Dark Rain: 15 Short Tales (12 page)

“You
think
?”

“Yes.”

“His last name?”

“I don’t know. These guys don’t use last names.”

“Did you see him get shot?”

“No, I told you! I heard the shot. That’s when I ran. I figured I was next.”

“You ran all the way to Huntington Beach?”

“No. I ran to someone’s unoccupied RV and broke in. I holed up and called a friend from inside it. It was freaking hot in there. He picked me up and took me to West L.A.”

“Go on.”

“I stayed with my friend in Culver City for a few days, but he was scared. He dropped me off here.”

I nodded. “Lucky me. Who’s your friend?”

“An old drug connection. When my money was gone, he told me to leave.”

“Did you shoot up on my couch?”

She didn’t reply.

was at a place called Smokey’s.

It wasn’t much of a place, but it served beer, so it couldn’t have been that bad. I sat in the shadows at the short end of an L-shaped bar, my back to the wall. I think I might have been a cowboy in a past life. And a knight, of course. And, if I went back far enough, probably a barbarian, too. I could imagine myself on a horse, with a broadsword strapped to my back, wearing a loincloth, doing whatever the hell it was barbarians did. Probably kicking a lot of ass and drinking grog. Yeah, that sounded like me.

“You want another beer?” asked the bartender, who might have been Charles Manson’s twin, minus the crazy eyes.

“Do you think I’d make a good Viking?” I asked.

“You want another fucking beer or not?”

“Sure, matey,” I said. Yeah, I was definitely a pirate, too.

“You giving Stones a hard time?” said a voice coming toward me on my right, a voice that belonged to a young, blond guy with longish hair, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. That the black tee sported a white skull with red devil horns was a given. Although Michael weighed a buck-sixty, dripping wet, he was a tough little dude that might—
might
—give even me a problem.

“Stones?” I said.

“Yeah, Stones.” Michael sauntered up to me and clasped my hand and arm in a firm grip in a long-time-no-see bro shake. He smelled of hard liquor and cigarettes and probably weed, too. Mixed with all of that was a touch of body odor and cologne and bike grease. He smelled, basically, like a real man. He added, “I think the name refers to his balls, or lack thereof.”

“Lost them in the war?”

“What war, Knighthorse?”

“Seemed like the thing to say.”

Michael shook his head and raised his finger, a gesture that Stones saw instantly.

“Lost them to cancer, Knighthorse.”

“What was his name before?”

“Phil.”

I nodded, picked up the last of my first beer. “I like Stones better.”

“Most do.” Michael reached for his beer. If Stones knew we were talking about him, he didn’t show it. Michael drank deeply, then glanced at me. He was a young guy, no more than twenty-five. But he had seen much, done much, and talked about even less. What I knew about him was enough to impress even me. “So, what’s going on, Knighthorse?”

“Thanks for meeting me. I have a Devil’s Triangle question. I assume you’re still affiliated.”

Michael gave me a wry smile, one that suggested that I had said something very stupid. “I’m in for life, Knighthorse. We all are.”

“Can I see the tattoo again?” I asked.

“This ain’t show-and-tell, big guy.”

“I have my reasons.”

He leaned over and showed me the inside of his arm, revealing the tat I had seen a few years back, when I’d first met him on one of my investigations. An investigation, in which he had been witness to a murder he still wouldn’t speak about. The tat was, of course, the same one that graced Camry’s forearm. A triangle with a laughing devil in the middle. It always looked creepy as hell.

I told him about Camry. Steel Eye and J-Bird, too. As I did so, I bought Michael another beer.

“So, you think buying me two beers is enough to get me to spill my guts about my brothers?”

“I think it’s enough for you to help me out, in whatever capacity you deem appropriate.”

He thought about what he wanted to say. “There are lots of charters,” he said. “The Devil’s Triangle is wide and far-reaching. Hell, we even have charters in Europe and South America.”

“Everyone wants to be an outlaw.”

“We’re not outlaws, Knighthorse. At least, not officially.”

“Fine. And unofficially?”

“Unofficially, we make ends meet.”

“Drugs, prostitution, theft?”

“The list goes on and on. You don’t join the Devil’s Triangle because you’re a good guy wanting to do good things in the world.”

“Why did
you
come to the DT?” I asked, using the common reference to the Devil’s Triangle.

“Because I wanted to party. Because I wanted to be free. Because I wanted to give the finger to the establishment. Because I wanted to live hard, fight hard, party hard.”

“Are we partying hard now?” I asked.

“Not now, Knighthorse. But I can take you to one of our parties. Hell, you just might fit in.”

“Maybe another time.”

“We’re always around, Knighthorse. Always ready to party.”

“Does the partying begin after you guys get off work, and end at a sensible hour?”

Michael, with his steel-blue eyes, broken nose, a scar over his right eye, and chipped front tooth, looked at me briefly, then threw back his head. “Never, Knighthorse. Just hearing those words…work and sensible… Damn, that sends a shiver.”

“Nothing wrong with an honest day’s work.”

“And nothing wrong with living free, Jim.”

“Freedom is relative,” I said. “You’ve been to jail three times.”

“Never said there wasn’t a price to pay for life lived on the fringe.”

“I’m leaning toward that we might have different outlooks on life.”

“Maybe not so different, Knighthorse. You work as a private eye. For yourself. You take the jobs as they come to you, work your own hours, when you want to.”

“I work where the job takes me. Like here.”

He laughed again. “This isn’t work, Knighthorse. This is living, bro.”

“Kind of feels like work.”

He laughed again and slapped me on the shoulder as he stood. “So what, exactly, do you want from me, Jim?”

“I want to talk to Steel Eye. I want to know about the guy he killed.”

He looked at me long and hard with those steely eyes. He might have been smaller than me, but he oozed toughness. I oozed toughness, too, but I didn’t think Michael cared. Instead, he seemed to be weighing how much of a friend I was compared to the amount of shit he might find himself in by helping out.

Finally, he nodded. “I’ll see what I can do, Jim.” He patted me on the shoulder and left me with the bill.

Yeah, it definitely felt like work.

t was late and we were both in bed, but not together. I hate when that happens. Instead, Cindy and I were on the phone.

“Did you say her name was Camry?”

“I did, yes.”

“I’ve owned two Camrys,” said Cindy.

“Nothing to be proud of.”

“They were good cars.”

“Still nothing to be proud of.”

“And she’s sleeping in your living room?”

“She is, yes.”

“And she paid your standard retainer fee?”

“She did not.”

“Then what, exactly, did she pay?”

“Nothing.”

“And you took her case?”

“I did, yes.”

“But she broke into your office.”

“She did, yes.”

“And she is an admitted thief and drug addict?”

“Yes and yes.”

“And you’re still going to help her?”

“Thieves and drug addicts need help, too. Now, you want to start the phone sex or shall I?”

She ignored me. “Is she cute?”

“Is that relevant?”

“It is, if she’s sleeping down the hall and I’m sleeping over here.”

“Both good points.”

“Well?”

“She is not you,” I said. “So, therefore, she is not my type.”

“But she is pretty?”

“In a non-standard way.”

“She looks strung out, you mean?” said Cindy.

“She does, yes. You have nothing to worry about. As they say, I only have eyes for you.”

“You’re helping her because she’s a woman in need.”

“A human being in need,” I corrected.