by J. R. Rain
“My soul.”
“Yes, your soul. These are moments you should stop and pay attention to. These are moments of great importance. These are moments when you are touching the divine. Literally.”
“But why all the tingling and subtlety and confusion, dammit? Why not give us real answers to real problems?”
“Were you given the starting job at fullback, Jim, when you played for UCLA?”
“No. I had to earn it.”
“Were you given your private investigator’s license, Jim?”
“No, it took three years of apprenticeship with my father, who, by the way, is a royal pain in the ass. You might need to go back to the drawing board with him.”
Jack smiled briefly, acknowledging my joke, but turned somber. “I am with your father, too, believe it or not.”
“He’s hurt a lot of people.”
“He is on a different path, Jim. His story is not yet finished. Do not judge him too harshly.”
We were quiet. The little boy who would be dying within a year, a little boy who was sacrificing his little body to help his mother grow, to balance karma, and to show the world love and bravery, left with his mother, holding her hand. He looked back at Jack and waved. Jack waved back.
“Does he know who you are?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a brave boy,” I said.
“You’re all brave, Jim. Braver than you know.”
Chapter Seven
I was with Junior on my balcony.
Junior, my rescued dog, was skittish, to say the least. Birds flying by sent him cowering. The rumble of a Harley might evoke a piddle of urine. Fast movements had him flinching and whimpering.
So, I didn’t flinch or speak loudly, and silently cursed the rumbling motorcycles. I didn’t blame the little guy—he’d gone through hell and back—although I did hope he would grow out of it. If not, I would love him all the same.
It was late, which was the best time for Junior and me to sit outside on the balcony. Most of the Huntington Beach crowds were gone, although some of the nearby bars were still thumping. The thumping bars didn’t bother Junior so much. The thumping and laughter and general merrymaking seemed to calm him. Yes, there was hope for my little doggie.
I was drinking Blue Moon Belgian White, recommended to me by another private eye friend out of Boston. Spenser was a character and about as tough as they come, and might be the only person on planet Earth with a head bigger than my own. I should give him a call some time. Catch up.
Now, I was drinking and scratching Junior behind his ears and thinking about my mother. These days, whenever I thought about my mother, who had been murdered over twenty years ago, I sometimes get a tingling between my shoulders. Some would argue that such a tingling was psychosomatic, and they would have a point. I would kindly tell them to shove their scientific mumbo-jumbo up their asses.
I preferred to believe that the feeling was my mother swinging by to say hello, giving me a hug and maybe even a kiss on the cheek. A few months ago, I had confronted her killer. That her killer was now dead, as was his father who had covered up my mother’s murder, was a different story. But at least I had some semblance of peace.
Peace didn’t bring back my mother, but the tingling I felt between my shoulders was so nice that I nearly got choked up. Truth is, I’m too tough to actually get choked up. Still, the sensation of warmth and love and peace that came over me now as I sat out here on the balcony with my dog, beer in hand, listening to the nearby ocean waves crashing and the partiers partying, I smelled something that could have been nachos but probably wasn’t. As the hint of salt and brine and all that was the ocean reached out to me as well, I knew that my mother was nearby, that she was watching me, and that there was a small chance that she was proud of me.
I had long ago given up hope of winning my father’s approval. Hard to gain approval from someone who literally didn’t give a shit about you. But I cared what my mother thought of me, even if she wasn’t here anymore. And if there was the smallest chance that the tingling sensation I was feeling even now was her, then I was going to do all I could to make that woman proud.
And so I drank and looked down at my little dog that was looking back up at me. He always looked at me. Always studied me. I think he was often waiting for food, or hoping for food. But there was more going on, too. He was trying to figure me out. Figure life out.
Or maybe he just wanted more Beggin’ Strips.
I thought about my recent case, too. Sanchez had come through. In three days, I had an appointment with the Sedona investigator who’d ruled out foul play.
Yeah, I was going to owe Sanchez for this. Except he had his hands busy with his own problems. Apparently, there was some sicko in Los Angeles leaving bodies drained of blood. Sounded like a vampire to me, and I had said as much. Sanchez, someone who did things by the book and was as practical as they came, didn’t laugh it off. I thought about that, too.
Now I drank and scratched my dog’s rear end, because he seemed to like it there best—and just as I was wondering how it might feel to have my own rear end scratched, I was pretty certain I fell asleep.
Which was probably a good thing.
Chapter Eight
I was in my office on a fine spring morning.
Clarence Atkins had left me a list of Freddie Calgary’s closest contacts. Among them were Freddie’s last two girlfriends, his mother, his brother and an actor friend.
I studied the list as I contemplated another donut. Not too long ago, I met a homicide investigator who worked out of Fullerton, a big guy named Sherbet. I liked him, and not because he was named after my fourth-favorite ice cream. Sherbet had a weird thing against pink donuts. I think he saw them as effeminate, and it had something to do with his kid, who may or may not have been gay. Ever since, I’d had a thing for pink donuts. Maybe it was my way of showing my solidarity with his son. And so, I reached for a pink donut now, and took a big bite, and raised it to show support of Sherbet’s son, whoever he was, gay or not.
I swiped a sprinkle off the list of names. Three of them lived in southern California: his last girlfriend, his mother and his good friend.
I took another healthy bite from the pink cake donut. By healthy, I mean I shoved the rest of it in my mouth. As I chewed and drank, I considered the possibility that Freddie Calgary had, in fact, faked his death. It would have been a tremendous undertaking, with lots of planning. What the planning entailed, I didn’t know, yet. But it would have been extensive. People had to be bribed. Money spent, money lost, money hidden. If he was alive, I suspected that that was the key...to follow the money trail.
I started on the next donut. This one wasn’t pink, but I liked it all the same. They were all donuts in my eyes. They were all equally delicious. This one happened to be a chocolate peanut cake donut...about as far from a pink donut as you could be.
Surely, others would have been in on the ruse, I considered. Especially those closest to him. Unless, of course, he was trying to escape from those closest to him.
I thought about that, and I thought about his mother.
Was she in on it? If not, how could anyone put their own mother through such torment? I didn’t know, but the thought of it made me set down my donut. There were some of us who lived most of our lives without our mothers, who would have done anything to be with them again, to see them again, to feel their love again. That someone would willingly give that up was beyond me.
The morning was bright, sunlight streaming in through my open window. I was high enough and far enough from the window that no shooter would have a clear shot at me. Of course, that didn’t stop shooters from coming in through my office door, which they’d done a number of times.
My feet were up on the corner of my desk. Today, I was wearing my running shoes and jeans. Cindy always said I looked like Seinfeld when I wore my running shoes and jeans. I liked Seinfeld. He amused me. I didn’t see the problem.
When I finished the donut,
I checked the time. Cindy would be in the middle of a lecture. Sometimes, she remembered to turn off her phone. Sometimes, she forgot. On the off-chance that she might have forgotten, I sent her a text. Yeah, I’m kind of like that. I made up for it by telling her I was thinking about her.
Ten seconds later, I received a text back. It was of a heart.
I looked at the heart and smiled, and my own heart swelled with what I was certain was love.
Speaking of love, I had dreamed of my mother again last night. We had been sitting across from each other at our old kitchen table. She was talking to me, except I couldn’t really hear her. Mostly, I stared at her face, her smile, the way she always looked at me with more love than I probably deserved. A mother’s love. I was, after all, a little shit when I was a kid. Might have taken after my father in that area. Hopefully, that’s all I’d inherited from him. My father, other than being tough as nails, didn’t have a lot of other favorable qualities.
I sighed and decided to think about something far more positive. Like my next donut. While I chewed, I called the first name on the list, keeping with the mother theme.
She answered on the second ring.
Chapter Nine
The woman who came over to my table was a knockout.
Or maybe I was just influenced by the glitzy environment. I was at the Coffee Bean in Beverly Hills, near the Beverly Center. I knew this Coffee Bean well. A good friend of mine had recently passed, a friend who had frequented this Bean. A helluva detective with a shitty disease that finally got him. I miss him, although I stay in touch with his friend and caretaker, Numi. A big guy who may or may not be gay. A big guy with the blackest skin I’d ever seen. The man was a gentle giant, although I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side, and, coming from me, that’s saying something. Last I heard, Numi was continuing my now-deceased friend’s calling to search for the missing. A noble mission, and, of course, all Numi had to do was call me for help, and I would be there for him, just as I was for Jimmy, God rest his tortured soul.
These were my thoughts as Jude Calgary approached me. My thoughts were also idly on the two or three dozen women who passed in and out of the Coffee Bean in the nine minutes I’d been waiting, all of whom looked like they could be Hollywood’s next big star. Or next top model. Or next porn star. I silently wished them all luck. Maybe I should just ask for their autographs now?
I resisted, and the next beautiful woman to approach—surely as pretty or prettier than the others—turned out to be looking for me. Synchronicity at its best.
“Mr. Knighthorse?”
I stood and reached out my hand. “Please, just call me Mr. Knighthorse.”
“I did.”
“Then never mind.”
She took my hand with her own. Her grip was limp at best. She immediately pulled out a small bottle of Purell hand cleanser—the OCD sufferer’s cleanser of choice. She vigorously wiped her hands clean, between her fingers, over the back of her hand. Anywhere my dirtiness might have rubbed off on her.
I tried not to be offended.
I motioned to the seat across from me. She looked down at it, held up a finger, went inside and brought out a fistful of napkins. She proceeded to dust and wipe off the seat, and then she proceeded to neatly lay the napkins over the seat. Once done, she sat carefully down.
“Place is filthy,” I said.
“Tell me about it.” She held up her bottle of Purell. “I go through like two of these a week.”
“I believe it.”
“I usually don’t shake hands. Sometimes I vomit a little when I shake hands, you know?”
“Oh, I know,” I said.
Her eyes brightened. And not a normal brightening either. A crazy sort of brightened. She was looking less and less beautiful. “Really?”
“No,” I said. “I was just trying to be agreeable.”
She looked disappointed. “Oh, well, I guess you could say I’m a bit of a germaphobe.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Her crazy eyes softened a little. “I can’t tell if you’re being playful or not.”
“Let’s go with playful.”
“Okay, playful it is. So, why did you want to see me...Mr. Knighthorse. That’s a nice, strong name.”
“Well, I’m a nice, strong guy, who isn’t always so nice. Well, not so nice to the bad guys.”
She laughed and studied me. “Yes, you’re a big, bad private eye,” she said. There might have been a touch of flirtation in her voice. Flirtation and crazy were a heady mix.
“I’m big...and only bad when I have to be.”
Her beauty was almost disarming. Luckily, I was a trained professional, and I had already found my main squeeze. My main squeeze—and only squeeze, for that matter—was Cindy Darwin. If Cindy saw me flirt with Jude Calgary, she wouldn’t be too pleased. I would, of course, remind Cindy that getting on the witness’s good side was always important for a private eye. That this witness happened to be beautiful was par for the course.
The afternoon was warm, and the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf was busy. We were sitting outside with a handful of other important people, most of whom were on their laptops. I had yet to buy a laptop. I was afraid if I did, I would be inexplicably drawn to Starbucks, where I would find myself wasting hours on end.
No, I used my Samsung Galaxy, which did everything I needed it to, and then some. It was, in essence, a private investigator’s greatest tool. That I also used it to send Cindy some suspect pictures wasn’t the point. Or that she might have sent me one or two in return wasn’t the point either, although maybe it should be.
“You said you would like to talk about my son?” said Jude Calgary. I noticed she kept her hands in her lap, which was probably the safest place to be, germ-wise. My own hands were presently splayed across the top of the metallic table, covering as much surface as I possibly could. I have big hands, and the cool metallic table felt nice. Of course, if there was a germ on this table, I had probably found it. Jude stared down at my hands as if they were already diseased—and maybe they were. This was, after all, L.A.
I said, “Your son passed two years ago.”
She nodded, but kept her eyes on my hands. I moved my pinkie and she might have flinched.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She shrugged. “Live hard, play hard, and die young. It’s the Hollywood motto, isn’t it?”
“I’ve lived hard and played even harder,” I said. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”
She was silent for a moment, and then said, “You’re here because someone hired you to look into my son’s death.”
I generally don’t hide from the truth unless the truth will either get someone killed or jeopardize my case. In this situation, I doubted either would be the outcome.
“Yes,” I said.
“Who?”
I shook my head. “Does it matter?”
She looked down at my hands, which looked clean enough to my eyes. To her eyes, of course, they were crawling with little nasties. Then again, I suspected her thoughts were mostly on her son at the moment. Mostly. Still, she tucked her hands deeper into her lap, if that was possible. “No,” she said. “I suppose it doesn’t. Lord knows I’ve wanted to do the same.”
“Someone beat you to it,” I said.
She nodded. “Will you tell me what you find?”
I didn’t have to think about it for long. She wasn’t my client, and divulging another client’s paid information was technically unethical.
Technically, I could give a shit about all that. She was a mother, first and foremost. Mothers have always had a special place in my heart. That his mother was beautiful had nothing to do with my decision.
“Yes,” I said. “I will.”
“I would like that, thank you.”
“Do you have reason to believe that he’s alive?”
She looked at me long and hard. She was maybe in her mid-forties, which meant she’d had her famous son when she was quite young. Mid-fort
ies suited her well. Well, everything but her eyes, which looked haunted and a bit lost...and so sad that I nearly gave her a hug. That is, if she would have let me. Which she wouldn’t. Not with these germ-infested hands.
“I have hope,” she said.
“Do you know something you’re not telling me?”
She looked away. She brought one of her hands up to her face, and then thought better of it. The hand fell back into its proper spot: her lap. “I received a call six months ago.”
I perked up. “What kind of call?”
“I guess you would say it was a crank call. All I heard was breathing. But...”
“But what?”
“Every fiber of my being told me that it was my son on the other end. I said his name—then the line went dead.”
“Was that your only call?”
“Yes.”
“Has anyone else in your family received any such calls?”
She looked at me and nodded. “My daughter, yes.”
“Have you ever seen your son since his death?” It was a crazy question, I knew, but one I had to ask.
“Just those photos taken in San Antonio. The ones on TMZ and all the magazines.”
“Did you view his body?”
She shook her head. “I was in Europe at the time of his death. With Nicole.” Nicole was her daughter. Next up on my list. She continued, “By the time I got back to the States, he had been cremated.”
I knew that cremations generally occur 2-4 days after a death, once a body has been released to a family.
“Who arranged for the cremation?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
I thought about that as Jude Calgary, germs be damned, hid her face in her hands and wept silently into them.
Chapter Ten
I didn’t often get out to L.A.
Now that I was here, I worked my way through the list of Freddie’s friends and family. I called his sister. No luck. No voicemail either. I next called his last two girlfriends. Neither answered, although both had voicemails. Things were looking up. I left my contact information. As I left the messages, my voice, I thought, sounded strong and firm, yet accessible and friendly. I nearly left myself a voicemail just to have the pleasure of listening to it.