by J. R. Rain
At least one, I thought.
Would be an interesting, if not macabre, poll.
It was after hours. The cemetery was black and empty. Through the low wrought-iron fence, I could see the gentle sweep of the landscape, which was populated with black oak trees. There were no tombstones in this cemetery; rather, brass nameplates embedded in the grass. Those who cared did not allow the grass to overgrow the nameplate. I was one of those who cared.
I wondered if ghosts haunted the cemetery. If so, I wondered how many were now watching the Mustang and the drunken man inside and if they remembered what it was like to get drunk. I wondered if I really believed in ghosts.
On this night, with the full moon shining overhead, with too much alcohol coursing through my veins, it was easy to believe in ghosts.
I drank from a warm can of beer nestled between my legs. The beer tasted horrible.
The glass inside my car was steaming over. My leather seats were cold to the touch. I was sweating, could feel it collecting above my brow. Soon it would roll down my cheeks and nose. I always sweat when I drink too much. Not sure why. Maybe it excites me.
I finished the beer and crumpled it in my hand. I picked up the bouquet of flowers from the seat next to me and stepped out of the Mustang. The cool night air felt heavenly against my hot skin. A soft breeze swept through the graveyard, rustling the branches of the many trees. That is, I hoped it was a breeze, and not some poor lost soul.
Using one hand to pivot, I jumped the low fence, kicking my legs up and over.
On the other side, I staggered down the grassy slope, crossing over the final resting places of the dead, mumbling drunken apologies, until I stopped in front of a familiar nameplate near a small oak tree.
I stared down in numbed silence.
The brass plate glistened in the residual city light.
Today was November 2nd, my mother’s birthday.
There were no flowers on her grave, of course, for she had no family and no friends, other than me. I set the bouquet across the grave, in the area of her chest and her clasped hands
I closed my eyes and saw my mother as I always remembered her: beautiful and radiant, smiling warmly down at me, alive and healthy. I imagined her taking the flowers from me and kissing me on the cheek, then holding me at arm’s length, cocking her head.
“Thank you, Jimmy, they’re beautiful.”
I opened my eyes. The cemetery was empty. The grass looked black, and my mother’s nameplate was hidden now in a blur of tears. She was down there somewhere, beneath my feet. The woman who loved me with all her heart.
“Happy birthday, ma.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Parents of the deceased are always difficult calls, and this one was no different. Over the phone, I explained to Edna Clarke, Willie’s mother, who I was. She was confused at first, but eventually agreed to meet with me.
An hour later, I parked in front of a stylish Tudor revival in the Fullerton Hills. I turned my wheels into the curb, as any good car owner should.
At the door, I knocked firmly. As I waited, I admired the door. Cut glass, brass trim, heavy oak. Hell, my knuckles were still smarting from the firm knock.
Footsteps creaked. A murky figure appeared in the opaque glass. The deadbolt clicked, and the door swung open. An elderly woman smiled at me. She was wearing reading glasses. Behind the narrow glasses, her amplified eyes were red. I smiled back. She asked if I was Jim Knighthorse and I said the one and only. She invited me in, and in I went.
I followed her into a living room bigger than my apartment, and we sat across from each other on red leather sofas. A mohair throw rug connected the two couches. Behind me was a black Steinway piano.
“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Knighthorse?”
“No thank you, ma’am. I just have a few questions.”
She nodded. Her eyes were dull. She didn’t gesture. She just sat there with her hands clasped in her considerable lap. Was probably a hell of a comfortable lap.
“First off, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I know it’s difficult. I’ve dealt, and am still dealing with, a family loss of my own.”
The dullness in her eyes faded, to be replaced by legitimate concern. “Who did you lose, dear?”
“My mother.”
Her eyes watered up. “I’m so sorry, dear.”
“You keep calling me dear,” I said. “And I am liable to cry.”
I don’t know why I said that. Perhaps because she reminded me of my own mother. Or perhaps she was a mother who had lost her only son, and I was a son who had lost his only mother. We were a good match.
“You can cry, Mr. Knighthorse. I won’t mind.”
“Someday,” I said. “I might take you up on that offer.” A very fat black cat walked into the living room. Along the way he rubbed up against anything he could, and finally rubbed up against me. Good choice. I scratched him heartily behind his ears. He seemed to enjoy it, if the purring was any indication. “I understand your son lived here with you, Ms. Clarke.”
“Yes.”
“Did he own any credit cards?”
“Yes, but they were in my name.”
“Have you received the latest credit card statement?”
She frowned a little and bit her lower lip. “No, not yet.”
“Can you do me a favor, Ms. Clarke, and call the credit card company and see what charges your son made prior to his death.”
She looked at me and sat for a moment, thinking. Then she got up and crossed the room and stepped through a doorway. She returned with a credit card and a cordless phone. She sat back down again and dialed the number on the back of the card. She waited, her round knees bouncing nervously. Next, Ms. Clarke punched in the credit card number.
“The last charge was at a Chevron station in Barstow,” she reported. “Thirty-eight dollars.”
“Enough for a full tank of gas,” I said. “What day was it?”
She clicked off the phone. “The last day I saw him alive.”
She was rubbing her upper arms with her hands. Tears were in her eyes. I got up from my couch and slid next to her and hugged her tightly. Her shoulders were soft but strong. She was all mother.
“But I don’t understand, Mr. Knighthorse.”
“Neither do I.”
“Did someone make sure he ran out of gas that day? Is that what you are implying?”
I waited a moment, breathed deeply. I filled my lungs with the soft perfumed scent of her.
“Yes,” I said, “that’s what I’m implying.”
“But the police-”
“The police are good, but they are overworked. It’s not their job to look for a murder where one doesn’t appear to exist. Makes for less paperwork that way.”
“But you-”
“I am not the police. And it is my job to look deeper into this. And since I run my own agency, I don’t believe in paperwork.”
I told her about the shootout in the desert, about how someone had wanted me dead as well. How I thought the attack on me was related to her son’s death. As I talked, she covered her mouth with her palm, and wept silently.
“I’m going to find answers for you,” I said, “I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-six
They were waiting for us on the practice field, laughing and joking, butting heads like young rams, stretching, generally relaxing and conserving their energy for the grueling practice that was sure to come.
I approached with the other coaches through a gate in the chain link fence. Earlier, I had been introduced to the rest of the staff, and now I was wearing a maroon polo shirt, polyester shorts and a whistle. The shirts and shorts were too small. I looked like a pro basketball player from the eighties, if basketball players had shoulders like a bull. But at least I had a whistle, and sometimes that’s all that matters.
As we approached, all eyes shifted to me, the new guy. The white new guy. The players were all wearing their generic practice jerseys, which made
distinguishing them from one another nearly impossible. Yet I knew Coach Samson knew them all by shape, size and probably smell.
The team was 1-4. One win and four losses. This might be Coach Samson’s first losing season in 27 years.
Unless, of course, I could do something about it.
The fall afternoon was bright-and hot. The kids were already sweating under their football pads. In heat like this, I did not miss the extra twenty pounds of equipment strapped to my back.
Coach Samson blew his whistle and the players fell in, forming seven remarkably straight rows.
I stood before the team with the other coaches. The faces behind the face masks were all black. I could feel their eyes on me. Sizing me up. Watching me, the Whitey. Probably wondering who the hell I was and why I was here.
They were too young to remember me.
And now they would never forget me.
Coach Samson stepped before them; his massive shadow fell across the practice field. Hell, one of the biggest shadows I’d ever seen. The others stood with their hands casually behind their backs, inspecting the integrity of the seven lines of young men.
As Coach Samson spoke, his deep voice boomed easily to the back of the columns, and no doubt to the apartments far behind the field. “The man you see before you is white, in case you haven’t noticed.” There were some chuckles. I smiled, too. “Despite this liability, he went on to become one of the biggest badasses I have ever had the pleasure to coach. Hell, he single-handedly filled that trophy case you see in our gymnasium.”
I tried not to blush.
“This man went on to play at UCLA, and if not for one hell of a disgusting injury to his leg he would probably still be in the pros.” He paused, his eyes sweeping his team. “So, can any of you tell me who this man is?”
Half the hands went up.
“Anderson.”
A voice spoke up from the middle of row three. “He be Knighthorse, coach. He hold every record here.”
Samson looked at me and grinned, but didn’t hold the grin too long, as that would be uncoachlike. “They know you, Knighthorse.”
“As well they should.”
Samson shook his head and seemed to hold back a smile of amusement. “He’s here because I asked him to help us. And, brothers, we need all the help we can get. Coach Knighthorse would you like to say a few words?”
The sun angled down into my face. I’m sure my cheeks had a pinkish hue to them. I never felt whiter in my life.
I inhaled, filling my chest. Screw the speech.
“Who wants to hit the Whitey?” I asked them. Hitting, as in tackling drills, or recklessly hurling one’s body into another. Reckless only if you didn’t know what you were doing. And most high school football players didn’t know what the hell they were doing.
Samson looked at me and raised an eyebrow. Some of the players laughed. One kid in the front said, “But you ain’t wearing any pads,” he said, then added, “coach.”
“I graduated from pads long ago.”
More laughter.
“I’ll hit the Whitey,” said a big kid from the back.
“Come on up,” I said.
He came up and stood before me, face sweating profusely behind the facemask. Skin so dark it looked purple. A big boy, he outweighed me by about a hundred pounds.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“I promise I won’t cry,” I said. “Now get down in your stance.”
He squatted down as sweat dribbled off the narrow bars of his facemask. He reached forward and knuckled the grass in front of him with his right hand, a classic three-point stance. Most of his weight was on his hand.
I assumed a similar position about seven feet in front of him, but my weight was more evenly distributed.
I nodded to Samson.
The coach blew his whistle.
And the kid burst forward, charging recklessly headfirst. With my arm and shoulder, and a lot of proper technique, I absorbed his considerable bulk and used my legs to thrust upward. He went careening off to the side. Landed hard, but unhurt.
Some gasps from the players. I think I had just brushed aside their best athlete. I helped him to his feet and patted him on his shoulder pads. He was embarrassed.
To help him save face, I said, “I got lucky.”
He grinned and shook his head in what might have been amazement and went back to his place in line. I looked out at the other players. Others were smiling, laughing. Maybe, just maybe, Whitey wasn’t so bad after all.
“It’s mostly about technique and heart, and some skill,” I said. “But you can make up for lack of skill with heart and hours in the weight room.” I surveyed them. “So who wants to hit like that?”
All hands shot up.
I grinned. “So who else wants to hit the Whitey?”
The hands stayed up. Despite himself, Coach Samson threw back his head and laughed.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Sanchez and I sat in my Mustang outside Harbor Junior High in Anaheim. A low vault of cobalt gray clouds hung low in the sky. We were eating donuts and drinking Diet Pepsis, the staples of surveillance. In a few minutes school would be out.
“You ever going to get a new car?” asked Sanchez, sipping his diet soda with one hand, and working on a glazed with the other.
“No.”
“How about some air conditioning?”
“How much is air conditioning?”
“Eight, nine hundred bucks.”
“No.”
We waited some more. I think I dozed. I felt an elbow in my rib, but might have dreamt it.
“You’re snoring.”
I sat up. “Not anymore.”
“Some detective you are.”
“You’re the one detecting,” I said. “I’m sleeping.”
“I bought the donuts, which means you’re on my time.”
“Fine,” I said. “You have a picture of the kid?”
Sanchez removed from his shirt pocket a folded up page torn from a school yearbook. He pointed to a goofy-looking kid with big ears. “He’s our man.”
“What’s his name?”
“Richard.”
We drank some more Diet Pepsi. Occasionally, a cold wind rocked the Mustang, whistling through the cracked windows.
Sanchez dozed.
Later, I elbowed him, pointing.
Richard had emerged from the school’s central hallway with a pack of kids. The pack boarded a waiting bus. We gave pursuit. Along the way, we watched Richard shove a red headed kid’s face into the bus’s rear window. Perhaps amplified by the glass, the freckles along his forehead were huge. Judging by the way that the redhead resigned himself to his fate, I surmised this was a daily routine.
“I really don’t like this kid Richard,” said Sanchez.
“Yup,” I said. “Then again, the other kid is red headed.”
“True.”
The bus dropped Richard off, along with a half dozen other kids. We followed Richard home from a safe distance. Along the way, we watched him turn over three trashcans and knock over a “For Sale By Owner” sign in front of a house.
Sanchez said, “I ought to bust his ass for vandalism.”
“You realize we’re trained investigators following a twelve-year-old kid.”
“Kid or no kid, he took part in a pre-meditated beating of a defenseless eleven-year-old. My defenseless eleven-year-old,” said Sanchez. “And I’m the only trained investigator here. You’re just a rent-a-dick.”
“Hey, we both fell asleep.”
The kid turned into an ugly white home, and promptly chased away an ugly orange cat off the wooden porch. He went inside. Sanchez pulled out a notebook and wrote something down.
“What are you doing?”
Sanchez checked his watch. “Noting the mark’s time of movements, assessing the daily routine.”
“Did you include abusing the redhead?”
Sanchez ignored me. When finished, he snapped the not
ebook shut. “Same time tomorrow, but this time we bring Jesus.”
“Good,” I said. “I could use some more ice cream.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
I was in the desert city of Barstow, otherwise known as the Great Las Vegas Rest Stop. I wasn’t resting. I was actually working, sitting in front of a microfilm machine on the third floor of Barstow Junior College library.
Earlier, a rather pretty college student with hair so blond it was almost white showed me how to operate the machine. I might have flubbed my first few attempts just to be shown the process all over again.
Now, after being thoroughly trained, I zipped through some of the oldest issues of the Barstow Times, currently scanning headlines in the 1880’s. Barstow is an old city, and its newspaper is one of the oldest in the region. Next to me, sweating profusely, was a regular Coke. I love regular Coke, and sneak it in when the mood strikes. After driving through 100-degree weather in a vehicle with no air conditioning, the mood struck and I ran with it.
The headlines were fairly mundane. Cattle sold. Drops in silver prices. Heat waves. Oddly, no mention of terrorists, nuclear fallout, Lotto results, or presidential scandals.
I was looking beyond headlines at what would be considered the filler articles. Most historians agree that Sylvester died no later than 1880. He was found in 1901. Like a good little detective, I was going to sift through every page of every newspaper published between January 1, 1880 and December 31, 1900.
I may need some more Coke.
Most of the news was indeed about Barstow, but there was the occasional mention of neighboring Rawhide and its wealthy family, the Barrons. From all accounts, the three Barron boys were hellraisers, always in some scrap or another, constantly bailed out by their wealthy family. Fights, shootouts, drunken misconduct, and wild parties. They were the Wild West’s equivalent to rock stars. Their raucous exploits often made the front page, along with pictures. I suspected I was seeing the birth of the paparazzi.
