Twenty-Three

Eric crumpled up the empty beer can in his hand. Got to his feet. Stood at the rail at the top of the stairs of the northern windmill in Golden Gate Park. Mallen knew what was coming. This had been the place they’d always come to when either one of them had a problem that came from wearing a badge. He knew immediately something was working on his friend. The phone call asking for the meet had felt unusually urgent, uneasy. That wasn’t like Eric. To call was to risk Mallen’s cover. There was something going on. He knew Eric at least that well. Just like he knew enough to let his friend come to saying whatever he had to say in his own time, his own way.

Eric stood there, leaning against the rail, a black shadow against the night sky. He took a deep breath and sailed the beer can through the air in a great, glinting arc. It reminded Mallen of a falling star. He heard the can whistle through the air, followed by a faint crashing sound as it sailed in through the open back window of Mallen’s car.

“Two points for the uniform,” Mallen said with a laugh as he clapped his hands. Fuck … he knew he could never, ever have made that shot.

Eric shrugged as he came back over to where they were sitting. Grabbed another beer and opened it. Took a long gulp. Eric was getting pretty drunk, and he still had to drive home.

Again, not like the Eric he’d known.

“Hey,” Eric said, “remember that day I had to hit you? Then arrest you? You ever think about that?”

“Sometimes,” he replied. That had been last year, but he couldn’t help thinking it hadn’t been a screw-up. Someone had wanted to make his life … difficult. He’d spent a long time going over it, again and again. Had even made a list of the people he thought might have it in for him. It wasn’t long, but it could be considered lethal. Dietrich had set up the raid. Stevens had okayed it. But there were at least four other guys who could’ve dropped a dime on him, and would’ve. Not like he’d worked to be anybody’s enemy, but sometimes dogs just hated other dogs for no reason, and that was a fact. He’d tried to keep those thoughts away. How could he do his job if he had to worry about not only the bad guys, but the good ones, too? It was too Serpico, and he laughed at that, because he’d wanted to be Serpico.

Just not in this way.

Mallen finished his beer and grabbed another. They sat there in silence for awhile. Eric put his beer down on the wooden planks that made up the causeway running around the windmill. Cleared his throat. Mallen knew that whatever it was that had gotten under Eric’s skin, it would be coming out now.

“Mark,” Eric said as he leaned his head against the shingled wall. “I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.”

“Okay. Then stop. But, you gotta know for sure, right? Nine out of every ten Police have felt that—feel that. More than once in their career for sure, probably every fucking day, man. Especially guys on the street, in uniform. Guys like you. Why don’t you go for detective or something? You’d make it, easy.” And that was the truth: Eric could make detective no sweat. Eric was that good. Better than he was. They had taken different roads, yeah, but they’d both cared. He’d cared about taking down big dealers, stopping the devastation of the drug world. Eric had cared about the guy on the street, just trying to make it through another day so he could protect and provide for his family.

“Eric,” he said, then took a drink. “What the hell would you do, if you left?”

A shrug. “Hell, I dunno. Sometimes I just want to … forget about me, and who I am.”

“Dude,” Mallen said with a chuckle, “you’re gonna regret this conversation in the morning, my friend.” He took a swig from his can. “Maybe you need to put in for some pussy, or some deskwork? Go and just fill out forms, or maybe fill in a vagina. Take a break.”

Eric finished his beer with one long swig. Put the empty back in the paper bag. Not too steady. “I dunno what I need, Mark.” Got up then. Paced for a moment. “No,” he continued, “I do know what I need.”

“Okay. What?”

“I need to do what you do. I need undercover.”

That brought him up short. Wasn’t what he’d expected at all. “Eric,” he replied, “your strength is in being a beat cop. Maybe just for now, sure, but that’s the way it seems, don’t you think?” The truth of it was that he just couldn’t see his friend living the life he did. Something that would be a positive for Eric was that he didn’t have a girlfriend for longer than a month. No ties, no weak spots that could be exploited, except inside the cop himself. But still … Mallen just couldn’t see it.

Thankfully, Eric nodded. Grinned. “I know, I know,” he said as he sat back down. They sat in silence for a moment as the moon rode high above. A car cruised by on King Jr. Drive. Mallen tensed, thinking he might’ve been seen. He had to be so careful, all the fucking time. It was wrecking his nerves. But as he sat there, he had to admit he was addicted to the rush of these kinds of busts. Maybe that’s what Eric felt he was missing out on? Maybe taking down street thugs and notes on robberies had finally paled next to busting guys who sold a ton of dope and thought they were above the law.

“Eric,” he said to his friend, “if you are even entertaining the idea of a transfer or leaving the force, you need to deal with that. Really think about it, man. Not everyone is­—”

“I know!” Eric shot back. He was angry, the alcohol probably feeding him now like coal in a steam engine. He sighed then, like he’d been beaten at an argument Mallen didn’t even know they were having. Sat back down. “You know what my old man would say if I told him I wanted to leave?”

So that was it. That was something Mallen knew very well and dealt with everyday. What would the world say if Ol’ Monster Mallen’s son didn’t love, eat, fuck, and shit the police force? Why, the world would end! Jesus would come down on rubber fucking crutches and smite every Mallen that was still alive, effectively ending the line. He himself would serve an eternity in some whacked-out perdition made up of a booking room and an endless line of public urinaters and prostitutes.

No. This wasn’t the life for his friend. He could see that. But now it was Eric who needed to see that. He grabbed the second to last beer. Cracked it open. Took a long slug. The night had been cold, so the beer still was.

“Then quit, man,” he said. “If you’re that miserable: quit. Fuck whatever anyone else says. Hell man, you’re a cop! You’re putting your life on the line, right? Not every motherfucker out there can do that, right? If they could, we’d have a much safer society.” Took another drag from the beer can. “Or, I guess a police state, yeah?”