Hail Mary

by J. R. Rain

  “I’m also a righter of wrongs,” I said.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that if you are who I think you are, you’ll be seeing me again.”

  I got up and left, all too aware that the gun was pointed at my back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sanchez and I were working out at the 24-Hour Fitness in Newport Beach.

  Today was our “pull” day. That meant biceps, lats, abdominals and hamstrings. Like anyone who’s serious about getting bigger and stronger, we never work the same muscles two days in a row. Amateurish. Muscles need time to rebuild, especially when you hit them as hard as we hit them. Tomorrow would be our “push” day...any exercises that consist of a pushing motion, with bench presses being the obvious one.

  Right now we were doing sets of old-school pull-ups on the horizontal bar. I was on pull-up number fourteen when Sanchez said, “Taking you long enough to do twenty pull-ups.”

  I cranked out three more, then paused while hanging from my hands. “It’s my third set, asshole.”

  “And your skin’s all red and blotchy.”

  “Latinos sweat,” I said, resuming my pull-ups, grunting as I spoke. “Gringos blotch.”

  Sanchez shook his head. “You gringos are weird.”

  I finished my third set, and now Sanchez cranked out his own final set of pull-ups. I mentioned how he looked like a girl, with his legs curled up the way they were. He paused and said something about the unappealing lack of pigmentation in my skin, then finished his own third set.

  Next, we hit the row machine hard, and by our second set, I had gotten him caught up on my current case. Sanchez, a homicide investigator with the LAPD and an ex-teammate at UCLA, was a good person to bounce cases off of, although I would never let him know that.

  “This guy, Trujillo...”

  “Is Latino,” I said.

  “What does being Latino have to do with anything?”

  “I thought we were finishing each others’ sentences.”

  “We ain’t fucking finishing each others’ sentences.”

  “See,” I said. “I could have finished that one for you.”

  Sanchez shook his head and finished his third set of rows. He was wearing a tank top and his muscles bulged and rippled and I caught more than one woman admiring him. I didn’t need to tell him the women were admiring him. Sanchez noticed everything. Besides, his wife, Danielle, would have my head on a platter if she knew I had pointed out any women.

  Sanchez said, “So why do we think this guy Trujillo plugs our golden boy and dumps him in the Long Beach Harbor?”

  I was on the machine now, pulling the chromed bar back slowly and with near-perfect form. “Because Mitch Golden was giving him grief. Hurting business.”

  “Hurting business how?”

  “Exposing the shark finners for the shitbags they are. Helping the game wardens arrest his suppliers.”

  “So Trujillo is like, what, a shark fin kingpin? And his fishermen provide him the fins?”

  “Way to make it sound street,” I said. “But yeah.”

  “Street makes sense to me,” said Sanchez. “Shark fins don’t. There any money in fins?”

  “Enough to kill,” I said.

  Sanchez stood and stretched and generally looked like a peacock parading around. He showed me his tan bicep. “See, no blotching. It’s brown and beautiful.”

  “And sweaty,” I said.

  Sanchez shook his head, careful not to look at the women looking at him. He was afraid of his wife, too. As we all should be.

  He said, “And they really use dogs?”

  “Some do. Not all of them.”

  “Ain’t right.”

  “Nope.”

  We were silent as we caught our breaths. The gym wasn’t so silent. Music pumped. Machines clattered. People grunted.

  Sanchez looked around. “Lots of splotchy people here.”

  “It’s Newport,” I said.

  He looked at me. “You can’t save all the dogs, Knighthorse.”

  “I know.”

  “Or the damn sharks.”

  “I know that, too,” I said.

  “But you’re going to try, aren’t you?”

  “I’m going to do something.”

  “What about finding Mitch Golden’s murderer?”

  “That too,” I said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I was driving south along Seal Beach Boulevard, and when I made a right turn, I literally left behind Orange County and entered a whole new world.

  Leisure World.

  Before me was a massive, revolving globe, which was kind of fitting. I waited in line behind some shuttle buses, and when my turn came to approach the security gate, the world’s oldest security guard came out sporting a clipboard and a frown.

  “Who’re you here to see?” he asked.

  “Poppie,” I said.

  “Poppie who?”

  “Just Poppie.”

  “You don’t have a last name?”

  “That’s all she gave me.”

  “What’s your business here?”

  “I’m going to apprehend a flasher.”

  “A what?”

  “A flasher. A man who reveals his genitalia to women. Or a woman who reveals herself to men, although I’ve never been so lucky.”

  He looked down at his list, looked at me, and then asked me to pull around and park. I did as I was told. A minute or two later, I found myself sitting in an old office that could have doubled as an interrogation room.

  Shortly, another man appeared. He was wearing the same security outfit, but this one had bars on the sleeves. A captain security guard. I nearly saluted. He asked to see my private investigator license and I gave it to him. He studied it closely and left the office. I heard a copy machine whir on. I next heard him typing on a computer, and about five minutes later, he came back in. He handed back my license, sat in a squeaky chair behind the simple wooden desk. He introduced himself as Tony Hill. He smelled like Old Spice and sweat.

  “You check out,” said Tony Hill.

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Your license is in good standing with the state, and there are currently no complaints against you.”

  “Today must be my lucky day.”

  “I Googled your name. Are you the same Jim Knighthorse who played for UCLA?”

  “One and the same.”

  “I hate UCLA.”

  “Those are fighting words.”

  He sat back and studied me. I often wondered what people thought about when they studied me. Impressed? Terrified? Envious? All of the above?

  “I don’t like you,” he finally said.

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “Most guys don’t like me. They tend to feel inferior. Less than a man. Especially if their ladies are around. It’s hard to measure up.”

  He didn’t move a muscle. His stomach was mostly flat and he had some muscle around his shoulders. If I had to guess, I would say he was in his sixties. Finally, he said, “You think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?”

  “Compared to a charging rhino? Not so much. Compared to you, I think the answer is obvious. But if you want, we can duke it out old-school style. Throw on some gloves. Or better yet, dueling pistols.”

  He shook his head and a grin might have appeared on his lips. “You’re a cocky son-of-a-bitch.”

  “I might have heard that once or twice. The thing is, I can back it up.”

  He rubbed his smooth jaw. “I don’t have to let you in, Mr. Knighthorse. I have guys working on this case now. Except...”

  “Except the flasher is still out there.”

  “Fucking pervert. Got all the women here up in arms. The park president is breathing down my neck.”

  “You could use the help,” I said.

  He got up, stepped out of the room, and came back with a visitor’s pass. “Just try not to cause too many problems.”

  “Me? Never.”

 
; “And let’s catch this old pervert, okay? He’s making my life a living hell.”

  “We can’t have that,” I said.

  “You have free rein in the park. Talk to whomever you want. I trust you will be discreet.”

  “Discreet is my middle name. Well that and Badass, of course.”

  He shook his head and waved me off, and I happily left, clipping my visitor’s badge to the sleeve of my tee shirt.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Driving in Leisure World is an adventure.

  I was adventuring now, trying to make sense of street signs, seemingly random crosswalks, painted road markers with arrows pointing to nowhere. All designed to make driving easier, but only serving to make things messier.

  There were no less than 22,000 “15 MPH” speed limit signs, all of which were distributed evenly along the side of the road every few feet or so. At a stop sign—a stop sign, mind you, that was actually posted between the lanes—I pulled up next to one of the many security guards sitting in what appeared to be a luxury golf cart. I rolled down my window.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  He looked at me. “Yeah?”

  “What’s the speed limit here?”

  “Fifteen miles per hour.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  He nodded and seemed about to say something; no doubt something to the effect of not being an officer. But he must have liked the title because he nodded again, flipped down his shades, and pulled forward slowly.

  At 15 MPH, no doubt.

  I somehow found Poppie’s address, and parked in what I assumed was a designated visitor parking space, but it could have been another of the thousands of shuttle pick-up areas. Soon, I was rapping on her door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Not the flasher,” I said.

  She opened the door, blinking into the afternoon sun, which was hanging somewhere above my shoulder. “Oh, heavens, I’m just a nervous wreck whenever someone comes to my door these days. Please come in, Mr. Knighthorse.”

  Poppie was tough but sweet. No one should ever be a nervous wreck when answering their door. Especially not a Knighthorse client. I wondered if she knew just how good of hands she was in.

  Poppie’s little apartment home, or whatever they call these bungalows here at Leisure World, was about as cute as cute can be. Dolls were everywhere. Antique dolls. Modern dolls. Creepy dolls. Dolls that I was certain were staring at me. They lined shelves and bookcases and even sat along the piano keys. Three glass display cases were lined along one wall. The dolls in these cases seemed particularly old...and particularly creepy.

  “I have a bit of a thing for dolls,” she said apologetically, although she looked lovingly at one particularly big Raggedy Ann doll that was slumped on top of a hardback copy of Michener’s Alaska. Hell, I could have slumped on top of Michener’s Alaska. A beast of a book, which is why it took me six months to read it.

  “Dolls?” I said. “What dolls?”

  “Oh, Mr. Knighthorse. You are so silly.”

  She giggled again and picked up what appeared to be a German doll wearing a white frilly dress and braided pigtails. She stroked the hair lovingly and set the doll back down. She led me over to her couch and asked if I wanted some homemade lemonade. It was ninety-three out today and some homemade lemonade sounded just about perfect. I said as much, and she smiled happily and nearly jogged off. I wondered how many visitors old Poppie received.

  Other than the perverted kind.

  She returned with a tray of lemonade and Oreo cookies and I might have just died and gone to...doll heaven? I tried not to make a pig of myself, but after the ninth cookie, I quit caring.

  She watched me with a bemused smile and asked if I wanted more. I said sure, and she came back with the rest of the bag. In the end, I left her one row of cookies, and even that took a lot of willpower.

  When I was done eating and had polished off my second glass of lemonade, she took me out and showed me around the neighborhood. The showing me around part took a while, since she didn’t have much giddy-up in her get-along, but we made do.

  Other than her own front door, she pointed out the various spots where she and the other women in the neighborhood had seen the flasher. She mentioned some other hotspots, too. The outdoor amphitheater, the gym, and the many community centers. Apparently, the perv had been targeting bigger groups of late.

  I had with me a handy map of the grounds that included each apartment home. I jotted down each occurrence and even interviewed some of the other witnesses.

  When she was done showing me around, I looked at my map and had some ideas on how to proceed, but since the flasher only revealed himself at night, I would implement my ideas later.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, I had a hot date with Cindy.

  Hubba hubba.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We were at my apartment on a Friday night. Date night.

  I was in my kitchen and Cindy was sitting at the counter. She was wearing a red, long-sleeved sheer blouse with a sort of V-neckline. The neckline culminated in a creative built-in tie, which I thought was clever as hell. Hell, why didn’t men’s shirts have built-in ties? She was also wearing a tight, gray skirt that went just below her knees and I could only imagine the proliferation of crushes in her various religion classes. Her blond hair was pulled up into a kind of loose bun. Not so tight that it looked like it hurt, but also somehow still fashionable. I wondered how long it took to create such a masterful bun.

  “Your bun is masterful,” I said.

  “My bun? Just one of them?”

  “All of your buns are masterful,” I said. “But I’m referring to your hair bun.”

  She looked slightly disappointed. She also looked slightly drunk, too, although she had only had one glass of wine. She reached up, touched the bun expertly, then shrugged. “Something you learn when you’re ten, I guess.”

  Because I know she likes wine, I take great pleasure in looking for unique bottles for her, especially out in Temecula, southern California’s closest wine country. Granted, I wasn’t out that way often, but when I was, I always grabbed her a few bottles. And met with an ex-private investigator friend of mine who now writes novels. Good guy, but I’m not much into vampires.

  As I poured her more chardonnay, I said, “Well, when I was ten, I was figuring out ways to get home from school without getting beat up. More often than not, I chose poorly. Turns out, there really weren’t that many different ways for me to get home.”

  She tasted the wine and made a long “Mmm” sound. I loved her long “Mmm” sounds.

  “Delicious,” she said, and I couldn’t help but wonder what separated a delicious wine from a non-delicious wine, since all wines tended to taste like dry air. Anyway, when she was done smacking her lips, she looked at me from over her glass. “I can’t imagine anyone bullying you.”

  “It’s easy to be bullied when you’re ten. All it takes is a handful of teenagers.”

  “Could you have handled one teenager?”

  “Maybe even two,” I said.

  “At ten?”

  “I was a big boy at ten.”

  She nodded. “That I believe.”

  I was a slob at heart, but having Cindy around solved that. She was an elegant, sophisticated woman, a world-renowned professor, and an even better human being. Why she was with a thug like me, I may never know, but she deserved to come over to a clean apartment. And not just clean. Immaculate. With Cindy, I had long ago cleaned up my act and grew up. Like they say, she made an honest man of me. And a clean one, too.

  “Are we really having chips and salsa for dinner?” she asked.

  “Not just chips and salsa,” I said. I had just sliced three avocados and was currently in the process of scooping out the meaty fruit into a bowl. Next to me were onions and tomatoes and a chopping board. “Homemade guacamole with rice and beans.”

  “Actually that sounds kind of yummy. No meat?”

  “No me
at,” I said. “That’s why I added rice and beans.”

  She nodded. “A perfect protein.”

  I grinned as I grabbed an onion. “Why, you must be a professor.”

  She stuck her tongue out at me. “Common knowledge, I think. So you’re taking this vegetarian thing seriously?”

  “More so than ever.”

  “I can respect that,” she said. She reached for a chip in a nearby bowl and I slapped her hand away.

  “That’s dinner.”

  “It’s just a chip.”

  “Chips are dinner, too.”

  She stuck out her lower lip and had some more wine. She made small noises that seemed to indicate she was still enjoying the wine.

  “I can respect it,” she said, “just as long as you don’t expect me to follow your lead.”

  “I don’t expect you to,” I said. I next scraped the finely chopped onions into a bowl. I started on the tomatoes.

  She added, “That also means you won’t give me crap if I order fish or chicken or steak, or even lamb.”

  “Geez, lamb?”

  “I happen to like lamb.”

  “Fine.”

  “And no bad looks either.”

  “No bad looks,” I agreed. “Just as long as you know when you come over here, we eat meat-free.”

  She drank more of her wine and looked at me, grinning. If she had another glass in her, she might have commented on the meat-free reference. Might have. Then again, she was a lady. Even when buzzed.

  I next chopped up the chili and jalapeno pepper, then added the crushed garlic, freshly squeezed lime juice, salt, pepper and a hint of sugar. I didn’t add cilantro. Cilantro tastes like mummy wrappings. I mixed it all together with the avocado, and I think I might have drooled a little on my shirt.

  We ate on my balcony. Me with a beer, and Cindy with her second glass of wine.

  Below us was bustling Main Street in Huntington Beach, alive on a Friday night. Laughter and voices reached us from below, and with our knees touching, I told Cindy about my day and she told me about hers, and we scooped and ate and drank and laughed and talked the night away...