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

face and checked my watch. It was eight thirty in the morning. Mary was going crazy in the bedroom, and Peanut was fighting to keep her there.
    "I can't fucking do this," Mary screamed. "I can't take the pain. I'm sick, goddamn it, don't you understand?"
    I stretched and trotted over to the bedroom door, started to open it. Peanut pushed it closed again. "Stay the hell out of here, bro. We're kind of buck naked right now."
    "Did you bring anything with you?"
    Peanut knew what I meant. "One last pill, so relax. I've got it covered, cowboy. Go back to sleep."
    I heard Mary mewling. "Please just let me go. I can't take it. Please."
    Peanut said: "Just hang on, sweetie. You're halfway home. I've been there myself, and I'm here to tell you it does get better."
    "But I hurt all over," Mary cried. "I can't take any more of this."
    "Yes, you can. And you damn well will."
    "You have to give me something . Please."
    "You can have this one last little Vicodin. It will take the edge off the withdrawals, okay? But I'm going to want you to drink some broth with it. Callahan, you still there?"
    "I'm on it."
    Mary sobbed incoherently. I felt a twinge of sympathy but shook off the feeling, walked away from the door and went out into the kitchen. The harsh morning sunshine hurt my eyes. I yawned, stretched, and threw some cold water on my face.
    I made some fresh coffee and found a bouillon cube. I started the teapot and boiled some water; made a cup of hot chicken broth and wandered around the kitchen, killing time. I even rearranged the little magnets on the refrigerator; some were tiny cartoon characters, some bar ads for beer and whiskey; others were caricatures of religious figures such as Gandhi and the Buddha.
    One said: Experience is what you get when you don't get what you want.
    I took out the official business card Officer Larry Donato had given me and stuck it on the fridge, with the LAPD logo and the private cell number visible. I stared at it for a long moment. A passing chill told me the number just might come in handy.
    Finally, I left a message for the publicist. I yawned as the telephone rang and rang. Finally, the answering machine picked up. I made my voice sound exhausted, which wasn't difficult. I told the tape that I'd come down with a touch of food poisoning and wouldn't be able to do the photo shoot. I hung up and went back to the couch to lie down, feeling like a guilty schoolboy.
    * * * * *
    "Shut the fuck up."
    "Don't talk to me that way, goddamn it."
    "I'll talk to you any way I want, bitch."
    They are arguing again. Loco can hear them but he does not know who they are or why they are fighting. He swims in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of being drugged, not at all sure what is happening. The narcotic soothes him and makes his anxieties seem far away and minor. He keeps his eyes closed as they move him into a new position. He falls asleep.
     

SIX
     
    "You people told me what would happen." The speaker was a young man, disarmingly handsome, with clear blue eyes and a cautious smile. He wore a calm suit and a loud tie and had rolled up to the podium in a state-of-the art wheelchair. At first he had been full of life, telling his drinking story with self-deprecating wit, and the room had been filled with laughter. Now we had fallen silent, sensing what was to come.
    The young man said: "You warned me how it would be if I went out again, if I tried to drink and do drugs one more time. You told me it would only get worse, but I didn't want to believe you. For you people who are new, when it comes to our disease, the people in these rooms will never lie to you."
    Mary was pale, perspiring heavily; sitting stiff in the metal folding chair with a bad case of vibrating knees. She had refused to stand at the beginning of the meeting or to "identify" herself as a recovering alcoholic in her first twenty-four hours of sobriety, but at least she seemed to be listening. She held Peanut's hand. Her lips were thin and