eight

Mallen left the care facility in the late afternoon, about an hour after his father died. He’d signed all the forms, what seemed like a mountain of them. One life equaled a lot of paper, and that was just fucking wrong. Monster’s ashes … his father’s … would be ready in three or four days. Once the coroner’s office did their bit, he’d get the death certificate. Got back into the truck and lit a cigarette. He called Chris, to let her know what happened.

“I’m so sorry, Mark. I know what he meant to you.”

“Yeah … .” He paused then, before saying, “Hey, I won’t be around too much for a bit, okay?”

And she answered his pause with one of her own. Finally told him, “If you need to talk though … .”

“Thanks,” he replied. He’d called to tell her Ol’ Monster Mallen died. He felt numb now, but how would he feel later? He had no idea. Only time would fucking tell. But he hadn’t only called about his father. No, it was also about Daniel. About Daniel and Chris. About Daniel and Anna. He needed to make sure he didn’t pop off and punch the guy in the throat for moving in on the family he had no right to feel he would win back. It felt like the death of hope.

“I appreciate the offer,” he continued, “and I just might take you up on it. For now just tell Anna I love her and we’ll go kite flying again soon. Maybe even mix it up with a movie.”

“Okay,” she replied, “you take care of yourself, all right?”

“I will. See ya.” Ended the call and started up the truck. Took a deep breath. Opened up a drawer deep down inside himself and put, no … stuffed, his father’s death into that drawer, shutting it up tight. Put a lock on it. That was for later. For now? For now he needed to get back to the whole Marston thing. That would keep him afloat. Keep him moving forward. And that was what it was about.

Hendrix was dead. Gwen would have to find what she needed in the department herself. He would take to the street. Pulled out his phone and dialed Gato.

“Vato,” came his friend’s voice. He could hear kitchen sounds.

“You busy, man? I can call back.”

“Nah, I’m good. Hang on.” Put his hand over the receiver. Could hear Gato speaking to someone in Spanish, then say, “What’s up?”

“You at home?”

“Yeah. A friend of mine is going to help look after Madre. I’m still sort of rigidez y dolor from the bullet that chingador got me with.” That night outside the mailing center at the beach had been one of the most intense firefights they had seen in a very long time. His friend had been lucky to get out with just the one bullet.

“You could’ve stayed in the hospital longer, G.”

“Fuck that. I got shit to do,” came the reply.

“Well, I’m glad you got someone to help you out. That’s good.”

Slight pause. “We hope it will be. I’d still rather have Lupe here.” Lupe. His friend’s sister, the sister he needed back in his life and who had disappeared as neatly as smoke in the air. A part of Mallen thought, and he didn’t want to admit it, but after Gato’s last foray down to L.A., he figured that Lupe was most probably dead. And he knew and understood that his friend wouldn’t even consider that possibility. Just wouldn’t, or couldn’t go there.

“I know, man,” Mallen told him. “There will be an answer to this. I know there will be. Have you thought about what your next move will be?”

“No. I can’t even think about leaving again until I know my madre is being looked after.”

“It’s getting that bad?”

A pause, then, “Yeah, vato, it is.” A silence, then “I don’t, do not want to put her in one of those bullshit homes, you know? No es possible.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Can’t let that happen to her, Hombre. Can’t. Yo amo a mi madre. Ella no puede terminar en uno de los orificios shit!”

“I have no idea what the fuck you just said, but I get the gist of it, G. We’ll look after your mother. We’ll keep her safe and comfortable. You have my word on that.”

“Like I’ve always said, Mallen: there’s a good heart beatin’ in that chest. Why the call, man? What’s up? We back on duty?”

“Yeah, I think we are.” Gave Gato the background on everything that had happened since he’d walked into Trina Marston’s apartment. After he got to the part about what he’d found when he went to Hendrix’s wagon, he said, “Can you check around a little bit? Find me a lead maybe on who Hendrix had been hanging with lately? Maybe someone NOT in his usual drug world?”

“Sure, vato, sure.” He heard his friend put his hand over the receiver. Spoke to someone, then told Mallen. “But I can’t do it tonight, Bro, lo siento. I gotta train this girl in how I want my madre looked after, you know?”

“I hear ya. Just give me whatever you get, whenever you get it. I got a couple things of my own I can follow up on. Call me whenever, even if it’s at 2 a.m., okay?”

“Got it. Be safe, my brother.”

That brought a smile to his face. “Same back at you, hermano.”

Gato laughed as he broke off the call. Mallen stared at his phone for a moment. Today was really the day to find out his friends actually had lives of their own. Did he? Did he have his own life? Had his family, sure. Anna. Chris. But really … wasn’t he just running around trying to keep the fuck busy? Sure, it was better than trying to keep the high, but what he had now didn’t seem like much of a life. Whatever it was, it would have to do.

He sat in the truck, hand on the shifter. Watched a car pull into the lot and park. An older couple got out, the woman holding a bouquet of flowers. They looked a bit sad and apprehensive as they made their way to the lobby door of the facility. He didn’t blame them for feeling that way. Not at all.

He’d asked Gato to try and find anyone Hendrix had been hanging with. But that didn’t mean he would just go home and wait for Gato to call. No, he had to keep moving. How long could he rely on the fucking generosity of his friends, anyway?

But where to start?

Then it hit him. Yeah … that guy might help him. Been a long time, but still …

… this guy owed him his life.

–––––

Radley Pawnbrokers was located way down on Leavenworth. Near Eddy. Mallen had no fucking idea who Radley was. The guy who ran it now was Manny Blackmore. Maybe Manny had bought it from this guy Radley. Maybe Manny had the junk store handed down to him from his father. Who knew?

Mallen gazed in through the grime-encrusted window. Years of car exhaust and street dirt had worked the glass a dull yellow. There was a lot of jewelry in the windows, along with some musical instruments and some MP3 players. The jewelry was dusty, the MP3 players a few years old, and the sax sitting on its stand a now faded note. The window consisted of anything a junkie or regular addict might steal and then pawn immediately.

Because that’s what Manny Blackmore did: he fenced. The store was legit, but he was still a fence. Took in stolen goods at a low price, then turned around and sold them at a slightly, if not much, higher rate. Mallen had to wonder as he pushed through the door, the tinny rusty bell above it ringing-out a warning, just how sweet a retirement plan had been socked away by Manny between this store and his other business.

Blackmore came out from the back. Short and round. More bald than the last time Mallen had seen him. More grey, too. Skin the color of a rainy day. Made Mallen think about Blackmore’s legendary love of whiskey. “I’d heard you’d moved across the water, Mallen.”

“True. And yeah … left a lot of things behind, in case you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t, but thank you for sharing just the same.”

Mallen smiled at that. Walked over to the counter. “You lookin’ for a radio, Mallen?” Blackmore asked. “Maybe a slightly used iPod?”

“Not in this life, man. I like my music on LP. For my sins.”

“Ah, yes! Age shows itself in the strangest, most humbling ways.” Blackmore came and stood on the other side of the counter. His manner said that this was obviously now a business transaction. Mallen got it.

“Hendrix. Tommy Hendrix. You know him?”

“And why would you, in the name of all that is fucking holy, care?”

“You don’t know Trina Marston, do you?”

A brief passing of sadness clouded the man’s eyes. “Yes, I know her. She’s pawned things here before.”

Well, that wasn’t anything new. Junkies pawned stuff as fast as people changed their underwear. “You heard about her daughter?”

“Yeah,” Blackmore said with a sigh. “Terrible.” Regarded Mallen a moment before saying, “And again I ask, what has it fuck all to do with you asking me about Tommy Hendrix?”

“Tommy got himself shuffled off from this mortal coil.”

A shrug. “More room for the rest of us.”

“Yeah,” Mallen said. “But, he’s still dead, yeah?”

“And?”

Mallen pulled out a cigarette. Lit it. Had to play it cool here. Too hard, and Blackmore would never talk to him again, about anything. The weather, ball scores … you name it. “I was just wondering, is all. Did someone have it out for Hendrix? It’s not a big deal, but this Trina and her kid thing … I dunno … it’s got me buggin’, I guess.”

Blackmore studied him for a moment. Chuckled. “That still don’t explain crap about why you give a shit about Hendrix. The guy was a pair of eyes on the street for the cops. Everyone knows that.”

“Well, I have to admit: I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but if the stories are true, this ain’t your world anymore. Why the fuck would you know this crap, right?”

Mallen blew smoke out through his nostrils. “Right.”

“Look, Hendrix was a piece of shit. Liked little children. Girl or boy didn’t matter, as long as they were hairless, okay? He was a pile of crap. If he’s dead, then I’m hoping you’re finding the guy who killed him so you can pin a fucking medal on his chest. You read me?”

“I know he was a piece of slime, okay?” Mallen replied. “But this isn’t about him, yeah? It’s about Trina and her daughter, Jessie. That’s why I’m trying to track down the shitbags that knew Hendrix.”

Blackmore looked at Mallen for a moment. Shook his head slightly, then went behind the register. Came out with a book. Like a personal address book. Looked at Mallen again. “So … Trina? About her and Jessie?”

“Fuck yeah, man. Why do you think?”

“Well, hell … Mallen. In this hood? Please.”

“It’s about Trina and her missing daughter.”

There was the faint sound of pages being turned. Blackmore sighed. Looked out the window for a moment as he said, “I could really be fucking myself, Mallen, if this shit got out.”

“I know. It won’t, trust me on that one. I know what you’re putting on the table.”

Another pause. Then Blackmore glanced at the page. “Shannon Waters. William Lucas.”

Mallen patted his pockets. Found a pen. No paper. Blackmore sighed. Gave him an unused pawn ticket. Mallen wrote them down. “So they came in with Hendrix? Pawned something?”

“Yeah. Something. Can’t remember what though.”

Something stolen of course. “You got addresses then, right?”

Blackmore shook his head. Shut the book tight. “Addresses? I thought you were some sort of private detective now, right?”

“C’mon. Really?”

“Really. Sorry, but that’s as far as I go.” Stashed the book under the counter. “Good luck.”

Mallen shoved the pawn ticket into his coat pocket. “Thanks.”

He was at the door when Blackmore called out to him. “You won’t tell anyone about this, right?”

Mallen opened the door. Looked over his shoulder at Blackmore. “Fuck no, man. We’re good. Rest easy.”