by J. R. Rain
I continued with my dips, feeling that wonderful burn in my triceps and shoulders, a burn that’s almost a high to us meatheads. I lived for that burn. I craved that burn. I needed that burn. I have a fairly addictive personality. And, thank God, I was addicted to weightlifting...and the burn. Why more people didn’t crave it, I don’t know. That burn suggested strength, vitality, good health and a hard body. And dips weren’t hard to do. You just leaned against your desk with a reverse grip, dipped down, and then did them until you felt that, yes, burn.
And then, you pushed past the pain, as I was doing now, grimacing.
The man knocked again and shook his post-impressionistic head a little and checked his watch or cell phone. I could have been watching an animated Monet painting. I grinned at that and cranked out ten more dips.
“Hey, is there anyone in there?” asked an impatient voice that was flecked with self-importance.
“Yes,” I grunted.
“Well, are you open?” The bald head checked the time again.
“Yes.” I grunted again. I had just decided to do ten more dips because the guy was annoying me.
“Well, what the fuck? I’ve been standing out here ten minutes.”
“Maybe two,” I returned with a grunt, and decided on ten more dips, even though I had probably reached my personal limit.
Well, let’s see about that...
“Well, fuck this,” said the guy, and turned to leave.
“The door’s open,” I said, gasping, finishing the dips and finding my voice. I sat on my desk and felt the burn and knew, in that moment, that I had done my body good. It’s a nice feeling. And, yes, I got off on that feeling. In fact, few things were going to stop me from that feeling, especially an impatient bald guy who checked the time far too often. “It says so right there on the door, ‘Open during office hours.’”
The knob turned and in stepped—big surprise—a perfectly bald man. “Jesus, what the hell were you doing in here? I heard all sorts of grunting. I thought maybe you were porking your secretary or something.”
“Or something,” I said, still sitting on the edge of my desk, and still reveling in my post-workout burn. I could literally feel my endorphins increasing as I sat there. I flexed and unflexed my triceps. It’s important to flex after working out, the final piece of the ripped puzzle.
“You’re all sweaty.”
“And you’re all bald,” I said, “since we’re pointing out the obvious.”
He stood there at the open door, looking at me, blinking, with his eyes still adjusting to the muted light of my office. “Look, no offense,” said the guy, “but I’m not sure what I just walked into. I heard you grunting and now you’re sweating.”
“Maybe I’m a werewolf returning from my morning hunt,” I said. “Or maybe I was doing triceps dips against my desk. You pick.”
“Triceps dips?”
“You can do them anywhere. At home against your table or counter, or in the bathroom. Or here at work.”
The man stared at me some more, then the lower half of his face broke into a broad smile. “Okay, good. You had me worried. Best-case scenario, you were boffing your secretary. Worst-case scenario...” He paused and grinned, and I actually started liking him after what he said next. “Well, worst-case scenario was that you were turning into a werewolf.”
“Or turning back from being a werewolf,” I said. “Get it straight.”
The man laughed some more, checked his oversized cell phone again, and then slipped it back into his pocket. “You must be Jim Knighthorse.”
“That obvious?”
“Well, I heard you were a big son-of-a-bitch who was also kind of a wise guy.”
“Call my mother a bitch again, and you’ll see how wise I can be.”
He raised his hands. “No offense. Look, someone gave me your card and said you were the guy to call for help.”
I studied him some more, then nodded. “Have a seat.”
Chapter Two
He was a big Hollywood agent.
Admittedly, he didn’t say, “big.” But that’s what his body language and tone suggested. I happen to be a keen observer of body language and tone, especially of the female variety. And by female, I mean Cindy. And by Cindy, I mean the love of my life.
Now, as he sat across from me, I did a quick Google search of his name. Yup, there he was, hobnobbing with the rich and famous. Owned his own agency, although he’d once been affiliated with CAA, a company even I’d heard of. The guy was legit. The problem was, he’d let it go to his head. And with me around, there was generally only room for one big head. My own.
My arms were still on fire, just the way I liked them. After working out, my Caucasian skin tends to get blotchy. I wore the blotches with pride.
I was already missing my skittish little pooch that I’d rescued a few months ago from a very bad man. I’d considered bringing the little booger to work today, as I sometimes did. But he tends to cower and piddle when potential clients come in. Little Junior only seemed to like me and Cindy. Truth was, I only seemed to like me and Cindy, too. Although I’d never cowered, and, to date, I’d yet to piddle.
“Wow, a real Hollywood agent,” I finally said. I’m a slow reader.
He smiled self-importantly, reached down and adjusted the drape of his jeans, smoothing the crease. His every movement suggested that he lived for these small moments of praise.
“Gosh, you must know a lot of famous people,” I added. Or, more accurately, piled on.
He was in his early fifties and, as mentioned, entirely bald. He wore his white button-down shirt mostly unbuttoned down, revealing lots of curly, dark chest hair. He seemed proud of his chest hair, and seemed to sit in ways that opened up his shirt further. His leather boots were fashionable and purposely distressed. His jeans looked expensive. All told, I thought he looked like a clown, and, if I had to guess, a woman had probably dressed him.
“You’re messing with me, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Did I sound suitably impressed?”
He laughed and sat up and adjusted his shirt so that it mostly closed. “I know I can sound a bit like a blowhard sometimes. It’s hard to not get caught up in that world. I need to be brought back to reality sometimes.”
“I could beat it out of you. Just saying.”
He laughed, shook his head. “God, I hope you’re joking.”
“Maybe. But if you look at your phone one more time, all bets are off.”
He made a show of turning off his phone and stowing it away in his jeans pocket. “There. Gone. No beatings, please. Good riddance.”
“You’re missing it already,” I said. “Aren’t you?”
He laughed. “God help me, yes.”
“God help us all.”
Twice, his right hand moved toward his jeans pocket. Twice, he stopped it halfway there. His knee bounced. His bouncing knee caused his shirt to spill open again, which liberated his curly chest hair. One of them coiled out and seemed to point at me.
He said, “I’ve never met with a private detective before.”
“As you can see, we’re just like other people, only cooler.”
“And bigger.”
“I don’t charge extra for bigger. I add it for free.”
He laughed, reached for his phone and stopped himself. His hand had gotten a little closer this time. “So, what do we do now?”
“You tell me your problem, and I’ll decide if I want to help you or not.”
“And, if you decide to help me?”
“We’ll next decide my fee.”
“Then I pay you up front?”
“It’s called a retainer. Meaning, you retain my services for however long I think the job will take.”
“And what if you overestimate?”
“Then I will refund you the amount of time I didn’t use.”
“Has that ever happened?”
“Not once,” I said. “Maybe I’m psychic.”
“And after I pay
you?”
“I begin solving your problem.”
“I see,” he said. “I’ve got kind of a strange problem.”
“Strange problems cost extra,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
And he did.
Chapter Three
His name was Clarence Atkins.
I asked him if he was related to the guy who invented the diet, and, if so, if he knew of any low-carb chocolate donuts that were available nearby. He said that no, he wasn’t related to that Atkins, and that he doubted a low-carb chocolate donut existed, or would ever exist. I told him that if we could put a man on the moon, we could invent a low-carb chocolate donut. He asked if I was okay, and I told him I’d never felt better.
He seemed skeptical, but told me his story anyway.
First, he asked if I knew of a young actor who had overdosed two years ago. The actor’s name was Freddie Calgary. Yes, I had heard of Freddie Calgary, although I hadn’t seen any of his movies. Clarence the agent then asked if I’d seen Alley Cat, and I asked if he was referring to the animated movie about an alley cat who always dreamed of being a professional bowler, and taught himself how to bowl at night when the bowling alley was empty.
“Yes,” said Clarence, “that movie.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Bullshit. Well, Freddie Calgary did the voice of the Alley Cat.”
“Freddie was Hairball, the oddly powerful alley cat, who may or may not have opposable thumbs?”
“Yes,” said Clarence. “Can I continue?”
“Please do.”
He did. Freddie Calgary had been a child star who rose to fame on the Disney Channel. Apparently, he’d had his own show about a boy from, well, Calgary, who inherits a mansion in Beverly Hills. Hilarity ensues, as this fish-out-of-water kid adapts to life among the rich and famous, eh?
I broke in and asked if Freddie Calgary’s name was, in fact, Calgary. Clarence didn’t know, and I made a note on a sticky pad in front of me.
Clarence continued, “Life should have been easy for Freddie Calgary. It wasn’t, and it was his own fault. After early success, he descended into drugs and booze. Typical stuff. His career almost flamed out. That is, until he got a part in a Quentin Tarantino movie.”
“Which one?”
Clarence told me. I shook my head. I had never heard of it. Clarence asked if I got out much. I said often, but usually to work out or fight bad guys.
He stared at me some more, then continued. After the Tarantino film, there seemed to be some hope for Freddie Calgary. After going to rehab three times, the third finally seemed to stick. The kid was on top of the world again. He was in a string of successful films—none of which I’d seen, except for Alley Cat—and was even slated to star as the next big DC Comics superhero, Aquaman.
“Aquaman?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“The one with the orange suit and a fin on his head?”
“I don’t think he has a fin on his head. On his arms and legs, yeah.”
I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure there’s a fin on his head.”
“Look, I don’t care if there’s a fin on his dick, can I finish?”
“Please do. And thank you for that image.”
“Anyway, he was all set to break out as Aquaman—hell, he was even going to be in the Justice League of America movie, when he partied a little too hard one night.”
This, I had heard of. “He was found dead in a hotel bathtub. An overdose.”
“Not quite. It was ruled death by natural causes.”
“What did the autopsy say?”
“No autopsy was done, since it was ruled a natural death.”
“Didn’t that happen somewhere in Arizona?” I asked.
“Sedona.”
I shook my head and made sympathetic noises. “How long were you his agent?”
“Since his Disney days.”
“You were with him through thick and thin.”
“Through it all, and trust me, it was far worse than what the tabloids reported.”
“Addiction is never pretty.”
“I miss him,” he said after a moment.
I nodded and made more sympathetic noises.
“We were a good team, Knighthorse. He was my best client.”
“Your most profitable client?”
“Yes, by a long shot.”
I sensed something here. “How has business been since?”
He shrugged. “It’s been better.”
“So, with his death, your business took a hit?”
“I still get residuals on many of our projects. I helped make most of those deals, and I get a manager’s cut. But as the years go by...”
I finished for him, “The residuals get smaller and smaller.”
“Right,” he said. “I have other clients, of course. But few had Freddie’s star power. We were a good team.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You mentioned that. Do you suspect foul play?”
Clarence looked up and there were real tears in his eyes. I didn’t doubt it. They had been close for many years. No doubt, the two of them made a lot of money together...and blew a lot of money, too.
“No,” he said, “I’m here because I think he’s still alive.”
Clean Slate
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About the Author:
J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now writes full-time in the Pacific Northwest. He lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams.
Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.
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