Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (4 page)

"Don't. Like you said, it's high time I faced up to the mess I've made."

"As you wish. Dead bodies or no, try to get some rest. Sleep well, stay sober, and be sure to meditate. Check in with me again tomorrow. Have I told you lately that you are valued?"

"You have."

"
Shalom
."

When I sat down to meditate, my mind raced, so I read some passages from
Disorders of Personality
by Theodore Milan. It's incredibly dry and boring stuff. Then I tossed and turned for hours, trying not to think about Ophelia.

I slept poorly.

Saturday Morning, 7:48 AM

"Seven
come eleven, damn it!
Oh yeah!"

I jumped and the mattress squeaked noisily. Loner McDowell was howling his way down Main Street. I'd heard mediocre marching band music in the distance for several minutes; the dress rehearsal for the Dry Wells Memorial Day show had begun. I'd overslept by more than an hour.

Dry Wells, now on life support, had at various times been a mining town, a railroad hub, and a trailer park for whores serving the local cattlemen. In the early-twentieth century, it had boasted a population of nearly one thousand. Post World War Two, it had gradually become a wizened shell of a town; a gas station, a motel, a grocery, and a casino for drive-through traffic coming down from Utah. Now Dry Wells sported a population of 278, counting those on the nearby spreads. Most folks had moved lower down in the state, towards Elko or the Irish area of Carson City.

These days, tourists barely remembered passing through. Yet whenever an occasion warranted it, and honoring veterans on Memorial Day certainly qualified, people came back, often after several years away, to participate in the ceremonies. I remember standing in front of the grocery store with the other kids, watching the stately Memorial Day parade.

"Luck has smiled on me, I am a rich man! I have been to Sodom and Gomorrah.
Gomorrah
I see it,
Gomorrah I like it
!"

The voice was moving away, towards the park. That would definitely have to be Loner. With McDowell, everything was larger than life.

"Don't dare wager with me, fool, for I am on a hot streak and burning up.
I am the King
! Elvis
has not
left the fucking building!"

I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and prepared a speech. First, something about the joys of having been gainfully employed here; maybe a word or two about having grown up a few miles south, near Starr Valley. Then I'd take a question or two and hold forth on the wonders of modern psychology and how I got my degree and license at such a young age.

I did several alternating one-armed pushups and two hundred stomach crunches and jumped to my feet. Cold shower: tall, howling dervish under icy needles. Then I opened the peeling, fake wood-grain kitchen cupboards to retrieve the spoon, a chipped cup festooned with Disney characters, and one small jar of generic instant coffee. I groaned. Maybe a dozen fossilized, dried brown flakes remained in half-moon clumps near the bottom. I dressed in a flash: the local uniform of a T-shirt, comfortable blue jeans, and plain cowboy boots. My short black hair would dry on its own. When I was a kid, I had fried an egg on the sidewalk on a morning just like this.

The office at the far northern end of the Saddleback Motel was open. I saw a little red scooter parked in front, heard rap music. Jerry looked after the motel, did odd jobs all over town, and had a collection of used electronics big enough to open a repair shop. As I approached the motel office, a thin girl with long, dark hair appeared in the doorway. She had a sweet face, wore blue jeans and a white blouse and a long string of red beads. She glanced my way, seemed to recognize me and ducked her head. She walked away, arms folded and eyes on the sidewalk.

"Yo, Callahan!"

Jerry was a skinny twenty-something, with shaggy brown hair and a seemingly endless supply of dark glasses. He had taken to wearing a baseball cap backwards, a cultural trend I despise. He was playing with what appeared to be a graphic equalizer now attached to an old desktop computer. Music wailed from quad speakers. "Jerry?"

"
What?
"

"Turn it down. Who was the babe with the beads?"

"I can't hear you."

"Okay. It's none of my business or she has a boyfriend."

Jerry smiled. He sat up and turned towards me, trusting me with the bad side of his head. Jerry had a nasty, triangular burn scar that ran from the corner of his jaw and spread ever wider as it crawled to his temple. The scorched area had no hair; it ended in a straight line high on his scalp. I had never mentioned it. I think Jerry appreciated that. I crossed my arms, shook my head. "Now, please turn down that damned noise."

"Hey, I just got this thing fixed," Jerry grinned, although he complied. "And it's not noise, it's music."

"That most emphatically is not music," I said. "Randy Travis, Dixie Chicks, George Jones . . . they play
music.
That is a recording of a twelve-ton oil rig, pounding in the middle of a sorority house while an angry teenager argues with his parole officer."

"
Good morning
, Mr. Callahan. That's why everybody used to watch you on the tube." Jerry also wriggled his eyebrows a lot; the telltale facial twitch of an obsessive-compulsive. I wondered if he had a counting ritual.

For just a moment, I considered telling him about Sheriff Bass and the dead body, but I decided to keep my word. "By the way, thanks for that stupid E-mail."

"I thought you'd need a chuckle. I caught the entire show last night. Man, enough dead air for a prayer service."

'Then you should have called in while I was on the air, instead of during a damned news break."

"I did call," Jerry said. "You took somebody else. Some chick who blew you off after a minute or two." He adjusted his baseball cap . . . bill backwards. "Man, you really sucked."

"Gee. Thanks."

"Well you did. I burned a CD of the show, just in case you want to hear for yourself."

"Pass. Jerry, I need coffee. Can you help me out?"

"Sure thing." Jerry went to work with packets of synthesized creamer, pre-packaged sugar, and powdered coffee. He produced something potent and handed over a tall Styrofoam cup, the kind that doesn't decompose until entire civilizations have risen and fallen. I checked out the back room, where Jerry slept. It was packed with old computers, monitors, TV sets, and miscellaneous pieces of electronic gear. There was an open pack of condoms by the dusty futon.

"Jerry, what were you going to ask me?"

"Aw, I pulled a dirty letter out of an old Penthouse magazine. I was going to call you up and read it. Man, you sounded desperate. I felt guilty for helping Loner drag you back up here."

I snorted. "Maybe you should."

"I do." He whined for effect. "Fact is I can't hardly sleep at night. I figured I would try to spark things up for the audience. You were really awful."

"Jerry," I said, "don't start this early."

"But you're so cute when you're mad."

I went stern. "Listen, can I tell you something personal? I mean, we've become such good friends and all. So I can kind of step out of line and speak my mind to you, right?" I took a sip, waiting.

He flushed a bit. The increased blood flow darkened his burned cheek and forehead. "I . . . guess so."

"Jerry, I know this will come as a shock to you, so you'd better sit down."

The kid sat back, eyes wide. "Go ahead."

"Jerry, this is Nevada, not South Central. Put the fucking hat on forward and people will think it looks fine."

He snorted in relief. "Give me my coffee back."

"Not a chance."

"Should I tell you what's in it?"

"No. Listen, are you going to the picnic on Monday?"

His eyebrows did a jig. "Probably." He opened a drawer and pulled out a well-worn video cassette. "Hey, I got something to show you." Jerry popped the tape into the mouth of a small television set with a built-in VCR. He leaned back, swung his legs up, and slapped his booted feet on the empty metal desk.

"Don't tell me."

"I've got satellite. This ran on some piss-ant cable channel last night. You'll probably get a two buck residual check next spring."

I sipped coffee. A younger me addressed the camera from somewhere along a dilapidated Sepulveda Boulevard in Panorama City, California. This Mick Callahan was wearing a cheap blue suit and sported a fake moustache. He was wearing a hidden camera and wired for sound. He walked into a crowded office of clinical psychiatry. The program switched to a tape of my experience as I filled out forms and suffered through the charade of an intake session where a mental health history was taken.

Jerry broke the spell. "This was maybe five years ago, right?"

"Six," I said. It felt like fifty.

"And you got an Emmy."

"A nomination."

We watched in silence. Within a few minutes I had coerced the portly, balding psychiatrist into suggesting an unwarranted prescription for potentially addicting anxiety medication. He also offered to file an insurance claim padded with a kickback. I pretended to agree to the terms, but then opened the office door and invited my camera crew in. And then I absolutely ripped the psychiatrist apart.

The man perspired heavily and tried to hide his features, but I produced copies of previously forged insurance documents; files we would now be turning over to the police. The papers were guaranteed to cost the man his license. The segment was theatrical, brisk, and brutal; dynamite television journalism. It was also ruthless and insensitive. Jerry leaned over and stopped the tape.

"That must be amazing."

"What, humiliating people?"

"Figuring out the scam, following up on leads, asking questions, and finally busting the bad guys like that. I envy you, man."

"Those were the days," I said, looking out the window. Watching the clip had made me feel empty and sad.

Jerry swung his feet back up on the desk. "You know something," he said, "some day I plan to get the hell out of here and make a name for myself. I'm going to be just like you, man, a celebrity. You believe me?"

I sipped some coffee, tore a few bits of Styrofoam away from the upper lip of the cup. "Sure, I believe you," I said. "If you can dream it, you can do it." I launched the crumpled cup through the air and into the trash basket. "Check it out," I said, "nothing but net."

"If you can dream it, you can do it. Cool. Did you just make that up?"

"I doubt it. Anyway, thanks for the caffeine."

"
De nada
. Want to grab a bite to eat after the rehearsal?"

"Sure, let's do it, but give me a couple of hours. See you, kid."

I walked the maybe quarter-mile stretch up Main Street. I saw Glen Bass, the tall, weathered Sheriff. He was on the upstairs porch of his two-story office, faded boots up on the railing. We exchanged nods. I strolled by as if I'd never seen a body and last night had never happened. It was already hot, and growing hotter by the moment.

As I passed Margie's Diner, a young woman with short, dark hair peered out through a dusty pane of glass that was spider-webbed with cracks. She used one hand to shade her face as she followed me with her eyes. She pulled the curtains when I stared back.

The ragged band music from the little park grew louder and climaxed: Sousa honked by elderly amateurs. The band finished rehearsing. I stepped over the narrowest part of the shallow creek that rimmed the park, and out onto the surprisingly green grass. All around me townspeople were picnicking, roughhousing, and enjoying the sunny morning. I strolled around the half-empty, rectangular grounds; the picnic tables with fading paint near small clumps of stubborn trees.

I saw two cardboard targets pinned to tall bales of hay, large concentric circles with numbers. Someone had placed signs warning people to stay clear of the contest area. Nearby sat a collection of bows; two were large aluminum Caribou Reflex, 46 inches in length. Someone else had a dark crossbow of unfamiliar design, fully camouflaged. The last bow was an Oneida Stealth Eagle four-pounder with one hellacious pull. I stopped to watch.

The first archer was a big blonde kid who looked like he might have played defensive lineman. He was tall, beefy and handsome in a country-hick way. Two slightly scraggly-looking young groupies gave him rapt attention. One was the thin girl wearing long beads who had walked out of Jerry's motel office.

The kid took the Oneida and let fly three arrows, tipped blunt for target practice. He scored big.

"Go Bobby! Go," the girls squealed.

The next kid, a Latino, had a silly goatee, jet-black hair and eyes. Real macho, empty-faced, probably antisocial. He swept up the crossbow; squinted and stuck out his tongue. Two out, one in. Jerry's friend, the thin, dark-haired girl in blue jeans and beads, called the boy "Mex" and giggled. He blew a raspberry.

"
Oh boy, oh boy
!" The last shooter was tall, about my size, lean as a pro wide receiver. He was jumping up and down and screaming obscenities, oblivious to the scowling families nearby. He had dyed blonde hair all spiked up; some body piercing, a gold earring, and a little wisp of dark chin fuzz intended to make him look dangerous. He grabbed the other Caribou bow and three arrows, saw me.

"You got a problem?"

I smiled and shook my head. "Nope." I allowed the smile to widen, seem genuine. "No problem, just watching."

This kid had an extraordinary body, a dim intellect, and something to prove. His eyes made me think of an old Emily Dickinson poem about a man who made her feel 'zero at the bone.' In a blur of motion, the kid loaded the bow and aimed it right between my eyes. My vision slammed into close-up and I couldn't see anything but the wicked, barbed tip of a real hunting arrow. My stomach dropped to China and my heart stopped beating. The crowd of kids immediately fell silent and time slowed, stuttered, and ground to a complete halt. I didn't dare blink.