Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (2 page)

"Mick Callahan."

"Hello. Is Judy there?"

"What? This is Mick Callahan, and you're on the air live."

Pause. "Who? Hey, I'm sorry. Wrong number."

Dial tone. I lowered my head to my hands and sighed. "Oh come on, folks. Stick your neck out."

Another call came. I grabbed it in a millisecond.

"You're on the air live with Mick Callahan. Please remember to keep your radio turned down."

"I think I know who you are," the man said in a reedy, western tenor.

"That's good."

"Didn't you used to be somebody?"

I rubbed my eyes. "You could say that."

"You're that black Irish kid, face like a boxer. Maybe six two, going about two-twenty and change. Navy Seals, right?"

"I washed out."

"That there fist fight you had on television in Denver," the caller cackled. "That was really something to see."

"I got my nose broke."

"It was great entertainment."

"It got my butt fired."

"Goddamn it," the man said, ignoring me, "you got some
quick
. You can
move
when you're pissed off."

"I appreciate your interest in my storied career, but would you mind getting to the point? Did you have a question?"

"Not really. I just enjoyed that one show, is all. Called in to say so. Most of the crap you get on the tube these days ain't up to snuff, but that was worthy of Jerry Springer."

"Thanks for sharing."

I hung up, fought back a groan. "We have a few minutes left, people," I said. "Last chance to get some sage advice from a real professional."

Seconds ticking by. "I'm patient. I can wait."

I made snoring sounds. Eventually two lines lit up; I played piano in the air above the phone, chose one, and pressed down. The other caller bailed out.

"Mick Callahan," I said. "How can I help you?" My words repeated themselves:
how can I help you
? "Please turn your radio down or there will be a time delay. Thanks"

"Hi! Hi! Am I on the air? Really? How cool!" She sounded slightly stoned. The "h" came out all round with air and wonderment. She was young and had a flat, slightly nasal accent.

"Hi back," I said. "And yes, you are on the air with Mick Callahan. What's up in your life this balmy desert evening?"

"Wow. I'm on the radio."

The sounds of a party going on behind her: heavy metal rock and drunken rebel yells. I heard cowboy boots on a wooden floor, a door slamming nearby as someone else entered the room. "Can I talk about some friends of mine?" Something electronic went wrong; she kept drifting in and out as if she was using a portable phone.

"Of course."

"Me? Nothing," the girl said. She wasn't addressing me. She sounded uncomfortable.

A male voice, indecipherable.

"Ma'am?"

"Sure, honey. I'll be right there."

The stoned-sounding girl abruptly hung up the phone and left me listening to a series of clicks.
Damn!
I had to fill sixteen more minutes. "You know what, people? I feel about as popular as a Baptist preacher at a rave!"

The air conditioning
whooshed
on behind me. I played a long Chicago blues rendition of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" to kill time. The world ground to a halt. I went live, did the station ID again.

"We have time for a few more callers," I said, and then lied: "They tell me some of you have had trouble getting through. Please excuse us, we've been having some problems with the phone system again."

Silence. I eyed the five striped fish in Loner's decorative tank, wondering idly why the one downstairs was so much larger. Wondering why the station's owner had tropical fish at all, especially in the middle of the goddamned desert.

"I have patience, I can wait. But unless you want me to break into a tap dance or some Old Irish ballad, you'd better call this station soon." I gave the number again. "Hop to it."

I typed a brief command into the old computer keyboard and a recorded news summary kicked in. The digital timer announced that it was five minutes, four seconds long. I still needed nine more minutes. I began searching through CD jackets, looking for something else to play. I was starting to feel pretty desperate when I spotted a classic George Jones. All of a sudden, line one blinked. The news was still running, so I grabbed it.

"Hello, this is Mick Callahan. Can you hold on? We'll be back on the air in a minute or so."

"Not if you know what's good for you. How's it going, my man?"

"Jerry? What the hell are you doing?"

"Busting your balls," Jerry Jover said. Laughter: Was that a woman with him? Jerry sounded five beers into a six pack. "Man, you are not exactly kicking ass tonight, are you?"

"I start out slowly, but then I tend to taper off."

"An original approach," Jerry said. "I think I'd best hold off on building that website for your fan club."

"Appears like it."

Jerry, the local computer geek, was generally alone, but another giggle definitively announced the presence of a woman.
Good for you
, I thought, miserably.
Somebody should be getting it on
. "Have a drink on my behalf."

"I'll do that."

"Maybe I'll stop by later on."

"Only if the light's on," Jerry said. "Hang in there, man. It's almost over." He cut the connection.

I watched the digital display. I'd need seven more minutes. But as the news short ran out, line one started to blink again. The caller had flawless timing. But as I turned in the chair the room seemed to grow colder and smaller and when I reached for the phone I was startled to see my hand trembling.

"You're on the air live with Mick Callahan."

Light static and then some ragged, feathery breathing. "Thank you," she said. It was another voice, not the hippie girl. She had the vague twang of a local; her cadence and tone were familiar. She was disguising herself, pitching her voice too high and thin. The effect was artificial.

"Thank me for what?"

"For taking my call," she said. "I didn't think I'd get through again."

Get through again? If you only knew, girl.
"I remember you from last night," I said. "How can I help you?"

"I'd still rather not give my name, Mr. Callahan."

"That's okay. I'll just make up a name."

The breathing again. She seemed anxious. I heard
background noise, some music and voices. If this was the same party, she was further away from it than the other caller.

She started slowly. "The truth is that I have something important to ask you about. You see, I'm in love with this guy, but he can't ever make his mind up about me."

"He can't make up his mind? Okay, I'll call you Ophelia."

"Huh?"

"Never mind," I said. "It's a pretty name. It'll do."

"Okay." She was still disguising her voice. "This man, he can be so sweet and wonderful to me, you know? Really. But then sometimes . . ."

"He can be mean?"

Shy. "Yeah. Sometimes he really scares me."

"Is he violent, Ophelia?"

"Not too often," she said, carefully. Heavy denial, then more of the same: "Nothing bad has ever happened unless he's had too much to drink or use. You know that kind of guy?"

"Trust me," I said. "I do. Has he ever hit you?"

"A little, only when I set him off, though. I can get out of hand now and then. Hey, but that's not even what bothers me."

"Oh? Then what
does
bother you?"

"He's always scamming people to get money. You know how it is."

"Just out of curiosity, how often do
you
drink or use drugs, Ophelia?"

"Me? Just once in a while, to unwind a little. I don't like to feel all out of control; not like he does."

"He likes to party?"

"Oh yeah. Too much."

"This sounds like a bad situation," I said. "I'm not going to kid you. But since we have a few minutes to go, tell me a little more about yourself. Did you grow up out here in high desert country?"

She pitched her voice even higher, as if terrified. "Yeah. On my Daddy's spread."

"He's dead, then?"

"Can we talk about something else?"

"And he used to hit you too, sometimes. Didn't he?"

Did I move too fast?
Damn it. Dial tone. I clenched my teeth, then saw a light blinking and grabbed the line.

"Hello."

A man, slurring his words: "Is this the Loner McDowell show?"

"Loner will be back tomorrow. You're on the air with Mick Callahan."

"Oh. Never mind, then." He broke the connection.

I chuckled ruefully. Now the wheels were
really
coming off. A few seconds of dead air later, there was another caller. "It's me again," she said.

"Ophelia?"

"Sorry. I guess I freaked out," she said. "You're good at this."

I winced; glanced at the clock and saw three minutes remaining. I had to stretch. "Would you be comfortable talking about any other things from your childhood?" I found myself curious. Something in her tone made me sad. Then she surprised me.

"Mr. Callahan, I can't talk about myself too much. I'm putting my life in danger by calling you."

My pulse quickened, I sat forward. "Do you really mean that, Ophelia?"

"Look, I'd rather talk about this guy who can't make up his mind," she said. If we had been working together in therapy, her eyes would have begun to spill over with tears. It was time to back away.

"Okay," I said. "What about him?"

"He's just so hard to figure. I'm starting to be really afraid of him. Sometimes I think he loves me, and sometimes he acts like he hates me instead. I don't know what to think."

"Have you talked to him about it?"

"Yeah." She was sounding very childlike. "But he says it's all in my head."

"Could it be your imagination?"

"I don't think so. It's the drugs. I think I have a right to be scared. But damn, I don't like how this feels, talking to a voice on the telephone with maybe everybody listening."

"I wouldn't worry about too many people listening," I said, and pinched the bridge of my nose.

"I'm sorry?"

Two minutes to go
. "Ophelia, the truth is I'm starting to wonder if we have much to talk about," I said. "If this man parties his bootie off, beats you like your Daddy did, and apparently can't commit to you, then what the hell are you doing there? This is your life, not a dress rehearsal." I had one of those moments of clarity, where you can see yourself a little too clearly, and knew it was a cheap shot.

"It's not that simple," she said. Her voice trembled. "I'm really scared. Oh, I don't know why I called, because I can't really go into it. Not like this. I guess I just wanted . . . to talk to somebody."

Back down, be soothing
. "We all need to talk to somebody."

The background noises were getting louder. She was walking towards a large group now. I heard voices, some distorted music, more static ebbing and flowing. Probably not a lot of Friday night parties in the Dry Wells area, so the same one as the first caller? She was on a cell phone and moving around outside, in the night.

"You seem like a smart man," Ophelia said. "I wish we could talk in person."

"I don't do private therapy any more," I said, speaking rapidly.
And you sound like you need someone a whole lot better than me.
I started to prepare another taped commercial, and the show's closing theme.

"Mr. Callahan, please . . ."

I forced myself to sound cheerful. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, it seems we're out of time. Ophelia, I would advise you to find some private therapy, perhaps a good domestic violence group, even if you have to drive all the way to Elko. As for the rest of you folks, thank you for being such a kind audience. Loner McDowell will be back tomorrow night, interviewing aliens with anal probes, psychics, astrologers, and all of those eerie men from the black helicopters. Again, my name is Mick Callahan. Good night."

I popped in the next station CD, a Loner McDowell promo; dialed down the volume and went back to line one. "Look, I owe you an apology." But Ophelia was gone. I shrugged and tried to let it go. Ignoring the uneasy feeling in my stomach, I tossed the doodles and reminders I'd scribbled to help in the event of dead air. When the promo finished, I shut down the electronics and began to lock up.

It was good to be working again. That on-the-air brawl in Denver had pretty much trashed my career, so when Loner McDowell first tried to find me I'd all but vanished. Fortunately, Jerry had run a cyber-search on Loner's behalf. He'd tracked me down and relayed the offer to return to the Dry Wells area. So now I'd finished three days of non-union work and I was still sober. That's about all I had going for me at the moment.

I trotted down the rickety stairs, past the giant fish tank in the lobby, and turned out the lights. Something about the sudden darkness made my gut clench. I fumbled for the doorknob, trying to shake an uncomfortable mixture of anxiety and remorse, and left the premises.

Saturday Morning, 12:16 AM

Outside the radio station, stars speckled the black velvet sky and the temperature began to fall. I love the desert at night, always have, so the gloomy feeling lifted a bit. I stretched and moaned. My muscles felt stiff. I had worn my old Nike's instead of boots, hoping a long run would help me shake the blues.

I checked the laces on my shoes, rolled my shoulders, and broke into an easy jog, breathing deeply and slowly. The long road ahead unrolled like ribbon in the darkness. I calculated four miles or so to circumnavigate the town; then I'd check-in with my sponsor, grab a shower and some sleep. I let my mind go blank for a few minutes and picked up the pace.