He didn’t move and his eyes never left my face as he kept talking.
“Then I’ll explain. Right now, I got several jobs goin’, the primary one bein’ Knight’s. He’s a buddy of mine. He’s got an enemy who keeps gettin’ bested but won’t let his grudge go. Knight had some shit happen to his business because of this guy and he asked me to do him a favor. A favor he’s payin’ me to do. And that favor is find the man who infiltrated his business, injecting dope into it. This guy is doin’ a favor for the other guy who’s tryin’ to fuck with Knight. But when I find him, I won’t turn him and any evidence I have as pertains to his criminal activities into the police. I’ll deliver him to Knight and walk away. When I do that, what Knight does with this guy and the shit I give him is not my business. I just walk away. I always walk away.”
This didn’t sound good, either. In fact, it sounded worse, and the stuff before it already sounded bad.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know and was leaning towards not wanting to know, but still, I asked, “So this Knight person asks you to find someone. You find him and give him to Knight, he pays you in cash then your part is done?”
“Yep,” he answered.
“And you don’t just do this for Knight. It’s your job and you do it for other people?”
“Yep.”
“Is that legal?” I queried.
His body moved minutely. I almost didn’t catch it, but I did and then he sat there looking at me like he had been. No change, except I felt it.
He was tense.
“Strictly speaking,” he began, paused, then finished, “no.”
Oh God.
“I… you… is it…?” I stammered, pulled myself together and went on, “Are you telling me you’re engaged in criminal activities?”
The tension started pouring off him in waves, making me tense. Big time tense.
In fact, wired.
“Strictly speaking,” he began, paused, then finished, “yes.”
Oh God!
I’d put my plate on the coffee table, which was fortunate. It freed me to lift my feet to the seat of the couch and curve my arms protectively around my shins, hugging my legs to my chest.
Raiden’s eyes dropped to my posture. He closed them slowly, then opened them and looked at me.
“Told you yesterday, years ago, I tracked down my Dad. To this day, I don’t know how it came to me how to do it. We hadn’t heard from him in two years. He lived two hours away. I had no resources, no experience, no money, not that first fuckin’ thing to go on, and I was a minor. But it took me a week to find him. It just came natural, askin’ questions to the right people, bein’ smart about it, turnin’ over rocks. Same went for when I drove my ass up there and found his house empty. Didn’t know that town, didn’t know his MO. Still tracked his ass down at his bitches’ houses. Same went for me breakin’ in. Bought a lock at the hardware store, examined it, fucked with it for hours until I figured out how to pick it. All this came natural. Some people are good with numbers. Others good with their hands. I’m good with this shit.”
None of this made me feel any better.
Raiden wasn’t done sharing.
“I went into the Marines and I did it as a career choice. What I mean by that is I never intended to get out. Had no Dad who could help guide the way, never had any dreams of wantin’ to be a cop or a fireman or an astronaut. But I examined my life to that point and knew where I was comfortable. I figured I needed discipline and someone to guide me, tell me what to do. I was good on a team, playin’ sports, gettin’ coached. I thought that was a natural progression. Once I got a directive, if I was trained how to do it, I went all out. And I was right. At first, the Corps worked for me.”
His face changed, went hard and his eyes started burning.
“Then it didn’t,” he stated.
I understood why and understanding it killed me, but I stayed silent.
Raiden continued talking.
“I got out and remembered trackin’ Dad. Figured I’d be good at bounty hunting, better at it after what I learned in the Corps. So I looked into that. Didn’t like the way it played out. It was part of a system that was totally fucked. Lots of rules. Lots of paperwork. But absolutely no reason to any of it. It was a dysfunctional cycle. To be successful, I had to write bonds, put my own fuckin’ money on the line and live a life filled with lying scum, most of them intent on fuckin’ me over. A buddy from the Corps came to town. We went out for beer, I shared this shit with him, he told me about a man he knew named Deacon.”
When he stopped and didn’t carry on, I asked, “Deacon?”
“Bounty hunter, like I am now. But a cold motherfucker. A six foot two, two hundred twenty pound wall of sheer ice. He got into it like I got into it. His wife went missin’, the cops couldn’t find her, so he descended into a world that was not his to find her. What he found was that he fit in that world. It was on the periphery, but he had talents in it, he had a place, so he stayed.”