by J. R. Rain
“So what kind of information are you looking for?” She was smiling at me. I think she thought I was cute. Stranger things have happened.
I showed her my P.I. license. She leaned forward and studied it. “Wow, a real live private investigator. In a ghost town, no less.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Very,” she said. “Nice picture.”
“My girlfriend says I look urbane and dashing.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Yup.”
“The good ones are always taken.”
“This one is, alas.”
“Knighthorse sounds Native American,” she said.
“My great great grandfather was Apache.”
“Hey, we could play cowboys and Indians.”
“Sounds naughty,” I said.
She grinned. “So what’s a detective doing all the way out here?”
I told her about the case.
“Willie Clarke,” she said, thinking. “The guy they found dead in the desert?”
“One in the same.”
She bit her lip, frowned. Re-crossed her arms. “But I thought they ruled his death an accident.”
“So they did.”
“But you think different?”
“I’m being paid to think different.”
“Paid by whom?”
I shook my head.
“Top secret,” I said. “Did you ever meet Willie Clarke?”
“Once. He came into the bar and we chatted. He told me he was here to look into the identity of Sylvester. You know Sylvester? Wait, of course you do, you’re an ace detective.”
I winked and shot her a blank with my forefinger.
“Willie was a young guy,” she continued, “said he was just out of college.”
“What was your impression of him?”
“Smart, funny. Sort of rugged, too.”
“Did he seem like the type who could take care of himself?”
She was nodding as I asked the question. Her eyes narrowed and she frowned a little. “Yeah, definitely. He didn’t look like a historian.”
“More manly than me?”
She winked. “Almost, but not quite.”
“Did he seem the type who would get lost in the desert and run out of gas?”
“That’s asking a lot, he only came in for a Diet Coke. But, if I had to answer....”
“And you do,” I added.
“I would say he seemed the type to have a map on hand, but keep in mind I only met the guy for ten minutes.”
“They say he ran out of gas,” I said. “And I’m willing to bet he’s also the type to make sure he topped off his gas before heading out into the desert. Would be stupid not to, and everyone seems to agree Willie was pretty smart.”
She was nodding. “Maybe he ran out of gas while looking for a way out.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“But you don’t think so.”
“His truck was found close to the site. Which suggests he ran out shortly after leaving the others,” I said. “Did the two of you talk about anything else?”
She bit her lip. “He mentioned he’d been hired to look into Sylvester’s identity, and I asked if he had spoken to Jarred.”
There he was again. Jarred, Rawhide’s official town historian, and curator of the Rawhide Museum.
“Why?”
“Because Jarred thinks of himself as the world’s greatest expert on Sylvester the Mummy.”
“And had Willie?”
She nodded. “He said Jarred was being rude and unhelpful at best. Which sounds like Jarred. He takes his work entirely too seriously. Now he’s working on his magnum opus.”
“Magnum opus?”
“It’s the history of Rawhide. Jarred thinks it will help establish him as a serious historian. You know, make a name for him. That’s pretty important to Jarred.”
“And he picked Rawhide to make his name?”
She nodded, grinning. She picked up a towel and started wiping something behind the bar, below my eyesight. It was a habit all bartenders have: just wiping the hell out of things.
“He says Rawhide is untapped material. He’s going to put it on the map, so to speak.”
“Rawhide is on the map.”
She giggled.
I finished the rest of my beer in one swallow. I wanted eleven more for an even dozen. “Thank you for your time, you’ve been very helpful.”
“You don’t want another beer?”
“Duty calls.”
She looked sad. The bar was empty. I was her only entertainment. “So where you headed now?”
“Figure I might as well talk to Jarred before he goes making a name for himself and thinks he’s too important to talk to me.”
She grinned. “He’s four stores down. The adobe building.”
I tipped my hat. “Ma’am.”
Luckily, the swinging doors were just as much fun going as coming.
Chapter Fifteen
I stepped out of the saloon and onto the surface of Venus. Or close to it. Hell, I felt myself mummifying on the spot, and almost turned around for more beer.
I passed a leather shop, general store, and glass blowing shop, and soon came upon a smallish adobe building set back from the boardwalk. The sign out front read: Rawhide Museum, Free Admission.
Now we’re talking.
I paused, listening. From somewhere nearby I heard the sharp report of rifle shots. From my research, I knew there was a shooting range just outside of town.
Praying for air conditioning, I entered the museum.
* * *
My prayers were answered. Maybe I should be a priest.
Cool air blasted my face the moment I stepped into the small museum, itself nothing more than a converted frontier house, filled to overflowing with antique mining equipment. Hardhats, lanterns, pick axes, carts, stuff I didn’t recognize, stuff I did but didn’t know the names of. I had the general sense that mining in the days of yore took a lot of muscle, and probably a lot of nerve. Not to mention light. In one corner, a display let children pan for fool’s gold. Along the walls, dozens of black and white photographs showed the town in various stages of growth and decline. Many featured hardened men sporting thick handlebar mustaches.
A door was open to my right, leading into what might have once been a bedroom, but now was an office. Inside, a smallish young man with wire rim glasses and a goatee was working furiously on a computer, pounding the keyboard with a vengeance, oblivious to me. I studied him briefly, and concluded he would have looked better with a handlebar mustache.
I knocked on the door frame, and he jumped about six inches out of his seat, gasping, clutching his heart. He snapped his head around, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses.
Jumpy little fellow.
“Oops,” I said. “Of course, I could say I should have knocked, but that’s just what I did.”
“Oh, it’s not you,” he said, settling back in his chair, letting out a long stream of air. The brass nameplate on his desk read: Jarred Booker, Town Historian. “Just lost in my writing, you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Oh, do you write?”
“No, I was just trying to be agreeable.”
“I see,” he said, frowning. “Anyway, I haven’t had anyone step in here for...oh, a few days.”
“Maybe the price scares them away,” I said.
“Any freer, and I would have to pay them.”
“It’s an idea.”
“Are you here for a tour?” he asked.
“Not exactly.”
I opened my wallet and showed him my license to detect, complete with my happy mug. A small grin, no teeth. Eyes bright, but hard. The picture was worth a thousand words, and one of them was roguish.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Knighthorse?”
I told him I was hired to investigate the death of Willie Clarke and that I was here to ask a few questions. Jarred stared at me for a moment, then got up and crosse
d the room and closed the door and went back and sat behind his desk again.
He said, “I was told not to talk to anyone about Willie Clarke.”
“Told by who?”
Jarred leaned back in his chair and studied me. The glow from his monitor reflected off his glasses. So nice it reflected twice.
“Tafford Barron?” I asked. Shot in the dark.
He looked a little surprised. “Yes.”
“Any idea why he doesn’t want you talking to me?”
“None that I can speculate on. Besides, I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’d like to hire you to take me to the same place you took Willie Clarke.”
“In the desert?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Part of the investigation. Scene of the crime.”
“According to the police, there’s been no crime. It was an accident.”
“Sure,” I said. “Which is why Tafford wants to keep you from talking to me.”
Jarred shrugged. “He doesn’t want any more bad publicity for the town.”
“Bad publicity for the town, or for his campaign?”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
At that moment a back door to the office opened and bright sunshine flooded the narrow room. A pretty blond girl in her mid-twenties entered through the door, shut it quietly behind her, and stood blinking, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. She wore jeans, a red cowboy shirt and boots, the Rawhide dress code. She was also holding a rifle. She didn’t know I was there, at least not until her eyes adjusted.
“Best day yet, Jarred,” she said. “I couldn’t miss. Oh, hello.”
“Howdy, ma’am.” I tipped my hat. I was getting better at that.
She grinned. “Howdy.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Knighthorse,” said Jarred loudly, drawing my attention back to him. “My hands are tied.”
“Tied about what?” said the girl.
“I’ll tell you later,” said Jarred.
“I’m investigating Willie Clarke’s death,” I said. I looked at Jarred. “I prefer to tell her now.”
“Oh,” she said, frowning. “Willie Clarke.”
“You must be Patricia McGovern.” I remembered her from the police report. She and Jarred had escorted Willie out into the desert together. She was the other person I wanted to talk to.
She nodded. “Yes, I’m Patricia. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
I gave her my most winning smile. “I’m Jim Knighthorse, detective extraordinaire.”
Her eyes widened. “A detective?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good day, Mr. Knighthorse,” said Jarred, standing. “We have nothing further to add to your investigation.”
I was watching Patricia. Mostly, I was observing her reaction to Jarred’s unfriendliness towards me. She didn’t like it. She seemed about to say something, but then bit her lip. Maybe she didn’t want to lose her job, either.
So I left, but first I handed them each a business card. Patricia looked at it as if I had handed her a two-dollar bill. Jarred tried to hand his back. Instead, I left his on his desk.
I tipped my ballcap toward Patricia. She smiled tightly, and I left the office.
And Rawhide altogether.
Chapter Sixteen
The next day I was sitting in Detective Hansen’s office on the third floor of the Huntington Beach Police Station. Today Hansen was wearing dark blue slacks, a powder blue Polo shirt with a shoulder holster, and loafers with no socks. I knew this because his feet were up on the desk, ankles crossed. His perfect hair was parted down the middle. Fit and tan, he was the quintessential Huntington Beach cop.
I motioned toward his clothing. “Items A & B, page one twenty three of the Nordstrom's men catalog?”
“Close,” he said. “Ordered from Macy’s. Wife picked them out. Thought I should set the standards for hip and cool for Huntington Beach PD.”
“Which, itself, sets the standards for hip and cool for police departments everywhere.”
“Sure.”
“So, if you follow that train of logic, you are the hippest and coolest cop this side of the Mississippi. Perhaps ever.”
“Gimme a break, Knighthorse.”
Something caught my eye. Actually two somethings. Hansen’s office overlooked a big alabaster fountain. The fountain was of mostly of a nude sea nymph. A buxomly sea nymph.
“Distracting, huh?” said Hansen.
“The sea nymph?”
“Whatever the fuck it is,” he said. “Why the hell did they have to make her tits so goddamn big?”
“Because they could.”
“So what can I do for you, Knighthorse?”
I told him about my mother, the picture, and why I was there. As I spoke, his eyes never wavered from mine. I finished the story. Hansen continued looking at me and then started shaking his head. His perfect hair never moved.
“Shit, Knighthorse, I never knew.”
“Few do.”
“The case is closed?”
I nodded. “I’m re-opening it. Unofficially.”
A corner of his lip raised in a sort of half smile. “Of course. And you have a picture of the perp, or the presumed perp?”
“Yes.”
“And the picture’s twenty years old?”
“Yes.”
He sat back in his chair, ran his fingers through his hair. His fingers, amazingly, were tan. And his hair, amazingly, never moved. Only grudgingly made some space for the fingers. Otherwise held its ground. I waited. Hansen thought some more.
“Maybe we can ID him,” he said.
“Mugshots?”
“We have them that far back, of course. Sound good?”
I nodded. “Sounds good.”
Ten minutes later we took an elevator down to the basement. He left me alone in a dusty backroom and, surrounded by outdated computers and boxes of old case files, I looked at the faces of hundreds, perhaps even thousands of Orange County’s most hardened criminals of yesteryear.
But not the face I was looking for. And as I took the elevator back up from the basement, I was looking forward to crossing paths with the buxomly sea nymph.
Chapter Seventeen
With Sanchez directing me, we drove slowly through a quiet residential neighborhood filled with small suburban houses. It was late evening, about 7:00 p.m. We were about nine blocks from Disneyland. Hard to believe there was going to be a royal ass kicking down the road from the happiest place on Earth.
While we drove, Jesus walked me through it. “Charlene and I were walking home through Hill Park. It’s a shortcut from school.”
“I don’t like you walking through Hill Park,” said Sanchez. “That park’s trouble.”
Jesus and I ignored Sanchez.
“Charlene is...?” I asked.
“My girlfriend. At least one of them.”
“How many do you have?”
“Two, but I keep two or three on the side.”
“For emergencies?” I asked.
“Something like that.”
“Lord,” said Sanchez.
I was watching the kid through my rearview mirror. Jesus’ face was turned, staring blankly out the side window. He was so little. Hard to imagine the kid being so tough. But he was. Somehow.
“Okay,” I said. “So you and Charlene are walking home through the park.”
“When we are surrounded by twelve guys. Most are on bikes. Some on skateboards.”
“Did you run?”
“No. But I told Charlene to beat it, and she did. They let her go, of course. They were after me, not her.”
“Why were they after you?”
“Nothing I did, at least nothing I could help.”
“One of their girls took a liking to you.”
“That’s what I hear. Like I can keep track.”
“I know what you mean.”
“So they surround you, what happened next?”
“I told them all to go ahead and kick my ass, but someday I was going to hunt each of them down one at a time.”
“You said that?”
“Yes.”
Tough kid.
“What happened next?”
“Four of them took off running.”
“Because they were scared of you?”
“I suppose.”
Sanchez spoke up. “They threw a rock at him, hit him in the mouth.”
I looked at Sanchez. He was staring straight ahead. His jawline was rigid. A vein pulsed in his neck.
“He who is without sin,” I said, “cast the first stone?”
Jesus said, “What does that mean?”
Sanchez shook his head. “Ignore him. Go on, son.”
“The rock hit me in the mouth, knocked out my front tooth. Split my lips open—lips that were made for kissing.”
Sanchez shook his head. “I created a monster.”
“So I charged the one who threw it. Kid named Doyle. Jumped on top of him and started wailing on him. After that, things are just a big blur of fists and feet and blood.”
“They knocked him out,” said Sanchez. “His girl, whichever one she was, called 911. He was still unconscious when the police came. So were two of the kids.”
I looked in the rearview mirror.
“Two?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t really remember what happened.”
Jesus was sitting in the middle of the bench seat, looking out the right window. He was unconsciously poking his tongue through the gap in his incisors.
Sanchez told me to stop in front of a smallish house with no porch light on. There was a chainlink fence around the house.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“Brian. It was his girl who started this mess.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirteen.”
“How old are you?”
“I turn twelve next month.”
“So you’re eleven?”
“I’m old for my age.”
“Boy are you ever. Need any help?”
