by J. R. Rain
“Did you see him get shot?”
“No, I told you! I heard the shot. That’s when I ran. I figured I was next.”
“You ran all the way to Huntington Beach?”
“No. I ran to someone’s unoccupied RV and broke in. I holed up and called a friend from inside it. It was freaking hot in there. He picked me up and took me to West L.A.”
“Go on.”
“I stayed with my friend in Culver City for a few days, but he was scared. He dropped me off here.”
I nodded. “Lucky me. Who’s your friend?”
“An old drug connection. When my money was gone, he told me to leave.”
“Did you shoot up on my couch?”
She didn’t reply.
was at a place called Smokey’s.
It wasn’t much of a place, but it served beer, so it couldn’t have been that bad. I sat in the shadows at the short end of an L-shaped bar, my back to the wall. I think I might have been a cowboy in a past life. And a knight, of course. And, if I went back far enough, probably a barbarian, too. I could imagine myself on a horse, with a broadsword strapped to my back, wearing a loincloth, doing whatever the hell it was barbarians did. Probably kicking a lot of ass and drinking grog. Yeah, that sounded like me.
“You want another beer?” asked the bartender, who might have been Charles Manson’s twin, minus the crazy eyes.
“Do you think I’d make a good Viking?” I asked.
“You want another fucking beer or not?”
“Sure, matey,” I said. Yeah, I was definitely a pirate, too.
“You giving Stones a hard time?” said a voice coming toward me on my right, a voice that belonged to a young, blond guy with longish hair, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. That the black tee sported a white skull with red devil horns was a given. Although Michael weighed a buck-sixty, dripping wet, he was a tough little dude that might—might—give even me a problem.
“Stones?” I said.
“Yeah, Stones.” Michael sauntered up to me and clasped my hand and arm in a firm grip in a long-time-no-see bro shake. He smelled of hard liquor and cigarettes and probably weed, too. Mixed with all of that was a touch of body odor and cologne and bike grease. He smelled, basically, like a real man. He added, “I think the name refers to his balls, or lack thereof.”
“Lost them in the war?”
“What war, Knighthorse?”
“Seemed like the thing to say.”
Michael shook his head and raised his finger, a gesture that Stones saw instantly.
“Lost them to cancer, Knighthorse.”
“What was his name before?”
“Phil.”
I nodded, picked up the last of my first beer. “I like Stones better.”
“Most do.” Michael reached for his beer. If Stones knew we were talking about him, he didn’t show it. Michael drank deeply, then glanced at me. He was a young guy, no more than twenty-five. But he had seen much, done much, and talked about even less. What I knew about him was enough to impress even me. “So, what’s going on, Knighthorse?”
“Thanks for meeting me. I have a Devil’s Triangle question. I assume you’re still affiliated.”
Michael gave me a wry smile, one that suggested that I had said something very stupid. “I’m in for life, Knighthorse. We all are.”
“Can I see the tattoo again?” I asked.
“This ain’t show-and-tell, big guy.”
“I have my reasons.”
He leaned over and showed me the inside of his arm, revealing the tat I had seen a few years back, when I’d first met him on one of my investigations. An investigation, in which he had been witness to a murder he still wouldn’t speak about. The tat was, of course, the same one that graced Camry’s forearm. A triangle with a laughing devil in the middle. It always looked creepy as hell.
I told him about Camry. Steel Eye and J-Bird, too. As I did so, I bought Michael another beer.
“So, you think buying me two beers is enough to get me to spill my guts about my brothers?”
“I think it’s enough for you to help me out, in whatever capacity you deem appropriate.”
He thought about what he wanted to say. “There are lots of charters,” he said. “The Devil’s Triangle is wide and far-reaching. Hell, we even have charters in Europe and South America.”
“Everyone wants to be an outlaw.”
“We’re not outlaws, Knighthorse. At least, not officially.”
“Fine. And unofficially?”
“Unofficially, we make ends meet.”
“Drugs, prostitution, theft?”
“The list goes on and on. You don’t join the Devil’s Triangle because you’re a good guy wanting to do good things in the world.”
“Why did you come to the DT?” I asked, using the common reference to the Devil’s Triangle.
“Because I wanted to party. Because I wanted to be free. Because I wanted to give the finger to the establishment. Because I wanted to live hard, fight hard, party hard.”
“Are we partying hard now?” I asked.
“Not now, Knighthorse. But I can take you to one of our parties. Hell, you just might fit in.”
“Maybe another time.”
“We’re always around, Knighthorse. Always ready to party.”
“Does the partying begin after you guys get off work, and end at a sensible hour?”
Michael, with his steel-blue eyes, broken nose, a scar over his right eye, and chipped front tooth, looked at me briefly, then threw back his head. “Never, Knighthorse. Just hearing those words…work and sensible… Damn, that sends a shiver.”
“Nothing wrong with an honest day’s work.”
“And nothing wrong with living free, Jim.”
“Freedom is relative,” I said. “You’ve been to jail three times.”
“Never said there wasn’t a price to pay for life lived on the fringe.”
“I’m leaning toward that we might have different outlooks on life.”
“Maybe not so different, Knighthorse. You work as a private eye. For yourself. You take the jobs as they come to you, work your own hours, when you want to.”
“I work where the job takes me. Like here.”
He laughed again. “This isn’t work, Knighthorse. This is living, bro.”
“Kind of feels like work.”
He laughed again and slapped me on the shoulder as he stood. “So what, exactly, do you want from me, Jim?”
“I want to talk to Steel Eye. I want to know about the guy he killed.”
He looked at me long and hard with those steely eyes. He might have been smaller than me, but he oozed toughness. I oozed toughness, too, but I didn’t think Michael cared. Instead, he seemed to be weighing how much of a friend I was compared to the amount of shit he might find himself in by helping out.
Finally, he nodded. “I’ll see what I can do, Jim.” He patted me on the shoulder and left me with the bill.
Yeah, it definitely felt like work.
t was late and we were both in bed, but not together. I hate when that happens. Instead, Cindy and I were on the phone.
“Did you say her name was Camry?”
“I did, yes.”
“I’ve owned two Camrys,” said Cindy.
“Nothing to be proud of.”
“They were good cars.”
“Still nothing to be proud of.”
“And she’s sleeping in your living room?”
“She is, yes.”
“And she paid your standard retainer fee?”
“She did not.”
“Then what, exactly, did she pay?”
“Nothing.”
“And you took her case?”
“I did, yes.”
“But she broke into your office.”
“She did, yes.”
“And she is an admitted thief and drug addict?”
“Yes and yes.”
“And you’re still going to help her?”
“
Thieves and drug addicts need help, too. Now, you want to start the phone sex or shall I?”
She ignored me. “Is she cute?”
“Is that relevant?”
“It is, if she’s sleeping down the hall and I’m sleeping over here.”
“Both good points.”
“Well?”
“She is not you,” I said. “So, therefore, she is not my type.”
“But she is pretty?”
“In a non-standard way.”
“She looks strung out, you mean?” said Cindy.
“She does, yes. You have nothing to worry about. As they say, I only have eyes for you.”
“You’re helping her because she’s a woman in need.”
“A human being in need,” I corrected.
“If she were a man, would you offer the same services?”
“I would.”
“Fine. So who, exactly, is after Camry?”
“Her ex.”
“Her ex who happens to be the leader of a biker gang.”
“That about sums it up.” I told her the gang’s name.
“I’ve heard of this gang.”
“Most have.”
“Aren’t they, like, killers?”
“Some of them.”
“And they sell drugs?”
“Biker gangs are known to be in the drug-supplying business.”
“And have turf wars with other biker gangs.”
“That’s the rumor.”
“Jim, I don’t like this.”
“She likes it even less.”
“But she got herself into it.”
“And I’m going to get her out of it.”
“Jim, these guys are killers. They’re like modern-day outlaws.”
I grinned. “Maybe.”
Through my closed door, I could hear the TV going. Camry was watching the local news. On the bed next to me, Junior slept fitfully. He didn’t like having a stranger in the house. He especially didn’t like Camry, and spent most of his time growling at her deep in his throat. He’s cute like that.
Cindy went on, “There are lots of them, and only one of you.”
“Sometimes, I’m enough.”
“What if you’re not?”
“If I’m not enough—and that’s a big if—then, I’ve got friends. Friends in low places.”
“Jim, this isn’t funny.”
“Which is why you should be all the more impressed that I can find the humor in it.”
“There’s something fishy about all this.”
“Boy, you scholars use fancy words.”
I could literally hear her drumming her fingers through the phone. After a moment, she said, “That’s asking a lot of your friends.”
“I’ve got good friends.”
“This doesn’t include your father.”
“No.”
“But will you call on him, too?”
“If I have to.”
“Your father will help you.”
“My father is hit or miss. He will help me if he thinks it will benefit him.”
“You’re too trusting, Jim.” I could almost see her shaking her head in disapproval.
“It’s a calculated trust.”
Cindy might have laughed, but it was hard to tell over the phone. She might have just as easily rolled her eyes. Which was hard to tell over the phone, too. Once we’d tried using Skype. I didn’t like it. My head, in the computer screen, looked far too big and squarish.
“I’m worried about you, Jim.”
“Would it help if I told you that I’m a big boy?”
“No.”
“How about a really big boy?”
“Jim, this is serious.”
“What if I asked you to trust me?”
“I trust you,” said Cindy. “It’s the biker gang that I don’t trust. So, why did she leave it?”
“She saw something she shouldn’t have seen.”
“Oh God. Please don’t tell me she saw someone get killed.”
“She saw someone get killed. Or rather, heard it.”
“Now, I really don’t like this.”
We’d had this talk before. Not too long ago, Cindy had thought she couldn’t handle the stress of dating me. We had taken some time off to think about it. We came back to each other stronger than ever, but the worry was still there. I didn’t blame her. I would be worried for me, too, if I wasn’t me. Mostly, I worry for the other guys. And even then, I rarely do. Maybe I’m more like my father than I thought.
“So, what kind of help does she need?”
“For now, just a place to stay. I happen to offer the safest place in town.”
Cindy laughed, a rich sound coming through the phone. “You drive me crazy, Jim.”
“But you love me.”
“Dammit, I do. More than ever.”
Although we were quiet, I knew her mind wasn’t. And while I listened to Jimmy Fallon coming from the living room TV, some homeless man’s yelling on the street, and my dog’s half-snores, said mind had to be racing a mile a minute.
Finally, she said, “So how long will you protect her?”
“Until she doesn’t need protecting.”
“How will you know that?”
“I’ll know.”
“Oh God. Please tell me you’re not planning on taking down a whole biker gang.”
“Maybe not the whole gang,” I said.
“Just tell me you’ll be careful.”
“Careful is my middle name.”
“It couldn’t be further from your middle name.”
t was the next morning when I got the call.
“I thought all bikers slept in until noon,” I said. I was in my office. So was Camry. She was on the couch, texting furiously, her thumbs a blur, the tip of her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth. I rarely text, and when I do, it’s never furiously. It’s methodical and slow, since I tend to almost always hit the wrong key. Cell phones weren’t made for big men with gorilla fingers.
“Only the slackers,” said Michael on the other end. “The rest of us are up early, kicking ass and drinking beer, not necessarily in that order.”
“You paint a beautiful picture,” I said. “What do you have?”
Michael had come through. Turned out Steel Eye hadn’t killed J-Bird. Instead, the biker leader had royally kicked the shit out of J-Bird, and sent him packing. Word on the street was that J-Bird had a concussion and a mouthful of broken teeth and, more than likely, a broken jaw.
“And the gunshot?” I asked.
“Just to scare him.”
“He wasn’t even shot?”
“No.”
“Just got the shit kicked out of him?” I said.
“He messed around. Deserved what he got.”
I nodded on my end. “So we’re not dealing with a homicide?”
“Nope.”
I glanced at Camry. She was still texting. I doubted she was listening.
“One other thing, Knighthorse.”
I waited.
“He’s looking for Camry.”
“I imagine he is.”
“And from what I hear, he’s gonna do a lot more than slap her around for skipping out on him.”
“How much more?”
“With Steel Eye, you never know. He’s unpredictable. It’s why I’m not affiliated with that charter anymore. I ride with a different band of brothers. But he’s going to hurt her, and bad.”
“Remind her who’s boss and all that.”
“Something like that. Look, Knighthorse, this isn’t going to end well for her… or you.”
“What about him?” I asked.
“Someday it will end bad for him, too.”
I thought about that as we hung up.
Then I made some calls.
t didn’t take me long to find the Pit. I am, after all, an ace detective. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
The locals all knew of it, although few were forthcoming about
its location. Luckily, I have a winning smile and a way with words. Not to mention, you get the locals drunk enough, they’ll spill their guts. So, after a drinking binge with two wannabe bikers in a town called Cathedral City, which sounded more attractive than it was, I was on my way.
After a few trial and errors, I eventually found myself on an unmarked road in the middle of nowhere. The sun was setting in my rearview mirror, and a dust cloud billowed behind my van. Yes, I drive a van. Or, as some have been known to call it, the Mystery Machine. And by some, I meant me.
I heard the music before I saw them. Then I saw the glow highlighting a circular rock formation. Kind of like Stonehenge for stoners. Shadows moved around the rocks. Then again, maybe I stumbled upon an Illuminati initiation.
Or not, I thought, when I saw all the Harleys lined up. Just a bunch of bikers breaking the rules and doing what they do best… party and piss.
I parked behind a boulder, between two fatboys that were dusty and shining all at once. Dichotomy at its best. Now I heard them. Talking loudly. Arguing. Laughing. Snoring. Beer cans cracking open. Beer bottles being broken. The sound of fucking in the nearby bushes. Or lovemaking. Yes, I’m ever the romantic.
I knew what Steel Eye looked like, thanks to Camry, and I knew where he usually sat, also thanks to Camry.
So I took out my Walther and stepped out into the evening air suffused with campfire smoke, weed, tobacco, exhaust, weed, grease, desert sage, dust, weed, and Ralph Lauren.
The Ralph Lauren might have been me, a birthday gift from Cindy. I figure if you’re going to kick some ass, might as well smell good doing it.
I paused briefly just outside the firelight. I took a deep breath and said a silent prayer, then stepped around a boulder and held out my gun.
here were about twenty of them. And only one of me.
I liked my odds.
Actually, I didn’t. But I also liked to maintain a sense of positive expectation, even while a half-dozen faces turned simultaneously toward me, squinting through the smoke.
One of them rose straight up from a log. I briefly wondered where they had gotten a log in the desert while I stiff-armed the guy, sending him spinning and stumbling back over the same log that may or may not have been indigenous to the region.
Although most eyes were on me, I still hadn’t attracted the attention of the man I wanted most, a man lounging in a wicker chair near the big fire and chatting up a young female, herself sitting on a flat piece of driftwood. Misplaced logs and driftwood? Someone in this group had to be a closet beachcomber.
