Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series) (7 page)

The funky bar sat sandwiched between a dilapidated joint called the Montclair House and a long, dark alley filled with cracked plastic cans. The neon sign had two oranges sitting in the holes of the capital letter B. The block was nearly deserted. I spotted four nodding needle junkies on a bus bench, leaning sideways. One still had his upper arm tied off with a length of rubber hose. Someone was smoking a joint on a rusty hotel fire escape and the sickly sweet odor of marijuana clogged the humid air.

I crossed the street, moving diagonally, my cowboy boots scratching at the asphalt like wooden matches. I walked up to the door of the bar, took a deep breath and went in.

The Orange Grove was deserted, except for the short, pudgy, balding man in a stained brown apron who was cleaning up. An incongruously white goatee flowered on his warm, chocolate face. He looked up and immediately dropped one hand out of sight beneath the wooden bar. My stomach tightened but I walked closer, expression neutral and hands in plain sight.

"You lost, son?" The man spoke pleasantly enough, but his posture made plain that he had me covered. "I'm only asking because you don't look all that stupid."

"Truth is I'm probably both. I'll bet you can tell just by looking that this isn't my customary neck of the woods."

"You got that right."

"I'm looking for a girl."

"Who ain't?"

"She's white, around twenty-five years old, maybe five foot seven, brunette, unless she changed her hair around. The lady has got a serious Jones, usually for the sleepy stuff."

"She got a name, this white girl?"

"Sometimes she lets people call her Skanky."

The bartender nodded solemnly, eyes locked solid. He looked down at my empty hands. "Now, I ain't saying it's her, mind you, but a working girl like that been in and out, from time to time."

"Where can I find her?"

"Gotta ask why you want to, son."

"I'm a friend, Pops, not her family or the law. She wants to clean up. She called me, so I'm here. You know how it is."

"I see it from time to time."

"Can you help me out?"

"Long as you swear you didn't get shit from me. Mostly likely she's in a room right next door, bumping her ugly on some stupid bastard didn't go home to his wife tonight."

"I owe you."

"Bullshit, you never met me." The old man relaxed, but only a little. "Now get on out of here. I got to close up my bar."

I turned. "Maybe there's one last thing you didn't tell me. She shot some porn films and somebody named Fancy was going to try and kill her. You ever heard of him?"

The old man stiffened, brought his hand up from beneath the bar, held a shotgun at stomach level. "Get your lily white ass out of here."

I backed towards the door, palms open, facing the bar. "No offense, Pops. You didn't say a word."

"Goddamn right I didn't." The old man came around the bar, backed me out the door. He locked the place, yanked down the shades and covered the windows. The neon sign went dark. I heard a sound behind me and spun around.

A drunk was pissing against the alley wall. Someone slammed a top-floor window in the broken-down hotel. That's when I saw two rough looking, buff young men standing next to my car. They had their hair done up in long, Jamaican dreadlocks and wore black wife-beater shirts, loose, tan pants, and identical, bright red running shoes. Each held a short, ugly piece of iron pipe in one fist. The pipe had been ground to a sharp edge on one end to make one nasty, highly effective street weapon. I tried to offer a brave front and only managed a skeletal grin.

"Hey, guys," I said, cheerfully, "I'm just going to go pick up a friend of mine. It would be downright nice of you fellows to watch my car." I strolled over to the hotel. The two kids looked confused.

The lobby of the Montclair House had peeling linoleum, one geriatric easy chair, and four tacky gold couches, patched with black electrical tape. Two old men sat snoring in opposite corners, clutching screw-top bottles. One wore overalls and had greasy hands. The other wore a tattered suit but no shoes, and had a deck of playing cards fanned out near filthy, bare feet.

I walked up to the counter, looked over at the register. The clerk came out before I could pick it up. He was tall, wide, and wore his hair in a quaint 1970s Afro. His forearms were roped with muscles and cobwebbed with ink. When he spoke, he leaned in and barely moved his lips, an unconscious act that gave his pedigree as pointedly as the jailhouse tats.

"What you want?"

I could literally feel time running out. I pulled out all my cash. It came to eighty dollars. "This is all I've got."

"That's a drag," the clerk said, looking at the money. "But why the fuck should I care?"

"I came for a friend. Her name might be Mary or Skanky. Where is she?"

The clerk gathered up the cash, grinned hugely as it vanished into his shirt pocket. "Thanks. Now, fuck off."

I saw swarms of black dots. I reached over the counter, grabbed the clerk by the thumb and right hand. I twisted the wrist, brought his upper body around, and forced the fingers back and down. The clerk hissed through clenched, yellowing teeth.

"Easy, you're breaking my fucking arm."

"I'm breaking your wrist, to be precise."

"You law?"

"No way, Jose, and that means you are in really deep shit."

"Twenty-one, second floor," the clerk said. I turned the wrist a bit more, felt bones grinding. "I'm not lying, man!"

"Does she have a customer?"

"The john left ten, twenty minutes ago. I'd go kick her out in a minute, anyway. She's probably passed out."

I let go. The clerk grabbed his arm and backed away. He seemed more impressed than frightened. "Thanks for your cooperation."

"Whatever."

The elevator could have trapped me in a confined space, so I trotted up the stairs. The .357 dug into my spine. I peeked around the corner. The red carpet was frayed. The hallway smelled of cigarettes, alcohol, and urine. My heart was thudding like a bass drum as I went flat to the wall, eyes abnormally wide from adrenaline.
Too late to back out. If it doesn't work, you're fish food
.

I found the room, tried the knob, and went inside. There was one lamp, with a ripped shade burned a color like dried feces. Mary was sprawled on the bed, wearing black panties and a bra. I locked the door behind me, checked her arms and legs, found dozens of scars and fresh needle marks. I slapped her, lightly but firmly.

"Mary? It's Mick Callahan. You have to wake up and come with me, right now."

Her eyes opened, slowly focused. Mary was a plain country girl, with a corn-fed face ravaged by excess. She seemed puzzled to see me. I got her into her dress and shoes, grabbed her purse, and shoved her out the door. She slipped in the hallway and went down, clutching at my pants leg. An old man peeked out from a room down the hall. When saw the girl kneeling before me, he cackled. I slapped Mary again, dragged her upright.

"Get it together. I need you on your feet, or we're both fucked."

"Okay," she said, eyes clearing a bit. She swallowed, nodded. I took her elbow and walked her back down the hall. We carefully navigated the steps into the lobby. There was no sign of the damned clerk. I almost went for the gun, but reminded myself how often guns escalate violence. Still, it took all my willpower to leave the weapon in my belt.

We opened the front door and stepped out into the street.

The tableau remained frozen for a few seconds: Just the two of us standing before the Montclair House, while across the broken, trash-strewn street stood the kids who had staked out my car. Everyone else had vanished. A light breeze moved dry leaves along the sidewalk with a faint, scratching sound, like someone buried alive.

"You just stay right there, my man."

A very small but strikingly handsome black man in a full-length mink emerged from the shadows of the alley. He might have been a flyweight boxing champion or a rap star; his tiny fingers were festooned with diamonds and gold rings, and his perfectly white teeth gleamed bright in an ominous darkness
. So this little guy is the main man, Fancy. He looks calm, a real predator.

"Good evening." My voice sounded strange.

"Sir, where in the world do you think you are going?" Fancy said, in a surprisingly rich and cultured baritone. He had an English accent. If it was an affectation, it was well done. "I can't be expected to just let someone waltz on in here and leave with one of my women."

"No offense intended," I replied, as calmly as I could. "She wants out. I'm here to help."

Fancy laughed, uproariously. The two tall bodyguards joined in. "That's rich, and are you perhaps from a church organization, my man?"

"Not exactly."

He shrugged out of the expensive coat, neatly folded it over one arm and handed it to someone standing hidden in the shadows. Fancy was not only small, his left arm was deformed or slightly arthritic. It was bent at an odd angle and the fingers were curled.

"I see. So, you are on a mission."

"You could say that." I pushed Mary from behind, forced her to walk toward the car. "I'm not competing with you, if that's what you're worried about."

"What in the world would
you
know about
me
?"

The tall boys with the pipes stiffened, grunted, and moved closer. I paused near my car. "Look Fancy, I know who you are. And so do some friends in law enforcement. Let's just do this peacefully, okay?"

"Threats?" Fancy scowled, chuckled mockingly. "Now you are beginning to irritate. Perhaps I should not allow you to live."

I tried to act unimpressed, but my legs were shaking. "You want to tell these two gentlemen to back away?"

Fancy strolled closer.
A first class Napoleon complex. He oozes power, lives for it. He is totally accustomed to command
. I felt like a deer that had wandered a bit too close to the lion's den.

"Do I know you?"

I pulled Mary closer. "No, I get that. I just look like someone you're supposed to know."

Fancy gave the girl a wide, alligator smile. "Do you not wish to remain in my employ any longer, darling girl?"

"I don't know," she said, sleepily.

"You don't know? Wrong answer."

Fancy snapped the fingers of his good right hand. Instantly the two men by the car moved to encircle me, one on each side. My fingers strayed towards the .357, but then I remembered the figure hidden in the darkened alley. I was being covered from there. I took a deep breath.

"Get in the car, Mary." She stumbled to the passenger side. A few beats of silence followed.

Fancy chuckled. "Ah, Mary the virgin, Mary the whore. Mary is a much nicer name than Skanky, don't you think?"

He snapped his small fingers again. The boy on the right tried to hit me with the pipe. The move was predictable enough for me to fall back on Seal training. I stepped back out of the way, grabbed the boy's arm, used his momentum for leverage, then tripped him and drove him face down into the pavement. I dropped my right knee on his upper back and cracked some ribs to make sure he'd be out of it for a while.

I grabbed the fallen pipe and moved back towards Fancy, not where I'd be expected to go, and caught the other boy off guard. He spun, eyes white in his face, and swung at me.

I stepped under the pipe and brought my own weapon up. Metal clanged and echoed down the street. The boy kicked me in the shin. That hurt like hell. I growled. The pipes clanged together.

"Wonderful, gladiators!" Fancy called. "Most entertaining."

The boy closed again, parried my thrust and raised his weapon. Before he could bring it down, I crouched, punched once at a knee cap and twice at his diaphragm with the blunt end of the pipe. The boy sank to his knees, wheezing.

It was over.

I pulled the .357. Immediately, clicks echoed all around as weapons were cocked up and down the street. I kept mine pointed down at the pavement. "We don't need to take this any further, Fancy. I just want to help the girl, that's all. This is not about business."

Fancy pondered. "It is always my business, friend. She is one of my very best, certain to star in my next motion picture."

"Do you want money?"

"Oh, please," Fancy said. He waved the withered fingers. "You couldn't raise the money I find in my couch. Let me think on this."

"Take your time." I was having trouble keeping my breathing under control.

"I pride myself on intelligent business practices," Fancy said, at last. "Still, one must always change with the times."

"Absolutely, flexibility is a must in any business plan."

"Also, I'm feeling generous tonight. I see no harm in allowing her to retire prematurely."

"Thank you."
For not shooting my sorry ass full of holes.

"And as for any repeat performance of this evening's festivities . . ."

Fancy moved his good fingers again, and the shape in the alley stepped into plain sight. He was round and compact, a dangerous looking man wearing a baseball cap and a blue wind blazer. His eyes were deep and haunted, mouth thin and bitter. He carried an Uzi like some men hold a pet.

"I assure you, there will be no repeat performance."

"I'm so happy you see things my way," Fancy said.

I tucked the pistol away. "Well, it's been real. I suppose I had better be going, now."

Fancy gripped his bad left arm with his right. He bowed. "On that we are also in complete agreement."

I got in, started the car and backed it away, my eyes fixed on that automatic rifle. The man tracked me all the way, sunken eyes hungry. Nearby, the shadows rippled as other gang members moved on again, like an army of the living dead.

The car left the pool of light and re-entered darkness. I shoved the .357 under the front seat. My chest was tight, pulse roaring in my ears. Mary made a coughing sound and leaned against the passenger window.