Thirty-Eight

And it all came down to this …

Mallen sat in the Commissioner’s office, dressed in tie and jacket, trying to look normal. Everyone was present. Captain Stevens, the Commissioner’s assistants, even a union rep. Nobody seemed to want this to take too long, but nobody wanted it to go wrong, either. In the end, the Commish only slid a manila envelope across his desk at Mallen. And that was it.

“Inside that,” the Commish said in a flat, almost monotone voice, “is your severance package. You did good for us, and we have to honor that, even if”—he glanced at Stevens—“some of us think you shouldn’t get shit.”

The Commish leaned forward. Rested his elbows on the edge of his desk. Outside it was a sunny spring day. In here? In here is was the end of the road for a cop’s career. But instead of talking, the Commish only glanced over again at Stevens. Nodded, then sat back … like he would not be dirtied any further.

Stevens stared at him, disgust more than evident in his eyes. “You,” the man said, “go away. Mark? You hear me? We never, ever hear of you again. And we’re doing you a favor. You understand that much, right? We could’ve sent you away … could’ve made an example of you. But we didn’t. And only because, well, you had been so damn fucking good, you prick. Now though? Now you’re one of them.” He pushed himself out of his chair. Went to the window, hands in pockets. Kept his gaze focused on the street below as he said, “Stay off the radar. You no longer exist to this department. That’s all, citizen.”

There was nothing to say. Mallen could smell his sweat, the sweat that ran hard down his ribs. All he’d wanted was to fight crime, right wrongs; all he’d done was blow it the fuck up. He deserved this though, he reflected as he grabbed up the envelope and went to the door, part of his mind already wondering how much money they’d given him and would it be enough to keep buying dope to keep away the agony and The Need.

And it all came down to this. A note on the front door. At first he was angry; who the hell was she to do this to him? He’d done the homework! Had done the talks with the suits at the bank. He’d been the one that had gotten the down payment financed, along with all that other bullshit that goes with building it all up.

He’d gotten them here.

And now his home was no longer his home? What kind of fucked-up bullshit was that?

Ripped the note off the door. Read it again, still not fully comprehending what it meant, but that would be because the drug still wormed its last tendrils through his body, coaxing and smoothing before the machine reset itself.

“Mark,” Chris had written, “I’ve changed the locks on the doors. I’m doing this because you’re an addict. Yes, Mark, you are. I’ve talked with a lawyer, and he’ll be talking to you. IF you clean up, THEN you and I will talk, but I can’t have you around our daughter anymore, not in your present state. You know, I was so relieved when they took your job away from you, and made you ‘a citizen,’ as you loved to call us mere mortals. You shouldn’t be out there, armed. Not like you are. Not now. I’ll put your things on the street the day after I find this note gone, knowing that you’ve seen it. You can collect your things then, if you still care enough to do so. We can work out some visitation schedule, but only under supervision, and only if you’re not high at those times.

YOU brought us here, Mark. Not me. YOU.”

He read the note a second time. It was like everything had stopped, and was quiet. How could she say that it was him that brought them here? Hell, he’d been the one who had put his life on the line for his family. The one who …

… but then there was that voice. It sounded a lot like his father’s. Ol’ Monster Mallen’s. The voice that told him the hard truth, usually when he wasn’t looking, maybe even only told him in dreams.

It had been him. He had crashed this out.

He had blown it all to hell.

Mallen crumpled the piece of paper and shoved it into his coat pocket. Turned and walked back down the street. Toward the park. Toward the northern windmill where he had Eric had drunk oh so much beer. He could think there.

God, but he needed to shoot.

And it all came down to this. He walked up the sagging stairs, behind the landlord. The man must’ve been over seventy years old, and strangely he carried a live rabbit nestled in the crook of his right arm. Cooed and murmured at it as they went. Took Mallen a moment to realize that it was actually a live fucking bunny. He had to work to suppress his laugh.

Never rent an apartment high, he figured. Whatever. This was his new life, and fuck it all, this was where he should be now. Anonymous. Derelict like a lost ship in the fog. Fuck it. It would be fine. Sail away to the horizon and hope that one day maybe there would actually be a lip you’d sail over, like in the old drawings of what the world might be like.

The old man had to fight with the lock. Awesome. The door opened and he led Mallen inside. One room. “Bachelor’s apartment” was the old phrase, back from like the post–World War II era. Maybe before? One room. Two doorways in the far wall on either side of what had been the Murphy bed closet. Now it was just an empty void used for a clothes closet, judging from the four left-behind bent wire hangers. One of the doorways led to a kitchen, the other to the toilet. Thank fuck at least there was a door to that room, he thought as he made his way into the bathroom. Checked out the water pressure in the old clawfoot tub. It would do. Went and made sure the gas stove and oven worked. A cockroach crawled out of a crevice in the stove, between the stove door and the body. It leapt to the floor like it was leaping for its life.

Yeah. This would do. Seemed fitting. Turned to the doddering manager who stood there, whispering to his rabbit. Cooing to it like a loved one.

“It’s perfect,” Mallen said as he pulled out his checkbook. Used his last check on the security deposit and first month’s rent.