Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) (14 page)

The man who might be Poorjafar was a big guy
who lifted weights, and he stepped confidently out of the elevator,
swirling his key ring on his finger and whistling. I didn’t
recognize the song, but it had a sort of Bollywood feel to it. And,
for effect, Poorjafar stopped, did a little dance, turned
around—

And saw the hitman.

“Oh, shit,” said Poorjafar, stepping back,
startled.

Fuck Nut said nothing.

“Are you waiting for someone?” asked my
neighbor.

“You could say that,” said the hitman.

I knew something about assassins. They didn’t
like witnesses. They saw themselves as living outside the real
world; in fact it was a fantasy world of their construct, where
they were king and God, pronouncing life and death on mere
mortals.

The killer had just pronounced death on
Poorjafar.

There would be no witnesses tonight, if the
killer had his way.

I stepped out of the stairwell, losing my
element of surprise, my own gun hidden behind my back. “He’s
waiting for me,” I said.

Poorjafar turned. “Jeemmy! How you doing,
man?”

“Hey...hey.”

Poorjafar pointed at the man in the shadows.
“This is a friend of yours?”

The killer didn’t move, but his eyes wanted
to bug out of his skull. He shifted uneasily, but kept his gun out
of sight. I kept my eyes on him.

“He’s a recent acquaintance,” I said.

“Well, your acquaintance scared the shit out
of me.”

“Yeah, he likes to do that. Of course, it
doesn’t help that he’s such an ugly bastard.” I gave a big, fake
hearty laugh. The killer didn’t laugh. “Probably scared the shit
out of his own mother when he was born.”

Poorjafar laughed, and I could smell the
alcohol on his breath.

“Shit, Jeemmy. That was a low blow. He’s a
friend, man.”

“No, I’m not,” said the man. “I’m very much
not his friend.”

And he stepped sideways, keeping his hand
behind his back, and stepped into the elevator. He pressed a
button; the door closed. He pointed a finger at me and fired a
blank bullet. And he was gone. I went back for my beer, and
Poorjafar danced and whistled his way into his apartment.

41.

I was at East Inglewood High, my old high
school, practicing hitting drills with my even older high school
football coach. Twelve years ago I made a name for myself on this
field, where I was loved and worshipped. Isn’t football just
swell?

Coach Samson was a big black man, now in his
fifties, and I still feared him on some level. But more than fear,
however, was deep respect and admiration. He was more of a father
figure than my father.

“Jesus Christ, son, you still have it,” he
said.

Coach Samson was riding high on the back of a
padded hitting dummy. Currently he was getting a sleigh ride across
the football field, benefit of my churning legs and sweat. He had
agreed to go over the basic fundamentals, because I had been out of
football for seven years. And even a battle-scarred old war horse
like myself could always use some basic training.

He blew a whistle and I stopped, dropping to
my knees. We were alone on the varsity football field, although the
school marching band was practicing in an adjacent field. School
was still forty-five minutes from starting. The band, as far as I
could tell, was one hundred percent African-American.

I might have been the last white to come
through here.

Without his prodding, I got down into a
three-point stance, and then lunged forward, hitting the padded
dummy hard. Coach Samson held on, and I proceeded to push that
goddamn thing up and down the field.

The coach instructed and advised as I went,
reminding me to keep my head up and my back straight and to keep my
legs churning.

I churned and churned all morning long, and I
did not once think about Cindy, or that I had not heard from her in
two days. And I did not once think about Derrick or the hitman,
either.

Instead, I focused on football.

Sweet football.

A sport I had been born to play, a sport that
had been taken from me. But I was determined to reclaim it—and my
life.

Most of all, I tried to ignore the pain in my
left leg.

That endless goddamn pounding.

42.

My father’s offices are on the fifteenth
floor of a major LA skyscraper. I regretted the decision to walk
the stairs by the seventh floor. At the fifteenth floor, I found
the nearest bathroom and splashed water on my face and neck, then
headed through some heavy double doors. Above the door were the
words: KNIGHTHORSE INVESTIGATIONS.

A big, bald security guard was waiting behind
a desk. He was about fifty. His uniform was neatly pressed.
Probably a retired cop, or a retired colonel, a man who commanded
respect. I immediately disliked him, partly because he worked for
my father, partly because he was glaring at me.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a thick Boston
accent.

“You’re pretty big for a secretary,” I said.
“Do you also fetch the coffee?”

He frowned and his bushy eyebrows—the only
hair on his head—formed one long bristly line. “I’m not a
secretary.”

“I’m sorry. Is that not politically correct
these days? How about front desk technician? Is that better?”

He stared at me. The hairy caterpillar above
his eyes twitched.

“Waddya want?”

“Cooper Knighthorse. He’s the small guy with
the creepy eyes.”

“Yes, I’m aware of who he is.”

“So you agree he has creepy eyes?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I thought I would surprise him. Dad
always likes a good surprise. Take the time when I threw a brick
through the car window when he was screwing a neighbor’s wife in
the back seat.” I laughed heartily. “Let me tell you, good times
for one and all.”

“Dad?”

I nodded encouragingly.

“Mr. Knighthorse is your father?”

“I see you’re no slouch. In fact, you might
make a hell of a detective some day.”

He ignored me. “Didn’t know Coop had a
son.”

“Obviously, I’m his pride and joy,” I said.
“Now my father usually boffs his front desk engineers in the back
room. Perhaps you were unaware of your full job description.”

He made a move to stand up. “Don’t push it,
buddy.”

I leaned over the desk. “But pushing it is
what I do best.”

He was a big guy, maybe a little soft around
the middle. It would have been a hell of a fight if a voice hadn’t
come from my left. The voice belonged to my father. “He’s okay,
Reginald. He’s a hardass, but he’s okay.”

“Your kid has a big mouth.”

“Always has,” said my father.

I walked around the desk and smiled at
Reginald. “I’ll take cream and sugar in my coffee.”

43.

The entire fifteenth floor was occupied by my
father’s agency. His office was big, but not ornately so. There was
a leather executive chair with brass nail trim behind a black
lacquered desk. Piles of case folders everywhere, and from all
indications, business was booming. No surprise there. He sat and
motioned for me to do the same in one of his client chairs.

“Why you giving Reggie such a hard time?” my
father asked.

“Just making friends and influencing
people.”

On his desk, angled in one corner and
slightly pushed askew by an errant folder, was the picture of a
blond woman and a little boy. I had no idea who they were. A
different family, a different life. For all I knew the little boy
could have been my half brother.

“Tell me about the pictures,” I said.

He sat back in his chair and studied me
silently. His gaze was unwavering. So was mine. Through the open
window, in my peripheral vision, I saw a helicopter hover past,
then dart away like a curious hummingbird. I tried not to let it
distract me.

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know why you gave them to me
now.”

“I only discovered them a few years ago.”

“Why not give them to me then?”

“Because you were still working here as an
apprentice.”

“What does that matter?”

“You didn’t know what the hell you were
doing,” he said.

I smiled, realizing what he was getting at.
“You waited for me to become a detective.”

“Actually, I waited for you to become a good
detective.”

“So you think I’m good?” I hated the fact
that this news pleased me.

“That’s what I hear.”

“You’ve been checking up on me.”

He tilted his head toward me and shrugged. “I
hear things.”

“Meanwhile you just sat on these photos.”

He shifted in his chair and looked away.
“Yes.”

“Tell me more about the photos.”

“When I moved in with Candy,” he nodded
toward the blond on his desk, “I found them at the bottom of a box.
I flipped through, the first time I had ever done so. To be honest,
I don’t know when they were developed or when I picked them up.
Probably they were included with some other pictures, and got
forgotten.”

Something rose within me. Blood, anger,
revulsion, hatred. “These were pictures of your murdered wife taken
on the last day she was alive, the mother of your son, and they
were forgotten in the bottom of a box?”

“Those were tough times. I really didn’t know
my head from a hole in the ground.”

“Not a good analogy. Trust me you did just
fine in that department. Remember, I saw first hand.”

We were silent. I did my best to control my
anger. On the wall behind him was a picture of a lighthouse. His
paperweight was a lighthouse, as were his two bookends. Since when
did my dad like lighthouses? There was so much I didn’t know about
the man, and so much I didn’t care to know.

“They were fishing together, and one of them
appears to have taken an interest in the two of you.”

He sat back. “That’s how I see it.”

“It might have been more than an interest,” I
added.

“Perhaps. Could also be a coincidence.”

I said, “Any idea who Blondie is in the
picture?”

He shook his head sadly. “No.”

“Do you remember him?”

“Vaguely.”

“Were you aware that he had followed you back
to the store?”

“No.”

“Did you see him again at any other
time?”

“No.”

“Did you speak with him?”

“I think we did.”

“Do you recall what was said?”

“No, I don’t. I think I commented on the
shark.”

“Anything else?”

“Your mother made them laugh with the rabbit
ears. They thought she was funny.”

I digested this. “Since finding the pictures
two years ago, have you done anything—anything at all—to follow up
on your wife’s murder?”

More shifting, as if the plush leather chair
could possibly be uncomfortable. He motioned toward the files on
his desk. “I’ve been busy lately, too busy, you know....”

“Let me finish for you, father. You were too
busy making money to follow up on your wife’s murder. Too busy
solving other people’s problems to worry about a woman you never
truly loved.”

He shrugged.

I got up and walked around the desk and
looked down at him. I stood before him, breathing hard, blood
pounding in my ears.

“Do what you’ve got to do,” he said, “and get
the hell out of here.”

I backhanded him across the face. The force
of the blow almost sent him over the arm of his chair. He regained
his balance. A red welt was already forming on his cheek bone.
Blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, then trickled out. He
said nothing, did nothing, just watched me. His eyes were
passionless and empty. No, not empty. There was something there,
something deep within, something trying to climb up from the
unfathomable depths of his cold soul, but then he blinked and it
was gone.

44.

I was sitting next to a window drinking a
large iced vanilla coffee when he appeared in the parking lot from
behind a large truck. The day was hot, but he didn’t seem to mind
or notice his copious layers of clothing. In fact, he wasn’t even
sweating. Maybe he was God.

Once inside, he ordered a cup of coffee and
sat opposite me, carefully prying the plastic lid off and blowing
on his coffee. Finally, when appropriately cooled, he took a
sip.

“So where do you go when you’re not here
speaking with me?”

“Wherever I want.”

“And where might that be?”

“It’s not where you are, Jim, it’s how you
get there.”

“Wow, that’s nice. You should put that on a
bumper sticker.”

“Where do you think I got it?”

“Great, now God’s quoting bumper
stickers.”

“It’s an old truth, Jim.”

“The journey and all that,” I said.

“Yes, it’s about the journey,” he said,
sipping quietly and watching me with his brownish eyes.

“And what happens once you get there?” I
asked. “What happens once the journey is over?”

“That is for you to decide, my son. You can
stay there, or you can start a new journey.”

“A new journey?”

“Of course.”

“Are we talking reincarnation here?” I
asked.

“I don’t know,” said Jack. “Are we?”

“Does reincarnation exist?” I asked.

“The soul lives forever,” said the bum in
front of me as if he knew what the hell he was talking about. “But
the soul can choose many forms.”

“Okay, it’s too early in the morning for this
shit, Sorry I asked.”

“Apology accepted. But there’s a reason you
asked, isn’t there?”

There was, but I wasn’t sure I wanted the
answer. I put down my iced coffee and set it aside.