Untold Damage (6 page)

He stood up, wavering on his feet. His apartment was a long-ass way away. Getting on a bus looking and smelling the way he did wasn't an option, no matter how sick he was. He didn't want to be seen by anyone for awhile. “I don't know.”

“You got some money on the books. You can catch a cab outside.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, we booked it in when we booked you.”

Obie.
“Okay, thanks. Yeah, that'll be fine.”

“Come on then, life awaits.”

Eight

Mallen watched as Chris
picked up her bowling ball, went to the line, got set, then proceeded to throw another gutter ball. Her list of curses would've sent a sailor running for cover. He laughed as he got to his feet to take his turn. “I told you,” he said as he picked up his bowling ball, “try not to cross your arm across your chest.”

“Oh bite me, Mr. Bowler Man,” she said with an answering laugh. He'd always loved how competitive she could be, in everything. Back in college, she'd always competed with him and the other students. Even in bed, it seemed she was competing to see who could have the biggest orgasm. That part, he had to admit, he didn't mind at all.

Eric sat at the score deck. He yelled at Mallen, “Try to keep it in our lane this time, man!”

He laughed at that in reply. Mallen was killing them, as he knew he would. His dad, Ol' Monster Mallen, had been a great bowler, and had taught him all he knew about it. Monster could've gone pro. Had bowled semipro at a couple points in his life but had chosen to knock down bad guys rather than seven-ten splits. But even in something like bowling, the old man had done what he'd usually done: taught his son to never settle for anything less than perfection. Fuck that “second best” crap. All that training and yelling had made Mallen a pretty fair bowler.

Now he set his feet, glanced down the lane, chose that sweet spot on the first set of arrows painted on the lane, and let her rip. The ball sailed down the lane like a laser-equipped missile. The clash of the ball hitting the pins, resulting in a nice, clean strike, drew a wave of groans from Chris and Eric. He smiled as he went and sat down next to Chris, resting his hand on the nape of her neck. He glanced over at Eric.

“Okay, punk,” he said in his best Dirty Harry voice, “your move.”

“I find myself suddenly hating bowling,” Eric said as he got up and went to take his turn.

Mallen worked his way through the heavy Friday night crowd in the emergency room at SF General. He'd told Franco only that something had come up, that it involved a bitch he cared about, and that she was sick, taken to the hospital. Franco had been pissed and a bit wary. There were big things going down, and the drug dealer was feeling pressed, from what felt like every point on the compass. He was getting edgy, paranoid, sometimes reminding Mallen of Hitler in his bunker. That feeling was filtering down to everyone in the upper echelons. So this needing to go and see Eric couldn't have come at a worse time, but what the fuck was he going to do?
Not
go?

He had to.

Eric had been shot trying to stop a liquor store holdup. Called in as a 911, first cop on the scene. Being in the vanguard was the short straw, and that was a fact. Mallen didn't know what had gone down. All he knew from the coded text was that Eric had been shot, and taken to SF General. He had Chris to thank for telling him that much. The brass wouldn't have risked it, but she would know that he'd want to know as soon as possible. Eric's mom would've called Chris, he knew, totally freaked the hell out.

And all Chris had texted was:
B1978, X'd @ Sfg.911

Mallen got to the reception desk. There was an older guy behind there, with sort of mad-scientist hair and geek glasses. Dark blue, polyester suit jacket. Name badge said Wiggins. “I heard a policeman was brought in. Eric Russ. He okay? I'm a … a friend.”

The man looked him over, only a little longer than he should, only because Mallen looked the part of drug-dealing associate. Maybe the guy thought Mallen was here to finish the job, Mallen couldn't say. “Look,” he added, very quietly, “I'm a friend. I need to know if he's okay.”

The man studied him a few seconds longer, and Mallen wanted to break his face open for making him wait while Eric might be dying. The man named Wiggins looked at his screen. Tapped a couple keys, almost like he had nothing else to do with his day, said, “He's in surgery.”

“So, he's alive?”

A nod.

Now Mallen had a quandary. Sit and wait, or go away? He shouldn't be here, he knew, and every moment he was here was dangerous.

“Mark,” Phoebe said as she came up, Chris in tow. Chris's look said it all:
Oh shit, what the fuck are you doing here?
But there was that tiny curl of the lip, the one that always drove him crazy. She was glad he'd come, even though it was dangerous. As Phoebe hugged him, he heard Chris say in a soft voice, almost a whisper, “How's my knight in shining armor?”

“Still around,” he replied as Phoebe let him go. He looked at her. “What's the word? The guy at the desk said he was in surgery.” He looked around then. “Hal,” he said, “where's Hal?”

“He's outside the door that leads to the operating rooms,” Phoebe replied.

Of course. Where the hell else would Hal be, with his son in his present situation? Hell, the guy would be pulling out the bullet himself, if he could.

Chris came and put her arm around Phoebe's shoulder. Said, “Phoebe? Can you give me and Mark a moment? I'll be right back.”

Phoebe nodded, clutched Chris's hand. Went and sat in one of the neutral gray chairs made for people who had to wait to hear either good news or bad.

Chris watched her until she was out of earshot, then walked to a drinking fountain. He admired her for that, knowing his job, dealing with it, working with him on it. She'd been a great cop's wife. He followed. Watched her take a long drink from the fountain.

“Do you know how he's really doing?” he asked.

“From what the doctors told us a half hour ago, it looks positive.”

He could actually feel his entire body relax. When was the last time that had happened? It seemed so long ago now. “I better go, ya know?”

She nodded, automatically checking up and down the hall, like she could see who was bad and who wasn't. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Stevens tells me they're getting ready to move in. Soon. Needs me where I am a little longer.”

“A little longer,” she echoed.

“Anna? She okay?”

A smirk. “She's taking after her father. Corralled some kids in daycare and told them to come clean about the crayons they'd been holding back. She's a regular Kojack.”

“That's actually your side of the family, not mine. Mine are drunkards, liars, and cheats,” he said, then quickly swooped in for a kiss. Yeah, it was dangerous, but damn if he didn't miss his wife. “I'll be home soon as this detail is over, I swear. Stevens promised­—”

“I know what he promised,” she replied. “When he makes good on those promises, then maybe I'll like the asshole.”

“Give my best to Phoebe. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer. Thanks for the text, and let me know if it goes bad,” he added as he gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then turned and walked out through the sliding glass doors and back out into the night.

Nine

Mallen was seven feet
from his door when he realized that something was wrong. It wasn't the sobriety, which felt like an uncomfortable new suit and probably would for some time. No, his door looked different. He approached slowly, checking up and down the hall as he got closer. The lock had been jimmied. Gashes in the wood. Scratches all along the jamb right at lock height.

The street must've heard he'd been locked up and came to pay their respects by robbing him. Joke was on them. He studied the knob for a moment, half just for shits and giggles. Maybe there might be a visible print. Habit, he guessed. Strange how old habits that'd lain dormant for years could suddenly appear out of nowhere thanks to not having a high on. He wondered what other shit was lying dormant that he'd forgotten about. Quietly turned the knob, went inside.

The first thing he noticed was the small white envelope on the floor. To the left of the door. He picked it up and opened it. Eric's funeral announcement. Funeral had been two days ago. He'd been getting clean just as Eric had been getting put in the ground.

How fitting, in its way, maybe? He made a note of the cemetery. Down in Colma. He'd have to bring flowers. Put the envelope away as he then saw the state of his apartment …

Everything was all over everything. All the kites, Anna's kites, had been trashed. Nothing but sticks and torn paper. The first thing that struck him was his anger. Deep and cutting. Whoever did this would be really fucking sorry. They were just kites, man. Why fuck 'em up? The second thing that struck him was that it was just like how it'd been at Jenna's. The same level of violent destruction. They'd even found his little safe-hole in the floor trim, the money tossed all over. Whoever had been here, it certainly wasn't some strung-out motherfucker looking for shooting money.

And the vials were still there, too. In the corner near their hiding place, appearing as if they were cowering, only waiting for their papa to come home and rescue them. His eyes riveted on them. There was nothing else in the world at that moment. Nothing else in the entire misbegotten universe. The Need laughed as it sat on his shoulder, directing traffic to clear the way for him to get to them quickly. He went. Stiff legged. Weak willed. Suddenly drenched in sweat.
The vials …

And he put his hand on them. They folded into his palm like kittens into a warm blanket. He stared at them. No sound. No world. Grasped them tightly. Went to under the sink. His rig was still there. He grabbed it up …

And he threw the vials down the sink drain. Needle, too. Ran scalding hot water as he flipped the disposal on. There was an incredible screeching noise as the disposal chewed up the metal and glass. He threw the rubber tubing and spoon in the trash, but only after breaking the spoon in two.

Then it was done. A corner turned.
Fuck that shit
, he thought, still sweating, still breathing hard.

But he'd done it.

He got out of the shower, wiped the steam away from the fogged-up mirror. Careworn eyes stared back at him. Could it really have been four and a half years since he got the boot off the force? He thought back to that first day in Narco, and how he'd walked in through Captain Stevens's door like he was walking to his reward. Thought he was so super cool, just like Al Pacino in the undercover cop film
Serpico
. No one was ever going to trip onto who and what he really was.

Then there was the time he'd always blamed for his falling into the world he'd been in for the last four years. Of course he now realized there was nothing to blame, no one to blame, but himself. He'd been in real deep cover, moving up the chain toward a major supplier the entire law enforcement world of California wanted, dead or alive. One of the top guys in Northern California. A slip of the tongue or a hairline crack in the persona you created, and everyone would guess you were a cop. You'd be dog food within the hour. He was getting more and more stressed by the constant threat of being found out. The men at the top didn't do too many drugs. They drank, maybe did some coke or weed, but they kept it in order, under control. It was the conversations about shooting up or being high that worked on him the most. Mallen had only ever smoked weed or drank, and that had been back in college. He'd been constantly worried that he wasn't coming off as a guy who'd gotten high tons of times in the past. There was only one way to really know how it felt. Only one way to carry it off convincingly. Just like an actor would, he figured. A guy had to dive in and live it, right? Experience it. No way Monster Mallen's son would ever take a nosedive and lose his perspective. Not a fuckin' chance.

Of course it hadn't work out that way. And that one moment led him to here: standing in front of the mirror, clean after four and a half years. Those years worked out to about 1,460 days of shooting, give or take. The number alone stunned him. He'd never really thought about it in those terms. Junkies only thought minute to minute, moment by moment. Hours and days were for other people.

He quickly got dressed, pushing away images of needles and The Need. His suit was too big for him now, so he tossed it in the trash. He was no longer a junkie, but he could no longer go back to what he was, either. Instead he changed into his regular clothes, the only ones in the place that were still mostly clean: black sweater and jeans, old army boots, and his only remaining coat—a black wool car coat he'd found draped over a garbage can. The cuffs were worn and the bottom button was missing but, all in all, it was still serviceable. Had to laugh when he was finished tying up his boots and stood there, all in black. Was he in mourning for his now-gone junkie life, or the life he'd had before that?

Would he ever know the answer?

It was cold outside, though it was just early afternoon. Clouds hung heavy overhead. Made the sky a dull, flinty gray. A wind picked up, blowing in from the west. It tried to creep in between him and his coat. What was he going to do? The apartment was no good. Had to stay out of there, at least for the short term. Staying clean was all about racking up days, and days start with hours, even minutes. If he could take it hour by hour, one by one, he might just make it.

Mallen glanced up and down the street as he pulled out his last pack of cigarettes. People always told him it was harder quitting smoking than quitting junk. He'd have to put that to the test someday. Lit a cig, if only to stall for time. In the end he decided to go down to the Cornerstone. It was nearby. Yeah, Dreamo was there, but he'd stay out of Dreamo's realm. He just wanted to sit and be quiet. There were so many things to think about. Anna. Chris. Eric. He thought for a moment that maybe he should go to another bar, but then realized there just wasn't any
other
bar for him. He knew Bill, and Bill knew him. He could steer clear of Dreamo. The guy wouldn't take it personally, that was for fucking sure. Well, okay … maybe he might, a little.

The street felt flat to him as he walked. Probably from seeing it not high. Colors seemed a bit more dull. People seemed a lot more angry and put out. He laughed as he caught himself thinking,
and people don't shoot because
… ? But he knew why now. The air did smell better, even with the exhaust fumes and moldering garbage rotting in the gutter. Okay, he could do this. Again, not one day at a time, but one moment at a time.

He made his way to the Cornerstone. A drink would help. Fighting fire with fire, sure, but baby steps, man, baby steps. One day without a needle was a day won, and that was a fact.

He'd never really noticed before how beat-up the bar looked. Hadn't really come on his radar. He entered and let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The regulars who haunted the place were like dark statues as they sat on their stools. Heads were downcast or staring over at the TV in the upper corner of the room. He went and sat at the far end of the bar, nodding at Bill. The bartender came over, a welcoming smile on his face. Stopped suddenly. Looked him over for a moment. A soft whistle escaped his lips.

“Jesus fucking Christ. Heard you were arrested, Mal. Now I know it's true.”

“Yeah? How you know that?”

“You're clean,” he replied and laughed in his dry, smoker's cackle. “You did the jail clean, right? Smart man.”

“Didn't know it had a name.”

“Ain't no original thoughts under the sun, boy-o. I thought them all ages ago.” Bill seemed genuinely happy that he was clean. That meant something to him. Another thing he wanted to remember. “Now, what would you like to drink?” Bill said, like some wizard that has all secrets at his command.

“Scotch on the rocks. Double.”

Bill went and fixed the drink, Speedy Gonzales quick. Put it in front of him with a flourish. Finished it off with the rare bowl of Chex Mix. “First one's on the house, Mallen.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mallen told him, meaning it a hundred percent. The drink felt good. Relaxed him. Would it be a slippery slope? All he had to do was imagine Anna, and the answer was a very strong no.
One fucking moment at a time, asshole.

He was half-through his drink when Bill came back over. “So,” the bartender asked quietly, “how does it feel?”

“Feel?”

“Yeah. Being off the stuff.”

“Well,” he said after a moment, “it's like having a hard-on, but also knowing that you have VD. You want to, but you can't. Well,
shouldn't
would be more accurate, yeah?” He smiled at Bill's raucous outburst of laughter.

“Mal,” Bill said after he calmed down, “you better not god-damned go back on the horse because you are
way
more fucking funny this way!” Then he remembered something. Mallen could almost see the man's mind snap an imaginary finger at the memory. Bill went over to the cash register, some ancient beast the previous owner had left behind when the bar had been sold to Bill over fifteen years ago. The man fished through a wad of notes and old receipts, came back with folded piece of notebook paper. Handed it to him. It had his name scrawled on the outside. He didn't recognize the writing. Took a sip of his drink then opened the paper.

Written in block letters, in pencil, the note said:
Vato—My friends inside told me you were now outside. I am praying for you, that your veins run red and clean now, not dirty anymore. If you need help to stay clean, or anything, just call me: 415-555-1929. We were put on this Earth to help one another, as my madre always says. Best, Gato.

Mallen reread the note again. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, but he could swear it was a mixture of amazement and gratitude. So, good people
did
still exist in this fucking place. That was great.

“You got change for the phone, B?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course, Mal.” Mallen dropped a dollar onto the bar and Bill gave him the quarters. He slid off his stool and went to the phone at the back of the hall. He grabbed the receiver and was about to put the quarters in the slot when he began to wonder how Dreamo was doing. He wondered, too, how the dealer would appear to him, now that he was clean. Couldn't hurt to just pop in and say hello, right? Just see how the guy was doing, how business was, and maybe­—

“Mallen!” Bill called from the bar. “The fucking phone only works if you put the money in, okay?”

He glanced over at Bill, shaken out of his thoughts. The universe did seem to be trying to keep him clean. Least he could do was play along and see where it would take him. He dropped the quarters in the slot, realizing he would need a cell phone again, if he was really serious about rejoining the world. He dialed Oberon's number first. He wanted to know how Jenna was doing. No answer, so he left a casual message, asking Oberon to let him know about Jenna, if she was still in the hospital, if there were any developments on Eric's case. Tried to make it sound like that's all it was. But it wasn't just that. No, he was still bugged about Eric having his address in his pocket. Why would Eric want to see him enough that he would ask around for his address? He'd been living pretty deep on the downlow, and very few people actually had an address on him. The cops did, naturally. The union did. Chris did, just for emergencies, like if something had happened to Anna. (She would at least try to get in touch with him, even if she didn't really want him seeing her.) People on the street knew him, sure, but they wouldn't have his
address
. Probably would only be able to give a street name to Eric, not even an actual building.

There was something going on. He could feel it, just like he could feel all his old cop instincts coming out of its owner-inflicted hibernation. Follow-up was called for, and that was a fact. He felt that the timing of Jenna's break-in, along with Eric's death and the facts surrounding it bore closer scrutiny. He needed to know why Eric had sought him out, and if it was indeed tied up with the reason he was killed, then maybe he could help solve a crime. Been too long since he'd done that, and that was a fact. As he he stood there, he realized now how much he'd missed solving crimes, helping people.

It was time to do that again. At the least, if he were running the fuck around all the time, looking for answers, it would help to keep The Need out of his head.

Then he made another decision. One he hoped would pan out. He was going to trust someone again. Trust that what they'd said, they'd meant. He would need more than just a cell phone if he were going to search for the answer to the puzzle of Eric's death and his connection to it. He would need help. He dropped the other two quarters into the phone and dialed Gato's number. It rang four times, and he thought it would go to voicemail, which would've been a bummer, as he wanted to keep the momentum going, but then he heard Gato's voice.