Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (5 page)

"Donny Boy, cool it." The big blonde jock.

Donny Boy cocked his head and looked at me the way a vulture looks at a dying animal; no animosity or emotion, just hunger. He was breathing rapidly. After a moment I came to my senses and looked away, conceding the turf.

He chuckled, turned and fired at the target.

Donny Boy was a hell of a shot, almost as good as Bobby. He put all three in, and the wickedly barbed tips blew the target to pieces. They all began to razz the kid who lost. I walked off, head down and hands in my pockets, heading for the small makeshift stage. My pulse was thumping like an oil rig. I needed to get my mind on something else, like what I would be scheduled to do at Monday's event.

Loner McDowell, dark and muscular with a three-day stubble, was chatting with an elderly cowboy, the town vet. Doc Langdon wore a red, white, and blue striped shirt, string tie, and a big hat. He had a giant belly to match his outfit. Loner towered over him.

"Howdy, Callahan," Doc said.

"You remember me, Doc?"

"I saw you fight a few rounds when you were a kid," Doc said. "Hell, even bet on you a time or two."

"You know what, old buddy?" Loner slapped my back hard enough to loosen some fillings. "I don't think we'll need you. We got a lot of ground to cover, what with the music and those fireworks out to Starr Valley Ranch that evening. Besides, our main speaker is Lowell Palmer, and he has a way of running on. You remember Palmer, right?"

I felt the blood leave my face. "Yeah, I remember him."

"Anyhow, I think we'll try and keep the show short and sweet." He peeled five hundreds from the roll he kept in his custom-fit black jeans. "Here you go, boy. Take Monday off. And thanks again." A huge laugh; another slap on the back, a sideways bear hug. "Hey, you're flush now. You want to cut some cards, double or nothing?"

"I'll just take the something I have."

"Well, I got to pay my respects to the man. I'll see you, Callahan. Good luck over to L.A." He strode away. Loner was so large and overbearing the air seemed to be sucked out of that area of the park.

"Man," Doc drawled, without a trace of rancor. "You must feel poorly this morning. I heard you liked to up and died on the air last night."

"Thanks."

The outlaw kids, Bobby, Mex, and Donny Boy, started whooping like Apache in some tacky western, chasing one another around with water pistols. The coterie of girls looked on, fascinated.

Loner was now kneeling by Lowell Palmer. I remembered him as a middle-aged man. Palmer was ancient now, all jowls and a shock of white hair; he looked like King Lear in a wheel chair. His son Will, standing immediately behind, was now a handsome, slender young man in a tailored suit. The two appeared to have just arrived in the brand new blue Mercedes that was parked under some trees near the creek. The car seemed out of place.

After a few moments, Loner rolled the old man over to the wooden stage, where a ramp had been provided for his benefit. He handed the microphone to Palmer, who began to rehearse a brief speech. His gravelly voice had a wheeze to it, and he popped his P sounds when he spoke.

"Welcome," Palmer intoned, to no one. "Some people say these are hard times. Right off, let me tell you I'm no pessimist. In fact, it is my considered opinion that Dry Wells is entering the dawn of an exciting new era. Despite indications to the contrary, this is a time of new economic promise and true growth for our community. We are strong, and we will survive. Why? Because we are a town with heart, founded on the fear of God and with a sincere respect for traditional family values."

Doc made a farting sound with his lips. "What a bunch of horseshit," he muttered. "Sounds like he's running for something."

"I haven't seen the Palmers in years."

"And you're as concerned about their happiness as the rest of us?"

Lowell Palmer droned on, more purple rhetoric about his deep respect for American values, Mom, and home-baked apple pie. Meanwhile, Doc said: "Way I hear it, old Will fakes things okay, but he don't exactly worship the ground his father rolls on these days."

I was not certain if that was a clever turn of phrase or a slip of the tongue. "What do you mean?"

"Just heard it said," Doc replied. "Shitfire, the old man is a tyrant, right? Still owns everything around here ain't nailed down, some things that are."

"What's Will's story?"

"Went off to college and came back worse. Been hell with the local ladies, including some of them what's married. You remember old Toby Galloway? He come home from Reno one time and found Will banging his fifteen-year-old daughter in the back of a flatbed truck, her knees all up and her toes curled. Cost Lowell an arm and a leg to keep it quiet."

"Small town. What happens when he runs out of women?"

"Oh, he'll probably move on to the livestock," Doc grinned. "You know us country bumpkins. We screw a lot, eat moon pie, and drink Nehi orange. We're not all that bright."

I was starting to like the man. "Truth is, the only Palmer I actually knew to speak of was Will's little sister. She used to follow me around. Cute little blond girl."

Doc gave me an odd look. Lowell Palmer had finished running through his speech, so Loner McDowell rolled him back down the ramp. "See, I'm no fan of the Palmer family," I said. "The old man had a lot to do with my stepfather losing his ranch a long time ago. He sprang a nasty surprise on Danny, called in a high-interest note he'd promised to hold."

"That's the way Lowell operates." Doc leaned closer. "Picture two nuns riding bicycles in Rome, on their way back to the convent. The lead one, she goes on a short cut; up and down the side streets. They get to bouncing and almost fall off the bikes. Finally they get home and the other one says, 'I've never come that way.' The first one says, 'It's the cobblestones.'
Har. Har
. It's the cobblestones, see? Get it?"

"I get it." Suddenly Doc didn't seem as likeable.

"Say, Callahan, I watched you brawl when you were younger. You were one ruthless fighter, especially for such a little kid. You ever do any pro fighting later on?"

I could feel my throat tighten up. "No."

"What's the matter?"

"That's not something I like to talk about, Doc. I'd rather put those days behind me."

"I guess I can understand that," Doc said, but he didn't mean a word of it. "After you left town, you were in the service, right?"

I never know how to answer that question. "For a little while. It didn't much agree with me."

"Mr. Callahan?"

I shaded my eyes, saw a young woman approaching. "Doc, please excuse me."

Doc spat on the ground. He seemed amused. "Sure, son."

One of the girls who'd been standing near the archers was approaching eagerly, almost skipping in the grass. She looked to be in her early twenties; very pretty face shining through blonde, tousled hair. She had straight, white teeth, striking blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles on her arms. She was barefoot, and wore a white summer dress with a yellow sunflower pattern.

I walked towards her, feeling like I was being watched every step of the way. We met in the middle of the cleared area, near an empty picnic bench. Somewhere behind us Loner was now using the microphone, pretending to welcome a non-existent crowd.

The vision said: "Hello. I wanted to meet you."

"Hello back. I'm Mick."
Idiot, the girl already called you by name.
"Do I know you?"

"Yes and no." She grinned flirtatiously. She touched my arm and whispered in that artificially high and airy voice, "I'm Ophelia."

Saturday Morning, 11:18 AM

Her squinting eyes were full of mischief. Her pupils dilated involuntarily, as if she were attracted to me. There was a strong sense of seduction in her posture and tone, yet the behavior seemed reflexive, rather than personal. Ophelia wore a bit too much makeup, and her clothes seemed to have been carefully arranged to bare a great deal of tanned young flesh.

"I just wanted to talk face to face. I need your help."

"I was serious when I said that I don't do individual therapy any more," I said, more regretfully than I had intended
.
She made me feel like a dirty old man. "I'm sure you can find some help down in Elko."

She shrugged. "Elko? I live here. I'm not going anywhere." We shook hands. I enjoyed the touch of her skin. "I was kind of young the last time you saw me, Mr. Callahan. I used to follow the boys around. My name is Sandy Palmer."

I blinked and slowly inclined my head towards the long, blue Mercedes.

Sandy smiled. "That's right. I used to hang around the grocery store and be a bother. Truth be told, you're the one I had the crush on."

"
Little
Sandy?"

"Will is my half-brother, and Lowell is my Daddy. I still live on their ranch, maybe three miles out to the south."

"I remember you, Sandy," I said
.
"But what I recall is a cute little tomboy."

"I suppose I was then," she said, "not any more."

Sandy spun in a circle, flaring her skirt. She held her head at an angle and kept her eyes fixed on mine. The long blond hair caught slivers of sunlight and stroked her cheek. I felt my heart kick and thought:
Turn your goddamned libido off, Callahan.
I kept my tone neutral and my expression kind: Shrink 101. "I'll help if I can, but don't you have anyone else to talk to, Sandy? What about your family?"

The light vanished from her eyes. "I can't trust my family," she said.

I debated, decided. "Okay, but let's keep this nice and light," I said. "It's not a good idea to do intense psychotherapy in the middle of a park with your whole damn family watching from the trees."

Sandy giggled. As we walked, she squeezed my hand. I got another physical rush. Damn, she was really something. I discreetly slipped my hand from hers, tucked in my shirt, and cleared my throat. "Tell me about yourself. I know a bit about your father and brother, but catch me up on the rest. Is your mother still alive?"

She shook her head. "She's been gone over ten years, now."

"I'm sorry. Were you close?"

"No, I guess you could say I was Daddy's girl." We sat on opposite sides of an empty picnic table. I observed her quietly. She blushed and played with her hair. An old Police lyric ran through my mind; it was a teacher pleading to a young girl: "Don't stand so close to me."

After a moment, I asked, "Sandy, do you have many girlfriends?"

"Not really, no. Mostly boys." She seemed defensive, so I smiled to reassure her. She lowered her eyes. "I don't really know where to start."

Will Palmer had noticed his half-sister's absence. He leaned down over the wheelchair, whispered something to his father. They started waving to townspeople with frozen smiles, staring at the grass, looking everywhere but at our picnic table. Sandy Palmer continued to stare down at her folded hands.

I resisted the urge to speak. Sometimes you have to wait. I kept my face blank, but pleasant.

She looked up again. "You know much about the law?"

I hadn't visibly responded to the seductive quality, so it vanished. Now she was just a little girl. I answered carefully. "The law? Not much, actually. Just what I have to know."

"Oh."

Too much space followed. I was losing her, so I risked a probe. "Which law did you have in mind, Sandy? And who broke it?"

Pause. "I can't answer that," she sighed. "I wish I could."

"Okay. If you could answer, what would your answer be?"

A Frisbee sailed behind her and landed near the bench. Two boys tussled for it and then ran off again. Sandy became a bit less regressed, more like a teenager. I thought for a moment and then rephrased the intervention. "What kind of question
can
you answer, then?"

"I'm not sure."

"Let's play a game. Can you finish a sentence for me?"

"I guess."

"What's got me upset is . . . ?"

"What's got me upset is my boyfriend and his drug problem. I want to do something about it."

"I see. I can certainly understand how that is upsetting."

"I have to make him stop."

"
You
have to make him stop?"

"Yes."

"I see," I said, gently. "Well, let me ask you something. What makes you think you're that powerful?"

I knew instantly that her observing ego wasn't strong enough. She had no answer. My technique was confusing; it had closed her down. "I apologize, Sandy," I said, meaning it. "That didn't come out right."

"Hey," she said after a time, "maybe this was all a mistake."

"How can I help you if you can't trust me?"

"Maybe you
can't
help me."

"Maybe I can't," I said, honestly. "Believe me, it wouldn't be the first time."

Sensing my compassion, her face drained of light. She regressed again; became someone very young. "Secrets hurt," she said in a small, forlorn voice.

"I know." I took a calculated risk and touched her hand. "That's why we all need to talk to somebody. Sandy, on the air last night you said you thought your life was in danger. Were you serious?"

"Yes," Sandy sighed. My touch seemed to melt her resistance. "He'll probably kill me, but I really need to tell somebody. And I do trust you, Mr. Callahan."

Suddenly I wasn't sure I really wanted to hear this. "I'm listening."

"Here it is," she said, the words rushing out: "I just found out that he's been doing something bad. More than partying, I mean
really
bad."

"Doing what?"

"He's . . ."

A male voice, scratchy baritone: "You're like a case of the crabs, aren't you, dude? You just won't go away."