Jim Knighthorse Series: First Three Books

by J. R. Rain

  He saw me looking at him, and let out a small noise. Cindy caught her breath. We both didn’t dare to move.

  He stood there looking at me, shaking and swaying. The slightest wind would have knocked him over. He seemed to be in pain, his body hunched. The wounds in his paws had been thoroughly cleaned and bandaged, but the bandages didn’t last very long. He had worked them off within hours.

  I smiled at him, and softly said, “It’s okay, boy.”

  He made another sound. Cindy sat up slowly. Ever so slowly.

  Junior stood there at the living room entrance, shivering and swaying and panting. I had no doubt that he was thirsty. And then something amazing happened. Something so damn amazing that I nearly wept.

  The little booger took a step toward me. Cindy gasped again. Or maybe squealed. Junior’s ears perked a little.

  But he kept coming toward me...slowly, haltingly, painfully.

  He limped on both front legs and a new anger arose within me, an anger that did me no good now, so I beat it back.

  “Come on, boy. It’s okay.”

  And he kept coming until he stood uncertainly before us. He eased back a little, taking some of his weight off his front paws. I could still see some blood caked on at the back of his whitish paws. Doggie stigmatas.

  I carefully held out my hand.

  Junior nervously leaned forward, sniffed it instinctively. He looked at my hand, then up at me, then he rested his furry jaw in my open palm.

  Next to me, I heard Cindy crying softly.

  Girls.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “If you ask me,” I said, “all you have to do is look an animal in the eye to know they have a soul.”

  Jack nodded thoughtfully. “I can buy that.”

  “But am I right?”

  “I’ll leave that to you to decide.”

  “Animals either have a soul or they don’t,” I said. “Which is it?”

  “Which do you believe it is?”

  “I believe animals have a soul.”

  Jack nodded. “A sound belief.”

  “But you will not confirm or deny,” I said.

  “It’s not my job to confirm or deny,” said Jack.

  “And what’s your job?” I asked.

  “To allow.”

  We were at McDonald’s on a warm Saturday afternoon. The jungle gym was rocking. The drive-thru line wrapped halfway around the building. McDonald’s must be doing something right. Jack was looking as homeless as ever. He wore a tattered and stained windbreaker, holey jeans. Mismatched sneakers and different-colored socks.

  I drank some Coke, snacked on some fries. After a few moments, I said, “I’m a vegetarian now.”

  “I can see that.”

  “But is that the right way to live?”

  He sipped some of his coffee. “It is dangerous ground, Jim, when others determine what is right.”

  Somehow I knew he would say this. “So it is up to the individual to define what is right?”

  “Always.”

  “But what if their right is wrong?”

  “Then who’s to determine what is right or wrong?”

  “You, of course,” I said.

  He looked up at me. Steam from his coffee made some of the dirt on his jaw waver a little. “I know you, Jim. You do not react well when someone tells you to do something.”

  “I follow the laws of the land,” I said. “For the most part.”

  “Do you agree with the laws?”

  I shrugged. “Most.”

  “And what would happen if you didn’t agree with what I determined was right or wrong?”

  “I would say, who am I to question God?”

  “But I want you to question God, Jim. I want you to question everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the answers you receive will define who you are, and how you will live, and how you will treat others.”

  “But not everybody will come up with the same answers.”

  “That’s the point, Jim.”

  “So there are no wrong answers?”

  “None.”

  “But what if my answers hurt others?”

  Jack sat back and held his coffee in both hands. His hands, I saw, were filthy. There was even dirt caked under his nails. God had dirt under his nails?

  “Hurting others is a delicate business, Jim.”

  “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “Quite simply: do what you want to yourself. But the moment you cause harm to another—or discord of any type—you will need to reestablish a balance.”

  I was about to stuff some fries in my mouth. I paused about an inch or two away from my mouth. “What, exactly, does that mean?”

  “It means there’s a cause and effect in place, or a law of compensation.”

  “You’re talking about karma,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling at me. He always smiled. “Karma is another word for it.”

  “Most people believe karma is a load of crap.”

  “Karma works whether one believes it’s a load of crap or not.”

  Now I smiled at hearing Jack say the word crap. “Kind of like the Law of Attraction.”

  He nodded. “Yes, it’s always working. Always in place. Remember, every experience in life has a former cause. And every current experience will result in a future cause. I do not tell people how to live, but causing harm to another, or discord of any type, will be returned to you. It must be.”

  “To re-establish a balance,” I said.

  He nodded. “Right. One must experience what one causes another to experience.”

  “Why?”

  “It is the only way to true growth, Jim. Everyone must eventually understand what the effect of his own creation is upon the rest of the life in your world.”

  “You said life,” I said. “You did not just say people.”

  “Indeed,” he said.

  “So if one causes harm to another living creature...”

  “One is compelled to understand the effects of his harm...even on animals.”

  “Who compels?” I asked.

  He smiled again. “The laws of the Universe, Jim.”

  “And who put these laws into place?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, winking. “That can be a question for another time.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I was in my office with Junior when the phone rang.

  He was lying on a doggie bed near my chair. Now that he had come out of the closet, he didn’t want to leave my side. I didn’t blame him. Being by my side was a good place to be.

  Junior jumped at the sound, and then settled down again. His paws were healing. Only a slight discoloration now showed in the fur. I had spent the bulk of my morning sitting by the doggie bed and brushing out his fur, although sometimes I had to cut the knots out, too. He was a true ragamuffin. Part poodle, part long-haired terrier, part anything mangy and not very cute.

  Except, to me, he was cute as can be.

  I picked up the phone on the third ring. “Knighthorse.”

  “Is this Jim Knighthorse?”

  “Would be a hell of a coincidence.”

  “Yeah, right.” There was a pause. The guy on the phone was young, maybe twenty. Sounded like a surfer dude. “I, um, have one of your flyers.”

  I sat up a little. “What about it?”

  “Look, I have some information about Mitch Golden. But no cops, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you free now?” he asked.

  “As a bird,” I said, and we made arrangements over the phone where to meet. When we hung up, I looked down at Junior. “You up for a road trip?”

  * * *

  With Junior waiting in the van’s front seat, surrounded by treats and chew toys, I met Ryan Wiseman in a trendy bar in Costa Mesa. By trendy, I meant uncomfortable and not very cozy. From the metal counter down to the backless stools. I mean, give a brother something to lean on. After all, something has to keep t
he drunks upright. Anyway, the floor was wood, which was okay, but I wasn’t sure about the ladder that reached up to the more expensive drinks high above the bar. A ladder? If I want a drink, I want it now. I don’t want to wait for some goofball to climb up and down a ladder.

  “Great bar, huh?” said Ryan. Ryan was a little older than I had pictured. He was maybe thirty and sported a long, scraggly goatee that was all kinds of filthy. He wore stained cargo shorts and a stained tee shirt, and it looked like I was picking up the tab. Again.

  “Maybe the greatest ever,” I said.

  “No shit, huh?”

  “No shit.”

  Ryan was drinking a dark beer that had about an inch of head still on it. The bartender came by and asked what I wanted and I said a stool with a back on it and he laughed. I didn’t laugh. Since the stool wasn’t going to happen, I ordered a Foster’s because I liked their commercials.

  As I ordered, I noticed Ryan looking me over. He nodded, seemingly impressed. “Jesus, you’re huge.”

  “I am huge,” I said. “And don’t call me Jesus.”

  He blinked hard, and his goatee quivered. Hell of a blink. Then he started nodding and his goatee flapped in nine different directions. “I get it. From Airplane. Man, I love that movie.”

  My beer came and I took a healthy pull from it. This was beginning to feel like a bad date. A mandate. Time to get to business.

  “You called me about the flyer,” I said, and I was beginning to wonder if the guy was just here for the free beer.

  Ryan nodded eagerly, yet his goatee somehow flapped sideways, which defied logic and gravity. I was certain he was on something. Or maybe his goatee was.

  “Yeah, man. A buddy of mine over at Pipeline had this flyer in his backpack. And I was like...whoa! I know this dude!”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He’s the candy man.”

  “Candy man?”

  “You know...jive sticks.”

  “Jive sticks?”

  “Puff the magic dragon, broheim. The wacky terbacky.”

  “Marijuana,” I said. “You’re saying Mitch was your supplier.”

  Now Ryan began shaking his head. “He was more than a supplier, dude bro. He was a man with a vision.”

  “What kind of vision?”

  “The big picture, mister. He didn’t just sell the love weed...he sold dreams.”

  “Sure he did,” I said. “And what’s the big picture?”

  “Life, man. Living. Live and let live. His money didn’t just line his pockets.”

  “Where did it go?”

  “To the cause, boss. Mitch Golden was a good guy, with a big heart. He sold the jolly green to help the little guys.”

  “Little guys?”

  “The animals, man,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said. “How close were you to Mitch?”

  “We were close. We were dude-bros.”

  “Dude-bros. Got it. So why did you call me down here, Ryan?”

  He blinked hard and his red eyes seemed a little redder. And wetter, too. “I’m pretty sure I know why he was killed.”

  Stoner or not, Ryan seemed sincere. Either way, I wanted to hear his story. I waited. Ryan collected himself. He even stroked his goatee as if it were a pet squirrel. Maybe it was.

  “He stole from them, man.”

  “Stole from who?”

  “His hookups in L.A.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because we were dude-bros.”

  “And dude-bros tell each other everything?”

  “Most certainly,” he said. He wiped his eyes, and you couldn’t help but feel for the pathetic pothead. “The Interceptor needed massive repairs.”

  “The Interceptor?”

  “The rig, man. The boat Mitch used to stop the fucking finners. Like a fucking superhero. The Interceptor needed repairs and Mitch skimmed some of the money. He was going to pay them back...”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “He asked for more time.”

  “But they didn’t give it.”

  He shook his head. “They wasted a good man. He was doing the right thing, you know. Helping the little guys.”

  Ryan drank deeply from his beer, which, I was certain, would only add to his melancholy.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Any idea who might have wasted him?”

  “The drug lords, man. The big guys.”

  “The big guys,” I said.

  Ryan nodded and finished his beer, and sat back on his backless stool. After a short while, I left a $20 bill on the bar, well away from Ryan, clapped the stoner on the shoulder, and headed out to my own little guy.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  I was in Detective Hansen’s office in Huntington Beach.

  He was leaning back with his feet crossed at one corner of his desk. His ankles were tan in a way that suggested artificial lighting. He wore thick-soled loafers that could have been hand-stitched. I doubted these were regulation shoes. Cops in Huntington Beach were rebels.

  Hansen was nodding. “Makes sense. All signs were pointing to a drug hit on our end, too,” he said. A file, now a good deal thicker than the file I had seen earlier, was open on his lap. The pages were held in place by folded prongs. Hansen lifted one of the pages absently.

  “There were rumors of a drug hit at first,” he said. “But his girlfriend was adamant that it had been these shark hunters.”

  “She claimed Mitch was threatened by one of them.”

  “Right,” said Sanchez. “Except most of these illegal shark hunters, according to you and according to my pals at the DFG—”

  “Your dude-bros?”

  “My what?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Go on.”

  Hansen stared at me for three seconds, then shook his head. “Anyway, it appears most of these illegal shark hunters, or finners, are poor Mexicans simply venturing deeper into American waters.”

  “Hardly an organized group.”

  He nodded. “Exactly. And from what I understand, Mitch and his boys used their boat to give these hunters hell, harassing them, cutting lines, and generally chasing them off.”

  “Admirable,” I said, “and certainly likely to warrant a threat from one or two of them.”

  “So one of the Mexican fishermen waves his fist angrily at Mitch and his boys, and his girlfriend thinks that’s motive.”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Except what’s more likely is that this was a drug hit, especially in light of your latest evidence.”

  “Ryan Wiseman,” I said. “The dude-bro.”

  “We’ve talked to him, too, now. His statement’s on record and it jives with everything else we’ve been hearing. Witness after witness claim that Mitch Golden was skimming money for The Cause.”

  “Like they say,” I said. “You can lose a shipment or even get caught by the police, but just don’t steal from them.”

  “Stealing is a death wish.”

  We were both silent, both meditative. Two broheims contemplating life, drugs, and everything in-between. “So where does this leave us?” said Hansen.

  “We technically still have an unsolved murder,” I said.

  “Except we have a likely idea who did it.”

  “Drug hit.”

  Hansen nodded. “To find out who ordered the hit would take massive man power. Would take more man power than we have available. And in the end...”

  “In the end,” I said, “he was just another drug dealer.”

  “A drug dealer and a thief, from all appearance.”

  “A thief who helped the little guys.”

  Hansen uncrossed his golden ankles and sat forward in his slightly squeaky chair. “I’m closing this file.”

  “Figured you would,” I said.

  “I mean, officially it’s open. But unofficially, it’s dead in the water.”

  “Fitting choice of words.”

  Hansen asked, “You stil
l working for his girlfriend?”

  “I am.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ll talk with her,” I said.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  We were sitting on a bench at Mile Square Park in Fountain Valley.

  Junior was on a leash and sniffing near the bench. Whenever a jogger came by, he huddled between my legs and sometimes lost control of his bladder. Heidi Mann was sitting next to me. She was wearing big sunglasses, unflattering shorts and a Dodger baseball cap. Although I couldn’t see her eyes, I knew she was following Junior’s every move. I had spent the past fifteen minutes catching her up to date. The story had naturally come around to Junior and his captivity.

  Now we were sitting quietly, and Heidi had a renewed interest in Junior who was now sniffing the hell out of a big, lumpy bird crap.

  “How are his paws?” she finally asked.

  “Mostly healed. Same with his muzzle.”

  “How’s he eating?”

  “Normally enough. Big healthy craps, too, if that’s any indication.”

  She smiled. Her first smile. “Good to know.”

  “He’s scared of strangers, especially men, and as you might have noticed, it took him a little while to warm up, even to you.”

  “Do you blame him?”

  “Not one bit.”

  “He might have issues for the rest of his life.”

  “I have no doubt,” I said.

  “But you won’t get rid of him?”

  “Never,” I said.

  “You are my hero.”

  “I’m definitely his hero. I’m also Cindy’s hero, too.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mention her a lot.”

  “I think about her a lot, too.”

  She nodded and looked away. “I know the feeling.”

  We were quiet. I watched Junior move on to another, slightly older bird crap, before jerking his head up and growling. I jerked my head up, too. About halfway through the park, or about a half a mile away, a man was jogging alone. Yeah, he was going to have issues.

  “Did you really name him after yourself?” she asked.

  “It’s a good name,” I said. “But he goes by Junior.”