seventeen

Lucas sat in the Cornerstone. Alone in the corner as he worked his way through a double Maker’s Mark. First time in a long time he’d had booze this good. Man, that fucking Jew pawnbroker had been loaded. Grinned as he took a sip. Had money now for days and days. Not only for drinking and getting high, but for some new camping gear. Maybe even a bladed weapon better than the short knife he carried, had been carrying, for what seemed like forever.

He was here in this shithole bar because he found out from Blackmore that this was the only, only place that this Mallen cat called home when he was in the city. Seemed the piece-of-shit, ex-undercover faggot had found the Get Clean God to be one to his liking. Well, he could go fuck. Lucas had been told that all he had to do was wait and Mallen would for sure appear at some point to talk to that fat fucker behind the bar. Or maybe even Dreamo, who word on the street was starting to say had turned ear for the prick. Went to the bar and ordered another drink. The fat fuck that he’d been told was Bill brought it to him fast. At least the guy was a good bartender. He left a shit tip of two dimes, wanting to see what fat boy would do. But Bill did nothing, just left the dimes there as he went off to wipe down another part of the bar. Lucas felt insulted that his insult hadn’t insulted. Went back to his corner seat and sat. Checked the new watch he’d bought with some of Blackmore’s money. It could tell you the time in China if you wanted it to. Hell man, he thought, soon your watch will surf the net. Will be able to tell you about your hemorrhoids before you even have them.

Fuckin’ world we live in.

Sat back against the chair. Put his hand in his pocket, his hand wrapping around the other toy he’d bought with that Jew’s money: a small .22 pistol. A Sauer that its owner had never taken care of. He’d gotten it for a song, and the “for sure” it would shoot. This would teach Mallen to fuck with him.

All he had to do was wait. He knew that. But, if this waiting didn’t work out, and Mallen never showed? Well, maybe he’d just have to go over the water to the other side and shoot the bastard as he opened the door to his fancy-ass houseboat everybody knew about.

–––––

Mallen was on his way back to his truck when his cell went off. Didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Mallen?”

“Yeah. Who is this?”

“Shannon. You know?”

“I know. How’d you get this number?”

A soft laugh. He could tell she was out of doors. She was walking, and fast. “Please … this is the Loin, right?”

“Right. And so?”

“You did something for me, so I want to do something for you. I never liked to be owing somebody something. Unless they were my dealer,” she added with another soft laugh.

“I hear ya. Thanks for calling. What’s up?”

“That pawnbroker dude that me and Lucas and Hendrix went to?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s dead.”

Mallen’s hand gripped the phone tighter. “Blackmore? You sure?”

“Hey man, I just saw the cop cars. The body wagon. He’s dead.”

“And … and why are you telling me this?”

He could almost see the shrug through the phone line. “You’d asked about him. About Lucas. About Hendrix. Seemed weird to me. Fucker’s dead, and that’s what I was calling about.” A pause, then she said, softer and warmer. Truthful. “Thanks again for the chance,” and with that she hung up.

He just stood there, the whirlpool of the Tenderloin swirling around him. Oblivious to him and what had just happened. Blackmore. Dead. The timing was off-the-charts coincidental, and very bad. He knew that. Blackmore’s last words to him echoed in his head. “You won’t tell anyone about this, right?”

“Fuck no, man. We’re good. Rest easy.”

He’d somehow blown it. Let Blackmore down. Let a source down. Yeah, Blackmore had sold stolen goods, but by all accounts he wasn’t a bad man. Just a man out to make a dime. How many of those were out there in the world? Ten million times a million? A lot of them were even politicians. Mallen knew he must be responsible. Shit …

Went and got his truck and drove over to the store. The cops were still there, but you could tell they were playing the outfield. The real game was somewhere else. Blackmore’s apartment, or house. He’d never been there, but word was that Blackmore had walked to work every day for the last twenty years or more. He cruised up and down Polk. Up and down Larkin. Started doing wider and wider sweeps. Finally found the cop convention just off Laguna, on Birch. Parked as near as he could. Jogged back to the crime scene.

There were too many cops around the street entrance, and he saw nobody he recognized. Shit, this was going to be difficult. But he owed Blackmore. Owed him bad. Walking away wasn’t an option. Mallen knew he had a name on the street now not necessarily associated with the word “Junkie.” Maybe he could parlay that into at least getting under the tape to talk with a detective that wasn’t Oberon.

It was only a few steps over to the nearest uniform. Not a rookie. A little weathered. The cop stood there, guarding the yellow tape with a mixture of boredom that he tried to hide so he could look important.

“Not a nice night, yeah?” he said to the cop.

“Nope,” came the reply.

“Which detective caught it?”

Now the uniform looked at him. Studied him. “I’m not sure. Your name, sir?”

“Mallen. Mark Mallen. And I need to talk to whatever homicide detective is in the lead on this. Just need to talk to him for a few, okay?”

The uniform nodded. Only briefly, like he didn’t want anyone to know. “I know the name.”

“Can I get upstairs?”

There was a pause, then, “You really think you have something? Something that would help?”

“Yeah, I do. Fuck yeah I do.”

The uniform stood there, undecided. Mallen added, “Look, I know that if you know my name then you know what I was. On the force, and off. I’m just trying to help solve a homicide here. I need to know what went on upstairs. I think I can help, okay?”

After a moment, the uniform cop nodded. Held up the tape. “Inspector Scheider is in charge. Good luck.”

Mallen passed under the yellow tape. Scheider was a name he didn’t know. He wondered as he went up the stairs how he would handle this. How much resistance he’d run into.

And there was the entrance to Blackmore’s apartment. Lots of cops stood in the hallway outside. He acted like he belonged there as he made his way into the apartment.

It was a bloodbath. There were signs of destruction everywhere. Broken furniture, smashed glass. Blood spilled all over the carpet. There were explosive patterns of blood here and there on a nearby wall. Like a basketball had been dipped in red paint and bounced against it. Mallen knew what had happened.

A detective came up to him. Young. Freshly shaved. Immaculately dressed. Said, “What the hell are you doing here, Mallen?”

Mallen didn’t recognize him. “Do I know you?”

The detective smiled. “A lot of guys have heard of you. How you got back your life after losing it. How you took down some big guys before you lost that life.” Held out his hand. “David Armstrong.”

Mallen took the offered hand. “I had no idea that I was anything but a dark memory.”

“Well, learn to live with the change, I guess.” Armstrong indicated the next room. Smile disappeared. “Scheider’s in there. I guess it’s him you came to see, right?”

Mallen glanced that way. Caught a glimpse of the far bedroom wall. A lot of blood there. “Yeah,” he replied. Added as he went to the doorway, “Hope to see you around, Armstrong.”

Stopped as he got to the room. His mind did a flip. Inside were two bodies. One was Blackmore. The other could only be his wife. Nothing left of either of them but bloody husks. Someone had beaten the fuck out of them. Probably shot them both as an afterthought. Blackmore looked like he got it in the neck. His wife looked like she got it in the face. If he hadn’t seen things like this most of his adult life as a cop, Mallen knew he would’ve puked his guts out at the sheer brutality of it. A brutality of pure, dark violence. If Lucas was really responsible for this, and Shannon’s call to him made that pretty clear that it could be, then Lucas needed to be brought in. And right then Mallen didn’t care if it was in cuffs, or on the slab. He’d somehow let Blackmore down. He knew it. Somehow, Lucas had tripped to him, and had done this.

He’d have to make that right. Any way he could.

That was when he caught one of the detectives looking at him. The detective stood with two other cops. As soon as the detective saw Mallen, he came over. First thing Mallen noticed was the man’s nose. It’d been broken, and more than once. Lots of weathered lines on the face. He was taller than Mallen by a good five inches, built like a defensive end. And he didn’t look like a friendly, given the expression on his face as he came over.

“Mallen,” he said. The word was a simple one. The tone carried way more. “What are you doing here?”

Mallen put on a smile, trying to play it light. Didn’t want to come out swinging, knowing that he had no fucking right to be there. “You’re Inspector Scheider?”

“Yeah. And you didn’t answer my question. Why the fuck are you here?”

Mallen glanced over at the bodies. “I’m here because I might be able to help out a bit, you know?”

“Really? And why to God’s holy asshole would you know shit about this?”

“Because I’d talked with Blackmore earlier today.”

“What did you talk about?”

He didn’t want to give it all away so fast. Countered. “What did you and your guys pick up? Anything?”

“Hey,” Scheider replied, “who the fuck are you? What we did or didn’t pick up is none of your business.” The detective took another step closer, said quietly, “I know all about you and your dope years, okay? Horton told me all about you. So have other guys on the force. You can go fuck, okay?”

Horton. Man, that brought back memories. All bad. Horton going at it with Oberon at the scene of Dockery’s shooting. When he’d just been trying to find Eric’s killer. Horton seemed like the sort of asshole to hold a grudge and go to bat if it meant fucking him up.

“Inspector Scheider,” Mallen told him, “Okay. I hear you. But when I tell what I know to other cops, they will listen. And then they’ll be just a step or two, or three, ahead of you, yeah? And you’ll look like a dickhead for not listening to me now. You don’t have to fucking like me, okay? I don’t think I like you. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try to grab the bucket of shit who murdered these two civilians.”

Scheider stood there a moment. Considered. Then he looked at Mallen and smiled, spoke over his shoulder to a couple of uniforms. “Get this fucker out of here. Toss him back to the gutter. He’s lost his fuckin’ way.”

Mallen had no time to react as he was grabbed and pushed out of the room, then down the hall. They even took the time to push him along the stairs and shove him out through the lobby and onto the street. He almost fell onto the sidewalk but caught himself. Stood straight. Looked back up at the apartment building. So, he thought, that’s how it was going to be played. Okay, he’d play it as it was.

It wasn’t like he had no idea who the murderer was. He had a VERY good idea. A good, steel jacketed idea. Pulled out his phone, swearing he’d never forget Scheider’s name. Dialed Shannon’s number. She could tell him of some places she’d seen Lucas. But there was no answer. “Shit,” he said. The thought of Blackmore and his wife being killed because he’d fucked up tore at him. He needed to do something. Something. But what? Maybe Dreamo would know Lucas? It was a long shot, because Dreamo didn’t deal to, and with, people that he felt were dangerous or looked like they’d be a problem. But he had to try. Had to look under every stone for Lucas.

He needed to find Lucas. Oh yeah he did.

–––––

The Cornerstone was hopping and that made Mallen happy. Anything that made Bill’s life easier. He went to the stick and Bill somehow, between making all the other drinks, got him a double scotch, neat … .

–––––

Lucas watched a tall guy wearing a dark coat walk in and go to the bar. That fat fuck of a ’tender sure knew him. Put a drink out for him before the guy had even had time to settle. The tall guy had an air about him. One different from anyone else in the place. It was a war-weary vibe. There was something in the way the guy stood at the bar. Occasionally glanced at the back hallway. The hallway that led to the bathroom where Dreamo dealt his junk out of.

Lucas knew straight away the tall man in the dark clothes was Mallen, the guy who’d been looking for him. The description that the sack of shit Blackmore had mumbled out right before he’d died was to the letter.

–––––

Mallen had only enough time to smile at Bill and finish his drink. He had to talk to Dreamo. He put the glass back on the bar and headed for the back hallway … .

–––––

Lucas watched Mallen go. Put his hand in his jacket pocket. Around the butt of the gun, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. Fuck you, Mr. Shit Detective Wannabe … .

–––––

Mallen walked down the graffiti-littered hallway and pushed on the men’s room door. There was some short guy at the urinal. Mallen went to wash his hands to buy time before the guy left. But the guy didn’t leave. The guy then went into the stall where Dreamo presided. Mallen had never seen anyone else buy from Dreamo. Ever. Always felt as if Dreamo could make some sort of ethereal appointment book take shape and make sure no buyer ever met another. Mallen moved to the urinal and pretended to take a piss … .

–––––

Lucas finished his drink. Got to his feet. Walked across the bar, hand in pocket, eyes intent on the hallway. He’d show that fucker to leave him the fuck alone … .

–––––

The short dude finally left. Fast and smooth. Just like a junkie who had the proverbial bag of golden dust. Got to go. Go now. Got to shoot. As soon as fucking possible. It was hard to believe, no … it was only now starting to be hard to believe, that he was ever that way. That thought made him feel good. As soon as the door shut, he crossed the floor, his boots crunching on the broken glass. “Dream,” he said as he put his hand on the stall door, “it’s Mallen, man.”

“Ah,” came the thready reply he knew so well. Would always know. “Come ahead, favorite ex-customer of mine.”

Mallen pushed on the door and there was Dreamo. The Mohawk was now a vivid white. Whiter than white. Dreamo seemed even thinner than the last time Mallen had seen him.

“Shit, Dream,” Mallen said as he pulled out his cigarettes, “can I get you some food? Maybe some soup, at least?”

For a reply, Dreamo smiled as he brought his gaze up to Mallen’s. There was actual warmth there. “Thank you, ex-customer. That would be cool. That Thai diner has Tom Yum that I really dig. I would appreciate that. I can’t leave the office right now, dig?”

Mallen took a drag off his cig. “Yeah,” he replied, “I dig.”

–––––

Lucas put his hand on the men’s room door. His hand was shaking. Why? Because this fucker Mallen was so well known? Well fuck. Now he’d be well known. As the guy that shot that fuck. Yeah … now he’d be some tough shit.

He pushed on the door. Entered the room. Walls were covered with years of graffiti. Sink permanently stained. One urinal, one stall. It at first looked like no one there. Then he saw the feet of two people in the stall. One had to be Mallen, the other Dreamo.

He pulled the gun from his pocket … .

–––––

The bathroom door squeaked. Mallen heard it. Looked at Dreamo, who shook his head and put out a hand for Mallen’s cigarette. Wanted a drag. Mallen had no idea that Dreamo smoked anything but H through a needle. He heard the glass crunch as someone came toward the stall. Could be some newbie, needing to take a dump … .

“Dream,” Mallen said quietly, “You know of a guy—” And the stall door opened and Dreamo was suddenly up on his feet, pushing Mallen to the side and then there was the blast of a gun going off, shattering the rest of the world, and Mallen was falling to the floor as he heard running feet and felt Dreamo fall into him, a heavy weight, and then he was grabbing at Dreamo as he heard screams and yells outside and he heard Bill yelling something like “get that fuck!” and then the door slammed open and Bill was there. Mallen held Dreamo in his arms, trying to keep him from hitting the floor, a sack of cement in a cold and dark world. The bullet had entered his upper chest. Blood still pumped, but it was fading already as the heart wound down. As he died, Dreamo grabbed Mallen’s coat, stared at him a moment, and said, the faintest of whispers, “Mal … you care … .”

Mallen laid Dreamo on the floor. The dirty floor that the guy had spent hours above dealing out dope. Dream had taken the bullet meant for him, and now there were two people that had been dealt death because of him.

Bill leaned against the wall behind Mallen. The large man took a heavy breath that sounded more like a deep hiss. “He’s … ?” Bill said, unable to go further.

Mallen only nodded. He was numb. Yeah, this guy was a dealer. Dealt H. But he’d also possessed some strange code of honor. Never dealt to kids. Never dealt to the violent. Just stayed here in his little world and quietly dealt and shot dope. Mallen couldn’t count how many times the guy had helped him out since he’d gotten clean. Only helping him once would’ve been enough.

“Call the cops, Bill,” Mallen said as he looked down at Dreamo’s dead form. At the blood there. “I’ll find the guy who shot him, Bill. I swear I will.”

Bill nodded. “Then get the fuck out of here, Mal. I’ll deal with this. You go and find the prick who did this. I’ll deal with Justin.” The bartender then shoved by him into the stall and grabbed open the secret stash place in the wall that Dreamo had used for his “vault.” Threw all the heroin into the toilet and hit the lever. “Get the fuck out,” Bill repeated.

“I’ll leave by the back.”

“Then fucking go, all right?” Bill replied as he shoved Mallen out of the stall. Mallen looked again at Dreamo’s corpse. He wanted to fix that image in his mind. This was a guy he’d traded quotes with as he’d bought dope from him. It was crazy, yeah … but Dreamo had been someone he could trust during a period of his life when he could trust no one.