Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) by Harry Shannon

best back the fuck down." My voice was low and hoarse. Jerry tried to make his body smaller against the car door. His hat tipped up, revealing angry scar tissue. His large sunglasses slipped off and fell into his lap. He was terrified.
    I turned the engine off. "Sorry."
    "We can't just leave," Jerry said. "Sandy called you on the air last night, remember? You called her Ophra, or something."
    Another long, slow breath. "Ophelia. I called her Ophelia."
    "She had a problem she didn't want to talk about over the radio. It was something bad about her boyfriend. Mick, somebody murdered her for that."
    "She's dead, Jerry. Who knows why?" I tried not to remember the man in the alley, naked with his hands tied behind his back. I pictured him anyway.
    Jerry clenched his fists. He fingered his scalp, came to a conclusion. "We could do the kind of thing you used to do. I can help you out. Let's investigate."
    "Jerry, don't be ridiculous."
    "I liked that girl, Mick. She was a nice person."
    "The answer is no," I said, a bit too forcefully. "Now, drop it. The law should handle things like this."
    "What law? Dry Wells has one burned-out cop. Give me a good reason we shouldn't poke around."
    "Okay, how about I'm pretty fucking rusty. You ought to know. You're the one who had to track my ass down and drag me out of hiding."
    "You used to go at people for a living, man. It'll come back."
    "Forget it, Jerry. Why the hell are you so hot to do this?"
    "Dude," Jerry pleaded, ignoring the question. "Please help me out."
    I weakened a bit, allowed myself to consider his idea. It seemed dumb. We'd be in way over our heads. Maybe if I hadn't seen that first body, trussed up like a turkey . . . but I had. And right now Dry Wells was looking like a very dangerous town. "No, Jerry. Let Bass and the Palmer family handle things."
    "It might be therapeutic, dude. And it would be just like the old days, when you were at the top of your game."
    "The old days? Back then I was too drunk to be cautious."
    "Help me," Jerry said. "I even know who killed her. There's not a doubt in my mind."
    "Oh?"
    "It was that prick Bobby Sewell," Jerry said, triumphantly.
    I whistled with mock admiration. "Oh, now I get it. And he just happens to be the same guy who wants to kick your ass over a girl. Hey, with that kind of impartial evidence you can't miss."
    "Then who did it, and why?"
    "Beats me," I sighed. "Oh come on, Jerry. How the hell should I know?" I didn't want to care, but now the anger was coming back; low and urgent like a sexual heat. "Listen, proving who did it won't be easy."
    "I want to try."
    "I'd like to help, but if I don't leave right now, I may not get that job in L.A."
    "So fuck it."
    I stared at him evenly. "This wouldn't be Jerry thinking he finally has his big chance to be a celebrity, would it?"
    Jerry shook his head. "Whoa. That was a cheap shot."
    "Level with me, here. There's no better reason for wanting to stick your neck out like this? Come on, kid. I want to hear you say it."
    Jerry studied his tennis shoes. He blushed and his scar darkened. "Skanky."
    "The girl. The one I saw you with this morning."
    Jerry, urgently: "Look, if I'm right and Bobby Sewell killed Sandy Palmer then Skanky is in a world of hurt. I don't want to leave her behind. Hell, I didn't really want to leave town in the first place, man. I need to see her again." He looked up with wet eyes. "Mick, you got to help me out here. Please."
    "Okay. Let me think for a minute." I lowered my head, massaged my temples. This is stupid, really stupid. Bass is going to lose it if you stick around . But when I examined my motives for refusing to help, I did not like them either. A few moments passed.
    "Can I ask you something, Mick?"
    "Sure."
    "What the hell happened to you?"
    It took me a long time to answer him. "Life happened."
    Maybe I could help him out. Maybe there was still time to make something good from a whole lot of bad mistakes. But the wild card was that dead man in the alley.