twelve

It took Mallen the remaining hours of the day before he got a tenuous lead on one of the two names Blackmore had given him. At this point, he felt a former shadow of himself. The only thing keeping him going was finding the answer to what had gone down. A Shannon Waters was known to hang her shingle out in a bar on the corner of Larkin and Turk. Nobody seemed to know where she lived, but everyone knew she had a protector. Tre. That was as much as Mallen was able to get before he ran into a wall of silence. It was one of the first times he’d had to pay for information. Didn’t really mind though. Realized this was just how it was going to be for him now. Hell, maybe it was a sign that he was truly away from his old world, but not far enough that people wouldn’t talk to him. Now he would just have to pay up for what he needed. What the fuck else could he do? Fold his tents and go home? Not fucking likely.

The bar was called Refuge House. Mallen laughed when he heard the name. Seemed to be trying too hard to fit in. Wondered if it would be too neat, too carefully aged, and he wasn’t disappointed when he went in. It was just like he’d suspected. Mostly hipsters, the hipsters who were slowly, inexorably moving into the hood and dragging it into gentrification, kicking and screaming. Maybe this time it would take. Probably not.

When he walked in, he almost thought he’d walked into the wrong place. This was gentrification? They could fuckin’ have it. Pre-darkened wood paneling purposefully carved with fake graffiti that ended up looking too artful. The carved hearts with arrows through them and the fake gang symbols were too clean, too symmetrical. Even the placing of the graffiti was obviously thought out. Bullshit. What a depressing place. And Shannon Waters hung here? When he’d learned that she’d been seen here, he’d also heard a little about this protector of hers, Tre. About his need for the pipe. Protector? Try pimp, right? Six of one, half a dozen of another. Pimping her really wasn’t a shocker, but pimping her here was. Here among the hipsters? She must be something other than what he pictured in his mind.

And she was.

Mallen spotted her after spending a handful of minutes at the bar, drinking a Well Whiskey. She sat quietly at the opposite end of the bar. Blonde, or mostly blonde. Face not totally eaten up by the pipe, but the heavy makeup she wore would cover up some of that damage. Her body though, that hadn’t been eaten by the pipe, not at all. Not yet. She was attractive and healthy enough … enough to get her into the position to take someone outside, and … and then he got it. That’s what was going on here. Tre wasn’t pimping her; he was using her as a lure. He’d throw out the hook, then when Shannon found her fish, they’d leave together and Tre would come out of nowhere and slam the guy and take his wallet. Hell, Mallen figured it beat working in a fast food joint.

Well, there was only one way to play it. She was alone, a drink in front of her. Every time she took a sip, her eyes scanned the room, wanting to make eye contact. Mallen moved down the bar, catching her eye. Prayed she didn’t know him. Seemed she didn’t. A smile. Forced and worn. Maybe she was hoping for one of the younger, more hipster guys. Guys with more money. Guys with more faith in humanity, enough that they couldn’t fathom being rolled for their phone and cash.

He smiled as he came up to her. Looked at her drink. Something red and bubbly. Smirked, “What the hell do you call that?”

“A drink. Why? They call it something else where you come from?”

“No. Well, if it’s really a drink, then let me buy you another one.” He motioned to the bartender. Pointed at both their drinks. The ’tender nodded and started to make them.

“Thanks,” Shannon said, eyeing him for a moment. Probably wondering if he was for real, or a cop. Oh the irony of life, he thought. “What’s your name?”

“Mark.”

“Mark? And?”

“And Mark. Does it have to have a tail?”

She shook her head. Took a sip of the drink the bartender put down in front of her. “My name is Shannon.”

“I like that. Had a sister named Shannon.”

“Bet you did.” She laughed then. Eyed him again, as if trying to see if her game was having the desired effect. Mallen made her think it did. He moved in a little closer.

“No, seriously,” he smiled. “I had a sister named Shannon. She’s in a nunnery now.”

“Nunnery? What the fuck is that?”

“Well … . It’s place for religious women who have given up this world for the next.”

She took another drink. Seemed to be nearly drunk. “For the next? What fucking next, Mark? There’s no ‘next.’ Only ‘here.’” And that seemed to make her sad, a sad that reached through the drunk and choked her by the throat, just a little.

He didn’t answer. Only took a sip of his drink. Caught her looking at him over the rim of her glass. They had a couple more drinks but he could see she nursed hers, not wanting to get too stoned. Checked her watch. “I have to go now, Mark. Sorry I can’t stay longer.”

He slid off the barstool. “Oh, really? I thought that we … .”

A smile. “That we what? You want something more, Mark? I can do that for you.”

Mallen had to admit, that at that moment, she was indeed very sexy. She knew how to play it. “You can? Yeah?”

“Yes. I have a place just around the corner. A small flat. We can go there and have a couple more drinks. See what happens.”

“And what would that cost me?” he said. “Come on, that’s what this is about, right? Okay, cool. I’m okay with it. Just want to know how much.”

She slid in closer. Put her hand to his hip. Trying to find the gun she thought might be there. Before he could slide away, she brushed against the Glock. Froze. He stepped closer. Grabbed her wrist and held it firm. Said quietly, “No Shannon, not a cop. Just another guy who wants to wear a gun for shits an giggles, okay? But not a cop. Now you and me are going to walk out of here all calm like. You just have to lead me out, so we can really talk.”

There was a brief flex of the arm he held firmly in his right hand. “About?”

“Tommy Hendrix. You hear he’s dead, yeah?”

“What’s all this bullshit to you?”

“I’m trying to find who took Trina Marston’s kid. Hendrix was a part of it. Let’s go somewhere more quiet.” He walked her out of the bar. She gave no resistance.

Out on the street, she shrugged out of his grasp, but didn’t run. “I don’t know this Hendrix guy,” she said as she turned and started walking east down the street. Mallen knew she was leading him into the trap that Tre had set. That was fine. She knew he was armed. Hell, maybe she wanted him to off Tre?

“Yeah, you know him,” Mallen said as he walked with her.

“Yeah? How do I know him?”

“Stop that shit. I know you know him. You know you know him. What I need are the names of the other people he hung with. Maybe somebody you’d never seen before until recently.”

“And why would I tell you anyfuckingthing? So you have a gun. So fucking what. Lots of guys have guns.” She quickened her pace down the street and he let her lead him. She stopped in front of a closed-up 99-cent store and turned to face him. The shadows were on his left and he turned around just in time to avoid a fist aimed for his face. Could even feel the displaced air as the fist skimmed his cheek. There was Tre. He was smaller than Mallen imagined him to be, but with a wiry build. Mallen dodged another fist and then Tre’s hand went to his waistband where the butt of a pistol stuck out. Mallen rushed in, snatching the pistol butt before Tre could, yanking it out and shoving it under the man’s chin. Suddenly the world had stopped. Shannon stayed still the entire time, watching, and in that moment he knew he’d been right: she wanted Tre dead.

Tre had frozen in place the split second Mallen shoved the gun under his chin. Tre’s eyes went to Shannon, pleading for her to do something. Mallen risked a glance over his shoulder. She cowered there, acting scared, but he could see she was anything but. Behind those eyes was glee.

“Tre,” Mallen told him quietly as he moved him back toward the shadows, the gun pushed up with all he had under the man’s chin, forcing his head back, “we’re going to put you to sleep for a while, okay?”

“Fuck you,” Tre replied. Crazy-ass crackheads. Always copping an attitude when they went around with a gun in their waistband.

Mallen didn’t have any more to waste. He took the gun and clocked Tre across the temple with it. Tre went out like a light, falling to the ground face first. There was a huge crack as the man’s nose broke. Mallen rolled him over onto his side so the man wouldn’t choke on his own blood. Dragged him into the even darker recesses of the abandoned store’s doorway. It smelled of piss and shit and garbage. Probably on par with who Tre was. Mallen turned to Shannon. She hadn’t moved an inch the entire time. Stared at him now. Scared. Like she thought she’d found a liberator, but was wondering now if she’d only found another jailor.

He went over to her, putting Tre’s gun in his pocket. “So,” he said quietly, “we were talking about Hendrix.”

She looked at Tre. Shook her head. “He’s going to wake up, and when he does he’ll be angry. Angry with me for not trying to stop you.”

“He’ll be in no shape to hurt you. You’ll have to find another answer.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Look, you know something, yeah? Or why all of this? Were you just hoping to get me to shoot your pimp? Leading me on? If that’s it, then I’m out of here and you can nurse him until he comes around.”

She chewed her lip. He could see it was for real: she wasn’t just playing for time. “No, but I … .”

Mallen sighed. Nodded. “I get it. Hang on.” He went over and delivered a kick to Tre’s face that broke the man’s jaw. Blood flowed and the man gurgled and tried to come around but failed. Mallen made sure that the bag of shit pimp would stay on his side, the blood running out of his mouth. Checked Tre’s pockets. Found a few rocks of crack in a dirty baggie, a pipe, and about fifty in cash. He went and handed the pipe and money over to Shannon, who looked at him like he was either crazy, or her savior. Held back the crack that she’d seen him take out of Tre’s pocket. “Now,” he said quietly, “this fucker’s going to be out of commission for some time. Way too busy on painkillers to fucking care about you. I’ve bought you some time. That should buy me some info.”

The items disappeared into her purse. He could tell she wanted to go, find some rock, and smoke out. Like right now. He blocked her way. “I don’t know what you want to know, man,” she replied. “Seriously. I didn’t know Tommy barely at all.”

“Yeah, but you did. You probably even pawned shit together, right?”

“Who told you that? Lucas?”

He had to remember to steer clear of getting Blackmore involved. Shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you know Hendrix.” He moved a little closer. “Look, this isn’t about some bullshit crack deal, or some low-bone theft. This is about a little girl. And her time might be running out. Hendrix is the only lead I have. Did you ever see him with someone outside of the norm? If you pawned crap with him, you hung with him, and if you hung with him, then you might’ve seen something.” He looked down at the bag of crack in his hand. Then he looked at her. Didn’t need to say shit. She got it.

“Okay, look … ” she started, “there was something weird. One day, me and Hendrix and Luc, Lucas right? We were trying to find something to pawn to that prick Blackmore. We needed something, man, and Karachi wasn’t around, hadn’t been, and—”

That set off Mallen’s memory. The note in Hendrix’s car. The written name, torn in half. Too weird a coincidence. Kara. “Karachi?”

“Yeah. He was an alternative for us, but we didn’t like going to him unless we had to.” She shuddered. Said, “But I don’t want to talk about him, okay?”

“Okay. So, what happened?”

Shannon continued, “Well, Hendrix usually had something. He lived in that fucking wagon over south of Market. But it was never fucked with. Never. Everyone knew he was a snitch, but he tried to play it like he was some undercover dude. Everyone knew the truth though. Anyway, he had nothing this one day, right? Then he goes away, and me and Lucas don’t see him the rest of the day. Then a couple days later we find him flush with money, and dope. I mean a LOT of dope. Wouldn’t say what had happened. Wouldn’t say shit about shit. He doled out a bit to us, but he was with money, man. So, me and Luc, we follow him back to his wagon. Trailing him. Lucas, he dug that shit. Like in a movie, right? Well, we get back there, and we see Hendrix about to get into his car when a big car pulls up behind his wagon. We know it’s a dick wagon. We hang back. Just watch.” She paused. Eyed the baggie in his hand. He knew she’d say anything now. Anything to get what she needed.

“And?” he said as he pocketed the baggie. “What happened then? Who got out of the car?”

“A cop. Dressed like a high-priced, executive type of fucker. Asian-looking. Face fur. Ponytail.”

And Mallen stopped dead. His right hand started to throb, like the mem ory of the nails being pounded into it all of sudden kicked down the door and barged in. Winstons Wong.

“You sure,” he said as he grabbed her shoulder. Squeezing it so tightly she winced and tried to get away, “you are fucking sure it was an Asian cop in a fancy suit, with a ponytail? A goatee? You fucking sure?”

“I am!” she said, tears coming into her eyes. “I think his name is Winstons something or the fuck other. Because he’s always smoking.”

Mallen let her go. Gave her the bag of dope. “Get out of here,” he said quietly, his mind traveling back in time. To a hammer. To some nails. To a meeting under the Palace of Fine Arts dome. To what happened to Chris.

Winstons Wong. You fucking son of a bitch. He didn’t even register Shannon running away down the street. He turned and headed back to his truck, his mind wondering what the fuck he was going to do next.