Jack sat back and held his coffee in both hands. His hands, I saw, were filthy. There was even dirt caked under his nails. God had dirt under his nails?
“Hurting others is a delicate business, Jim.”
“What do you mean, exactly?”
“Quite simply: do what you want to yourself. But the moment you cause harm to another—or discord of any type—you will need to reestablish a balance.”
I was about to stuff some fries in my mouth. I paused about an inch or two away from my mouth. “What, exactly, does that mean?”
“It means there’s a cause and effect in place, or a law of compensation.”
“You’re talking about karma,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, smiling at me. He always smiled. “Karma is another word for it.”
“Most people believe karma is a load of crap.”
“Karma works whether one believes it’s a load of crap or not.”
Now I smiled at hearing Jack say the word crap. “Kind of like the Law of Attraction.”
He nodded. “Yes, it’s always working. Always in place. Remember, every experience in life has a former cause. And every current experience will result in a future cause. I do not tell people how to live, but causing harm to another, or discord of any type, will be returned to you. It must be.”
“To re-establish a balance,” I said.
He nodded. “Right. One must experience what one causes another to experience.”
“Why?”
“It is the only way to true growth, Jim. Everyone must eventually understand what the effect of his own creation is upon the rest of the life in your world.”
“You said life,” I said. “You did not just say people.”
“Indeed,” he said.
“So if one causes harm to another living creature...”
“One is compelled to understand the effects of his harm...even on animals.”
“Who compels?” I asked.
He smiled again. “The laws of the Universe, Jim.”
“And who put these laws into place?”
“Perhaps,” he said, winking. “That can be a question for another time.”
Chapter Thirty-four
I was in my office with Junior when the phone rang.
He was lying on a doggie bed near my chair. Now that he had come out of the closet, he didn’t want to leave my side. I didn’t blame him. Being by my side was a good place to be.
Junior jumped at the sound, and then settled down again. His paws were healing. Only a slight discoloration now showed in the fur. I had spent the bulk of my morning sitting by the doggie bed and brushing out his fur, although sometimes I had to cut the knots out, too. He was a true ragamuffin. Part poodle, part long-haired terrier, part anything mangy and not very cute.
Except, to me, he was cute as can be.
I picked up the phone on the third ring. “Knighthorse.”
“Is this Jim Knighthorse?”
“Would be a hell of a coincidence.”
“Yeah, right.” There was a pause. The guy on the phone was young, maybe twenty. Sounded like a surfer dude. “I, um, have one of your flyers.”
I sat up a little. “What about it?”
“Look, I have some information about Mitch Golden. But no cops, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Are you free now?” he asked.
“As a bird,” I said, and we made arrangements over the phone where to meet. When we hung up, I looked down at Junior. “You up for a road trip?”
* * *
With Junior waiting in the van’s front seat, surrounded by treats and chew toys, I met Ryan Wiseman in a trendy bar in Costa Mesa. By trendy, I meant uncomfortable and not very cozy. From the metal counter down to the backless stools. I mean, give a brother something to lean on. After all, something has to keep the drunks upright. Anyway, the floor was wood, which was okay, but I wasn’t sure about the ladder that reached up to the more expensive drinks high above the bar. A ladder? If I want a drink, I want it now. I don’t want to wait for some goofball to climb up and down a ladder.
“Great bar, huh?” said Ryan. Ryan was a little older than I had pictured. He was maybe thirty and sported a long, scraggly goatee that was all kinds of filthy. He wore stained cargo shorts and a stained tee shirt, and it looked like I was picking up the tab. Again.
“Maybe the greatest ever,” I said.
“No shit, huh?”
“No shit.”
Ryan was drinking a dark beer that had about an inch of head still on it. The bartender came by and asked what I wanted and I said a stool with a back on it and he laughed. I didn’t laugh. Since the stool wasn’t going to happen, I ordered a Foster’s because I liked their commercials.
As I ordered, I noticed Ryan looking me over. He nodded, seemingly impressed. “Jesus, you’re huge.”
“I am huge,” I said. “And don’t call me Jesus.”
He blinked hard, and his goatee quivered. Hell of a blink. Then he started nodding and his goatee flapped in nine different directions. “I get it. From Airplane. Man, I love that movie.”
My beer came and I took a healthy pull from it. This was beginning to feel like a bad date. A mandate. Time to get to business.
“You called me about the flyer,” I said, and I was beginning to wonder if the guy was just here for the free beer.
Ryan nodded eagerly, yet his goatee somehow flapped sideways, which defied logic and gravity. I was certain he was on something. Or maybe his goatee was.
“Yeah, man. A buddy of mine over at Pipeline had this flyer in his backpack. And I was like...whoa! I know this dude!”
“How do you know him?”
“He’s the candy man.”
“Candy man?”
“You know...jive sticks.”
“Jive sticks?”
“Puff the magic dragon, broheim. The wacky terbacky.”
“Marijuana,” I said. “You’re saying Mitch was your supplier.”
Now Ryan began shaking his head. “He was more than a supplier, dude bro. He was a man with a vision.”
“What kind of vision?”
“The big picture, mister. He didn’t just sell the love weed...he sold dreams.”
“Sure he did,” I said. “And what’s the big picture?”
“Life, man. Living. Live and let live. His money didn’t just line his pockets.”
“Where did it go?”
“To the cause, boss. Mitch Golden was a good guy, with a big heart. He sold the jolly green to help the little guys.”