by H. T. Night
“Yeah,” she said. “I do. Call me an idiot, but I do.”
“Idiot,” I said. “Besides, I’m different than those other ghosts.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“I’m a ghost on a mission.”
“Could that sound more corny?” she said.
“Maybe after a few more drinks,” I said.
“So how’s the mission coming along?” she asked. We had been over this before, perhaps dozens of times.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s not like I’m getting a lot of feedback from anyone—or anything.”
“And when will you be done with your mission?” she asked.
“I don’t know that either.”
“And what, exactly, is your mission?” As she spoke, she peered into the empty glass with one eye.
“To save my soul.”
“Oh, yeah, that. And you’re sure it’s not too late to save your soul? I mean, you are dead after all.”
“It’s never too late,” I said.
“And you know that how?” she asked.
“Because I’m not in hell yet.”
“You’re haunting an old apartment building in Los Angeles,” she said. “Sounds a bit like hell to me.”
“But I can see my wife and daughter whenever I want,” I countered. “Can’t be that bad.”
“Your wife has re-married,” said Pauline. “And weren’t you two separated at the time of your death?”
We had been, but the details of our separation were lost to me. We had financial problems I seemed to recall, which had led to many arguments. What we had argued about was anyone’s guess. But the arguments had been heated and impassioned and in the end I had moved out—but not very far. To stay close to my daughter, I had rented an apartment in the same building.
“Yes, we had been separated,” I said. “And thank you for reminding me of that.”
“Just keeping it real,” said Pauline indifferently. “Besides, there is no hell.”
“How do you know?”
“I talk to the dead, remember? And not just ghosts,” she added. “But those who have passed on.”
“Passed on to heaven?” I asked.
“Passed on to something,” she said. “Neither heaven nor hell. A spirit world—and it’s waiting for you.”
I didn’t believe that. I believed in heaven and hell, and I was certain, as of this moment, that I was going to hell. “Well, it can keep on waiting. I’m not ready to pass on.”
“Obviously.”
“I need to work some things out,” I said.
“And then what?” she asked.
“And then I will accept my fate.”
She nodded. “But for now you hope to change your fate.”
“Yes.”
She looked at me with bloodshot eyes. Sitting on the couch, she had tucked her bare feet under her. Now her painted red toes peaked out like frightened little mice.
“Nice imagery,” she said, wiggling her toes. “So you still can’t remember why you are going to hell?”
“No,” I said.
“But it was something bad.”
“Very bad,” I said.
“Bad enough to burn forever?” she asked.
“Somebody died, I think.”
“So you’ve said, but you still don’t remember who or why.”
I shook my head. “No, but it happened a long, long time ago.”
“And with your death,” she added, “it was the first of your memories to disappear.”
She was right. My memories were disappearing at an alarming rate. The earlier memories of my life were mostly long gone. “Yeah, something like that,” I said.
“And now you’re afraid to pass on because you think you are going to hell, even though you can’t remember why you are going to hell.”
“It’s a hell of a conundrum,” I said.
She nodded, then got up, padded into the adjoining kitchen, and poured herself another drink. When she came back and sat, some of her drink splashed over the rim of her glass.
“Don’t say a word,” she cautioned me.
I laughed and drifted over to the big bay window and looked out over Los Angeles, which glittered and pulsed five stories below. At this hour, Los Feliz Boulevard was a parking lot dotted with red brake lights as far as the eye could see. I had heard once that it was one of the busiest streets in the world. Standing here now, I believed it.
After a while, Pauline came over and stood next to me. Actually, some of her was standing inside me. She shivered with the sensation, apologized, and stepped back. Ghostly etiquette.
I thought of my sweet music teacher. According to the paper, she had been just days away from her sixtieth wedding anniversary. Sixtieth.
Anger welled up within me. As it did so, a rare warmth spread through me. Mostly my days were filled with bone-chilling cold, minus the bones. But whenever strong emotion was involved, such as anger, I became flush with energy. And when that happened—
“Hey,” said Pauline. “Someone’s making a rare appearance.”
And so I was. So much so that I could actually see myself reflecting in the big, sliding glass door. Next to me was Pauline, looking beautiful, but drunk. Bloody wounds covered my body; in particular, my forehead, neck and chest.
I didn’t get to see myself often, and, despite my anger, I took advantage of this rare opportunity. Pale and ethereal, I was just a vague suggestion of what I had once been—and I was growing vaguer as the years pressed on. There was stubble on my jaw, and my dark hair was indeed askew. Eternal bed head.
Great.
“But you’re still a cutie,” said Pauline, giggling, now almost entirely drunk.
And with those words and that infectious giggle, my anger abated and I started fading away again.
“Tell me about your murdered friend,” said Pauline.
“She wasn’t necessarily a friend.”
She explored my mind a bit more. “My apologies. Your piano teacher from grade school.”
“Yes.”
“Why would someone kill her?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
She paused, then nodded knowingly. “I see you intend to find out.”
“Yes.”
“And perhaps save your soul in the process?”
“That’s the plan,” I said. “For now.”
“You do realize you have limits to where you can go and what you can do, right?”
I shrugged. “Minor technicalities.”
Also available at your favorite ebookseller:
Dark Horse
Jim Knighthorse #1
by
J.R. Rain
(read on for a sample)
1.
Charles Brown, the defense attorney, was a small man with a round head. He was wearing a brown and orange zigzagged power tie. I secretly wondered if he went by Charlie as a kid and had a dog named Snoopy and a crush on the little red-headed girl.
We were sitting in my office on a warm spring day. Charlie was here to give me a job if I wanted it, and I wanted it. I hadn’t worked in two weeks and was beginning to like it, which made me nervous.
“I think the kid’s innocent,” he was saying.
“Of course you do, Charlie. You’re a defense attorney. You would find cause to think Jack the Ripper was simply a misunderstood artist before his time.”
He looked at me with what was supposed to be a stern face.
“The name’s Charles,” he said.
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Glad that’s cleared up.”
“I heard you could be difficult,” he said. “Is this you being difficult? If so, then I’m disappointed.”
I smiled. “Maybe you have me confused with my father.”
Charlie sat back in my client chair and smiled. His domed head was perfectly buffed and polished, cleanly reflecting the halogen lighting above. His skin appeared wet and viscous, as if his sweat glands were read
y to spring into action at a moment’s notice.
“Your father has quite a reputation in L.A. I gave his office a call before coming here. Of course, he’s quite busy and could not take on an extra case.”
“So you settled on the next best thing.”
“If you want to call it that,” he said. “I’ve heard that you’ve performed adequately with similar cases, and so I’ve decided to give you a shot, although my expectations are not very high, and I have another P.I. waiting in the wings.”
“How reassuring,” I said.
“Yeah, well, he’s established. You’re not.”
“But can he pick up a blind side blitz?”
Charlie smiled and splayed his stubby fingers flat on my desk and looked around my office, which was adorned with newspaper clippings and photographs of yours truly. Most of the photographs depict me in a Bruin uniform, sporting the number 45. In most I’m carrying the football, and in others I’m blowing open the hole for the tailback. Or at least I like to think I’m blowing open the hole. The newspapers are yellowing now, taped or tacked to the wood paneling. Maybe someday I’ll take them down. But not yet.
“You beat SC a few years back. I can never forgive you for that. Two touchdowns in the fourth quarter alone.”
“Three,” I said. “But who’s counting?”
He rubbed his chin. “Destroyed your leg, if I recall, in the last game of the season. Broken in seven different places.”
“Nine, but who’s counting?”
“Must have been hard to deal with. You were on your way to the pros. Would have made a hell of a fullback.”
That had been hard to deal with, and I didn’t feel like talking about it now to Charlie Brown. “Why do you believe in your client’s innocence?” I asked.
He looked at me. “I see. You don’t want to talk about it. Sorry I brought it up.” He crossed his legs. He didn’t seem sorry at all. He looked smugly down at his shoes, which had polish on the polish. “Because I believe Derrick’s story. I believe he loved his girlfriend and would never kill her.”
“People have been killed for love before. Nothing new.”
On my computer screen before me I had brought up an article from the Orange County Register. The article showed a black teen being led away into a police car. He was looking down, his head partially covered by his jacket. He was being led away from a local high school. A very upscale high school, if I recalled. The story was dated three weeks ago, and I recalled reading it back then.
I tapped the computer monitor. “The police say there’s some indication that his girlfriend was seeing someone else, and that jealousy might have been a factor.”
“Yes,” said the attorney. “And we think this someone else framed our client.”
“I take it you want me to find this man.”
“Or person.”
“Ah, equality,” I said.
“We want you to find evidence of our client’s innocence, whether or not you find the true murderer.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“We feel race might be a factor here. He was the only black student in school, and in the neighborhood.”
“I believe the preferred term is African-American.”
“I’m aware of public sentiment in this regards. I don’t need you to lecture me.”
“Just trying to live up to my difficult name.”
“Yeah, well, cool it,” he said. “Now, no one’s talking at the school. My client says he was working out late in the school gym, yet no one saw him, not even the janitors.”
“Then maybe he wasn’t there.”
“He was there,” said Charlie simply, as if his word was enough. “So do you want the job?”
“Sure.”
We discussed a retainer fee and then he wrote me a check. When he left, waddling out of the office, I could almost hear Schroeder playing on his little piano in the background.
2.
“He was found with the murder weapon,” said Detective Hanson. “It was in the backseat of his car. That’s damning evidence.”
“That,” I said, “and he’s black.”
“And he’s black,” said Hanson.
“In an all white school,” I said.
“Yep.”
“Were his prints on the knife?”
“No.”
We were sitting in an outdoor café facing the beach. It was spring, and in southern California that’s as good as summer. Many underdressed women were roller-blading, jogging or walking their dogs on the narrow beach path. There were also some men, all finely chiseled, but they were not as interesting.
Detective Hanson was a big man, but not as big as me. He had neat brown hair parted down the middle. His thick mustache screamed cop. He wore slacks and a white shirt. He was sweating through his shirt. I was dressed in khaki shorts, a surfing T-shirt and white Vans. Coupled with my amazing tan and disarming smile, I was surprised I wasn’t more often confused with Jimmy Buffet. If Jimmy Buffet stood six foot four and weighed two hundred and twenty.
“You guys have anything else on the kid?” I asked.
“You know I can’t divulge that. Trial hasn’t even started. The info about the knife made it to the press long ago, so that’s a freebie for you. I can tell you this: the body was found at one a.m., although the ME places the time of death around seven p.m. the previous night.”
“Who found the body?”
“A neighbor.”
“Where were the victim’s parents?”
“Dinner and dancing. It was a Friday night.”
“Of course,” I said. “Who doesn’t go out and dance on a Friday night?”
“I don’t,” said Hanson.
“Me neither,” I said. “Does Derrick have an alibi?”
“This will cost you a tunacoda.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
I called the waitress over and put in our lunch orders.
“No alibi,” Hanson said when she had left, “but....” He let his voice trail off.
“But you believe the kid?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. He seems like a good kid. Says he was working out at the school gym at the time.”
“Schools have janitors, staff, students.”
“Yeah, well, it was late and no one saw him.”
“Or no one chose to see him.”
Hanson shrugged.
Our food arrived. A tunacoda for the detective. A half pound burger for me, with grilled onions and cheese, and a milkshake.
“You trying to commit suicide?” he asked.
“I’m bulking up,” I said.
“This is how you bulk up? Eating crap?”
“Only way I know how.”
“Why?”
“Thinking of trying out for San Diego,” I said.
“The Chargers?”
“Yeah.”
“What about your leg?”
“The leg’s going to be a problem.”
He thought about that, working his way through his tuna and avocado sandwich. He took a sip from his Coke.
“You wanna bash heads with other men and snap each other in the shower with jock straps, go right ahead.”
“It’s not as glamorous as that.”
“Suicide, I say. What’s your dad think?”
“He doesn’t know. You’re the first person I’ve told.”
“I’m honored.”
“You should be.”
“What’s Cindy going to say?”
I sipped my milkshake. “She won’t like it, but she will support me. She happens to think very highly of me and my decisions.”
He snorted and finished his sandwich, grabbed his Styrofoam cup.
“I can’t believe I was bribed with a shitty tuna sandwich and a Coke.”
“A simple man with simple needs.”
“I should resent that remark, if it wasn’t so true.” He stood. “I gotta run. Good luck with the kid, but I think it’s a lost cause. Kid even has a record.”
<
br /> “What kind?”
“Vandalism, mostly. He’s a goner. Hear they’re gonna try him as an adult.”
Detective Hanson left with his Styrofoam cup. I noticed he wasn’t wearing socks. Even cops in Huntington Beach are cool.
3.
Cindy Darwin is an anthropology professor at UCI. Her expertise is in the anthropology of religion, which, she tells me, is an important aspect of anthropology. And, yes, she can trace her lineage back to Charles Darwin, which makes her a sort of icon in her field. She knows more things about anthropology than she probably should, and too few things about the real world. Maybe that’s why she keeps me around.
It was late and we were walking hand-in-hand along the Huntington Pier. From here we could see the lights of Catalina Island, where the reclusive sorts live and travel via ferry and plane. To the north, in the far distance, we could see Long Beach glittering away. The air was cool and windy and we were dressed in light jackets and jeans. Her jeans were much snugger and more form-fitting than mine. As they should be.
“I’m thinking of giving San Diego a call,” I said.
“Who’s in San Diego?” she asked. She had a slightly higher pitched voice than most women. I found it endlessly sexy. She said her voice made it easier to holler across an assembly hall. Gave it more range, or something.
I was silent. She put two and two together. She let go of my hand.
“They call you again?” she asked. “The Rams, right?”
“The Chargers. Christ, Cindy, your own brother plays on the team.”
“I think it’s all sort of silly. Football, I mean. And all those silly mascots, I just don’t get it.”
“The mascots help us boys tell the teams apart,” I said. “And, no, they didn’t call. But I’m thinking about their last offer.”
“Honey, that was two years ago.”
She was right. I turned them down two years ago. My leg hadn’t felt strong enough.
“The leg’s better now,” I said.
“Bullshit. You still limp.”
“Not as much. And when I workout, I feel the strength again.”
“But you still have metal pins it.”
