Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) by Harry Shannon Page A
Authors: Harry Shannon
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How did his murder factor into this, if at all? My head was spinning.
"So you won't help me. Wow, I looked up to you, dude." Fussing with the baseball cap again, wriggling the eyebrows. "You were my hero."
"Jerry?"
The kid unlocked the car door and got out. "I'm going to find out what happened on my own, then. If I can prove Bobby Sewell killed Sandy, I'll be able to help Skanky and all my problems will go to jail along with his hillbilly ass."
"You're crazy, you know that."
"I'll handle it." He began to walk away, but then froze when he heard me start the engine.
"Jerry? Wait." He turned with a widening grin. I sighed and patted the seat. "Get in. Let's go somewhere and talk."
Six
Saturday Afternoon, 1: 15 PM
Madge Wynn's parents opened the tiny diner before the Second World War, when Dry Wells was still thriving. They called it Margie's, after Madge Wynn's mother, now long deceased. Madge herself was in her late sixties. Her customers were drive-through tourists or aging friends who skipped meals at home to keep Margie's in business. Strong coffee, eggs, home fries, and gigantic pancakes were her specialty. The food was plain, but always good.
Old Madge was back in the kitchen, her silver hair bobbing above the stove beyond the pass-through. Three empty cardboard boxes cluttered the hallway. A dry mop sat near a tipped-over, empty bucket. The lone waitress was a slender, pretty lady a few years shy of forty. She was the same woman who had studied me through the front window earlier. She had short brown hair, wide eyes, and the tanned face of someone accustomed to high desert sunshine. She tried to catch my eye as we ordered, but I was too preoccupied to notice.
Jerry and I sat in a corner booth. The cheap wall clock flagged the passing seconds like a woodpecker. We ate our sandwiches in relative silence. Jerry ordered a bottle of beer. I drank cola.
"This is so sad. I can't stop thinking about it."
"Me neither." My anger was muted, more manageable, the rage channeled.
"She was special, Mick."
"They all are."
"Huh?"
"Jerry, I want you to do me a favor. Let's change the topic. I want to talk about something else."
"Talk about what?" Jerry was puzzled.
"In one of your E-mails, a few weeks ago, you told me about being a kid on the streets back in Arizona. It was funny stuff, and I found it interesting."
"Mick," Jerry sighed, "what the fuck?"
"I want to change the subject, clear our heads. It's a technique. You're from somewhere in Arizona, right? You ended up in a foster home?"
"Yeah, a few of them. The last was a piss-ant burg called Rock Ridge," Jerry said. "It really sucked."
"Go on." It was getting hot. I wiped my face with a forearm.
Jerry slowly warmed to the subject. "Dude, it's ugly. People who need a few extra bucks sign up, take some dumb shit course, and figure they've got themselves a house slave."
"What happened to your real parents?"
"I don't know. I become successful, famous for something, then maybe they'll find me . . . if they're still alive." Jerry spilled some salt on the table and moved it around with his fingertips. "Or I guess I could go looking for them online."
"You found me fast enough," I said.
Jerry laughed. "I used to run away all the time, dude. The very last time, I got away from this old drunken fart named Boone and his fat wife. I hot-wired two of his cars, sold them off, and bought myself the scooter. I was sixteen years old, and I left and never looked back."
"Revenge is sweet."
"So is hot wiring cars, but I cut it out. Hey, pirating electronics is a step up for somebody like me."
I stared out the window for a moment, then back. "Jerry, what happened to your face? Do you mind talking about it?"
An enormous chasm opened and filled itself with a thick, syrupy silence. Jerry's left hand began to rise as if to touch the scar tissue, but he stopped himself. Eventually he answered me with the scratchy, broken voice of a little boy.
"Mrs. Boone was
"So you won't help me. Wow, I looked up to you, dude." Fussing with the baseball cap again, wriggling the eyebrows. "You were my hero."
"Jerry?"
The kid unlocked the car door and got out. "I'm going to find out what happened on my own, then. If I can prove Bobby Sewell killed Sandy, I'll be able to help Skanky and all my problems will go to jail along with his hillbilly ass."
"You're crazy, you know that."
"I'll handle it." He began to walk away, but then froze when he heard me start the engine.
"Jerry? Wait." He turned with a widening grin. I sighed and patted the seat. "Get in. Let's go somewhere and talk."
Six
Saturday Afternoon, 1: 15 PM
Madge Wynn's parents opened the tiny diner before the Second World War, when Dry Wells was still thriving. They called it Margie's, after Madge Wynn's mother, now long deceased. Madge herself was in her late sixties. Her customers were drive-through tourists or aging friends who skipped meals at home to keep Margie's in business. Strong coffee, eggs, home fries, and gigantic pancakes were her specialty. The food was plain, but always good.
Old Madge was back in the kitchen, her silver hair bobbing above the stove beyond the pass-through. Three empty cardboard boxes cluttered the hallway. A dry mop sat near a tipped-over, empty bucket. The lone waitress was a slender, pretty lady a few years shy of forty. She was the same woman who had studied me through the front window earlier. She had short brown hair, wide eyes, and the tanned face of someone accustomed to high desert sunshine. She tried to catch my eye as we ordered, but I was too preoccupied to notice.
Jerry and I sat in a corner booth. The cheap wall clock flagged the passing seconds like a woodpecker. We ate our sandwiches in relative silence. Jerry ordered a bottle of beer. I drank cola.
"This is so sad. I can't stop thinking about it."
"Me neither." My anger was muted, more manageable, the rage channeled.
"She was special, Mick."
"They all are."
"Huh?"
"Jerry, I want you to do me a favor. Let's change the topic. I want to talk about something else."
"Talk about what?" Jerry was puzzled.
"In one of your E-mails, a few weeks ago, you told me about being a kid on the streets back in Arizona. It was funny stuff, and I found it interesting."
"Mick," Jerry sighed, "what the fuck?"
"I want to change the subject, clear our heads. It's a technique. You're from somewhere in Arizona, right? You ended up in a foster home?"
"Yeah, a few of them. The last was a piss-ant burg called Rock Ridge," Jerry said. "It really sucked."
"Go on." It was getting hot. I wiped my face with a forearm.
Jerry slowly warmed to the subject. "Dude, it's ugly. People who need a few extra bucks sign up, take some dumb shit course, and figure they've got themselves a house slave."
"What happened to your real parents?"
"I don't know. I become successful, famous for something, then maybe they'll find me . . . if they're still alive." Jerry spilled some salt on the table and moved it around with his fingertips. "Or I guess I could go looking for them online."
"You found me fast enough," I said.
Jerry laughed. "I used to run away all the time, dude. The very last time, I got away from this old drunken fart named Boone and his fat wife. I hot-wired two of his cars, sold them off, and bought myself the scooter. I was sixteen years old, and I left and never looked back."
"Revenge is sweet."
"So is hot wiring cars, but I cut it out. Hey, pirating electronics is a step up for somebody like me."
I stared out the window for a moment, then back. "Jerry, what happened to your face? Do you mind talking about it?"
An enormous chasm opened and filled itself with a thick, syrupy silence. Jerry's left hand began to rise as if to touch the scar tissue, but he stopped himself. Eventually he answered me with the scratchy, broken voice of a little boy.
"Mrs. Boone was
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