J Rain: The Mummy Case

“Yes,” I said.

“But you didn’t.”

“No, not this time.”

Cindy took my hands and held them in hers. “I love you, you big oaf.”

“Yes, I know,” I said.

The morning sun was shining at an angle through the window behind me. My feet were up on the corner of my antique desk, careful of the gold-tooled leather top. I was reading from my football scrapbook, which dated back to my high school years. The binder was thick and battered, filled with hundreds of yellowed newspaper clippings. I read some of the articles, sometimes even blushing. People can say the nicest things. I was a different man back then. Of course, I had been nothing more than a kid, but I could see it in my eyes in some of the pictures. I was arrogant, smug, and cocky. Football came easy to me. Grades came easy. Girls came easy. Life was good, one long party in those days. No wonder I missed those days to some degree. Now I’ve come to realize that there is more to life than football, and it has been a hard lesson to learn. In fact, I’m still learning it, every day.

As usual, I closed the scrapbook just before I got to the last game of my senior season at UCLA. I knew all too well what happened in the last game. I had a grim reminder of it every time I stood.

Outside the sky was clear, a balmy sixty-four, according to my internet weather ticker. Southern California’s version of a crisp fall day. Brrr.

I put the scrapbook back in the desk’s bottom drawer, within easy reach for next time. I next brought up the internet and went immediately to eBay, and saw that my signature was now selling for two dollars and twenty-five cents. I put in a bid for two-fifty. Next I checked my email and saw one from Cindy. In it, she described in jaw-dropping detail what she was wearing beneath her pantsuit. I flagged the message for later reference.

Two hours later, when I was done goofing around on the internet, I was ready for real work. In the Yahoo search engine I typed “Sylvester the Mummy” and up popped a half dozen articles written mostly by historians.

I didn’t learn anything new. One forensic expert determined Sylvester had probably been twenty-seven at the time of his death. Officially, he had died from a single gunshot wound to the stomach. Not much there to go on.

Of the dozen or so articles, one name popped up more than once: Jarred Bloomer, official historian for the Rawhide Ghost Town Museum. He called himself the world’s greatest expert on Sylvester the Mummy.

It’s always nice to be good at something.

I knew from my interview with Detective Sherbet that Bloomer and his assistant were the last two people to see Willie Clarke alive. If I’ve learned one thing as a P.I., it’s to take note when a name appears more than once in a case.

I sat back in my chair, laced my fingers behind my head. Perhaps it was time to visit Rawhide and Jarred Bloomer.

But first a little nap. Detecting was hard work.

I was dozing in that very same position when I heard a deep voice say: “Get off your lazy ass, Knighthorse. It’s the middle of the day.”

I knew that rumbling baritone anywhere, for I hear it in my dreams and sometimes even in my nightmares.

Standing before me was Coach Samson, my old high school football coach.

From his oversized calves to his bright green nylon coach’s jacket he always wore, Coach Samson exuded coachness. He filled the client chair to its capacity, as he did all chairs unfortunate enough to cross paths with his profuse posterior. His skin was a black so deep it sometimes appeared purple. Then again I’m color blind, so what did I know?

Coach Samson looked around the office, breathing loudly through his wide nostrils. I could hear his neck scraping against the collar of his coach’s jacket.

“You think pretty highly of yourself, Knighthorse.” His voice was gritty and guttural. It came from deep within his barrel chest, able to reach across football fields and high into stadiums.

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Those were good memories. If you look hard enough at the picture over my right shoulder, the one with two bullet holes in it-don’t ask-you can even see yourself.”

He leaned forward, squinting. “All I see is someone’s belly.”

“Yes, sir. Your belly.”

He shook his head, and continued his slow inspection of the office. “What happened with the offer from the San Diego Chargers?”

I knew that question was coming. I had spent last summer preparing for a return to football, strengthening my injured leg, only to realize the passion to play was gone.

“I decided football had passed me by.”

His gaze leveled on me. I shifted uncomfortably. “You could have made their squad, Knighthorse. They were desperate for a fullback. Hell, they still are.”

“I’m a good detective.”

“Any idea what the minimum salary is in the NFL?”

“Probably a little more than my fee.”

“What is your fee?”

I told him.

He grunted. “People actually pay you those fees?”

“Lots of people out there want answers. I give them answers.”

He shifted in the seat. The chair creaked. If the subject wasn’t football, Coach Samson grew uncomfortable. “So it wasn’t about the money.”

“No.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“I have a life here. I’m good at what I do. I’m a different man than when I was twenty-two.”

We were silent. I wondered why he was here.

“Do you miss football?” he asked.

“Yes and no. I don’t miss the pain.”

“You want to come back?”

There it was.

“Depends in what capacity.”

“How about the capacity as my assistant coach. The team has fallen on hard times. We’re halfway through the season and we need a spark.”

“You think I can be the spark?”

He leveled his hazel eyes on me. “Stranger things have happened,” he said. “It’s not full time, Jim. I know you’re busy with…whatever the hell it is you do here. Show up when you can, once, twice a week. Be there for the games Friday nights.” He paused, looked down. “I have no money for you, though. Strictly volunteer.”

Inglewood High barely had enough to pay his salary.

I didn’t have to think about it. “Would be an honor.”

“Practices start at two. Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

Sanchez and I were at the 24-Hour Fitness in Newport Beach. I liked going there because they were always open, except Friday and Saturday nights, in which they closed at 10 p.m.

“You see,” I was saying, as we were doing dumbbell lunges, “they’re only open twenty-four hours a day five days a week.”

Sanchez said, “Will you give it a rest.”

I set the dumbbells down. We were using sixty-pound weights. Sanchez picked them up and began his set, lunging his ass off.

I said, “Should be something like: 24-Hour Fitness Some Days, 6 a.m.-10 p.m. Other Days.”

“Catchy,” said Sanchez.

“But accurate.”

“Not all 24-Hour Fitness close early on the weekends,” he said. “And not all of them close at ten, some close at eleven.”

“Then the name change should be on an establishment by establishment basis.”

“That would be chaotic.”

“But accurate.”

Sanchez shook his head. He finished his lunges, and placed the dumbbells back on the dumbbell rack. He said, “When are we going to start using the seventies?”

“When you get strong enough for the seventies.”

“Hell, I’ve been waiting for you.”

We moved over to the squat rack, and used every available plate we could find. The bar sagged noticeably. People were now watching us. At least two of those people were handsome women.