try to get up, it kicks you in the sack again. Fuckin' life.

The place was suddenly too small to hold him. He needed air. To be out among people. Out free. He said the usual goodbye to his girl. Gave his kid a kiss, then left.

He needed a drink. Should he call his parole officer? No, fuck that bitch. She'd be no help. But he wanted,
needed,
to talk to someone. Anyone. After two blocks, he turned left and went down to the Dark Horse. Ordered his usual and sat at the stick, glumly drinking and thinking. After a moment he looked around, the feeling of being watched kicking in. But there was no one he could point to that looked like they were interested in him. Remembered then that his gun was empty. Mallen had taken the clip. He'd have to get another one, and fast. Felt naked without a loaded beast on him. There was no relaxation in him. Kept going back to Carl's death. Why the hell did shit like that have to go down? The guy was turning it all around. If there was ever a white boy he could look up to, it would have been Carl.

Spent about another hour in the bar, nursing a couple more drinks. He was good and tight by the time he left.
What now?
he wondered. Should he even bother trying to track down some of the other guys? He just wanted to jaw with someone he could connect with.

He walked slowly down Fillmore Street, hands in pockets, lost in thought. His mind barely registered the sound of an engine starting up. Took him a moment to realize he'd heard that engine before. Glanced around the street.

And there it fuckin' was: the small, two-door sedan he'd seen earlier. Right after talking to that Mallen dude.

Could be coincidence
, a part of his mind told him. Hell, the city was small. People always running into people. But then again, maybe it wasn't like that. He picked up his pace. Turned on the next block. Headed east to downtown. The car didn't follow him, and he laughed softly to himself for being so on edge. Easy to be that way when you done time.

After another block he decided to go see Soldier. He'd have a spare clip to sell. Kept walking down the street, nice and easy. Was another block on when he again saw the sedan. It had just turned onto the street ahead of him, moving east, in the direction he was heading.

Motherfuck …

Dockery turned on his heel and walked away, picking up speed. The sighting of the car was too fucking weird. Now he had to get to Soldier's. And fast. Walked quickly, crossing back over Fillmore as he went west. The car was rolling up Fillmore toward him. Fucker must've high-tailed it in a double-back. What the fuck? Now he ran, ran at top speed down the street. Soldier's was only ten blocks away. As he ran, he took a jigsaw route: one block up, one block over, one block up, two blocks over in the opposite direction from before. Zigged his way to his goal, always checking behind him. He lost the car two blocks from his destination. Immediately hid on some steps leading down to a dark basement access door of an old apartment building. Lay on the stairs, keeping his eyes just above street level.

Paranoid? Maybe. Wanting to stay alive? Sure as fuck. Waited about another five minutes. Listened and watched. There was no traffic on the street now. Only a passing motorcycle, then a woman strolling by with a baby carriage.

Figured it was safe to go on. He did so quickly, scanning all around him as he went. There was no sign of the car.

Oberon checked his notes again. Made sure he had the right place.
Looked once more at the building. Hadn't really expected such a nicely kept, Inner Richmond apartment building. They might even be condos in there. Expensive condos. Got out of his car, went to the door. He'd found very little in his search regarding felons who'd not only known both dead men but who were also still out on the street. It had only been in doing some checking with Narco that he'd come up with a couple names.
Thank God for repeat offenders once in awhile
, he thought. Every time a criminal went through the system, they learned a little more about him or her. And sometimes they learned some items regarding their previous time inside.

He entered the building's vestibule. Again, very nice, with subway tile polished a brilliant white. Found the name he was looking for on the glass and brass directory. Pushed the buzzer. A woman's voice answered. Strong and firm. “Yes?”

“This is Detective Inspector Oberon Kane, Ma'am. San Francisco Police. I was wondering if a Mr. Robert Jenks was in?”

There was a pause. “What's this about?”

“Just some routine questions, Ma'am. Let me in please.” He hated sounding so formal, but he also hated standing outside a building and speaking to what amounted to a squawk box. It was things like this that made cops nervous, and he was no exception. What was going on inside? Was there someone up in that room dumping drugs down a drain? Hiding drugs? Loading a gun? Strange how something so simple as walking up to a door could be a life-or-death experience.

The lock buzzed open, and he pushed on the heavy oak door. He went up the heavily carpeted stairs to the third floor. Knocked and waited, ears tuned to any noises from the other side that might alert him to trouble.

The door was opened by a man. About six feet, solidly built. Hair cut military short. Wire-rimmed, John Lennon–like glasses. The clothes were business casual for the home. Like something out of a Territory Ahead catalog.

“Robert Jenks?” he asked the man.

Jenks nodded. Smiled as he held out a hand. “Yeah, but my friends call me Bobby, Officer. Care to come in?”

The two men shook hands. Oberon couldn't help but notice that Jenks had a pretty powerful grip, and he didn't think the man was even trying too hard. The flat was done up tastefully. Very neat and tidy. Lots of dark, chocolate-brown leather furniture and heavily lacquered maple. The formal dining room had been given over as an office. The large dining table was now a desk strewn with papers. A white board stood nearby, covered with words such as
persevere
,
integrity
, and
strength
. There were also phrases like “The best way to predict your future is to create it.”

Jenks went to the table and picked up a business card. Brought it over to him. Written on it were two lines in a professional, business-type font:
Inner Iron. Bobby Jenks, Motivational Speaker.

“This is what I've been doing since I got out,” Jenks said, proud of his accomplishment. “I'm trying to use my own experience to help others to leverage their lives in a positive and meaningful manner.”

“That's impressive, Mr. Jenks,” Oberon said as he slipped the card into his coat pocket. “How is it going?”

“Great.” Jenks beamed. “I'm opening my first location next week. Renting a storefront and offices over on Union. I'll be able to give seminars there. And, after training two or three hires to run that, I'll be able to personally ‘take it on the road', as they say.”

“My,” Oberon said as he pulled out his notebook, “this must have cost a helluva lot to get going.”

A woman entered the room from the kitchen. Incredibly beautiful. Long blonde hair, model-caliber figure. Carried herself well, in a way that made Oberon think she must've gone to some big-shot Eastern college. She smiled at Jenks, kissed him on the cheek. Put her arm around his waist as she studied Oberon for a moment. Then she turned back to Jenks, saying, “I'm going to the market, honey. Need anything?”

“No, I'm good, Kate. Thanks.” They kissed. She grabbed keys off a side table and left.

After she was gone, Jenks went to the couch and sat. “Kate's how I was able to start
Inner Iron. Her folks have been wonderful to me. It helped that her father felt it would be a good investment. I had to give him one of my speeches, of course. The old dog wanted to see if I could really do it. Gave me the seal of approval, then gave me the check.”

Was that a slight inference of derision,
Oberon wondered? Couldn't tell, but he made a mental note of it all the same.

Jenks looked him in the eye for a second, then said, “Why are you here, Officer … Kane, was it?”

“Inspector. Yes, Kane,” he said, noticing that Jenks didn't offer him a chair. “I'm trying to track down anyone who might have known either a Carl Kaslowski or an Anthony Scarsdale.”

At the names, Jenks sighed. Shifted on the couch. “I always thought Carl would be able to stay clean,” he said sadly, then started, shocked as the news really sank in. “Wait.
‘
Might have
known
'
? What's happened?”

“They've been murdered, Mr. Jenks. Both by the same gun.” The sentence left Jenks with a stunned look on his face. “How well did you know them?”

“Dead? Jesus … Carl? Dead?”

“I'm afraid so, yes. You don't mention Scarsdale. You didn't like him as much as Kaslowski?”

Jenks shook his head. “No. Tony was a grimy, craven piece of shit. I had no respect for him. Carl, though, he really didn't belong there. I could tell he was going to turn it around when he got out. It was talking with him, trying to help him, that gave me the idea for Inner Iron. Helped him all I could. Kept the brothers off his ass. It felt good to be able to do some good, especially in there.”

“I can understand that.” Oberon looked down at his notes for a moment. “You went in for assault?”