Clean Slate (Jim Knighthorse Book 4)

by J. R. Rain

  I said this to the guy at whom I was presently pointing my gun. He was about as tall as me, although not as dashing and roguish, and probably didn’t look as good in a sweater vest. His neck was unnaturally flat, which meant he was a fighter. Of course, that didn’t mean he was a good fighter. In fact, his flat nose was probably indicative that he was, indeed, a bad fighter.

  Anyway, both were swelling at different rates of speed. The first guy I’d punched was developing your typical shiner under his left eye, whereas the second guy—the guy I had pistol-whipped—was sporting a rapidly-swelling bloody gash over his right eye. In fact, his eye was nearly closed. Cindy would be horrified to see this side of me, the side that took care of business with his fists. Another reason why I had left Cindy at home with Spinoza and Junior, where she wouldn’t have to see this side of me.

  I suddenly fired a shot, aiming for the ground between them. Both jumped. Both nearly ran. Both stopped short when they next saw the gun pointed at their faces.

  “I missed,” I said. “This time.”

  The sound of the shot was still echoing through the mostly rocky canyon. I say mostly because there were some bent trees that I think were more cottonwoods, but I was hardly an expert.

  “We ain’t talking, so you might as well shoot one of us. Preferably, you shoot him.” This came from the guy with the cut over his right eye.

  “Fuck that,” said the other guy with the traditional shiner. “He ain’t paying me enough to deal with this shit. Look at my face, man. I have a fucking audition next week.”

  “You talk,” said the less-than-cooperative punk, “and it’s on you—”

  I pointed the gun at him. “Empty your pockets. Go on.”

  He did, and out came a set of keys that matched the car. I pocketed them. The police, I knew, would be here soon. No way had Ms. Green missed the gunshot. In fact, I was certain she was watching us now, or trying to watch us, since we were now mostly hidden behind the van.

  I told Thug #2 to go sit next to the car. He didn’t like the idea, and seemed about to protest, then went over and took a seat next to the Lincoln, sitting with his back against the tire, as dust drifted up around him.

  I looked back at the guy with the shiner, and said, “Now, talk.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  His name was Jimbo. Yes, Jimbo.

  I assumed it was his thug name. His hood name. His street avatar, as the kids might call it these days. I didn’t care. I didn’t need his real name, I just needed to know who hired him.

  He and Glock—yes, Glock—were both security guards in Los Angeles. They were doing security at an event at the Staples Center, home of the Lakers. I asked what event and he said some damn kids’ TV show. Something about Canadians. I nodded, although I smiled inwardly. A clue if I ever saw one. Anyway, he and Glock were working security when they were approached by a guy who offered them some side work.

  “Did you know him?”

  “No.”

  “What was this guy’s name?”

  “He didn’t give one.”

  I didn’t believe him but said, “Fine. Go on.”

  “Anyway, he asks if we are tough and we say yeah. He asks if we have any problem throwing someone around and scaring them. Me ‘n Glock sort of shrug, and he says we’re hired and that he had a job for us.”

  “What was the job?”

  “Like he said. Knock some people around a little. Intimidate them. You intimidated yet?”

  I almost smiled. “How did you two goofballs end up out here?”

  “He told us to come out here. That someone was asking around about some things that he didn’t need to know the answers to.”

  “Was that someone me?”

  He nodded. “It was you.”

  “You have this guy’s number?”

  “No.”

  “Whose guns are those?”

  He grinned again, and the blood was now mostly gone. “They’re props, you know? They ain’t real. We weren’t gonna, you know, actually hurt you.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “So, how did you know where to find me?”

  “The boss told us to watch this broad’s house, and to keep an eye on that Mexican place in town, that some big guy might show up with a limp. Except, you ain’t limping now.”

  “No,” I said. “Not now.”

  “So, we was at the Mexican place and we sees you coming in, asking a lot of questions.”

  “Sees?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Go on.”

  “Anyway, we sees you disappear with the owner for a while. And then you come back, look around, then look right at us. You sort of smiled and shot us with your finger...and then, you were gone. Glock was certain you were the guy we was told to look out for, except you wasn’t limping. Glock figures your limp was a fake or something. I says to him, ‘Why would someone fake a limp? And Glock says—”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Oh, right. So, we waited for you to leave, then waited a few more minutes, then decided to head up to the broad’s place we were told to watch.”

  “Tell me more about the guy who hired you.”

  “Like I said, he never gave us a name.”

  I pointed the gun at his foot...and fired about three inches from it. He leaped about as high as a man his size could leap, and was about to turn and run when I slammed him back up against the van. I get more dents that way.

  “Tell me his name, or the next shot goes through the top of your foot, and, yes, you will be the one limping. See how I brought that back into the discussion? The limping? Full circle. Synchronicity at its best.”

  Except I was pretty sure he wasn’t paying attention to me. The shot spooked him. Perhaps it had been too close. Perhaps he had thought he had really been shot. Either way, I had put the fear of God in him, which was what I wanted. The guy was harmless enough, but he had information I wanted...and needed.

  “Talk,” I said.

  He talked. And I got the name I wanted. Hollander. I told the guy to hand over his cell phone and he did. I scanned through his recent calls until I found three from an “Unknown.”

  “Is this Hollander?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I suspected no one was giving out their real names. I let it go. “You don’t know his number?”

  “No.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall, thin, wore a mustache. Baseball hat. Paid us cash. Told us there was a lot more where that came from if we didn’t screw it up.”

  I grinned at Jimbo. “I think you screwed it up,” I said.

  He nodded, looked down at the fresh hole in the hard-packed earth. “Ya think?”

  “Do you think you could possibly not screw up getting in that Lincoln and immediately driving back to L.A. where you belong?” I asked.

  I had never seen two busted-up guys move that fast.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Sounds like the guy was wearing a disguise,” said Cindy.

  I was back in my hotel suite, looking up at a pair of cobwebbed deer antlers. Someone had shot a perfectly good deer, and taken his perfectly good antlers, to stick them in a hotel room to collect cobwebs. Seemed a waste, if you ask me.

  “I agreed,” I said. “The guy in the bar was wearing a disguise, and so was the guy who hired the two thugs.”

  “Do you think it’s Freddie Calgary?”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” I said.

  We were silent some more. I could be silent with Cindy all day. We had an easy, comfortable, unhurried approach with each other...and life in general. That is, of course, when she wasn’t running late to one of her lectures, which she often was.

  Finally, she said, “Did you watch this evening’s TMZ?”

  “I might have missed it,” I said.

  “There was another Freddie sighting.”

  “Where?”

  “San Antonio again.”

  “When?”

&nb
sp; “I think yesterday, except, you know, TMZ isn’t exactly real news, so I don’t know for sure.”

  “Yet, you watch it anyway.”

  “It helps me relax,” she said. “Call it a guilty pleasure. Is your next stop the Alamo?”

  “I’m leaning in that direction,” I said, then thought hard about what I wanted to say next, nodded to myself, and plunged forward. “Something strange happened to me today, something I still haven’t wrapped my head around.”

  “Must be something big since—”

  “Don’t say it,” I said.

  “You have such a big head.”

  “Ugh, you said it.”

  She laughed. I laughed, too. One of my many sterling attributes is that I can laugh at myself. Lord knows, Cindy did often enough.

  “Tell me about it,” she said. “I haven’t heard you be this quiet in a while.”

  Cindy didn’t know about Jack. Few people knew about Jack. Truth was, I often wondered if Jack really existed. That maybe I made him up. That maybe I was losing my marbles...or had completely lost them.

  So, I began from the beginning. I told her about my first experiences with Jack. About how I had offered to buy him some McDonald’s lunch, and then, on a whim that I still don’t understand to this day, I invited him to sit with me.

  It had quickly become all-too apparent that Jack was much more than a bum. Jack, after all, seemed to have gentle advice for all of life’s problems. Even more, Jack knew more about me than anyone could possibly know. I quickly started thinking of him as God...and Jack never denied it, which I always found interesting.

  I told Cindy all of this and more, of mine and Jack’s many conversations, and of my suspicion that I thought he might be more than just a man. That he might be, in fact, God incarnate. Cindy, of course, asked if I had been drinking tonight. I assured her that, yes, I had been drinking—but not enough to make up a story like this.

  Cindy, who was, coincidentally, an expert on world religions, chewed on this for a while. I could almost sense her thoughts. She was wondering if I had lost my marbles. She was wondering if she should cut bait and run. She was wondering if the stress of my job had finally gotten to me and I should be institutionalized. Or maybe I was just being paranoid.

  While she thought it over, and, undoubtedly, decided the fate of our relationship, I said, “There’s more.”

  “More?” Her voice might have squeaked.

  “Yes. This morning, after my jog, I found myself in the Chapel of the Holy Rock.”

  “I’ve been there,” she said. “Magical.”

  “You have no idea,” I said. “Jack was there.”

  “Jack?”

  “Yes.”

  “The bum?”

  “Yes.”

  “The bum who might be more than a bum?”

  “Yes.”

  I could almost see her nod as she fell silent again. I was silent, too. Hearing the story come out of my mouth sounded crazy to my own ears. I had to digest it all over again.

  Finally, Cindy said, “Why was he there, Jim?”

  “To talk, I think. And to teach me something.”

  “Teach you what?”

  “How to heal myself.”

  “Do you know insane this sounds, Jim?”

  “I know,” I said. “But there’s more.”

  “I’m not sure I can handle more.”

  Outside, in the hallway, I heard people talking and walking together. A couple. She laughed a little. He did, too. I listened to their footsteps stop near my own door. They laughed some more, then I heard a door opening and closing. I knew that laughter. There was going to be some lovemaking going on tonight. Normally, this would be a thought that would lead me back to Cindy. Instead, I was thinking about my leg...and staring at the handful of nuts and screws that lay on my bedside table, shining under the lamplight.

  When the silence had stretched for as long as it could, I reached out and took hold of one of the screws, perhaps to remind me—and comfort me—that it had all really happened.

  I then told her about my leg.

  About the miracle.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “Jim,” she said, when I was finally done talking. “I can’t tell if you’re pulling my leg or not, no pun intended. I mean, you joke around a lot...”

  I was silent. The hotel was mostly silent. There was a small and unfortunate chance I heard the squeak of bedsprings from across the hall. Mostly, I let Cindy sort through her thoughts, her emotions, come to her own conclusions.

  She went on, even as the squeaking from across the hall got louder, “But you don’t joke about this kind of stuff. Making fun of Sanchez, yes. Making fun of the way I jog, yes. Making fun of iPads—”

  “I just don’t get them,” I said. “I mean, what the hell are they good for?”

  “Not now, Jim. Anyway, you don’t joke about this kind of stuff, usually. In fact, I didn’t know you were so spiritual.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “I’m a thug at heart.”

  “You can be thuggish, but you’re not a thug.”

  “That might just be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Let’s hope not. So, this man, Jack...he really appears to you at Jack-in-the-Box?”

  “McDonald’s. And yes, he really does.”

  “And you promise me you’re not messing with me?”

  “I promise.”

  “This is incredible.”

  “Say that to my leg.”

  “Your healed leg?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the bolts really just...came out?”

  “They really did.”

  “And they were clean and shiny?”

  “Clean and shiny.”

  “Are there scars on your leg?”

  “No scars.”

  “Will you show me the screws?”

  “As proof?”

  “Am I a bad person for wanting to see the screws?”

  “No,” I said. “I think I would want to see them, too. But mostly, you will see...”

  “Mostly, I will see you not limping anymore.”

  “Right,” I said. “No limping.”

  We were quiet some more, and now the hotel was mostly quiet, too, thank God. I could almost believe that Cindy was lying next to me, her hand on my stomach, her head on my shoulder, her breathing rhythmic and quiet, as her mind, undoubtedly, raced as she searched for answers.

  “Jim?” she said after a few minutes.

  “Yeah, babe?”

  “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s not a bad thing.”

  “No,” she said, “It’s a good thing.”

  “A very, very good thing,” I added.

  A few minutes later, her easy breathing turned into slightly deeper breathing. I said her name, once, twice, then lay back in my bed, with my arms behind my head, and soon fell asleep with her on the phone.

  I waste more cell minutes that way.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  It was early the next morning and I was jogging.

  It’s something I do almost every morning, although usually with great effort and with great pain. The great pain was gone now, minus the slow burn that permeated my muscles.

  This morning, I was jogging faster than normal. Turned out I could keep a nice pace when I wasn’t wincing and groaning. Back when my leg was mostly ruined, which was only a day ago, although it felt longer, it would have been easy to not jog. To just lie on my couch and get fat and feel sorry for myself. But I rarely felt sorry for myself. Just the opposite. I was often happy to be alive, happy to be me, bum leg or not.

  The streets of Sedona were quiet at this hour as the eastern sky brightened with the coming day. As the sky brightened, the surrounding rock monoliths might have taken on a pinkish hue.

  I thought about my case. I had a respected investigator with the Sedona Police Department stating he’d seen the dead body. A doctor who happened to be on the scene
had proclaimed the young actor dead. Then again, it didn’t take much acting to act dead, did it? A little make-up. Maybe pay off the doctor, a doctor who was now conveniently dead.

  There had been no evidence of foul play. There had been multiple witnesses claiming that Freddie Calgary had complained of heart problems for some time. Feeling sick. No autopsy was performed, as his death was ruled from natural causes.

  We had a police witness. We had a doctor signing off on Freddie’s death. We even had a cremated body. By all rights, by all accounts, I should give up the investigation.

  And yet...

  Who had killed my client? And just one day after hiring me. And who had hired the two wannabe goons? Who had called Freddie’s mother, his agent, his sister and his friend? And why had Freddie been at Dr. Green’s residence a few days before his death? A personal check-up? Finally, who had been the man in the shades and mustache, the man who may or may not have slipped Dr. Green a mickey? And was that the same man who had hired the two goons?

  All good questions. Except it seemed like the more questions I asked, the more I didn’t know. I hate not knowing anything, especially when it came to my cases.

  One thing was certain, though: it all added up to a lot of weirdness.

  Still, I sensed that something was getting flushed out. Like a dog flushing out a rabbit from the bush. I sensed something was running…and was about to come out into the light of day. What that something was, or who, I didn’t know.

  Then again, maybe there was really nothing here. Maybe this was all a wild goose chase.

  Maybe.

  Also, there was probably a money trail that could be followed. Had I been a financial wizard, I might have been able to follow it all the way back to Freddie Calgary. Or not. Maybe he was just that clever. Undoubtedly he had set up bogus accounts, perhaps even around the world.

  Rarely was a private eye given access to financial records. Financial forensics were generally done officially, and usually by a team of federal agents.