Jim Knighthorse Series: First Three Books

by J. R. Rain

  “But you didn’t miss. You shot my earlobe. Get it straight.”

  “I heard you would be a smart ass.”

  “Sometimes I am a smart ass. Now I’m just pissed. You shot me.”

  “We meet again and I kill you.”

  “You shot me,” I said. “We meet again and I owe you one.”

  He grinned and proceeded to shoot out five or six framed pictures behind me. I didn’t move. The cacophony of tinkling glass and resounding gunshots filled my head and office.

  He pointed the gun at my forehead and said, “Bang, fuck nut.”

  He backed out of my office and shut the door.

  And I went back to my playbook. My ears were ringing and my earlobe stung.

  The fuck nut.

  Chapter Seventeen

  On the way home from the office I stopped by the local liquor store and bought a bottle of Scotch and some Oreos. The Scotch was for getting drunk, and the Oreos were for gaining weight. At two-hundred and ten pounds I was still too small for an NFL fullback.

  Cindy was away tonight at UC Santa Barbara’s School of Anthropology giving a guest lecture on what it means to be human.

  Hell, he thought, I could have saved everyone a trip out to Santa Barbara. Being human meant walking into any liquor store from here to Nantucket and buying a bottle of Scotch and a bag of Oreos. Let’s see the chimps pull that one off.

  Cindy Darwin was a favorite on the guest lecture circuit. Any anthropology department worth their salt wanted Cindy Darwin’s ruminations on the subject of evolution. Really, she was their messiah, their prophet and savior.

  She had wanted me to come with her up the coast, but I had declined, stating there were some leads I needed to follow.

  Which was bullshit, really. True I had made a few phone calls prior to leaving the office, but I could have done those on my cell. I wasn’t proud that I had fibbed to the love of my life. The only lead I needed to follow was my nose to the scotch and Oreos.

  Cindy did not know the extent of my drinking. And if it meant fibbing to keep it that way, then fine. I drank alone and in my apartment. I harmed no one but myself and my liver.

  I lived in a five story yellow stucco apartment building that sat on the edge of the Pacific Coast Highway, and overlooked Huntington State Beach. I parked in my allotted spot, narrowly missing the wooden pole that separated my spot from the car next to mine. And for training purposes only, I hauled my ass up five flights of stairs. The bag of Oreos and the bottle of scotch were heavy on my mind.

  Those, and the prick who took a pot shot at my earlobe.

  Inside my apartment, surrounded by shelves of paperback thrillers and my own rudimentary artwork, I tossed my keys and wallet next to the stove, grabbed my secret stash of cigarettes and pulled up a chair on my balcony.

  I had a wonderful view. And should probably be paying a lot more for this apartment, but the landlord was a Bruin fan and he appreciated my efforts to beat SC through the years. So he gave me a hell of a deal, and in return he often showed up at my apartment to drink and relive the glory days. I didn’t mind reliving the glory days. The glory days were all I had.

  Now I hoped to make new glory days with the Chargers.

  We’ll see.

  I opened the bag of Oreos and commenced my training, bulking up with one Oreo after another. I washed them down with swigs from the bottle of scotch, as a real man should.

  When I was tired of the Oreos, after about the thirtieth, I took out a cigarette and tried like hell to give myself lung cancer.

  I watched the ocean. Flat and black in the night. The lights of Catalina twinkled beyond a low haze. Further out the lights of a half dozen oil rigs blinked. And somewhere below the water was a cold world filled with life. The secret world, where sharks ate seals, where manta rays glided, where whales sang their beautiful songs.

  Sometimes I wanted to jump into that cold world and never emerge, especially after the destruction of my leg.

  That’s when the drinking began. Few knew about my drinking. I did it alone and I did it hard, and I did it until I could drink no more. Until I could forget what was stolen from me by one fluke play by a son-of-a-bitch who chop blocked me.

  My goddamn leg had been throbbing ever since Sanchez and I had been running sprints every morning for the past week. I was a step slower. I could feel it within me. Sluggish. Maybe too slow for the NFL.

  And I had a goddamn kid in jail for murder one. And he was innocent. Because if he was guilty the asshole with the slicked back gray hair would not have felt it necessary to pierce my ear with a 9mm.

  I had to stop drinking. I had to reclaim what was mine. And the smoking didn’t help, either.

  But on this night I continued to drink. And smoke. And eat the Oreos. Gluttony at its fucking worst.

  The lights continued to blink on the ocean.

  The night was slipping away with each swallow from the bottle and hit from the cigarette. I heard music and voices coming from Main Street below my apartment. Lots of laughter.

  I didn’t feel like laughing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was Sunday evening. Cindy and I were at my place. We were waiting for Restaurant Express to deliver our food. I don’t cook, unless you count cereal or PB&J’s. The last meal I cooked, an experimental spaghetti with too much of everything from my spice rack, was promptly emptied into the garbage disposal. We considered my cooking a failure and decided that I was more useful in other areas.

  We were sitting next to each other on my leather couch in my living room, with my blinds open to my patio. We had a good view of clear skies and open water. Bob Seger crooned in the background. Our knees touched. When our knees touched I usually became excited. I was excited now, and that was nothing new. Cindy had brought her orange Pomeranian named Ginger. Ginger was likely to pee on me when she got excited. Unfortunately she got excited every time she saw me. I have learned to make it a point for her to see me first outside.

  “So am I still useful in other areas?” I asked Cindy now.

  “Are you harkening back to what we have come to think of as The Great Spaghetti Debacle?”

  “Yes.”

  Cindy was dressed in jean shorts and a yellow tank top. Both showed off her naturally wonderful tan. She had a lot of Italian in her, which accounted for the coloring. Her brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her face was smooth and without make up. She didn’t need make up, anyway. But when she did...Lord help me.

  “Hmm. You have your purposes,” she said, sipping her glass of chardonnay.

  “Is one of those purposes my usefulness in the bedroom?”

  “I have uses for you in the bedroom.”

  “We have time before our dinner arrives.”

  She looked at her watch. “Should be here in ten minutes.”

  “Like I said, we have time.”

  She didn’t need much more encouragement than that. With Ginger on the pergo floor below, running laps around the bed, I served one of my useful purposes.

  Twice.

  * * *

  We were now on the balcony. The balcony was devoid of last night’s cigarette butts and Oreo crumbs. We were sharing a glass patio table, eating cheese tortellini and drinking chardonnay.

  “Does Sanchez have any idea who threatened you?” asked Cindy.

  “He doesn’t recognize him, but Sanchez works primarily in L.A. He’s going to ask his cop buddies around here.”

  “Who do you think this guy works for?” she asked.

  “I’m willing to bet for someone who doesn’t want me to find the true killer.”

  “So you think the boy’s innocent?”

  “Now more than ever.”

  “What do the police think?”

  “They think I’m a nuisance. Nothing new. They think this is an open and shut case and resent the fact that I’m poking around on their turf. In essence, calling them fools and liars and incompetent.”

  “Are you?”

  “In th
is case, yes.”

  “Will you call your father?”

  I felt my shoulders bunch with irritation, but let it slide. She was only trying to help.

  “No.”

  She patted my arm, soothing me. “Of course not. You don’t need him. You are your own man. I’m sorry if I offended. I just worry about you.”

  “I know.”

  We were quiet. Ginger was chasing a fly that was almost as big as her.

  “The man who came to your office, he was a hired killer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could see it in his eyes?”

  “He looked like a shark. Dead eyes.”

  “You sometimes get that look,” said Cindy, pushing her plate away. She had eaten most of it, but had left exactly three tortellinis. I was still hopeful they would go forgotten. But the woman had a bottomless stomach, to my chagrin.

  “You mean in the bedroom when my eyes roll up during the final throes of passion.”

  “Final throes of passion?”

  “Means before I climax.”

  “Thank you for that clarification. No, I’m referring to the bar fight in Matzalan. I thought you were going to kill the guy. But you emerged from that look, sort of came back to your senses. I always considered that man lucky to be alive, lucky that you found yourself before you killed him.”

  I said nothing. I remembered that night. A barroom fight, nothing more. The man had felt up Cindy on her way to the bathroom. Bad move.

  She suddenly leaned over and kissed my ear above the scab. It was a heartbreakingly sweet thing to do. She took my hand and led me into the living room, to my sofa. We sat together.

  She said, “You were a devastating football player. And you may very well be again. It is a violent sport that you excel at. I would not love you if you were not always able to come back down from whatever heights you need to scale to fight and even kill.”

  We were silent for a few minutes.

  “Almost makes you think I am at the apex of evolution,” I said. “A handsome, physically imposing, intellectually stimulating, emotionally sophisticated brute.”

  She put her head on my shoulder.

  I was on a roll. “I will even permit you to take me to your classes for show and tell, as an example of a well-evolved human being. And in contrast we can take your last boyfriend and have him stand next to me.”

  “Are you quite done?”

  “Quite.”

  “Will you need protection?” she asked, wrapping her arm through mine and holding me close to her chest.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  She patted my hand. “I know.”

  Ginger was jumping up and down, doing her best to leap onto the couch, but missing the mark by about a foot. I reached down and picked her up and set her in my lap. She turned three circles quickly, and then found a nook and buried her cold nose where our arms intertwined.

  “How is your leg?” she asked.

  “I am worried about my leg.”

  When I looked down at her hand, I saw that she was holding something between her thumb and forefinger. It was a black cap. The cap to my scotch. She had said nothing, simply held me, and let me know that she knew about my drinking. But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

  I held her close. She quit playing with the cap and held it tight in her fist.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I parked my car in front of the murder site. The same decayed heap of flowers still marked the place where Amanda had been found slain. There might have been a new teddy bear in the front row, but it was hard to tell. Anyway, he was a cute little guy holding a red heart balloon that said: “I Miss You.”

  I got out and headed up the stone pathway through the grass, passing a limestone circular fountain that was currently turned off. Leaves were collecting in the drain, and I suspected it might be a while until the fountain, with its gurgling expectations, would be turned on again.

  When I reached the door, it swung open as if on its own volition.

  Actually, not on its own volition. A cute little girl, perhaps eight, was standing in the doorway, staring up at me. She was the spitting image of Amanda.

  “Is your mom or dad home?” I asked.

  “You’re big.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re bigger than daddy.”

  “I’m bigger than most daddies.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh huh.”

  She giggled.

  A cute little black cat worked its way through the little girl’s ankles. A blue bell jingled around its neck. The cat came right up to me and I scratched it between its ears. It was purring before I even touched it.

  “That’s Tinker Bell,” said the little girl.

  “He’s cute.”

  “I love him.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “Alyssa honey, where are you?” There was a note of panic in the woman’s voice.

  “There’s a policeman at the door, mommy.”

  “I’m not a policeman,” I said.

  The door was pulled all the way open and a woman folding a pair of briefs appeared. She was the older version of Amanda. The original version. She stared at me with eyes that were too blank, too red, too distant and too dead. She was dressed in a gray T-shirt and white shorts that revealed a fading tan.

  “Mrs. Peterson?” I asked.

  She paused, the white briefs hanging over her hand. “Who are you? You’re not a policeman.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Can I speak with you? About Amanda.”

  She looked at me some more. A minute passed. Finally, she turned and disappeared into the darkness of her own home.

  She left the door open. I took a deep breath and followed her in.

  * * *

  After asking if I would like a cup of coffee, and with my answer being in the affirmative, she promptly brought me one and set it in front of me. I needed something to do with my hands, because Amanda’s mother was making me nervous. She was in a bad place, a place I had emerged from years ago after the murder of my own mother. I knew what she was going through, but I did not want to empathize too much. I did not want to return to the bad place myself.

  I was sitting in a thick sofa chair that matched the massive sofa near the fireplace, where Mrs. Peterson now sat. She reached into her black purse, which sat at her feet like an obedient dog, and removed a metal flask. She promptly poured a finger or two of something dark and bourbony into her coffee.

  “More medicine, mom?” said the younger version of Amanda, who trailed in from the kitchen.

  “Yes, dear. Now leave the adults alone.”

  She did. Sort of. She grabbed a pink Barbie backpack, plopped on the floor near the rear sliding glass door, and proceeded to remove a Barbie and Ken doll from the bag. I noted that both were nude.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Knighthorse?” asked Mrs. Peterson. She was looking down at one of my nifty business cards on the coffee table before her. But before I could answer she moved on. “Are you Indian? Your name sounds Indian.”

  “My great grandfather was Apache. Apparently grammy had a taste for savages.”

  “I wouldn’t call them sava—oh, I see, you’re kidding.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But the Native American in me is diluted. Mostly, I’m German and Welch and a whole lot of man.”

  She looked up at me and almost smiled. “You certainly are a whole lot of man. I should have guessed the German: blond hair, tall and muscular. Would have done Hitler proud.”

  “I would have done anyone proud, ma’am.”

  “A true knight in shining armor.”

  She might have sounded flirty if her words were not empty and devoid of meaning. Like listening to a corpse speak from the grave.

  “You’re here to try to clear Derrick?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She drank from her spiked coffee. “So what the hell can I do for you?”

  “First of all, I would l
ike to express my condolences.”

  “How very sweet of you.”

  “Do you feel the police have found your daughter’s killer?”

  “You get right to it.”

  “I’m sorry if I offended.”

  “No. I like it. No reason to dance around the subject. My daughter was torn apart just inches from our front door by a goddamn animal.”

  Her voice never rose an octave. She spoke in a monotone, although her lower lip quivered slightly.

  “Mrs. Peterson, did you ever meet Derrick?” I asked.

  She nodded and looked away. She was watching Alyssa play with her oddly nude dolls. “Call me Cat. For Cathy.” She continued to watch Alyssa. Now Ken and Barbie were kissing in her hands. Butt naked.

  “What did you think of Derrick?” I said.

  “I thought he was wonderful. Charming, energetic. He seemed to really care about Amanda.”

  “I liked him, too,” said Alyssa suddenly. Her voice echoed slightly in the darkened room. The upbeat child-like quality seemed out of place, but somehow appreciated. At least by me.

  “Why did you like him?” I asked her.

  “He made me laugh. Amanda loooved him.”

  “That’s enough,” said her mother quietly. Then to me: “Yes. He seemed to love her as well.”

  “But he was not permitted to come around?” I asked.

  “No. Her father had strict rules about her dating African-Americans.”

  “Did you agree with the rule?”

  “I wanted peace in my house.”

  “Did Amanda ever come to you about Derrick?”

  “Yes. Privately, quietly. We would often talk about Derrick. She had more than a crush on him. They had been dating for over a year. She might have loved him, if you want to call it that.”

  “Love knows no age.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “So you didn’t condone her secretly seeing Derrick?”

  “No. I encouraged her.”

  She almost lost it right then and there. Her lip vibrated violently, but stopped when she bit down on it.

  “Mrs. Peterson, you did not condemn your daughter to death by encouraging her to see Derrick.”