KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set

by Gordon Kessler

  She squirms, pulling the tight fabric over her curves, and says, “But you be good now, so you don't hurt that pup."

  She reaches under her skirt, revealing all as she twists the gun holster 180 degrees to the inside of her thigh. With her skirt still raised, giving me a free view I would have paid good money for, she attaches a thin white elastic belt to her waist and snaps two straps to the thigh band holding the holster. Then she smoothes down the dress with both hands.

  Disappointed the peep show is over, but glad we’re moving past the S&M wardrobe, I swallow in a dry throat. "Who are you? How the hell did I get here?"

  "I'm Poodoo, chéri! Remember? You know, 'Poodoo' like in Star Wars."

  She blows me a kiss from the bedroom door. “How you got here? That’s for you to remember — and you have a whole lot to remember, hon’. We'll talk about it when I return. Be right back." She smiles. "Oh, and if a couple of FBI special agents knock, just tell them to come on in. 'Course, they'll come in anyway, but I'd rather not have the door all busted up."

  She steps out of sight. A couple seconds later I hear a door knob rattle and the door open and close. She’s gone.

  How damn odd? Poodoo from Star Wars? Now I'm not only wondering how I got into Poodoo's bed, but also what planet I'm on.

  Jerking on the handcuffs and kicking against the makeshift leg restraints, I realize my threats were idle and my best course of action is to dig back into my memory. Without distractions, I might gain some ground on my little lapse of recall.

  But on the light breeze from the window comes a nearly overwhelming and very disturbing odor. I can only describe it as a potpourri of vomit, stale beer, seafood and piss.

  Where the hell am I? I scan what I can see of the room. A saxophone leans in the corner. Through the blowing sheers, I see the bottom half of a lighted sign and realize it's either dusk or dawn. What I can make out of the sign says that something is "...New Orleans' Finest!"

  Poodoo's beads. "It's Mardi Gras," I say to myself. "I'm in New Orleans." But where's all the noise — the cacophony of music, voices and clamor that is as much a part of the event as the costumes, food and other excess?

  On the television is news footage of wild parades. The next shot is of the New Orleans mayor handing over the key to the city to the new Rex of Carnival, an annual honor bestowed on a prominent New Orleans citizen, making them king of the carnival.

  “ ... Senator James Bourdieu!”

  The crowd goes wild as the handsome black man, dressed in royal cape and crown, grins widely and waves the key around.

  “Thank you mayor, for this great honor!” he shouts out, and for some reason I focus in on a small detail — when he turns his head, the black tip of a tattoo is revealed above his white collar.

  It’s just a tattoo — something many people have. But, for an unexplainable reason, I find it notable. I accept that. I’m a little odd at times, to say the least. My subconscious seems to pick up on things that should otherwise pass me by. But it shoves these little oddities to the forefront of my mind and makes me jot them down on a small virtual notepad someplace behind my eyes.

  A “Breaking News” ticker moves across the bottom of the screen as I watch: Man found dead in a car Monday after high-speed accident on Bourbon Street has been identified as a known gangster, underworld hit man and mobster wanted for murder….

  Something about the news rings a bell in the back of my mind.

  On the television, behind the “Breaking News” ticker, the King of Carnival is waving high into the crowd of jubilant onlookers as he leaves. He’s escorted to a black Cadillac limo and gets in. As the car drives slowly through the crowd, my mind zooms in on another detail: the lights reflecting off the Caddy reveal a small crack in the rear window and a tiny dent in the trunk lid.

  I decide it’s time to forget about the festivities on television and to refocus on my own issues. My life and possibly others' might depend on my memory. I must figure this all out before the gun-toting, redheaded beauty with the Texas accent returns.

  It’s all so very foggy — the last I remember I was in Los Angeles.

  CHAPTER 2

  Trouble to Come

  Several Days Earlier, East of LA, California Highway 74

  I remember — negotiating the winding rural highway, driving my ol’ daddy's '68 Shelby Mustang GT 500 KR convertible toward LA. While enjoying the beautiful Sunday morning, the Beach Boys were singing “California Girls” on my CD player. I couldn’t help but wish I had someone special to share the wonderful SoCal day.

  I wish I had a dog.

  I had to laugh at myself. Where did that come from? After three years in prison, I wanted to keep the company of a canine?

  I shook my head.

  At 10:00 AM I had an appointment with my old buddy, Jason Ryder — a friend from my Marine Force Recon days. He’s a big-shot movie star now, married to my ex-girlfriend, actress Stella Hutchins.

  What a tangled web we weave!

  Jason wanted to meet me at Devil's Horn Cliff — an ominous sounding place — where he'd give me a quick rundown on what I was to expect in my big move to the "Left Coast". He'd scouted out some marinas for me.

  With the help of a couple friends down in San Diego, I’d bought a used sailboat, and it was my intention to retire with plenty of life left in me. At thirty-eight, I would begin one of those idyllic lives, simple and trouble free — a nice change after a maximum security prison.

  Since before my eighteenth birthday, "idyllic" wouldn't exactly describe the life I'd led. From the US Marines to mercenary and vigilante-for-hire work, through the time of my wife's murder and the three years in prison, my life had been somewhat less than simple. That’s without even considering my prison break and the killing of two FBI special agents — a whole other story.

  I met with Jason and his daughter Sophie. My, how she had grown since I'd first seen her cradled in Jason's arms nearly five years ago. Sophie actually came running up to me when I got out of my car after parking next to Jason’s Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG Coupe.

  “Uncle EZ!” she shouted as she raced across the gravel from where she’d been standing next to her father. Jason must have told her about me.

  She was beautiful in her pink sundress. When she leapt to me, I had to snatch her from midair to ensure she wouldn’t crash.

  “You’re here, you’re really here!”

  “I am here!”

  “I’ve missed you so!”

  “Sophie, how could you miss me? You were only this big when I saw you last.” I indicated about an inch between my thumb and forefinger.

  She giggled. “I was never that tiny, silly! Daddy and Mommy have told me al-l-l-l about you.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “Everything?”

  She nodded. “I have dreams about you, too.”

  “Nightmares? You poor girl!”

  “No, Uncle E Z, good dreams. You always rescue me from a mean ol’ dragon.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. I’m the princess and you ride up to the dragon’s castle on a beautiful red horse ... ,” she said pointing to my car, “an’ you rescue me before the dragon can eat me. You’re my hero.”

  I had one of those déjà vu moments, and wondered if her dreams might be premonitions.

  “But I’m hungry, now,” I said, eyes wide. “What if I eat you?”

  Her eyes grew big as well, and she pursed her lips, analyzing me.

  I quickly placed my mouth to her bare shoulder and blew to make the raspberries.

  She giggled wildly.

  But Jason didn’t turn around. He kept his back to me, gazing out over the cliff side — a sheer, three-hundred-foot drop to a rocky ravine.

  I stepped carefully toward the edge, Sophie still in my arms, and I stood about a foot back and to the side of Jason.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said. “Long time no see.” I patted his back with my free hand.

  He glanced over his shoulder with a forced grin. “Hey, E Z. Great to s
ee you.” His voice was flat. “Sophie, I told you not to bother Uncle E Z.”

  “She’s no bother, Jason — none at all.”

  He seemed distant. I wondered if he and his actress wife had been having marital trouble again.

  I asked him, “You okay, buddy? Wanna talk?”

  He didn’t turn away from the canyon. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking about a major role I’m playing.” He smiled with another sideways glance. But the smile faded quickly.

  Yep, I thought, it’s Stella again. Acting like a happy family man opposite that woman was probably the toughest part any guy could play.

  From then on, it was all business. Jason gave me the names of three marinas to check out. He said all were reasonable, all just a bit south of LA. He recommended that I steer clear of the last one, Smokey's Marina. Even though it had a great reputation up until now, it seemed in some sort of distress since the owner was killed in an accident about six months ago. The place was now being run single-handedly by the widow, the marina's namesake, Smokey.

  Can you guess which marina I checked out first? The only one I was interested in. I’ve always been drawn to the underdog and the out of the ordinary. Do I need to even mention my leanings when someone insinuates that I not do something? I had decided where I’d dock my boat as soon as he told me about the place: Smokey's Marina, of course.

  Jason grew quiet again, and I found no reason to linger.

  I took a couple of steps away from the cliff’s edge.

  “I’ll take Princess Sophie to the car,” I told him. “You coming?”

  “Yeah, I’m coming.” He picked up a rock and threw it as far out as he could.

  I was relieved when he turned and followed us back to where the cars were parked.

  After shaking hands with Jason, I gave Sophie a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, which she quickly returned.

  At one time, Jason and I had been like brothers, so I wasn’t too keen on how he was acting now. But I didn’t have the feeling he was suicidal — just troubled. Maybe he was trying to get his mind wrapped around a movie part. I hoped it was about a movie role and not financial difficulties or the more probable marital problems.

  I remembered how full of herself Stella Hutchins had been when we dated briefly nearly fifteen years ago. Our little fun hadn’t lasted long — she was way too much of a material girl for me and extremely flirty.

  All those years ago, when Jason told me they’d gotten engaged only a month after Stella and I split, I’d wondered what my friend had seen in the woman. Then I realized it was that beautiful face and body of hers — all superficial stuff.

  They were just too much alike. Poor Sophie.

  I left my buddy and his daughter with a smile and a wave, and I blew little Sophie a kiss. She caught it and blew it back.

  I wondered if that might be the last time I’d ever see them — or perhaps little Sophie’s dreams about me rescuing her might have actually been some sort of premonitions.

  On the way to Smokey’s Marina, I made arrangements to meet two other old friends. They were towing my recently purchased, twenty-year-old Catalina 27 up from San Diego.

  Then I checked in with my new parole officer, Tamara White Cloud. She wanted me to call her when I made LA, even if it was a Sunday. I informed her of my arrangements to meet friends at Smokey's Marina, and she was very accommodating — said she'd meet me there, as well.

  * * *

  As I pulled into the parking lot, Parole Officer Tamara White Cloud was the first person I saw, sitting at an outside table on the deck dining area of Smokey's Grog and Galley Restaurant.

  Although I’d never seen her before, I knew right away it was her. She was as lovely as her phone voice, with long, straight black hair, dark eyes and tanned skin.

  As I stopped beside the building, I noticed a couple of guys sitting in a silver Chevy with Illinois plates. They were parked at the far end of the small gravel lot, just out of sight of the dining area. Several cigarette butts below the passenger side indicated they'd been there a while. Besides their car and two others, the parking lot was empty — not a good sign for a SoCal sailboat marina, even though it wasn't yet prime sailing season.

  I got out of my Shelby, gave the guys a nod and went toward the outside dining area. Neither of the meatheads in the Chevy acknowledged me. That was strike two for them. Strike one was the cigarette butts — I hate it when people think it’s okay just to drop them anyplace they want.

  "You must be Mr. Ethan Zachariah Knight," Tamara White Cloud said as I stepped up.

  I held out my hand. "Please, call me E Z, Tamara."

  She shook hands briefly and smiled. "All right, E Z. And you can call me Parole Officer White Cloud."

  Such a leap of informality! I thought. Oh, well — a one way street is better than a no-way dead end. Still, that was strike one for her.

  I sat down across from her and smiled back.

  "Let's get something straight, E Z," she said, looking at the thick file folder on the wooden table in front of her, "I'm here on Sunday morning at your convenience, for my convenience. The Federal government doesn’t pay me enough to work weekends. I have a personal appointment in the area at noon." She was still smiling, which was a good sign, but a very small, good sign. "Normally, you'll be expected to be at my office on the second Tuesday of every month at 11:00 AM sharp, starting next month. Do you understand and agree to that?"

  Strike two, I thought and answered, "Yessir." I made no attempt at correcting my Freudian slip.

  Her smile disappeared. "Already you see that I'm a hard-ass? Good. Don’t ever forget."

  I usually give people three strikes before I swing back. This little lady just fanned out. "Don't know," I answered.

  She frowned at me. "What?"

  I'm batting, now. "Don't know how hard your ass is. Haven't seen or felt it to be sure, yet."

  Her jaw muscles tightened. "Mr. Knight, you're being disrespectful and bordering on contemptuous. Don't you realize I am an officer of the Federal court and have the power to put you back in prison where many authorities think you belong?"

  I parried, "Parole Officer White Cloud, you're disrespecting me. You might find that I can be a very good and useful ally, or I can be a huge prick — a real bur in your panties. I know the law, and I'll abide by it."

  "Abide by it? You'll have to prove that to me. Do you know what's in this file?"

  "I hope only the facts and not conjecture."

  Closing the folder, she stood. She looked down at me. "Mr. Knight, I'll expect you to have a residence and gainful employment in this county by our next meeting. I'll also expect you to in no way infringe upon the law, including local ordinances, littering or loitering, murdering or maligning — not even a parking ticket; do you understand me?"

  I rose. "I speak English, hear you and understand every word you say."

  She turned away, but continued. "If you violate your parole in any manner, you will find yourself back in a maximum security prison — that means any infraction, including violating the restraining order on seeing your children. Is that understood, as well?" She was walking away.

  I followed. "My kids are in Colorado, anyway. And I still hear you, and I still understand the English language. I do hope by the next time I see you, your ass softens up some." I gazed at her butt. Very nice. "Now would you look at that — it’s softening already — jiggling like Jell-O."

  She glared over her shoulder. "You are a huge prick!"

  "Thanks for noticing," I said and grinned. "I don't usually wear this tight of jeans."

  She was halfway across the parking lot. "Don't leave this state or even this county unless you have my express, written permission."

  "Aye-aye, sir," I answered.

  Considering how well that went, making arrangements to dock my boat ought to be a breeze.

  But as I turned back toward the marina, I caught a glimpse of something that didn't initially register. Someone was in the bushes near the parki
ng lot exit. Why was he there? He wasn’t a hedge trimmer — he was a stocky guy wearing a sport coat. The guy in the car had been wearing a sport coat — and, oh yeah, gloves — in seventy-five degree weather, the idiot was wearing gloves.

  It all finally jelled.

  Those weren't hedge-trimming or driving gloves that meathead was wearing — he wasn’t even the driver. And you’re not going to wear gloves to drive a Chevy sedan, anyway — especially a rental. Even at thirty yards away, I could see that the end of the forefinger and the thumb of his gloves were cut off.

  I knew exactly what kind of gloves he wore. With fingertips cut off, it’s easier to feel the proper grip and trigger pull — of a handgun ... or a long gun — they were shooting gloves.

  I looked a second time. The guy in the bushes was now raising a rifle.

  * * *

  An about face and I sprint to the parking lot. I tackle Tamara White Cloud just as she places her hand on the door handle of her Saturn sedan.

  She’s pissed — until the car's side-view mirror pops off and lands beside us. Now she’s stunned. I grab Tamara by the arm and pull her around to the front of the car. She’s trembling worse than I ever knew possible, and I kneel over her protectively.

  That’s when the sirens blare, the cigarette smoker with the gun ducks back into the bushes, and the driver of the Chevy slumps down and drives out the far end of the parking lot.

  Two patrol cars and an unmarked sedan blast into the gravel lot, raising dust. The patrol cars slide sideways to a stop, opposite each other about fifty yards out, and the sedan stops behind them. Before I know it, I have five Glock automatics aimed at me.

  A pretty young plainclothes cop in the middle shouts, “Let her go and come out with your hands in the air. Don’t force us to kill you.”

  Now, it’s me who’s stunned. I don’t have to let her go, I’m not holding her.

  The expression on Tamara’s terror-filled face is questioning. Her dress is torn at the shoulder and one knee has a pretty bad case of road rash from my tackle.

  Still dumbfounded, I frown but nod to her.

  She gets up clumsily, staggers to her feet and runs to the cops.