Nine

Mallen was seven feet from his door when he realized that something was wrong. It wasn’t the sobriety, which felt like an uncomfortable new suit and probably would for some time. No, his door looked different. He approached slowly, checking up and down the hall as he got closer. The lock had been jimmied. Gashes in the wood. Scratches all along the jamb right at lock height.

The street must’ve heard he’d been locked up and came to pay their respects by robbing him. Joke was on them. He studied the knob for a moment, half just for shits and giggles. Maybe there might be a visible print. Habit, he guessed. Strange how old habits that’d lain dormant for years could suddenly appear out of nowhere thanks to not having a high on. He wondered what other shit was lying dormant that he’d forgotten about. Quietly turned the knob, went inside.

The first thing he noticed was the small white envelope on the floor. To the left of the door. He picked it up and opened it. Eric’s funeral announcement. Funeral had been two days ago. He’d been getting clean just as Eric had been getting put in the ground.

How fitting, in its way, maybe? He made a note of the cemetery. Down in Colma. He’d have to bring flowers. Put the envelope away as he then saw the state of his apartment …

Everything was all over everything. All the kites, Anna’s kites, had been trashed. Nothing but sticks and torn paper. The first thing that struck him was his anger. Deep and cutting. Whoever did this would be really fucking sorry. They were just kites, man. Why fuck ’em up? The second thing that struck him was that it was just like how it’d been at Jenna’s. The same level of violent destruction. They’d even found his little safe-hole in the floor trim, the money tossed all over. Whoever had been here, it certainly wasn’t some strung-out motherfucker looking for shooting money.

And the vials were still there, too. In the corner near their hiding place, appearing as if they were cowering, only waiting for their papa to come home and rescue them. His eyes riveted on them. There was nothing else in the world at that moment. Nothing else in the entire misbegotten universe. The Need laughed as it sat on his shoulder, directing traffic to clear the way for him to get to them quickly. He went. Stiff legged. Weak willed. Suddenly drenched in sweat. The vials …

And he put his hand on them. They folded into his palm like kittens into a warm blanket. He stared at them. No sound. No world. Grasped them tightly. Went to under the sink. His rig was still there. He grabbed it up …

And he threw the vials down the sink drain. Needle, too. Ran scalding hot water as he flipped the disposal on. There was an incredible screeching noise as the disposal chewed up the metal and glass. He threw the rubber tubing and spoon in the trash, but only after breaking the spoon in two.

Then it was done. A corner turned. Fuck that shit, he thought, still sweating, still breathing hard.

But he’d done it.

He got out of the shower, wiped the steam away from the fogged-up mirror. Careworn eyes stared back at him. Could it really have been four and a half years since he got the boot off the force? He thought back to that first day in Narco, and how he’d walked in through Captain Stevens’s door like he was walking to his reward. Thought he was so super cool, just like Al Pacino in the undercover cop film Serpico. No one was ever going to trip onto who and what he really was.

Then there was the time he’d always blamed for his falling into the world he’d been in for the last four years. Of course he now realized there was nothing to blame, no one to blame, but himself. He’d been in real deep cover, moving up the chain toward a major supplier the entire law enforcement world of California wanted, dead or alive. One of the top guys in Northern California. A slip of the tongue or a hairline crack in the persona you created, and everyone would guess you were a cop. You’d be dog food within the hour. He was getting more and more stressed by the constant threat of being found out. The men at the top didn’t do too many drugs. They drank, maybe did some coke or weed, but they kept it in order, under control. It was the conversations about shooting up or being high that worked on him the most. Mallen had only ever smoked weed or drank, and that had been back in college. He’d been constantly worried that he wasn’t coming off as a guy who’d gotten high tons of times in the past. There was only one way to really know how it felt. Only one way to carry it off convincingly. Just like an actor would, he figured. A guy had to dive in and live it, right? Experience it. No way Monster Mallen’s son would ever take a nosedive and lose his perspective. Not a fuckin’ chance.

Of course it hadn’t work out that way. And that one moment led him to here: standing in front of the mirror, clean after four and a half years. Those years worked out to about 1,460 days of shooting, give or take. The number alone stunned him. He’d never really thought about it in those terms. Junkies only thought minute to minute, moment by moment. Hours and days were for other people.

He quickly got dressed, pushing away images of needles and The Need. His suit was too big for him now, so he tossed it in the trash. He was no longer a junkie, but he could no longer go back to what he was, either. Instead he changed into his regular clothes, the only ones in the place that were still mostly clean: black sweater and jeans, old army boots, and his only remaining coat—a black wool car coat he’d found draped over a garbage can. The cuffs were worn and the bottom button was missing but, all in all, it was still serviceable. Had to laugh when he was finished tying up his boots and stood there, all in black. Was he in mourning for his now-gone junkie life, or the life he’d had before that?

Would he ever know the answer?

It was cold outside, though it was just early afternoon. Clouds hung heavy overhead. Made the sky a dull, flinty gray. A wind picked up, blowing in from the west. It tried to creep in between him and his coat. What was he going to do? The apartment was no good. Had to stay out of there, at least for the short term. Staying clean was all about racking up days, and days start with hours, even minutes. If he could take it hour by hour, one by one, he might just make it.

Mallen glanced up and down the street as he pulled out his last pack of cigarettes. People always told him it was harder quitting smoking than quitting junk. He’d have to put that to the test someday. Lit a cig, if only to stall for time. In the end he decided to go down to the Cornerstone. It was nearby. Yeah, Dreamo was there, but he’d stay out of Dreamo’s realm. He just wanted to sit and be quiet. There were so many things to think about. Anna. Chris. Eric. He thought for a moment that maybe he should go to another bar, but then realized there just wasn’t any other bar for him. He knew Bill, and Bill knew him. He could steer clear of Dreamo. The guy wouldn’t take it personally, that was for fucking sure. Well, okay … maybe he might, a little.

The street felt flat to him as he walked. Probably from seeing it not high. Colors seemed a bit more dull. People seemed a lot more angry and put out. He laughed as he caught himself thinking, and people don’t shoot because … ? But he knew why now. The air did smell better, even with the exhaust fumes and moldering garbage rotting in the gutter. Okay, he could do this. Again, not one day at a time, but one moment at a time.

He made his way to the Cornerstone. A drink would help. Fighting fire with fire, sure, but baby steps, man, baby steps. One day without a needle was a day won, and that was a fact.

He’d never really noticed before how beat-up the bar looked. Hadn’t really come on his radar. He entered and let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The regulars who haunted the place were like dark statues as they sat on their stools. Heads were downcast or staring over at the TV in the upper corner of the room. He went and sat at the far end of the bar, nodding at Bill. The bartender came over, a welcoming smile on his face. Stopped suddenly. Looked him over for a moment. A soft whistle escaped his lips.

“Jesus fucking Christ. Heard you were arrested, Mal. Now I know it’s true.”

“Yeah? How you know that?”

“You’re clean,” he replied and laughed in his dry, smoker’s cackle. “You did the jail clean, right? Smart man.”

“Didn’t know it had a name.”

“Ain’t no original thoughts under the sun, boy-o. I thought them all ages ago.” Bill seemed genuinely happy that he was clean. That meant something to him. Another thing he wanted to remember. “Now, what would you like to drink?” Bill said, like some wizard that has all secrets at his command.

“Scotch on the rocks. Double.”

Bill went and fixed the drink, Speedy Gonzales quick. Put it in front of him with a flourish. Finished it off with the rare bowl of Chex Mix. “First one’s on the house, Mallen.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mallen told him, meaning it a hundred percent. The drink felt good. Relaxed him. Would it be a slippery slope? All he had to do was imagine Anna, and the answer was a very strong no. One fucking moment at a time, asshole.

He was half-through his drink when Bill came back over. “So,” the bartender asked quietly, “how does it feel?”

“Feel?”

“Yeah. Being off the stuff.”

“Well,” he said after a moment, “it’s like having a hard-on, but also knowing that you have VD. You want to, but you can’t. Well, shouldn’t would be more accurate, yeah?” He smiled at Bill’s raucous outburst of laughter.

“Mal,” Bill said after he calmed down, “you better not god-damned go back on the horse because you are way more fucking funny this way!” Then he remembered something. Mallen could almost see the man’s mind snap an imaginary finger at the memory. Bill went over to the cash register, some ancient beast the previous owner had left behind when the bar had been sold to Bill over fifteen years ago. The man fished through a wad of notes and old receipts, came back with folded piece of notebook paper. Handed it to him. It had his name scrawled on the outside. He didn’t recognize the writing. Took a sip of his drink then opened the paper.

Written in block letters, in pencil, the note said: Vato—My friends inside told me you were now outside. I am praying for you, that your veins run red and clean now, not dirty anymore. If you need help to stay clean, or anything, just call me: 415-555-1929. We were put on this Earth to help one another, as my madre always says. Best, Gato.

Mallen reread the note again. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but he could swear it was a mixture of amazement and gratitude. So, good people did still exist in this fucking place. That was great.

“You got change for the phone, B?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course, Mal.” Mallen dropped a dollar onto the bar and Bill gave him the quarters. He slid off his stool and went to the phone at the back of the hall. He grabbed the receiver and was about to put the quarters in the slot when he began to wonder how Dreamo was doing. He wondered, too, how the dealer would appear to him, now that he was clean. Couldn’t hurt to just pop in and say hello, right? Just see how the guy was doing, how business was, and maybe­—

“Mallen!” Bill called from the bar. “The fucking phone only works if you put the money in, okay?”

He glanced over at Bill, shaken out of his thoughts. The universe did seem to be trying to keep him clean. Least he could do was play along and see where it would take him. He dropped the quarters in the slot, realizing he would need a cell phone again, if he was really serious about rejoining the world. He dialed Oberon’s number first. He wanted to know how Jenna was doing. No answer, so he left a casual message, asking Oberon to let him know about Jenna, if she was still in the hospital, if there were any developments on Eric’s case. Tried to make it sound like that’s all it was. But it wasn’t just that. No, he was still bugged about Eric having his address in his pocket. Why would Eric want to see him enough that he would ask around for his address? He’d been living pretty deep on the downlow, and very few people actually had an address on him. The cops did, naturally. The union did. Chris did, just for emergencies, like if something had happened to Anna. (She would at least try to get in touch with him, even if she didn’t really want him seeing her.) People on the street knew him, sure, but they wouldn’t have his address. Probably would only be able to give a street name to Eric, not even an actual building.

There was something going on. He could feel it, just like he could feel all his old cop instincts coming out of its owner-inflicted hibernation. Follow-up was called for, and that was a fact. He felt that the timing of Jenna’s break-in, along with Eric’s death and the facts surrounding it bore closer scrutiny. He needed to know why Eric had sought him out, and if it was indeed tied up with the reason he was killed, then maybe he could help solve a crime. Been too long since he’d done that, and that was a fact. As he he stood there, he realized now how much he’d missed solving crimes, helping people.

It was time to do that again. At the least, if he were running the fuck around all the time, looking for answers, it would help to keep The Need out of his head.

Then he made another decision. One he hoped would pan out. He was going to trust someone again. Trust that what they’d said, they’d meant. He would need more than just a cell phone if he were going to search for the answer to the puzzle of Eric’s death and his connection to it. He would need help. He dropped the other two quarters into the phone and dialed Gato’s number. It rang four times, and he thought it would go to voicemail, which would’ve been a bummer, as he wanted to keep the momentum going, but then he heard Gato’s voice.

“Hola,” Gato’s voice said.

“Gato, it’s Mallen. Remember? The guy you helped in the drunk tank? I got your note. Thanks for that. It’s appreciated, you know?”

“Vato!” Came the enthusiastic reply. Seemed like a day where his heart was just going be warmed up, no matter what. “I’m happy you called me, bro.” Then his voice got a little more quiet. “You okay, man? You having … a struggle?”

“No, no, man … nothing like that. I just … I, um …” He’d never been good at the actual asking for help thing, and now he found himself struggling with how to exactly phrase what only moments ago seemed like such a good damn idea.

“Mallen,” Gato said, “just spit it out, bro. We’re among friends here, okay? For reals.”

“Well,” he replied, “I do need some help, actually, but I’m not sure where to start. It would be better to do this as a face-to-face.”

“Just tell me where you are, bro, and I’m there.”

He smiled at how definite Gato sounded. “Thank you, Gato. I’ll make it up to you, man, trust me.”

“Ah, forget that. Where are you?”

“At the Cornerstone.”

“I’ll come and get you out of there, away from that Dreamo dude. I know about him. I can be there in fifteen. Be out front,” and the call was over. Mallen put the receiver back on the hook, said his goodbyes to Bill, finished his drink, and went outside to wait. So, Gato had wheels. That would help. Sure seemed that things were all falling into line. And in a good way, for a change.

Mallen paced up and down the sidewalk in front of the Cornerstone as he waited for Gato to appear. There was a rumble of a very large engine and he turned to see a tricked out 1965 Ford Falcon Futura Sprint, painted a pearlescent white, pull around the corner and glide to the curb. Gato grinned at him and reached over to unlock the passenger door.

And that was when he heard another sound. Tires screeching as rubber burned. He looked back up the street just as all hell broke loose. A black Escalade with tinted windows, passenger side window down, rushed toward them. A gunshot exploded and he felt the slug sail by his right ear and hit the Cornerstone’s brick facade, ricocheting off. He dove for the sidewalk as the Falcon’s door kicked open. “Bro!” Gato shouted. “Get in and down!”

He threw himself into the car as another shot rang out, followed by the roar of the Escalade’s engine. He glanced just in time to see the huge vehicle tear away down the street, heading toward Van Ness, probably to get lost as soon as fuckin’ possible. Gato shoved the Falcon into gear and tore away, the back tires screaming.

“Mierda!” Gato said as he tore around the next corner, heading south down Hyde. “Was that for you, bro? I don’t think I know anyone that carries a Magnum.”

Gato was right. It had been a Magnum. A .44. Been a while since he’d heard one, but once you’d heard the gun in real life, you never forgot it. And the fact that it was a .44 meant only one thing: Griffin had pulled the trigger. Jas had to have been driving, just like he’d always done back when Mallen had known the two killers. Jas always drove, and Griffin always rode shotgun, his silver .44 tucked neatly under the seat. The pride that fucker had carried over that big gun would be hysterical if it’d been any other guy. Griffin was way too big, way too Dirty Harry, and way too on edge. He suspected the bastard of being manic-depressive. It would answer a lot of questions regarding how the man operated, that was for sure. Jas, on the other hand, had always been the smooth one, the one to offer up a smile as he gave you a choice: your life or your balls. Griffin was like looking into a pit of crazed hungry dogs.

The Falcon crossed Market Street, continuing south. “Well, thanks for picking me up, Gato,” Mallen said, forcing a smile. The adrenaline was draining from his body, leaving him feeling ragged and shaky. Been ages since someone had shot at him. “I thought you’d enjoy the little hello gift I rigged for you. Hope you did.”

Gato laughed softly. “So, what was that about, bro? Do you know?”

“Yeah, unfortunately, I do.” They were cruising the ’hoods for him. That would make his life infinitely more uncomfortable and problematic as he searched for the answers to Eric’s death. He explained to Gato who Jas and Griffin had been to him, and in doing that, he also had to explain how and why he’d known them in the first place. If he were going to ask this man for help, he had to be a hundred percent up front with him.

Gato listened to it all, nodding from time to time, glancing at him when he told about his years undercover, and how he fell. It felt good, actually, to say it all out loud. Cathartic almost.

“So,” he said when he was done, “I totally understand if you want to pull out, Gato. I’m sure you didn’t expect this when you wrote me that note. Really, I would understand.”

Gato turned the Falcon off of 8th Street and onto Kansas, heading toward 16th. He expected Gato to pull to the curb and tell him to get out. Instead, Gato said, “Friends always show their love. What are brothers for if not to share troubles? That’s from the bible, bro. My padre tried to weave those words into my soul, you know?”

“Well, it sure looks like he did a good job. He should be proud.”

Gato had insisted on taking Mallen to Gato’s place. Even though Mallen had tried to persuade the man he was quickly learning to regard as a friend that it could dangerous for him, Gato had just shaken his head, telling him that this is how it was going to go down.

It turned out that Gato’s place was also his mother’s place. Gato and his mother lived in the Mission, off of 24th and Valencia, on the top floor of an old but well-kept building. The Mission district was one of the more troubled parts of the city, as bad as the Tenderloin, but different. Fewer sex offenders here, more gangs. More shootings here, less hard, biting grimness. There was also more unity here in the Mission, like everyone trying to work together to make a go of it. In the Loin, it felt like every man for himself.

Gato’s apartment was a large three-bedroom, decorated with a lot of religious imagery. Gato had explained to him on the way over that his mother was very devout, going to Mass every Sunday since she’d been a young girl, over fifty years ago. Esperanza had welcomed Mallen warmly, a woman with now graying hair, coffee-
colored eyes, and a beautiful face. There were a lot of care lines in that face now, and a certain amount of sadness, but he could see that when she was younger, she would’ve been a woman so lovely that men would’ve easily dueled each to the death for her affections. Esperanza had looked him up and down after Gato led him in through the door, smiling at him, saying only, “Mi hijo. Always picking up strays. This one seems to not eat any better than the others. We’ll fix that.” Then she went off into the kitchen.

Gato had waited until she’d left the room before saying, “You can sleep here safe, bro, trust me. In the morning, we’ll get going on helping you with finding out what happened to your friend. You know where you want to start?”

“I think so,” he replied as he sat on the couch. If Jenna was out of the hospital, then he had to talk to her first. “Eric had a wife. They seemed mostly on the outs from what I’ve heard, but I need to talk to her. See what she knows.” He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, feeling spent. He’d barely slept the three nights he’d been sick in jail, barely ate. He needed some rest, along with a good amount of food. Being clean seemed to be bringing back his appetite. Food and rest would have to be priority number one, no matter how much he wanted to be out on the hunt for answers.

But before that hunt resumed, and after he recharged his batteries, he needed to do one other thing. Something more important than any of it.

He had to see his daughter.