Dying for the Highlife (18 page)

But John had more important things to consider than the condition of his car. So far, he was pleased at finding his son, and quite pleasantly surprised by their quick and comfortable bonding. And now they would be staying together, for at least a week, or maybe longer, with a common goal: to eliminate whatever threat Sheila posed. John felt absolute confidence in Lou Calgaretti, but what about after Sheila was a nonissue? Then would Jimmy be agreeable to give John enough money to retire comfortably? When the time was right, John would talk to Jimmy straight out. No bullshit, just the simple facts: John was getting too old to work and had no money put away for retirement. Jimmy would have to be one cruel SOB to not sympathize with that.

John was doing some financial calculations in his head when he came over the summit and started heading down toward Carson Valley. He steered into a broad right curve, and when the highway straightened, he could see a series of fresh skid marks where the next turn began. The curlicues of rubber were thick and black. He peered through his dirty windshield, a tiny pang of panic growing in his stomach.

When he came around the bend, he saw the orange Lamborghini on the shoulder of the road. The car looked undamaged but was facing the wrong way. John slowed to a stop. Jimmy was not in the car, but then John saw him kneeling near the rear bumper.

“Wow,” Jimmy said, standing. “Too much, man. I thought I was headed to the big bar in the sky on that one.”

“Jesus Christ, what happened?”

“I must have hit a patch of gravel. I swear I did two 360s.”

“Your rim is ruined,” John said, looking at Jimmy’s flattened rear tire. The wheel was dented and bent out of round.

“I slammed the curb at the turnout back there.”

They stood looking at the rim. The damned thing probably would cost two grand to replace, John thought.

“Hey, it could have been worse,” Jimmy said. “I could have ended up down there.” He pointed beyond the guard rail where the hillside fell away into a sheer canyon.

“You would have been dead,” John said, and he wanted to say more but bit his tongue.

“Not me, Pop. Lady Luck is watching over me.”

“Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you can’t die.”

“No worries. Can you call a tow truck? I lost my charger and my cell is dead again.”

“You’re supposed to leave it off anyway. What about a spare tire?”

“I shit-canned it because I needed the trunk space. Oops.”

John called an auto repair garage in Carson City and arranged for a tow truck to pick up the Lamborghini. He and Jimmy sat waiting on the heated hood of the LTD. The sun was obscured behind a hazy white sky and didn’t emit much warmth. They sat and looked out over sagebrush-covered hills that rose and fell in a series of undulations until the terrain flattened at the floor of the Carson Valley.

“You ever think about your future?” John said. “Say, a year from now?”

Jimmy fired up a Marlboro and leaned back on his elbows. “Haven’t really thought that far in advance.”

“A man’s got to have some direction in life, don’t you think?”

Jimmy thought about that for a moment. Besides buying a home and maybe meeting a gal or two to hang with, he hadn’t given much consideration to what he would do. Actually, he thought the answer to the question was fairly obvious. Fancy cars, five-star hotels, hot women, vacations to places most people would never see, liquor and blow—pretty much an endless stream of indulgence. The good life.

“Pretty simple, Dad. I just want to enjoy myself. Hell, why not?”

“Well, just don’t get too crazy. You can’t enjoy all that money if you get hurt.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Jimmy said. “I’ve survived a lot of shit.”

John decided not to say more on the subject. He walked over to the edge of the road to take a leak. With a little stretch of the imagination, he could see Jimmy killing himself, by driving like a lunatic, or maybe even overdosing on drugs. But Jimmy was a grown man, and John didn’t think a lecture would be either appropriate or effective.

Then another thing occurred to him. If his son was so stupid and immature he went and got himself killed, well, maybe he deserved his fate. Life was a precious thing, especially so if you were granted enough money to enjoy all the finer things without working. But if a person threw all that away by behaving like an idiot, what do you say to that?

For the first time, John wondered if he would automatically inherit Jimmy’s fortune if his son died.

• • •

They drove in John’s car, following the tow truck to the garage in Carson City. It would be a few days before a replacement rim would be available, so they left the Lamborghini, picked up a couple of greasy cheeseburgers at a local diner, and headed to Reno in the LTD.

Half an hour later, they went through the arches touting Reno as “The Biggest Little City in the World.” Similar to Las Vegas, without its casinos Reno would be an anonymous watering hole in the desolate terrain of Nevada. But even the bright lights of the casinos couldn’t save downtown Reno. The city had been built around the old Southern Pacific railroad, and freight trains rumbled through at all hours, blowing their horns and waking outraged hotel guests. Hobos patrolled the sidewalks on the main drag, toothless winos slept in doorways, and even the harsh winter storms couldn’t wash away the squalor and desperation that seemed to funnel into the city center from all directions.

The real estate office was in a recently developed uptown location. The agent Lou referred them to, a friendly brunette with a chunky figure, greeted them with a smile. She seemed to understand exactly what was needed before John or Jimmy had a chance to explain. They climbed into her big Mercedes sedan, and she drove them to a neighborhood south of Reno, off Highway 431. A newly built community was nestled in the foothills, and at the highest point, atop a broad plateau, a large tri-level stone and timber estate sat overlooking Reno and the desert beyond.

John and Jimmy followed the agent through the luxuriously furnished four-thousand-square-foot home. The hardwood floors were beautifully stained and lacquered, the carpets plush, the bathrooms and kitchen appointed with the most splendid and expensive fixtures and appliances.

“One of the wonderful attributes of this home is the decking and swimming pool,” the agent said, as they followed her out the French doors onto a huge redwood deck with an unobstructed view of Reno. On the level below the deck, a turquoise pool sparkled next to a manicured lawn surrounded by colorful shrubs and foliage.

“A computer executive had this home custom built a year ago, but then he moved to Europe. He’s never stayed here—he just rents it out.”

Beneath the four bedrooms, on the ground level next to the three-car garage, a gym had been built, complete with a universal weight machine, an exercise bike, and a couple of fitness machines John didn’t recognize. Jimmy patted his old man on the back. “Hey, you said you wanted to lose some weight.”

Back at the real estate office, John filled out the necessary paperwork while Jimmy walked across the street to a strip mall and drank a beer at a pizza joint. He came back and was puffing on a smoke outside the office when John called him in. Jimmy counted out a month’s payment in advance, plus a security and cleaning deposit. It came to twenty grand.

• • •

The next morning they drove off in John’s LTD to buy groceries. Jimmy also wanted to buy a computer to check on his Internet dating site. He then suggested to John some new clothes might be in order.

“And your car—well, it’s an embarrassment.”

“I told you, I haven’t been doing well. It’s all I can afford.”

“We’ll have to see what we can do about that,” Jimmy said.

By midafternoon they left the mall in Reno and headed toward home. “Let’s get a drink somewhere,” Jimmy said. “Don’t you know—that’s the first things you do when you move, scout out the nearest bar.” They found a sports bar in a shopping complex near their neighborhood and killed an hour playing video poker and watching college football on TV.

“You know, I could get used to this lifestyle,” John said.

“Like I told you, it’s all about having a good time,” Jimmy said, and signaled the bartender for another round.

They stayed at the bar for an early dinner, and when they got home, John helped Jimmy set up his new notebook PC. It took most of the evening and part of the next morning, but finally Jimmy had Internet access. He logged onto the dating website the guy at the Mirage had arranged for him. Three new women had responded to his ad. The first didn’t submit a picture. The second one offered photos of a trashy-looking white chick who looked like she’d been freshly gang-banged by the local biker club. But the third response made Jimmy blink and sit up straight in his chair.

“Hi there. I’m Debbie. You look pretty cute. I hope you feel the same about me. I’m a casual girl, low maintenance. I like to party and get physical. You look like fun. Let me know if you want to hook up. See ya.”

The six pictures posted were of a hot blonde in a bikini. Jimmy stared at the photos, blood racing to his crotch. Now, this was more like it! He checked out every picture at length, his eyeballs undressing her. She had an ass that begged for a ten-gun salute and the type of knockers that made his pecker stand up and whistle Dixie. He peered at the photos until his eyes hurt, then typed her a reply:

“Hi Debbie. You look like my kind of gal. Nice bod! I’m renting a mansion outside of Reno for now. It’s awesome. Want to come chill out for a couple days?”

He watched the screen for the next ten minutes, hoping she’d reply quickly. When she didn’t, he went downstairs to the exercise room where his dad was messing with the equipment.

“Hey, Pop, mind if I borrow your heap for a couple hours?”

“As long as you’re not going far. I’m not sure how much life she’s got left.”

“Maybe we’ll get you a new ride later this week, okay?”

“Sound great, Jimmy,” John said, grunting as he began peddling the stationary bike.

Jimmy hopped in the LTD and took off toward the cathouses outside of Carson City. The prospect of a date with Debbie, a real woman, not a hooker, made him feel like ten pounds of concrete had been poured into his pants. He was so horny he was almost panting by the time he reached the brothels, where he chose a young blonde with fake boobs and banged her so hard she pushed him away until he agreed to pay double.

A
s Garrett Rancour had surmised, Tony Sanzini had ridden home to his mother’s house after the debacle at the Carson City bordello. Before heading to San Jose, Sanzini stopped at a thrift store and bought an inexpensive and rather ridiculous-looking red down jacket, in order to make the 220-mile ride without freezing his ass off. When he got home, his mother chewed him out over the hole he’d punched in the wall and ordered him to repair it or she’d kick him out.

Sanzini called a temporary agency and got a job moving furniture, and was fired after two days when he threatened to beat a co-worker to a pulp. He found another job through a different agency, and three days later, he was told they didn’t need him anymore. He got stinko drunk at the dive bar he frequented, and woke up broke and deliriously hungover. When his mind could function again, he locked himself in his room and did some serious thinking on how his life had gone wrong.

In high school, he’d been a genuine big man on campus, a badass who made his own rules. Most of his classmates and teachers afforded him a wide berth in the hallways, if they were smart. Instead of working at some crappy fast-food joint, he made his money dealing pot, buying in pound increments and selling dime bags to his fellow students. He kept his grades up, thanks to a group of nerds who fed him test answers and did his homework on demand. His girlfriend, a horny hippie chick, called him “stud” and had lunch with him daily in the center quad. Sanzini liked to stand there after eating and watch the students and their ongoing social dramas, as if their petty lives were a source of great amusement.

Back then, he use to brag he was a top performer in every important category of life: he could brawl, party, and get laid with the best of them. Equally important, he had top-notch intelligence. Anyone stupid enough to disagree risked a Sanzini haymaker. And he’d never lost a fight.

But when his parents divorced in his senior year, things began to unravel. After his old man left town, rumors circulated he’d been sent to prison and Tony would no doubt follow in his footsteps. Then his girl had a sudden change of heart and dumped him for a preppy athlete who’d been accepted at Stanford. Not long afterward, Sanzini ran his Plymouth Roadrunner low on oil and blew the motor while drag racing a spoiled rich kid whose parents bought him a Corvette.

He hit rock bottom on the last day of school, when he was knocked off his ten-speed and mugged by a pack of jocks. They ripped his jacket and took the pocketful of dime-bags he was carrying, leaving him to walk his damaged bike home as students drove past and jeered.

It became clear to Sanzini in the next ten years that there would be no return to the glory days of his youth. The sole highlight of his adult life was when a Mexican gang granted him a local territory and fronted him an ounce of pure Colombian flake. Sanzini began dealing eight-balls to cokeheads and low-level dealers. He moved about an ounce a week, at a profit of $500. It took only six months to save up and buy his Harley.

Living rent free at his mother’s home, cruising the town on his hog with plenty of spending money in his pocket, Sanzini was content. He hooked up with a couple of coke whores who serviced him on a regular basis, hung out at his local bar, and envisioned one day inheriting his mother’s house. But that was before Jimmy Homestead blew his dealing career out of existence.

When Homestead ripped him off, Sanzini had just bought his bike, and he owed the Mexicans two grand. They went berserk when Sanzini told them he needed more time to pay. One of the Mexicans, a slim man with a long head and big hands, told Sanzini he had two days to come up with the scratch, or else they would slit his throat. Sanzini begged everyone he knew for money. He even tracked down Jimmy’s stepmother, hoping Jimmy might be hiding at her apartment. The woman looked like a porn queen, dressed in a leotard, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her half-lidded eyes were lazy and content, like she’d just been plowed big time in the sack. Sanzini never forgot her. She answered his questions nonchalantly, and after telling him she hadn’t heard from Jimmy in years, she sent him away. He limped back to his hog with a hard-on that reoccurred every time her image came to mind. She became a mainstay in his nighttime fantasies.