One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel Read Free Page A

decide it's completely over."
    "I should go, it's late." Quentin looked me up and down as he decided on his next move. I'd stung him, but helped him at the same time. Finally, he said, "Can I come back?"
    "Of course you can." I opened my appointment book. "How about next Saturday? We could keep this as a regular time."

Two

    Later that night I drove to the Kitty Kat Club, a dump located in a grey strip mall out by the Burbank Airport, just north of Vanowen. It's pretty much the same as any other bar of its kind; a darkened, neon-addled pit reeking of urine, smoke, and alcohol. The female dancers are a cut above average, mostly because a drunken businessman on the road with an expense account is generally the best tipper. I know, because I've had a few of those working girls as clients. Well, and I used to be a regular customer, but that was a long time ago.
    When I pulled in, the parking lot was nearly empty, except for a Jeep Cherokee with rental plates, a panel truck, a BMW, and a geriatric station wagon that looked like it had been tenderized with a ball-peen hammer.
    I drove to the back of the lot and parked sideways, so I could see the entrance and the alley at the same time. I turned the radio down and watched the door for a while. Eventually I heard my own voice. I should be used to that by now, but I'm not. I winced as I listened to myself pitch a brand name comfort mattress for the station. That reminded me that my job status was shaky again. Did I even care? I shut the car off and sat listening to some crickets and the ticking of the engine.
    The Bone was back . Unbelievable. . . .
    There are moments in life that have an odd, almost leaden resonance to them. They give you the distinct feeling that a decision you're about to make could have magnificent or devastating consequences. This was one of those moments. I had no reason to feel so scared, no logical reason at any rate, but my gut was a plastic sack full of ice cubes. I hadn't seen Bud Stone in nearly nine years. I'd loved him like a brother through boot camp, leaned on him when we suffered through Hell Week in the SEALs, hated him for hitting on an officer's wife I was seeing at the time, even knocked him flat one Tequila-fueled night in San Diego. I washed out of the Navy because of that affair, and we'd eventually lost touch, but Bone proudly wore the trident until grievously wounded in Iraq. Then he'd returned to civilian life. Other than an occasional E-mail or phone message, I'd not heard a word from him in years.
    Until now.
    As if on cue, a man in a business suit opened the door with the ponderous gravitas of the dedicated inebriate. When he stepped outside, under the lights, his bald pate gleamed like a polished diamond. He struggled to light a cigarette, but couldn't hold the match steady. Finally he walked over to the rented Jeep, stood weaving like a cobra and searched his pockets for the keys. The door opened again and I instinctively slid down in the seat, out of sight. The drunk looked vaguely like Bud Stone, but I couldn't be sure. And Bone wasn't the type to wear a suit.
    Two other customers emerged; both broad shouldered, with buzz cut hair and tight, stylish jeans. One wore a cowboy hat and a wife-beater tee with Old Glory on it, the other a faded green windbreaker. The two looked reasonably sober, though pretty worked up. They stood near a black Nissan, talking in low tones. Meanwhile, the drunken businessman leaned on the hood of his own vehicle and projectile vomited into some night blooming jasmine. I got a good look at his face, and it wasn't Bud Stone.
    The guy in the windbreaker stayed blocking the door. The cowboy strolled after their mark, cracking his knuckles.
    Two thugs mugging a drunk. Great.
    This was clearly none of my damned business. I was here to see an old friend, not to get my nose broken again. Ah, shit . I made a show of getting out of the car like a man who'd had a few, whistling and mumbling to myself, figuring maybe a