“So as not to attract attention.”
“Perhaps.”
“So you appeared in just such a way.”
“Yes.”
“Or maybe you are just a bum, after all.”
“Maybe. Either way, you are getting something out of this, am I right?”
I looked at the man. We were sitting opposite each other at the back of the restaurant. At the moment, we were the only two people in McDonald’s.
“Yeah, I’m getting something out of it, although I’m not sure what, and I still don’t know why you’ve come into my life.”
“You asked me into your life.”
“When?”
“The day I first arrived.”
I was shaking my head, but then I remembered that day: The twentieth anniversary of my mother’s murder. I had spent a good deal of that day cursing God.
“You asked me to come down and face you,” said Jack. “I believe you wanted to fight me.”
“Yes,” I said. “I was very angry.”
“And so I came down not to fight you, but to love you, Jim Knighthorse.”
“You do this for everybody?”
“Not so dramatically, but often, yes.”
“Why me?” I asked.
“Why not?”
I was drinking a Coke. Big, bubbly Coke that was the perfect combination of carbonation, ice and cola. Damn. I love Coke.
“I miss my mother,” I said.
“I know, but she has been with you every day of your life.”
I suspected that, but didn’t say anything about it now.
“You know who killed her?” I asked.
The man in front of me-the bum in front of me-nodded once.
“Her case is unsolved,” I said.
He watched me carefully.
“And I’m going to solve it,” I said. “Someday.”
“Yes,” he said, “you will.”
“And when I do, I’m going to kill whoever killed her.”
Jack said nothing, although he did look away.
23.
I was sitting with my hands behind my head and feet up on one corner of my desk. This is a classic detective pose, and I struck it as often as I could. Mostly because it was a good way to take a nap without appearing to do so. I did my best to keep my shoes off the desktop’s gold tooled leather.
There was a knock on my office door. Thanks to Fuck Nut, I kept the door locked these days. I took out my Browning, held it at my hip and opened the door.
The man I found standing before me was perhaps the last person I expected to see. Hell, I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in two years. It was my father. His name was Cooper Knighthorse.
He studied me for a few seconds, then looked coolly at the gun in my hand. “You could scare off clients with that thing.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not a client, and someone’s sicced a hitman on my ass.”
He stood easily six inches shorter than me, which put him around five ten. His shoulders were wider than mine, and he had freakishly large hands, hands which had pummeled my backside more than once. But it was his eyes that drew one’s attention. Ice cold and blue. Calculating and fearless. Devoid of anything living. Eyes of a corpse.
He smiled slowly, the lips curling up languidly. When most people smile their eyes crinkle, giving them crow’s feet over time. My father would never have to worry about crow’s feet. His eyes didn’t crinkle. Hell, they didn’t know how to crinkle. When he smiled, as he did now, it was only with the corners of his mouth. Needless to say, the smile radiated little warmth.
“Well,” he said. “Are you going to invite me in?”
I stepped aside and he moved past me smoothly, carrying himself easily and lightly. He stepped into my four hundred square foot office which paled in comparison to the monster he oversaw in L.A. He stood in the middle of the room, surveying it slowly, taking in the pint-sized refrigerator on one wall, the well-stocked trophy case adjacent to it, my sofa, the sink, and finally the desk.
His assessment was over embarrassingly quick. He turned to face me with no emotion on his face. Did he approve of the place? Or not? Was he proud of his only son, or disappointed? Impossible to tell. Did I need his approval? Impossible to tell. But probably, and it galled me to admit it.
He was wearing a western-style denim shirt and khaki carpenter pants with a hammer loop. There was no hammer in the loop. His evenly-distributed silver hair was perfectly parted to one side. He was the picture of fitness and vitality, health and ruggedness. Just don’t look at the eyes.
“So,” he said, “who wants you dead?”
I stepped around him, slipped into my leather seat and motioned toward the Mr. Coffee. He shook his head and eased himself down carefully into one of the three client chairs. The chair, which usually creaked, didn’t creak this time.
“Someone wants me to back off a case.”
“Any idea who that someone is?”
“Not yet.”
“Would be good to know that. Better for your health. Who’s the hitman?”
“Older guy, wears a hoop earring. Hell of a shooter. Eyes like a shark.” I neglected to say: eyes like yours.
My father leaned back a little and allowed his cold eyes to spill across my face. They settled on my damaged ear. “He do your ear?”
“Yes.”
“He’s one sick motherfucker.”
“You know him?”
“Runs a kiddie porn magazine. Would be good for society if he disappeared.” He paused. “I can take care of him.”
“No.”
He studied me for a moment. I refused to turn away from his gaze. “Is he a better shooter than you?” he asked.
“We’ll find out.”
“Or you can just drop the case,” said my father. “And he’ll leave you alone.”
“Or not.”
He smiled. “Or not.”
We sat together in silence. Muted street sounds came through the closed window. My refrigerator kicked on and hummed away. My father lifted his gaze without moving his head and scanned the wall behind me. He was looking at the pictures, the articles, the bullet holes in the wall. I could kiss my security deposit goodbye.
