Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) Read Online Free PDF

computers, monitors, TV sets, and miscellaneous pieces of electronic gear. There was an open pack of condoms by the dusty futon.
    "Jerry, what were you going to ask me?"
    "Aw, I pulled a dirty letter out of an old Penthouse magazine. I was going to call you up and read it. Man, you sounded desperate. I felt guilty for helping Loner drag you back up here."
    I snorted. "Maybe you should."
    "I do." He whined for effect. "Fact is I can't hardly sleep at night. I figured I would try to spark things up for the audience. You were really awful."
    "Jerry," I said, "don't start this early."
    "But you're so cute when you're mad."
    I went stern. "Listen, can I tell you something personal? I mean, we've become such good friends and all. So I can kind of step out of line and speak my mind to you, right?" I took a sip, waiting.
    He flushed a bit. The increased blood flow darkened his burned cheek and forehead. "I . . . guess so."
    "Jerry, I know this will come as a shock to you, so you'd better sit down."
    The kid sat back, eyes wide. "Go ahead."
    "Jerry, this is Nevada, not South Central. Put the fucking hat on forward and people will think it looks fine."
    He snorted in relief. "Give me my coffee back."
    "Not a chance."
    "Should I tell you what's in it?"
    "No. Listen, are you going to the picnic on Monday?"
    His eyebrows did a jig. "Probably." He opened a drawer and pulled out a well-worn video cassette. "Hey, I got something to show you." Jerry popped the tape into the mouth of a small television set with a built-in VCR. He leaned back, swung his legs up, and slapped his booted feet on the empty metal desk.
    "Don't tell me."
    "I've got satellite. This ran on some piss-ant cable channel last night. You'll probably get a two buck residual check next spring."
    I sipped coffee. A younger me addressed the camera from somewhere along a dilapidated Sepulveda Boulevard in Panorama City, California. This Mick Callahan was wearing a cheap blue suit and sported a fake moustache. He was wearing a hidden camera and wired for sound. He walked into a crowded office of clinical psychiatry. The program switched to a tape of my experience as I filled out forms and suffered through the charade of an intake session where a mental health history was taken.
    Jerry broke the spell. "This was maybe five years ago, right?"
    "Six," I said. It felt like fifty.
    "And you got an Emmy."
    "A nomination."
    We watched in silence. Within a few minutes I had coerced the portly, balding psychiatrist into suggesting an unwarranted prescription for potentially addicting anxiety medication. He also offered to file an insurance claim padded with a kickback. I pretended to agree to the terms, but then opened the office door and invited my camera crew in. And then I absolutely ripped the psychiatrist apart.
    The man perspired heavily and tried to hide his features, but I produced copies of previously forged insurance documents; files we would now be turning over to the police. The papers were guaranteed to cost the man his license. The segment was theatrical, brisk, and brutal; dynamite television journalism. It was also ruthless and insensitive. Jerry leaned over and stopped the tape.
    "That must be amazing."
    "What, humiliating people?"
    "Figuring out the scam, following up on leads, asking questions, and finally busting the bad guys like that. I envy you, man."
    "Those were the days," I said, looking out the window. Watching the clip had made me feel empty and sad.
    Jerry swung his feet back up on the desk. "You know something," he said, "some day I plan to get the hell out of here and make a name for myself. I'm going to be just like you, man, a celebrity. You believe me?"
    I sipped some coffee, tore a few bits of Styrofoam away from the upper lip of the cup. "Sure, I believe you," I said. "If you can dream it, you can do it." I launched the crumpled cup through the air and into the trash basket. "Check it out," I said, "nothing but net."
    "If you can dream it, you can do it.