Untold Damage (23 page)

Forty

Hal turned himself in
the next day.

It was all over the news, the man
who'd
taken revenge for his son. The morality of it was bandied about in the news for days. Public opinion was mainly with Hal, so they moved the case to another jurisdiction. How it would all come out, Mallen had no idea.

He'd told Phoebe he'd just not gotten there in time.
She'd
gone silent when he told her, and he wondered if she'd guessed what had really gone down. He then called Jenna, to see how she was doing. She sounded okay.

Like her universe had been righted, at least a little.

“Marko, man, you're not really leavin', are you?” Bill had never called him anything close to his first name. Ever. Made him smile. The afternoon sun shone in through the open door of the Cornerstone, like the promise of better days. The bartender put a scotch on the bar in front of him. Mallen noticed that he'd given him a double, gratis.

“For me I guess this is almost a going-away party,” Mallen said as he picked up his drink.

Bill chuckled. “Don't expect a lei.”

“Not from you, that's for sure.”

“Seriously, where you goin'?”

“Don't know. Maybe up to Mendocino for a couple weeks.” Months, he was really thinking. Wanted to be far away from the city for a while, and that was a fact. He glanced over at the hallway leading to Dreamo's office. “How's Justin doing?”

Bill picked up a glass. Began to dry it. Seemed to appreciate the question. Shrugged. “Took a couple days off. Don't know where he went, but he wasn't in. He's back now, though.” Put the glass away with its now-clean brothers. “You know, I shouldn't say it again for maybe jinxing it, but it's good that you quit riding the horse.”

He was about to answer, telling Bill he was crazy for caring, when Oberon walked in. The cop came over and looked down at the two small suitcases near Mallen's leg.

“I must say, I'm amazed you had enough to fill both,” Oberon said.

The last of Jas's money had gone pretty far. “One is filled with new-ish clothes. The other is used books. I thought I'd take up reading again.”

“And where will you be doing this reading?” Oberon shook his head at Bill's inquiry of what he wanted to drink.

“You know, I'm really not sure. Like I was telling Bill here, maybe Mendocino. Dunno , just … not sure, I guess. I do know I need a change of scenery for a bit. Bad.”

“Then I just might have the answer for you, Mark.”

“Where?”

“A floating hovel in Sausalito that my mother left me. I can't take care of it. I would never sell it, either, as I of course loved her very much. I was hoping to find someone I could trust to maintain it for me. I would only charge a nominal rent. Just enough to cover the slip fee.”

“Jesus, Obie. Why wouldn't you want to live on a boat out
there?
It's heaven.”

“Hey Marko,” Bill said, “That sounds really pretty nice. I mean, that's a perfect fuckin' fit, isn't it? Close enough, but not so close I get sick of seeing your ugly mug in here all the time, tryin' to beg drinks off me.”

“As our esteemed proprietor here has stated,” Oberon continued, “this is better suited to you than me. One, I'm a city boy, through and through. Two, I would hate the commute. Three, I get seasick in the bathtub. And four, it's a blessed wreck.”

Mallen laughed. Took a sip of his drink. “A wreck, huh?”

“They call them ‘floating homes,' but in this case I believe ‘floating heap' would be more appropriate. They don't go anywhere, like a houseboat. They just … well, float.”

Mark Mallen gazed down at the amber liquid in his glass. Could this be just what he needed to keep moving forward?

“Come on,” Bill urged, “this could be fucking great, man. Do it.”

For an answer, he finished his drink. “I promise never to bounce a rent check in a month with an
r
or a
y
in it.”

Oberon guided his unmarked police car along the 101 and down the hill to Sausalito. Just past town, he pulled off into a parking lot, and the two men got out. Ahead of them stood a long pier. Instead of boats in the slips there were the floating homes. All shapes and sizes. Some were very modern, all glass and chrome. Others were covered in brown shingles and looked decidedly circa 1970.

“I'm not doing you any favors,” Oberon said as they walked to the dock gate. “There's a lot of work to be done before you can even start maintaining the place.” Oberon unlocked the gate and they walked out onto the wide wooden pier. His friend then handed him a couple keys on a silver ring. He looked down at the small pieces of metal in his hand. Stared around at all the water. A seagull cried out nearby. Yeah, this would be way better than anything he could've come up with on his own. And of course, it was near Anna and Chris. Even though there were too many bad memories here, he still loved the Bay Area. There was just no place else to be.

The home was a small two-bedroom shingle job. And it was just like as described: a fucking wreck. Shingles were missing, windows cracked, and Mallen could swear the whole thing was leaning toward the east. The elements had definitely taken hold. The damn place even had a couple skylights, and a fireplace that might actually work after a month of elbow grease.
Fire and water. Both cleanse the body, and the soul
, Mallen mused. A deck off the upstairs room gave a great view of the bay.

“Well,” Oberon asked, “what do you think?”

He looked around. Did a full 360-degree turn. This would make a bad world easier to inhabit. “Okay,” he said.

Oberon beamed, his smile wide. “Great. That makes me very happy. You can move in right now, if you like. And if you don't mind camping out until you get the electricity turned on.”

They'd retrieved Mallen's baggage from Oberon's car, then made a run to the local market, tossing in a side trip to a hardware store. Now they sat on the upstairs deck in a couple of old, rusty lawn chairs, quietly working their way through their third drink. The smell of the ocean was pleasant to breathe. The sound of seagulls filled Mallen's heart. He felt peaceful. Ready to face whatever might come. He laughed at the thought.

“What is it?” Oberon said.

“Just thinking of the future. Caught me off guard.”

“Well, maybe you'll need to get used to thinking that way, Mark.”

“Maybe,” he said as he took another drink.

“Did you hear,” Oberon asked, his eyes on his glass, “that Jas was found dead in your apartment?”

“Really?” Off Oberon's look, he added, “Yeah, I'd heard something about that, actually.”

Oberon looked away, and Mallen caught the faintest smirk there before he did. “Yes,” the cop continued. “Griffin was apprehended a couple blocks away. Won't talk though, except to swear he will piss on your grave one day. You know, the evidence
does
paint a fairly dark picture, Mark.”

“I would think it would, Obie.” Took a sip of his drink. “Like maybe that Griffin and Jas had a falling out while they were lying in wait to kill me?”

Oberon checked his watch then. Got to his feet. “You know,” he said, “that
is
the scuttlebutt downtown. I voted for that scenario, anyway. You know how it is downtown, Mark. It'll be looked into. Who knows?” He went to the sliding glass door that led into what Mallen was already considering his office. Noticed the Police was a little unsteady on his pins.

“You're off duty, yeah?” he said.

“I'm fine. It's this derelict houseboat that makes me stagger.”

“Obie?”

“Yes?”

“I owe you my life, a couple times over. Thank you.”

“And what would Mother Mallen say,” came the reply, “if I let her only begotten child fall prey to a life of debauchery and needles? She'd have my badge, son.”

He followed Oberon through the house and out the front door. The last view he had of his friend was of him walking wide-legged down the pier. Like a dog afraid he was going to fall off a narrow log.

He slept on the deck that night. Woke up early, just as the sun was rising, his body stiff and hurting, but happy. There was a lot of work to do on the place, but the only thing he really wanted to do was work on a kite for Anna. That's what the trip to the hardware store had been about. He was deep into making a large box kite of bamboo sticks and colored tissue when his cell rang. Expected it to be Gato. To his surprise, it was Bill.

“Mallen,” the 'tender said. “Sorry to call you so early.”

He looked out the window at the eastern sun shining down on the bay. “I was up. I'm finding I'm loving mornings, go figure. What's up?”

“Well,” Bill started, “you gave me your number, right?”

“Yeah, I did.”

Silence. After a moment, he said, “Bill? Talk to me.”

“You know Helen? Helen Vail?”

Had to think for a moment before it registered. A woman he'd met at the bar a couple times. Nice woman. Worked at the Art Institute over in North Beach. Was raising a teenage son alone. “Yeah, what about her?”

“Not her. Her son, Paul. He's gone missing.”

“What do the cops say?”

“Not much. He's just another teenager living in the Loin, gone missing, right?”

“So, they're not doing much?”

“Not really. Problem is, he's got some issues. Sometimes wants to hurt himself, you know?”

“And you're calling me, wondering if … ?”

“Yeah. I mean … Helen's a good woman, and well, I really care for her, right?” Another pause. “We could give you some money for your time, Mallen. You know me, I'm good for it.”

“Oh shut the hell up, B,” he said. “I'll be right over.”

THE END

Photo
©
Dawn Vail

About the Author

Bay Area resident Robert K. Lewis has been a painter, printmaker, and a produced screenwriter. He is also a contributor to Macmillan's crime fiction fansite, Criminal Element. Robert is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the International Thriller Writers, and the Crime Writers Association.
Untold Damage
is his first novel. Visit him online at RobertKLewis.com and at needlecity.wordpress.com. He lives with his wife in the Bay Area.

Acknowledgments

You would not be holding this novel in your hands were it not for an incredible group of people:

First and foremost would be my wife of thirteen years and best friend for over thirty, Dawn Vail. Her love, patience, and support over the course of this journey speaks volumes about the beautiful soul that thrives inside her body.

My agent, Barbara Poelle, a wondrous mix of Wolverine and Charles Bukowski. She would go to the mat for me, or to the nearest liquor store to get me a fifth. I couldn't ask for more.

The entire crew at Midnight Ink, in particular Terri Bischoff, Nicole Nugent, Courtney Coulton, and Kevin R. Brown.

To my incredibly supportive family: Sandy, Ed, Sherri, Jim, Siobahn, Garrett, Janet, and Ron. Thank you for loving me as you do.

And my parents, both of whom had a transcendent love of books. My mother, Roz, took me to the library as soon as I was able to read and let me bring home as many books as I could carry, time and time again. For that, and so much more, I will be eternally grateful.