Critical Damage by Robert K. Lewis

Author:Robert K. Lewis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, fiction, junkie, redemption, former cop, police, heroin, undercover, partner
Publisher: Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.
Published: 2014-02-19T00:00:00+00:00

twenty-three

They’d spent the ride back to Gato’s hood scoping to see if they were being tailed. Kept an eye out for any black BMWs or Town Cars. There’d been a couple, but they weren’t tailing the Falcon. Maybe the lack of a tail meant the other side was getting ready for its meet with Teddy.

Gato pulled up right next to Mr. Gregor’s Land Cruiser outside his building. Mallen turned to his friend. “Those guys will keep Carpy on ice, no sweat?” They’d left Carpy with a couple of Gato’s buddies that Gato went to church with every Sunday. One looked like he could play defensive back for the Niners; the other looked like he could eat the first for lunch.

“No worries, vato,” Gato assured him. “He’ll be safe and sound, except for the cold-turkey aspect his life’s about to take on.” It wasn’t lost on Mallen that his friend seemed to take an immense pleasure in that fact.

“Okay. Let’s meet back here at eight. Then we go to the pier.”

“Should I bring more troops?”

“No, man,” he replied. “Just us two. This is the deal: We go there and shoot photos, not people. Pics of the fuckers Teddy meets with could be of great value, either now or down the road. Our other objective is to act as Teddy’s guardian angels. If it looks like he’s gonna get killed, we step in. We need him alive, and I’m thinking about Lupe here, too, yeah? If she hears he’s dead, she might come out of hiding, or run deeper into the woods. We don’t want either scenario.”

“So we need some weaponry and a good camera?”

“Yeah. Is that workable?”

Gato thought for a moment. “It is. No sweat.” He smiled as he started up the Falcon. Mallen got out and opened the door to the Land Cruiser. “See you at eight, vato,” Gato said, and with that he gunned the engine and roared away down the street.

_____

Mallen didn’t go home. He was too anxious. Too edgy. He stayed in the city, feeling he needed the anonymity. Drove over to Polk Street and parked a couple blocks north of California. Hit a drug store and patched up his hand. Wasn’t that bad, but it sure stung when he applied the antiseptic. Who knew where Carpy’s knife had been. Then he went and ate at Victor’s. The grapevines and old wine bottles hanging from the ceiling leant him a strange sense of safety. A bottle of Chianti and plate of thick pasta with hearty pesto later, he felt ready for the coming maneuvers. Spent the rest of his time strolling up and down Polk, looking in store windows, checking to see if he was being followed. Couldn’t help it: A part of him wished again he’d stayed a junkie. Life was sure the fuck more simple, and that was a fact. Shoot, cop some more H, shoot again. Rinse and repeat. Easy.

At the cigarette shop on the corner of California and Polk, he bought another pack of cigarettes, along with a small-bladed knife that whipped open when you pushed a side button.

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