Eye of the Burning Man: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Series) by Harry Shannon Read Free Book Online Page B

version of the theme from Jeopardy. "Okay, I'm waiting. Time is running out here. Let's get to it. Somebody wants those tickets."
    Bupkis, zip, nada.
    "How many James Bonds have we had so far?" I asked, desperate to kill more time. "The stone-aged ones had Connery, then some other British dude, Roger Moore, Pierce, and the new guy. That's not all? Tell you what, then. The first caller to name all of the James Bonds, in precisely the right order, wins a second pair of tickets. The clock is running."
    Dead air, deep fertilizer. I played a gag CD that featured a host of southern-sounding voices chanting: "Shucks, Mick, I don't know" in unison.
    The phone lit up. "You're on the air, caller. Can you name them in the correct sequence?"
    "Don't you remember me?" It was the drugged girl again. "I'm so sick. I just want to die."
    And that's when it finally hit me. I took us off the air. "Mary? Where are you? I'll pick you up."
    "I told them I wouldn't do any more porn, so I'm broke. I had to bum quarters to call."
    "Where are you? Please think."
    "A called Oranges, maybe? Something like that. I'm sick. I really fucked up this time. Fancy is going to kill me."
    "Who?"
    "Fancy." She started to cry.
    "Stay right where you are."
    I put her on hold, stopped the music. "We're out of time, ladies and gentlemen. Tomorrow night I will trot out the same question, so anyone who wants to do the research can win the tickets. Anyway, what the heck are you doing up so late on a week night? Go get some sleep. I'm Mick Callahan, and I'll talk with you again tomorrow evening."
    I started the jazz tapes and went back to the telephone.
    "Hello?"
    She was gone. I slapped my hands on the console; dug into the pocket of my jeans for a business card, dialed a cell number. "Larry? This is Mick Callahan."
    "Did you think of something that could help us out?"
    "Not exactly. I need a favor, a big favor. Can you have somebody run down a telephone number for me?"
    "Come on, Mick. You know I can't do that. You're not a cop."
    "It's a professional thing, a client of mine. I know she is in a club or a bar in the 909 area code. She said something about Orange being in the name."
    "Try an operator," Donato said.
    "I think it's a pay phone. This is important. I'm not kidding when I say it might be a life or death situation."
    "Oh, man."
    "Please help me out, here."
    "Give me the number," Donato said with a sigh. "I'll mark it as following up on a tip." I read it, heard Donato type something into a computer. "Orange Grove Bar in Pomona, on Gary and First. Looks like a really cool place."
    "What?"
    Donato chuckled. "I'm being a smart ass. It looks like the kind of place you want to check out when you have a bodyguard, an AK47, and some Mace. That's a very sleazy hood. You want I should call the Pomona PD?"
    "No thanks, Larry."
    "Hey, I'm off duty the next couple of days. Call me if I can help."
    "I owe you one."
    "Stay out of trouble, big guy."
    I tried to call the number. The phone rang and rang.
    I packed up my things, locked the studio, and ran through the parking lot. I threw my briefcase into the trunk of the car, removed a black case and took out my Smith and Wesson 357. I grew up with guns, but don't really like them. They have a nasty way of escalating matters.
    There were two speed-loaders in the bag, each one filled with six hollow point cartridges. I slipped some bullets into the chamber and spun it, tucked the gun in my belt. I got in and fastened the seatbelt, fired up the engine, roared out of the parking lot and onto the 101 Freeway.
    I opened my cell phone. Jerry was on the speed dial. I got his voice mail and flipped the phone closed. I put both hands back on the wheel and headed for Pomona.

FOUR
     
    The city raced by, a wide smear of colored lights and gray concrete. I drove down the freeway in silence, knuckles white on the wheel, gripped by vivid memories of Dry Wells, Nevada and how much I owed Mary. I took the 101 Freeway, then the San Bernardino.