Easy Rider: A Jim Knighthorse Story (Short Story)

by J. R. Rain

  “Looks like you got the party started without us,” said an older guy who probably shouldn’t have been here, but had demanded to come anyway. His name was Aaron King, although he always reminded me of someone else. Someone I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Anyway, Aaron smiled at me and winked...and I almost had it...but lost it again. Who, dammit?

  “It wasn’t much of a party,” I said. “Until Numi showed up.”

  “Is that a black joke?” said the big Nigerian. “Or a gay joke?”

  Numi was new to the private investigator business. Mostly, he had taken over another friend of mine’s business. A friend who had now passed. A friend who had had the uncanny knack of finding the missing. I wasn’t entirely sure Numi had gotten over our mutual friend’s death.

  Rest in peace, Booker, I thought.

  “Neither,” I said. Numi was one of the few men on planet earth who would make me pause before a fight. “It was in reference to your lighthearted and jovial nature.”

  Numi shook his head and continued scanning the Pit.

  “What the fuck is going on?” said one of the bikers. That someone might have been about fifty-five, with a full gray beard stained with tobacco and God knows what else.

  “It’s called friendly banter, asshole,” said Nick Caine, another friend of mine who’d swung by a day earlier. Synchronicity at its best. Standing in the shadows behind him was his manservant or friend—I was never sure which—named Ishi. I noted Ishi was brandishing what appeared to be a machete.

  Sweet mama.

  Nick, an old-school relic hunter in the Indiana Jones tradition, was sporting a sawed-off shotgun and a revolver. He was, of course, freshly returned from God knows where, uncovering God knows what, and running from God knows who. Nick and I go way back. I think we had met in a bar. I think he had pissed me off. I think he then bought me a drink. I think buying me a drink is always the best way to soothe the savage beast...and to win my undying friendship.

  Nick had shown up at my office doorstep with a friend of his, a private eye named Max Long. Max hailed from a town called Mystic Falls, and he was my kind of guy: tough, fast talking, and good with a gun. I had asked if he was working on anything interesting in Mystic Falls, and he said something to the effect of: “You have no idea.”

  Anyway, Nick, Ishi and Max were here now, and that’s all that mattered. Ishi didn’t say much. Then again, I wasn’t entirely sure he spoke English, and I sure as hell didn’t speak Tawakankan, which may or may not be a made-up language.

  “What do you say, Monty?” I asked my private investigator friend, Marty Drew, who now ran around looking for ghosts with his wife and medium, Ellen, a sweet lady who kind of freaked me out. “Do you see any spirits here?”

  “There’s spirits everywhere, Jim,” said Monty. “At least, that’s what my wife tells me.”

  Monty, I knew, was a skeptic at heart. But, apparently, he’d seen some shit that he doesn’t want to talk about. Maybe it’s best he doesn’t want to talk about it. I like my little world just the way it is, free of ghosts and things that go bump in the night.

  Standing next to Monty was another good friend of mine, private investigator Roan Quigley. Yes, a fancy name for a thug. In a way, we were all thugs. We just practiced our thuggery mostly on the right side of the law. And, yes, private investigators often stay in touch, especially when we need a little help. Like now, although I wasn’t entirely convinced that I needed help tonight, but, hey, a little back up never hurts anyone.

  Roan had been doing a pretty good job of disappearing of late. He still wouldn’t tell me where he disappeared to, but I would wear him down eventually and get to the bottom of it.

  Rounding out the ten was another good friend of mine from Los Angeles, park ranger Jack Carter, who might have the coolest job of all of us. He had a cute daughter who may or may not be smarter than all of us.

  “All of you are dead,” said a big guy in the front row. The big guy might have been drunk.

  “Who said that?” asked Numi.

  “I did, motherfucker,” said the guy, standing and facing the Nigerian. “Big man with your gun.”

  I watched Numi step around the fire, slip his gun behind him in his waistband and hit the big guy even harder than I might have hit Steel Eye. We all watched the guy tumble head over ass—and very nearly into the fire. When he was done tumbling, he didn’t move. He might have been dead. No one seemed to care.

  “Now,” I said, grinning at this motley gang, both mine and the Devil’s Triangle, as I released Steel Eye who spun around and faced me, “do we have an agreement?”

  The man with the washed-out eye studied me closely, then looked at my rag-tag gang of thugs, each wielding their preferred weapon, and each looking ready to use it. Finally, he nodded. “We do, and you can go fuck yourself.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I said.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was an hour or so later, and we were at a place called Patty’s, a dive bar a few dozen miles away just outside of Palm Springs.

  Monty the ghost hunter was playing darts with Nick Caine and Ishi. All three, I thought, could use some work on their technique. Jack the Park Ranger and Roan my disappearing investigator friend were taking it to a few unsuspecting drunks at the pool table. I happened to know that Jack and Roan were better than most at billiards, although I’ve been known to give them a run for their money. Max Long, the private eye out of Mystic Falls was currently doing his damndest to impress a pretty young waitress. His smile might have been winning her over. Detective Sherbet had left after a few drinks. I was about to make a joke about drinking and driving, until I remembered that drinking and driving wasn’t very funny. Sherbet patted me on the shoulder as he slipped out. He looked older than I remembered, and far more tired. I think it might have been well past his bedtime. Aaron King left soon after. Earlier, Aaron had seemed a little too eager to jump on stage for his turn at karaoke, singing “Love Me Tender.” That he had sounded exactly like Elvis Presley concerned me more than it probably should have.

  Now there were four of us at the bar, drinking, our elbows up on the scarred and aged wood. We could have been cowboys from days of old. But we weren’t. We were private eyes and thugs, and damn good at both. I was drinking Blue Moon Pale Ale and remembering fondly my detective friend out of Boston, a big guy named Spenser, who was, last time I checked, nearly as tough as me, although I wouldn’t want to mess with his friend Hawk.

  Private eyes are a weird breed. We come in different shapes and sizes. Some of us are brawlers. Others are computer nerds. All of us live in the fringe, much like those bikers. We just followed the law a little more. Not always, granted. But usually.

  Spinoza was drinking water. My old friend had given up the hard stuff long ago, after the accident with his son. I would have given it up too. Spinoza, the smallest of all of us, was leaning back against the bar, an elbow propped up behind him, watching Max work his magic on the waitress. Or trying to. Spinoza gave the impression of not listening, or of being easily distracted. I think that was his M.O. I knew the little bastard was hearing everything within twenty feet of him. Occasionally, he and Numi commented on Max’s pick-up technique.

  “That won’t be the end of it, you know,” said Sanchez, sitting next to me.

  “I know,” I said.

  “Some will come looking for you.”

  “I know that, too,” I said.

  “You gave Steel Eye a shiner.”

  “I did. Gladly.”

  “He’s going to have to save face.”

  “He will,” I said.

  “He’ll be coming for you, too.”

  “I would be disappointed if he didn’t.”

  “You look terrified,” said Sanchez.

  I drank more beer, watched Nick and Ishi both literally miss the dart board. They might have been the world’s best looters, but they sucked at bar games. I yawned and said to Sanchez, “What was the question again?”

  “Wasn’t a questi
on, and never mind. So what about the girl?”

  “I know a woman,” I said. “Runs a shelter for abused women. She’ll help her start over somewhere.”

  “She’ll probably just go back to him or someone like him.”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “But you’re hopeful she’ll turn her life around,” said Sanchez.

  “With infinite disappointment,” I said, “comes infinite hope.”

  Sanchez looked at me. “Martin Luther King?”

  “Duh,” I said.

  “So where is she now?”

  “With Sam for now.”

  “Samantha Moon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I like her.”

  “So do I.”

  “But she scares me.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “She’ll be safe with Sam,” said Sanchez.

  I nodded. And while the singers paraded across the karaoke stage, and while Nick and Ishi and Monty still sucked at darts, and while Jack and Roan killed it at the pool table, and while Max finally pocketed the waitress’ phone number, and while Numi and Spinoza stared off into the far distance, Sanchez and I sat quietly, contemplating hope, disappointment and another beer.

  The End

  Knighthorse will return in:

  Night Run

  Jim Knighthorse #5

  Coming soon!

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Alternate Ending

  It was two days later, and I was in my office organizing my notes from a recent insurance case—and killing it on solitaire, as well—when I heard a rumble of bikes. Many bikes.

  I looked around my too-big computer monitor and glanced at Camry.

  “You told him you were here?”

  She glanced up from her cell phone. “No,” she said.

  I waited as the rumbling grew louder. By my guess, there were ten of them outside. I continued looking at her.

  “Well, maybe,” she said.

  “You thought it was a good idea to call the very guy you were on the run from?”

  “I didn’t call him.” She rolled her eyes. “I texted him. Geez. Who calls anymore?”

  “Get out,” I said.

  For the first time all morning, she set her phone down. “Wait, what?”

  “I said, ‘get out.’”

  “But that’s him outside.”

  “No thanks to you.”

  A few stragglers pulled in. Twelve bikes total. Plus or minus one or two. And only one of me. I closed my solitaire game.

  “Get out,” I said again.

  “He’ll kill me.”

  “I guess you could say you asked for it.”

  “I thought you were going to protect me.”

  “I can’t protect someone from their own stupidity.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. He said he would...” and here, she looked away and buried her face in her hands, “hurt my sister if I didn’t tell him where I was.”

  “No he didn’t.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “I am.”

  I waited. From outside I heard muffled voices in between the sounds of sputtering Harleys.

  “Okay, fine. I don’t have a sister. I’m sure you know that. I’m sure you checked me out totally.”

  “Get out.”

  “Fine, I made a mistake. I miss him, okay?”

  “Not okay. Get out.”

  She sat forward on the couch, her knees together. She was wearing torn jeans that might have been bought that way. These days, it was hard to tell for sure. The jeans were tucked into Ugg boots that looked well used. She glanced toward the office door that wasn’t locked.

  “You can’t make me go out there.”

  “I can and I will.”

  “Oh, I see.” She sat back. “You’re scared. I should have figured. You heard the Harleys and got scared. You’re a chickenshit.”

  “It was bound to happen,” I said. “Now get out.”

  “I should have never come here.”

  “I agree.”

  “Steel Eye will kill you, too.”

  “Or not.”

  Someone gunned his Harley and Camry jumped and squealed a little. She looked at her cell phone for no reason.

  “Please don’t make me go out there. Please.”

  “We’ve already been through this.”

  Footsteps appeared on the exterior stairs that led up to my office. Heavy boots, if I had to guess. Camry sat forward. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

  Harleys were still sputtering and grumbling outside. I heard laughter. Voices. Boots crunching. Mostly, I heard three or four sets of them coming up.

  “Oh, fuck,” she said, and to her credit, she looked pale as hell.

  “You can say that again.”

  The climbing boots were now moving along the outdoor hallway that led to the upstairs offices of which mine was proudly one.

  “Steel Eye is crazy.”

  “I’m sure he is, judging by your reaction.”

  “Why don’t you seem nervous?”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “You should be.”

  “I should be many things. But worried about your boyfriend isn’t one of them.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. Anymore.”

  “You can tell that to him.”

  “Why are you being like this? You said you would help me.”

  “Help you, yes. Entertain you, no.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “I’ll let you figure that out.”

  I could hear distant voices now. Someone was asking which door. Someone else said, “It’s a few more doors down.”

  Right about now, the bikers would be passing my accountant neighbor and the girl who gave “massages.” I was suspicious of the legality of her massages, but let it slide. It was, after all, good to be neighborly.

  Camry was openly staring at me. “You think I did this on purpose, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “You think I wanted Steel Eye to show up here?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Why the fuck would I do that?”

  The heavy footfalls stopped outside my office door, although a few stragglers clomped from behind. I said, “I think you like it when guys fight over you.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  Someone pounded on the door.

  “Shit,” said Camry. “Please. You have to help me.”

  I said nothing. I didn’t like Camry, but I also didn’t like someone pounding on my office door. It seemed...rude.

  “Who’s fucking in there?” shouted a voice that was, predictably, gruff.

  I said to Camry, “Admit that you enjoy guys fighting over you.”

  “What the hell are you talking—”

  “Is that you, Camry? You fucking bitch. Get the fuck out here before I break this fucking door down.”

  She looked at the door, then at me, and then made a face that might have indicated that she’d peed herself a little.

  “He sounds scary,” I said, and shivered.

  “Shit, okay, fine. I admit it.”

  “You admit what?”

  “I like it when guys fight.”

  “And not just fight, right? Specifically, fight over you.”

  “Yes, yes, dammit. I admit it. But a lot of fucking good that does now.”

  “Oh, it does some good,” I said, pushing out from behind my desk. As I stood, I unlocked and opened my upper desk drawer and removed my Walther.

  “What good?” she said, and her eyes visibly lit up when she saw the gun.

  “It confirms you’re a bitch.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Then you’ll help me?”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “He’ll kill you,” said Camry as I reached for the doorknob and put the gun in the back of my waistband. I needed both hands.

  “Something is going to kill me someday,” I said, and turned the doorknob while glancing back at her. “But it su
re as hell isn’t going to be some jerkoff named Steel Eye.”

  I opened the door.

  * * *

  I counted eleven of them. And only one of me. I liked my chances. Then again, I always liked my chances.

  “Who the fuck are you?” asked the guy in front. The color in his right eye, I noted, was washed out, as if his iris had exploded from looking too hard at the sun.

  “Your worst nightmare?” I said, my voice rising slightly. I made it sound like a question.

  The guys behind him laughed. Most were over six feet. None were as tall as me. I noted Steel Eye’s complete lack of concern for me. It was easy to dismiss a six-foot-four, ex-fullback when ten guys stood behind you. At least, that was what I told myself, since my pride was hurt a little.

  “Try again, fuck-wad,” said Steel Eye. He tried to see around me. That was hard for him to do with shoulders like mine. He gave up and looked up at me. “Let’s try this again. Who the fuck are you?”

  The mahogany handle of a revolver projected from his jeans. Either that, or he was just happy to see me. The others, I saw, were packing, too. The guy in the back was holding a baseball bat. I looked at the sea of beards, worn blue denim and tattoos. I looked at the bad teeth and bad attitudes...and did what I thought any logical badass would do.

  I grabbed Steel Eye by his meaty shoulders, pulled him into my office and slammed the door shut behind him.

  Lucky for me, the door locked automatically.

  * * *

  It happened fast, and the big guy wasn’t expecting it.

  He probably also wasn’t expecting to have his hairy face pressed up against the pebbled glass of the window of my office door. I was almost certain that he wasn’t expecting his gun to be forcibly removed from his pants or anticipating the sheer brute strength of the man presently pinning him to the office door.

  Now, with his flared nostrils fogging the pebbled glass, I heard a cacophony of guns being drawn and hammers being pulled back. Mostly, I heard a whole lot of cussing and banging.

  With one hand, I drew my own gun and held it on him. With the other, I pressed Steel Eye’s face harder than I probably had to against the glass. Any harder and I was certain his face would go through the glass. Undoubtedly, from outside, they got a good look at their leader’s distorted face and the shadow of a gun pointed at his head. Pebbled glass had that lovely distortion effect.