Dying for the Highlife (16 page)

Lou was pleasantly surprised when a week later the company got a hit on Jimmy’s number. He was even more pleased when Jimmy’s position was pinpointed to a location only a few minutes from Lou’s office: the casino floor of Harrah’s in South Lake Tahoe. Lou called the hotel desk at Harrah’s and confirmed Jimmy was checked in.

He rang John Homestead the evening he learned of Jimmy’s bearing, then headed to Harrah’s the next morning. The hotel manager, a woman in her late forties, was a good friend of Lou’s—actually more than a good friend. They’d had a serious fling a few years back, and still got together every now and again, for dinner, and sometimes a romp in the sack. So it had been relatively easy for Lou to convince her to provide Jimmy’s room number.

The jingle of the phone at nine
A.M.
woke John Homestead out of a dead sleep. The bed at Harrah’s was very comfortable, and if not interrupted, he might have slept until noon.

“Lou Calgaretti here, Mr. Homestead. Are you ready to meet with your son?”

John pushed his heavy frame up and dressed as quickly as he could. He rushed downstairs and met Lou in the lobby.

“Just bring me to his room,” John said.

“Of course.”

“I’ll need a little time to talk things over with him. Maybe an hour or two. I’ll call as soon as I’m ready to pay you.”

“We would hope today, Mr. Homestead.”

“Yeah, we would hope.”

They took the elevator to the top floor, where Jimmy was staying in a penthouse suite. John knocked on the door. After half a minute, he knocked again.

“Who is it?” The voice was muted, thick with sleep.

“It’s John…your father, Jimmy.”

The door opened an inch. “You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Jimmy said.

“It’s me, son.”

Jimmy opened the door and let John into the suite. Jimmy was wearing boxers and a T-shirt. His long blond hair was a tangle, and there were dark circles under his blue eyes. The unshaven skin on his face looked slack. Wrinkle lines from the sheets creased his cheek.

“I’m sorry to wake you.”

“That’s all right. Excuse me,” Jimmy mumbled. He went into the bathroom, urinated loudly, and brushed his teeth. After splashing water on his face, he paused and looked in the mirror. He looked like shit. But so did his old man. Jimmy smiled at the irony. But his mouth quickly turned downward. Why was his father here? And what would he say to him, to this person he hadn’t seen in fifteen years?

John Homestead was standing in the middle of the suite when Jimmy came out of the bathroom. “What brings you to these parts?” Jimmy asked, figuring that was as good a place to start as any.

John sputtered a bit. Now that he’d found Jimmy, he felt confused and uncertain. The years that had passed since they last saw each other made it awkward. John realized at that moment he didn’t know the man standing in the room with him.

“I realize I wasn’t the best of parents,” he said finally.

Jimmy didn’t know how to reply to that. He didn’t harbor any animosity toward his father; if he once had, it was long forgotten. But he was beginning to feel pretty weird about his old man showing up out of the blue, just the day after his stepmom did.

The room was dark, and John pulled open the heavy drapes, letting light pour into the suite. Jimmy sat on the couch, and John looked at him, his remaining son, now a full-grown man in his thirties. He looked like a stranger, but when Jimmy looked up at him with his blue eyes, John felt his heart sink. Jesus, it was his little boy, the same kid he had played with and bought birthday presents for, back in the days from the Super 8 films, back when both Jimmy and his brother Marty were sweet, playful kids. It seemed a lifetime ago. A huge sense of paternal love and regret overwhelmed John. How could he have allowed his own flesh and blood to simply disappear from his life?

A deep well of emptiness in his chest, John’s eyes filled with tears. Jimmy stared at him, puzzled.

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy,” John said. He sat on the couch and put his arm around Jimmy’s shoulders and hugged his son.

After years of drifting from town to town, and having almost no contact with anyone from his youth, Jimmy was stunned by the affectionate gesture. His adult life had been mostly void of anything resembling compassion. Love was a concept Jimmy thought was probably bullshit, something the masses contrived to convince themselves their daily existence had some special meaning. The closest Jimmy ever came to being in love was when he was with the different women he slept with. But that emotion always faded once the passion of the sex subsided.

Jimmy hugged his father back—he didn’t know what else to do. Then he saw tears streaming down John’s face, and the strangest damn thing happened. He felt his own eyes well up, and a weight in his stomach rose to his chest. Before he could give it a moment’s thought, Jimmy was crying on his dad’s shoulder, blubbering incoherently, his warm tears running everywhere.

They held each other for a while, until eventually John stood. Jimmy sat transfixed, amazed at what he was feeling. It felt good to have his father here. The thought of having a family member, someone who actually gave a shit about him, made Jimmy happy. He had repressed so much over the years, and now he thought maybe this was a turning point, maybe he could repair things and be more like a normal person. He dried his eyes and stood to face his dad. His pop had not aged well. He was fat and looked disheveled, a far cry from the fit and debonair figure Jimmy remembered.

“Come on, let’s go get some breakfast,” Jimmy said.

They went to the coffee shop off the casino floor and talked until their voices grew hoarse. Jimmy spoke of his life on the road, jobs he had worked, battles with the bottle, his various troubles. John told Jimmy how he had never recovered from losing his house after his brother Mort conned him into an ill-fated investment scheme. They talked about the pain of Marty’s death, and the pain of being alone in the world. They both felt a guilty pleasure from the release. It was noon when the waitress suggested they either order lunch or pay the check. Jimmy threw down some cash, and they went back to the suite.

They sat in the comfortable living room, Jimmy sprawled on a couch and John in an easy chair. The TV was on, but Jimmy muted the volume.

“Dad, I’m assuming you know about me winning the Lotto.”

“Yes, I heard,” John said. He noticed Jimmy’s eyes narrow a bit.

“Well, I got no problem helping you out,” Jimmy said. “It sounds like you could really use it.”

John blushed. He was grateful Jimmy was making it easy, but he felt a creeping shame over having to ask for money. It made him feel inferior to his son, who had just admitted spending fifteen years living barely above the ranks of a hobo.

He swallowed, then said, “Thank you, Jimmy. Things have been tough for me.” John started to say something else, but Jimmy interrupted him.

“There’s another thing you should know,” Jimmy said. “Yesterday I was driving here from Vegas in my Lamborghini—you should see it, it’ll blow your mind. I stopped at a small town down along 395 to have a drink, and guess who shows up?”

John started at him dumbly.

“Sheila.”

• • •

The sound of his ex-wife’s name made John freeze. Since the initial shock of seeing her in South Lake Tahoe a week ago, he had shoved all thoughts of her aside. She was an intangible problem he didn’t want to address unless he had to.

“She walked up to me at this bar in the middle of nowhere,” Jimmy said. “And she had these two big dudes with her, like they were bodyguards or something. I’m sitting there having a drink, and she just walks right on up.”

“What—what did she say?”

“Well, we sat at a table, and these guys with her, they sat away, far enough so they couldn’t hear us. Then she goes into this story, and I’m still trying to figure out what to believe or not. She tells me a dude I once stole some coke from was dealing for a Mexican drug cartel, and now these badass Mexicans know I won the Lotto. So they tracked Sheila down, and told her to make me this offer: pay two million to settle the score on the rip-off, or they’ll come after me personally.”

John blinked, trying to organize his thoughts. “Did you really steal some drugs?”

“Yeah. I was pretty down and out at the time. I was working a temporary job and met this dude named Sanzini, who’s got the IQ of a rock. I mean, if he was any dumber he’d need to be watered twice a week. He starts bragging about how he’s a big-time dealer, and we end up at his house, and I took off with about an ounce of his blow.”

“Do you think he was really connected with Mexican cartels?”

“I doubt it. He’s not Mexican, and he was just a low street dealer. But I saw him talking to some
cholos
in a lowrider…”

“Huh,” John sputtered, and started pacing the floor. “Did Sheila say the Mexicans contacted her directly?”

“Yeah. She said Sanzini brought them to her apartment. They supposedly offered her a chance to save my ass, is how she put it.”

“What about the two men with her?”

“She claims they were associates of the Mexicans, hired by them to make sure the money gets back to the cartel safely. While we were at the bar, Sheila went to the bathroom, and then these guys came up to me and said some threatening shit, like I better cooperate, or else.”

“My question is, why would the Mexicans go to Sheila?” John said. “If they wanted to find you, why would they need her?”

“She said she got involved to look out for my best interests, to prevent them from hurting or killing me.”

“I don’t think that makes sense, do you?”

Jimmy considered this before answering. He originally had thought his stepmom might well have a soft spot for him, given their night of passion. But he realized that was probably a vain notion—especially since she was telling him he needed to hand her $2 million in cash.

“She’s expecting me to pay her today. She took the keys to my car.”

“She did? Where is she?”

“She’s staying here, at this hotel.”

John’s mouth dropped. “Here? Now?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re not considering paying her, are you?”

“Hell, I sure don’t want to. I’m sure she’s been calling all morning, but I turned my cell off.”

“Why not just tell her to hand over your keys and get lost?”

“Okay, but what if these big dudes she’s with start hassling me?”

John paused for a moment, and decided the timing was right. “Jimmy, I hired a private eye to find you. He’s a very competent guy—a real pro. I think it might be a good idea to get him involved. He can help us find out what Sheila is up to.”

“I like that idea,” Jimmy said, “as long as you’re sure you can trust him.”

John nodded, then added, “One other thing. I owe him five grand for his services so far, and…”

“Not a problem, Dad. Five K is nothing. I wipe my ass with that kind of money.”

• • •

The fact that Sheila was staying at Harrah’s seemed unreal to John, and with each moment he felt increasingly nervous. He shook his head, wondering what would have happened if she had wandered into the restaurant where Jimmy and he had spent the morning. “We need to get out of here, like now, Jimmy,” he said.

“I have a spare set of keys for the Lamborghini.”

“Maybe just leave it here for now, son. No need to alert Sheila and her friends what’s going on. Besides, if she takes your car, you can report it stolen and have her arrested.”

They made it to John’s LTD without issue and boogied a few miles down the road into California, until they found an expensive lodge at the base of the local ski resort. Jimmy booked them into the hotel’s fanciest room, a two-bedroom spread with a view of the lake. They went downstairs and ordered drinks at the nearly vacant bar. John drank his gin, ordered another, and dialed Lou Calgaretti.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Homestead.”

“Hi, Lou. I have good news. I’m with my son now, and I can pay you your fee. But I’d like to meet with you to discuss further services.”

“Ahh. Such as?”

“It will take some explaining. Can you meet us at the Timberlodge resort?

“I need to finish a few things first, Mr. Homestead. Perhaps we could meet over dinner?”

John checked his watch. It was four o’clock. “Okay, that’ll work,” he said.

“Perfect. There’s an excellent Italian restaurant at the Timberlodge. Their pasta is the best in town.”

John and Jimmy waited in the bar, drinking, chatting comfortably, momentarily unconcerned about whatever Sheila was up to. John assured his son that Lou Calgaretti, the tough, ex-cop private eye, would prove more than capable of shutting down her scam. They were pleasantly buzzed when Lou arrived. Jimmy bought him a drink, then they took a table in the back of the restaurant. The dark-paneled walls, dim lighting, and red-and-white checkerboard tablecloths reminded John of an old mobster movie. And Lou Calgaretti, with his black suit, beefy face, and a .38 in a shoulder holster that became visible when he unbuttoned his coat, fit in perfectly.

“Here’s the short version, Lou,” John said, once the waiter brought wine and bread. “Sheila Majorie, my ex-wife and Jimmy’s stepmother, found out Jimmy won the Lotto and tracked him down yesterday. She confronted him in a bar where he had stopped when he was driving here from Vegas. She must have been following him, and she had two rough-looking guys with her. She told Jimmy a man Jimmy had a bad experience with on a drug deal is linked to a Mexican drug cartel, and she was there to collect two million to settle the score. She said she got involved in order to prevent the Mexicans from coming after Jimmy on their own and potentially harming him.”

John had expected Lou to react with surprise, or at least some emotion, but Lou barely raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a story,” he said.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jimmy said. “And I want to hire you to find out if I’m really in any danger, or if it’s just my stepmom trying to rip me off.”

“Describe for me your bad experience on this drug deal.”

“I stole an ounce of blow from this jackass a couple years back. It was worth about two grand. That’s it.”

Lou raised his eyes at Jimmy, his expression flat, then a small smile formed on his lips. “Sounds like it was a bad experience for him, but not necessarily for you.”