Chapter Fourteen
I was driving south along Seal Beach Boulevard, and when I made a right turn, I literally left behind Orange County and entered a whole new world.
Leisure World.
Before me was a massive, revolving globe, which was kind of fitting. I waited in line behind some shuttle buses, and when my turn came to approach the security gate, the world’s oldest security guard came out sporting a clipboard and a frown.
“Who’re you here to see?” he asked.
“Poppie,” I said.
“Poppie who?”
“Just Poppie.”
“You don’t have a last name?”
“That’s all she gave me.”
“What’s your business here?”
“I’m going to apprehend a flasher.”
“A what?”
“A flasher. A man who reveals his genitalia to women. Or a woman who reveals herself to men, although I’ve never been so lucky.”
He looked down at his list, looked at me, and then asked me to pull around and park. I did as I was told. A minute or two later, I found myself sitting in an old office that could have doubled as an interrogation room.
Shortly, another man appeared. He was wearing the same security outfit, but this one had bars on the sleeves. A captain security guard. I nearly saluted. He asked to see my private investigator license and I gave it to him. He studied it closely and left the office. I heard a copy machine whir on. I next heard him typing on a computer, and about five minutes later, he came back in. He handed back my license, sat in a squeaky chair behind the simple wooden desk. He introduced himself as Tony Hill. He smelled like Old Spice and sweat.
“You check out,” said Tony Hill.
“That’s a relief.”
“Your license is in good standing with the state, and there are currently no complaints against you.”
“Today must be my lucky day.”
“I Googled your name. Are you the same Jim Knighthorse who played for UCLA?”
“One and the same.”
“I hate UCLA.”
“Those are fighting words.”
He sat back and studied me. I often wondered what people thought about when they studied me. Impressed? Terrified? Envious? All of the above?
“I don’t like you,” he finally said.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “Most guys don’t like me. They tend to feel inferior. Less than a man. Especially if their ladies are around. It’s hard to measure up.”
He didn’t move a muscle. His stomach was mostly flat and he had some muscle around his shoulders. If I had to guess, I would say he was in his sixties. Finally, he said, “You think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?”
“Compared to a charging rhino? Not so much. Compared to you, I think the answer is obvious. But if you want, we can duke it out old-school style. Throw on some gloves. Or better yet, dueling pistols.”
He shook his head and a grin might have appeared on his lips. “You’re a cocky son-of-a-bitch.”
“I might have heard that once or twice. The thing is, I can back it up.”
He rubbed his smooth jaw. “I don’t have to let you in, Mr. Knighthorse. I have guys working on this case now. Except...”
“Except the flasher is still out there.”
“Fucking pervert. Got all the women here up in arms. The park president is breathing down my neck.”
“You could use the help,” I said.
He got up, stepped out of the room, and came back with a visitor’s pass. “Just try not to cause too many problems.”
“Me? Never.”
“And let’s catch this old pervert, okay? He’s making my life a living hell.”
“We can’t have that,” I said.
“You have free rein in the park. Talk to whomever you want. I trust you will be discreet.”
“Discreet is my middle name. Well that and Badass, of course.”
He shook his head and waved me off, and I happily left, clipping my visitor’s badge to the sleeve of my tee shirt.
Chapter Fifteen
Driving in Leisure World is an adventure.
I was adventuring now, trying to make sense of street signs, seemingly random crosswalks, painted road markers with arrows pointing to nowhere. All designed to make driving easier, but only serving to make things messier.
There were no less than 22,000 “15 MPH” speed limit signs, all of which were distributed evenly along the side of the road every few feet or so. At a stop sign—a stop sign, mind you, that was actually posted between the lanes—I pulled up next to one of the many security guards sitting in what appeared to be a luxury golf cart. I rolled down my window.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He looked at me. “Yeah?”
“What’s the speed limit here?”
“Fifteen miles per hour.”
“Thank you, Officer.”
He nodded and seemed about to say something; no doubt something to the effect of not being an officer. But he must have liked the title because he nodded again, flipped down his shades, and pulled forward slowly.
At 15 MPH, no doubt.
I somehow found Poppie’s address, and parked in what I assumed was a designated visitor parking space, but it could have been another of the thousands of shuttle pick-up areas. Soon, I was rapping on her door.
“Who is it?”
“Not the flasher,” I said.
She opened the door, blinking into the afternoon sun, which was hanging somewhere above my shoulder. “Oh, heavens, I’m just a nervous wreck whenever someone comes to my door these days. Please come in, Mr. Knighthorse.”
Poppie was tough but sweet. No one should ever be a nervous wreck when answering their door. Especially not a Knighthorse client. I wondered if she knew just how good of hands she was in.
Poppie’s little apartment home, or whatever they call these bungalows here at Leisure World, was about as cute as cute can be. Dolls were everywhere. Antique dolls. Modern dolls. Creepy dolls. Dolls that I was certain were staring at me. They lined shelves and bookcases and even sat along the piano keys. Three glass display cases were lined along one wall. The dolls in these cases seemed particularly old...and particularly creepy.
“I have a bit of a thing for dolls,” she said apologetically, although she looked lovingly at one particularly big Raggedy Ann doll that was slumped on top of a hardback copy of Michener’s Alaska. Hell, I could have slumped on top of Michener’s Alaska. A beast of a book, which is why it took me six months to read it.