by J. R. Rain
“Why did you do that?”
“I wanted to see if he’d had more drinks. If, for instance, someone had bought him a drink that was unaccounted for on his bill.”
I nodded, impressed, although I didn’t show that I was impressed. Badasses only display three emotions: anger, sex and attitude. I wasn’t sure if “sex” was an emotion, but it should be.
I said, “Good idea.”
I waited. He had seen something big, something that had been haunting him since Dr. Green decided to wrap his car around a cottonwood tree.
“There was a guy who came in,” said Chuck, after a few moments.
“Young guy? Old guy?”
“Hard to tell. He was wearing a baseball cap and shades. Had a mustache, too. He sat next to Dr. Green. They talked for maybe ten minutes.”
“Did he buy the good doctor more drinks?”
Chuck looked a little shaken, which is a rare expression for a badass. He opened and closed his fists. His tattoos undulated. The dragon on his forearm looked like it was awakening from a deep slumber.
“No,” said Chuck. “But I’m pretty sure he put something in his drink.”
“Pretty sure?”
“The doctor went to the head. The guy with the ‘stache moved his hand over the beer, quickly. Almost like a magician or something.”
“And?”
“And the beer started, you know, fizzing and shit.”
“Anyone else see him do it?”
“Hell, no. I barely saw it on the tape. In fact, he could have just knocked the beer a little, you know, and the beer could have fizzed on its own.”
“As beers are sometimes wont to do.”
He nodded, but his mind wasn’t really on me. It was back on the tape he had seen.
“You still got the tape?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“I think you’d better show it to me.”
Badasses don’t ask twice.
Chapter Twenty-six
I was sitting in the Mystery Machine, off on a side road, across from where the infamous cottonwood tree had stood strong a year ago.
Even from where I sat, I could see the damage to the tree. I had found it easily enough, thanks to Chuck’s careful map. Badasses tend to make careful maps. No one has yet to explain the relationship between cartography and badassery. Maybe someday, someone will.
Before me, rising above the grove of twisted cottonwoods, was more of the reddish-brown rock. I wondered if the residents of Sedona ever got tired of seeing all that beautiful red rock. Probably not.
The road up here had been particularly windy, with straight drops many hundreds of feet down. One wrong turn, and one would be falling a long, long way. Or hitting one of the many stunted trees called cottonwoods.
Stunted or not, it had held its ground and was still holding its ground, despite the damage it had sustained to its lower trunk.
As I sat there in my van, high above the civilized world, staring out to where one man had met his unfortunate end, I pulled out my cell and dialed my Latino counterpart. Sanchez picked up after the fifth and final ring. I caught him up to date on the case. In particular, the death of Dr. Green.
“Doesn’t seem likely he was murdered,” said Sanchez.
“That’s what I thought, too,” I said. “Until you look at the road itself. Wouldn’t take much to misjudge a turn, especially at night, and especially with a foreign substance in your system.”
“They find any other substances in his system?”
“I don’t think they looked for anything else,” I said. “They probably found the alcohol, and called it right there.”
“Was he legally drunk?”
“Not even close,” I said.
“You looked at the surveillance tape?”
“Twice.”
“You bored or what?”
“I’m thorough.”
“Fine. Did he look inebriated coming into the restaurant?”
“Hard to tell.”
“He came straight from work?”
“Yes.”
“A doctor, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“I doubt he was drinking at work,” said Sanchez.
“I doubt it, too,” I said, “since his official blood alcohol level reflected what I’d seen him drink in the video.”
“Two beers?”
“Yes.”
“Did he usually drink two beers?”
“Sometimes three.”
“Sounds like a wild man,” said Sanchez. “How often did he stop in after work for a few beers?”
“Often.”
“And he usually drove home after?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’m with you on this one,” said Sanchez.
“You’re seeing the light,” I said.
He ignored me. “We know the guy can handle a few beers and make it home okay. He’d been doing it for a while. Still, that isn’t to say that he didn’t flip out his cell phone and read a text at an inopportune time.”
I’d seen the police report, thanks to Detective Falcon and his bitchin’ name. “According to cell records, there were no texts either coming or going to his number.”
“He could have tried to text, lost control.”
“Phone was in his pocket.”
“Okay, tell me more about this guy who sat next to him.”
I did. The “guy” had, of course, been my object of interest during my two viewings. As Dr. Green was enjoying his second beer, a man sat next to him and immediately engaged him in conversation. The doctor had not seemed very surprised or upset or agitated to see the man. He’d simply turned and said a few words, nodded, then went back to his beer.
The stranger was an enigma. He wore a dark cap and dark glasses. He also wore heavy clothes and seemed to be heavyset, although his face appeared lean and his wrists were small. Almost feminine. Quite frankly, I wasn’t sure what the hell I was looking at.
“Someone in disguise?” Sanchez offered.
“That’s what I figured.”
The road before me was empty. So far, not a single car had ventured this way. High above, through my windshield, was a hawk circling slowly. Or maybe it was a UFO. I looked again. Nope, a hawk.
I continued on, relaying the events to Sanchez as I recalled them. The guy had turned and looked over his shoulder when Dr. Green had turned back to his beer. In fact, this looking-over-the-shoulder-thing had looked suspicious as hell. At least to me. But at the time, no one else in the bar seemed to notice or care. Even the bartender had yet to come over to take the guy’s order.
Dr. Green then turned to the guy, said something, got up from his stool, and disappeared from the screen, heading in the direction of the bathroom.
And that’s when things got interesting.
“His hand bumped into the doctor’s beer,” I said. “Then caught it before it fell over.”
“So, he’s clumsy with oddly cat-like reflexes,” said Sanchez.
“Maybe,” I said, “after he righted the drink, it foamed far more than it should have.”
“You’re an expert in beer now?”
“As close to an expert as you will find. There’s more.”
“What else?”
“I’m pretty sure there had been something in his fingers before he bumped the bottle. Something that was gone after he bumped the bottle.”
“You’re spending a lot of time on this doctor, Knighthorse,” he said. “Almost makes me think you don’t have a real job.”
This time, I ignored Sanchez. “I think he was killed. And if this hadn’t worked, he might have been killed a different way.”
“Like shot in the head?”
“Exactly,” I said.
Sanchez was quiet. “There’s only one person who connects the two of them, Knighthorse.”
I nodded, although I sat alone in the van. “Freddie Calgary.”
“Yup.”
I looked up the road, to where his widow sti
ll lived, to where the home was now for sale. I think I had a few more questions for her.
Chapter Twenty-seven
We were seated in her Grand Room.
A least, that’s what she called it. I just thought it was a big-ass room. In fact, had this been my house, I would have officially changed the name of the room to the “Big-Ass Room.” In my Big-Ass Room, I would have dispensed with the dopey, fancy, elegant, white furniture, and put in a big, comfy, cozy couch. Couches, after all, were meant to be snuggled in. I had two snuggle buddies these days: Cindy and Junior. In exactly that order, although sometimes the two overlapped. I tended to prefer it when they overlapped. Just a big pile of love.
I am, after all, secretly a softy, although it’s not much of a secret to Cindy and Junior.
Ms. Green had been surprised to see me, but had quickly gotten over that when I’d mentioned that I had scouted the scene of her husband’s death and that I’d had a few more questions.
Without hesitation, she stepped aside and waved me in. She asked if I wanted tea. I did not want tea, but I said, “Sure.” Now, the tea sat in front of me, untouched, although she seemed to enjoy her own cup of the stuff. Her tea, I suspected, was her lifeline. Something tangible, real, savory, in an unsavory world. Then again, it was only a working theory.
I said, “I’m sorry to bother you again. I know this isn’t easy.”
“If my answers help you come to some resolution with your case, and perhaps help shed light on my husband’s own death, then I am more than happy to help.”
Except she didn’t look very happy. She looked miserable. And she looked lonely. The house, despite the views of the distant red rock formations, despite the beauty of nature that surrounded the structure, felt heavy and forlorn and forgotten. She felt forgotten, too. She felt like a woman who was forever waiting for her husband to come home.
So, my heart went out to her, and had I been a little closer to her, I might have hugged her now. Instead, I asked, “Did your husband personally know the young actor, Freddie Calgary?”
She looked at me for a moment. In the long windows behind her, something flashed through the sky. Something winged and taloned. Another hawk. Or a pterodactyl.
She didn’t answer, and I sensed there was something else going on here. I took a leap of faith, and plunged forward. “He told you not to talk about it, didn’t he?”
Her too-full lips, injected with something I didn’t want to know about, quivered a little. Finally, she looked away and nodded.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
But she didn’t speak, not at first. Instead, she wept into her hands, careful of her make-up, and careful of pushing out of place anything on her face that might have been surgically added or replaced or enhanced.
When she was done crying, she looked up at me, wiped her tears, nodded, and said, “Yes. He asked me not to talk about it.”
I waited. Outside the winged creature continued circling.
She nodded again, to herself, as if coming to a decision. “I saw him here.”
“Freddie Calgary?”
“Yes.”
“At your house?”
As she nodded, I noted that my heart had started beating faster than normal. That was a sure sign I was onto a clue. Or that Cindy was nearby.
I enunciated the next question carefully. “When, exactly, did you see him?”
“Two years ago,” she said, “just before Lance died.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
She did. She had been coming home from somewhere—a hair appointment, she thought. Yes, definitely a hair appointment, because her stylist had called in sick that day, and she had been irritated. So, she had come home earlier than planned. And that’s when she had received the shock of her life. There, sitting in her living room, was that cute actor/singer who had been in all those movies. At the time, she couldn’t remember his name, but had seen him on all of those cheesy Hollywood gossip shows. Actually, she hadn’t used the word “cheesy.” She had made it seem like she actually enjoyed all those Hollywood gossip shows. In fact, that she lived for those shows. And it was about right here that she interjected that she had been an actress once, and a singer herself.
She had been too startled to ask about what was going on, or why the young actor was there. The young man only smiled at her, briefly shook her hand, and was gone. It was, clearly, a great day for her.
“Did you ask him why Freddie Calgary was there?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He said the young man was feeling sick, and wanted to see him privately, away from prying eyes. It seemed reasonable. He was, after all, such a big star.”
“Of course,” I said. “Did you ever see him again?”
“No.”
“Did you know that your husband was the doctor who confirmed Freddie’s death?”
“Yes.”
“Why was your husband at the L’Auberge Hotel at the time of Freddie’s death?”
“He was there treating a sick guest, he’d said.”
“Did your husband often make house calls? Or hotel calls?”
She shook her head. “Not often, but there are a lot of affluent people in town. He would cater to them, if necessary.”
I next asked her if she thought her husband had kept a record of Freddie Calgary’s visit. She said she would look. I asked if she would send it to me. She said she would think about it. Good enough.
I thanked her for her time, and left. As I stepped out into the heat of the setting sun, I couldn’t help but notice the two men standing next to my van.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The first guy was big. Luckily, so am I.
“Are you Jim fucking Knighthorse?” he asked as I approached. He was standing next to my van, one elbow propped on my mirror. A black Lincoln was parked behind my van. The second guy was leaning against its front quarter panel, or was that a front fender? I never knew which was which. Anyway, both of them wore shades. Both were beefy. Both wore light jackets, which didn’t make much sense in this heat. Both kept their arms away from their sides, which meant, of course, both were packing heat. The puzzle comes together.
I knew the type. Hell, I wasn’t very far from the type, myself. Hired muscle. Hired intimidators. Thugs. They were also the same guys I’d seen back at the restaurant.
I said, “What’s the difference between a fender and a quarter panel?”
The one with an elbow on my mirror said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
And just as he said it and looked slightly back toward his friend, I took two quick steps forward and hit him harder than he’d probably been hit in a long, long time. Perhaps ever. It was a hell of a punch. One of my better ones.
The thing with hired thugs is this: they understood only one language, and that was the language of violence.
Anyway, the guy I’d punched rebounded nicely off my driver’s side door, and fell face-first into the pavement. He didn’t move much, nor did I expect him to.
The other guy was reaching for his gun inside his light jacket, except, of course, I’d already drawn my own gun. After all, there was a reason why I was wearing a light jacket, too.
He stopped with his hand inside his jacket. I took a few more steps toward him, zeroing in on his face with a steady hand. I told him to take his hand out slowly, and he did. I then said, “Good boy” in a manner that suggested that he was little more than, say, a dog. I think my manner irritated him.
Behind me, the guy on the ground made a not-so-human noise. I think he might have been briefly unconscious, awakening only when he realized his cheek was sizzling against the hot asphalt.
I continued approaching Thug #2. “Keep your hands up.”
He kept them up. A car sped past us on the remote highway, although the driver probably didn’t see me pointing a gun at someone’s face. I held my Walther back away from me as I used my free hand to search inside the guy’s jacket. As I searched, his arm t
witched as he considered making a move toward me. I suggested to him that it would be a poor decision to do so. Next, I removed a small revolver from inside his jacket. A .38 Special.
As I lifted it out, I flipped it over and used the walnut handle as a club and cracked it over the side of the guy’s head. He stumbled and fell to a knee.
I said, “Told you not to move, numbnuts.”
Behind me, I heard enough movement to suggest that Thug #1 was functioning more and more as a human being. I turned to find him fumbling inside his jacket.
Two steps later, I kicked his hand away, and then reached inside his jacket, too, although I didn’t fumble too much. I pulled out the same type of gun. I slipped both guns inside my jacket pockets, which sort of gave me the appearance of having an irregularly-shaped belly. I don’t have an irregularly-shaped belly. I made a mental note to never use the word “belly” again.
I herded both men over to the side of my van, away from Ms. Green’s front windows, where I had them turn and face me. If I was going to execute them both, this would be a good place and time to do so. I wasn’t in the mood to execute them both. But they didn’t need to know that.
I said, “And to answer your question: Yes, I’m Jim fucking Knighthorse.”
“Geez, pal. That’s all you had to say.”
That came from Thug #1. The side of his head looked like something one might serve for Sunday dinner.
I said, “Who sent you two?”
Neither said anything, nor did I expect them to. I knew the type, since I was close to being the type, too. They would rather take a beating from me than give up names. Giving up names would be worse than the beating. Giving up names meant someone—probably whoever they worked for—might hurt them far worse than a beating. Might even kill them.
The only way I was going to get them talking was to put the fear of God into them. Except putting the fear of God in them took a lot of time and energy. I would probably have to beat them to within an inch of their lives. Or not. Who knows. Maybe they weren’t as tough as I thought they were.
“I’ll say it again,” I said. “Tell me who hired you, or one of you is getting shot in the foot. Have you ever been shot in the foot? It sucks. You’ll probably never walk the same again. Ever.”
