Untold Damage by Robert K. Lewis Page B

back to those days, his time carrying a badge. Yeah, he’d been good, all right. Lots of times better than good. And then he suddenly realized he wanted to be good again. At something. Anything. But he never would be, not if he stayed hooked. And there it was: the abyss standing between him and his life. Between being a junkie, and being clean. The addiction was a huge chasm, and he needed to get over it to the other side. Could he possibly find a way to jump that gulf? Images of Anna and Chris came to him. His throat was tight. Constricted. But he knew what had to come next.
    â€œDo me a favor,” he told Oberon. “Tell them to put my booking jacket on the bottom of the pile for a couple days.”
    There was a pause before Oberon responded, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Excuse me?”
    â€œJust do it, will ya? Might be the only way for me to get clean. A few days in jail. Then maybe I can actually try and do something good for a change.”
    Oberon looked at him in the rearview mirror. Searched his eyes for a sign of truth. “You mean it,” he said, stating the fact that Mallen felt growing inside.
    â€œI have to do something. Maybe this is the time.”
    Oberon nodded. “I’ll make sure you’re out in three days, okay?”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œYou want me to sign you up at a clinic?”
    Methadone. Same shit, different day , he thought . “No,” he replied, “I know me. It wouldn’t work. Thin edge of the wedge.”
    â€œOkay,” the detective said as he turned the vehicle onto Hyde Street. “Let’s get it started then.”

    Oberon led him into central booking. Mallen hadn’t been there in about six years. That last time had been while on a case. Captain Oxford badly needed to talk with him. The top heroin suppliers were watching him all the time, so jail turned out to be the safest place to hold a long discussion. Plus, it made his cover look all that more solid. Stuff like that happened every once in awhile, by arrangement. He’d get picked up and taken in for questioning. Sometimes he’d even take a couple body blows from a fellow officer. Anything to make his cover tight like a drum head.
    The walls were still the same dull institutional color. The constant white noise of prisoners yelling, doors clanking open and shut, and names being called over the PA system filled the hot air. He followed the yellow line, Oberon guiding him by the elbow.
    â€œLook,” the cop said in a voice only he could hear, “I’m not booking you, okay? You’re being held on suspicion of burglary. If I can pull this off, you’ll get to even skip the lovely cavity search.”
    â€œOh man,” he answered, trying to sound upbeat, “and that was the part I was looking forward to.”
    He glanced around at the cops and criminals. There was a face or two that he recognized, on both sides of the law. Those that he once worked with seemed to quickly shutter their eyes and look right through him. The criminals he knew winked or nodded in brotherly affection. He was suddenly so tired of it all—the shitty apartment, the threadbare clothes, the constant scrounging. Not least, the junk. He wanted out. As far out as he could get.
    Well, let’s see how far that can be.

    The pain began within hours. The sweating, spasms, vomiting, and the runs. Oberon hadn’t been able to keep him in the holding cells. They were too overcrowded. The best, last resort had been to get him into the drunk tank. How he’d done that, Mallen couldn’t figure out. Probably had to call in yet another marker. The list of how much he owed Obie was quickly growing out of control. In the drunk tank he’d be safer, left mostly alone to sweat it all out. After one bout of passing out from the agony of The Need, he found someone had taken his shoes. His pants were probably safe from suffering the same fate only