Dying for the Highlife (22 page)

Cody lay atop a pile of hay in a corner of the barn, wrapped in a mass of furry blankets, his bearded face serenely asleep. When I tried to wake him, I saw he wasn’t alone.

“Come on, get your ass up, Cody,” I whispered. “I need to be in Salt Lake.” He moaned as he came to, then shushed me and threw his clothes on. Ten minutes later we were in my truck heading down the road.

“The barn?” I said.

“We couldn’t find an open bedroom. Christ, she was a nut case. She got a big kick out of doing it in the hay, but afterward she just wouldn’t shut up. I was trying to sleep, but she was babbling all sorts of crazy shit, nonstop. It was starting to really piss me off.”

“Sounds like you fucked her silly.”

We laughed at that as much as our hangovers would allow, then found a diner at the edge of town, where we ate breakfast and drank coffee until our heads cleared. Then we drove back out to the desert, east on 80, through Wendover, Nevada, and across the salt flats into Utah.

• • •

At two
P.M.
we were in position at the Salt Lake City Airport. The skies were overcast and dull, the city blanketed in gray. To the east, the granite faces of the Wasatch Range, streaked with early snowfall, rose above the valley and merged with the clouds. Cody stayed in my truck, parked outside the rental car parking lot, while I waited in the terminal for the flight from Reno to land. I picked up the subject as he left the security area. He was a short man, dark haired, narrow hips and wide shoulders, his blue pinstriped business suit well-tailored. He strode at a brisk pace, the flaps of his overcoat trailing behind him. We walked along the overpass to the rental car counter, and I returned to my truck. A minute later, the man drove off in a blue Ford Taurus, and Cody and I followed him out of the airport.

We waited for him to finish a three o’clock meeting at a downtown high-rise, then spent an hour outside his hotel, a small, single-story complex north of the city. When he came out of his room he’d lost his tie, and his hair was still wet. He drove away like a man with a purpose.

The bar at the Mexican restaurant was big and crowded, which made for easy surveillance. A much younger woman, wearing a tight red skirt and white blouse, met him at the bar. They ordered drinks, and soon her hand was on his thigh. I snapped a few discrete pictures with my cell. Cody waved down a waitress, and before long, a huge plate of nachos and a pitcher of margaritas arrived at our table.

An hour later I took more pictures of the couple as they parked and walked into his hotel room.

“Too easy,” I said.

“Let’s go back to the restaurant and get another pitcher. You’ve got all you need, right?”

“No. I want to wait until she leaves so I can document it.”

“What? What if she spends the night?”

“You can get a room. I’ll wait here.”

Cody was silent for a minute, then he picked up my 35mm camera and started fiddling with it. He clicked off a couple photos of the parking lot.

“What are you doing?”

“How do you turn the flash on?”

“That button. Why?”

“Wait here,” he said, then left my truck and walked to the hotel office.

“What now?” I muttered. I peered toward the office, and had started out of the truck when I saw him come out the door. He waved me off and went down the walkway to the couple’s room. I stood outside my truck and watched him insert a key in the door and go inside. A scream and shouted curses ensued, and a few seconds later Cody was running toward me, a huge, irreverent grin on his face, his eyes wild with glee.

“Start the motor, let’s boogie!”

As I roasted the tires and bounced off the curb into the street, I caught a glimpse of the man’s outraged face in the doorway.

“Hoo-wee, wait until you see these shots!” Cody exclaimed. “He had her buns up kneelin’, and he was wheelin’ and dealin’. You should have been there.”

“It was supposed to be a covert operation, Cody. The guy wasn’t supposed to know he was being watched.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s a divorce case, right? These pictures cut to the bottom line. Your client is gonna love you for this.”

After a few miles we pulled over at a neighborhood lounge near the airport. We sat in a booth and I checked out the photos Cody had taken. I had to admit he’d hit pay dirt. The expressions on the couple’s faces as they tried unsuccessfully to hide their nakedness were comically distorted. One picture in particular was both graphic and hilarious, and despite my anger at Cody for his spur of the moment role in my investigation, I fell into a fit of punch-drunk laughter. Cody smiled and winked at me, holding up a tall glass.

“To the good times, Dirt, to road trips and road beers and loose women and bars and easy paychecks and no worries.”

How could a man not drink to that?

• • •

The following afternoon, after a relatively mild night in Salt Lake, we drove back to Reno and then south to Carson City. I wanted to continue over the pass to South Lake Tahoe, but Cody suggested we stop at the library in Carson.

“His car hasn’t left that garage, right?” he said.

“I’d have been sent an alert if it did.”

“So he’s probably still local. Let’s go use the wireless hotspot at the library. I want to check a couple things.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll type up my case report and e-mail it to the lawyer while we’re there.”

Cody began working on one of the library PCs while I downloaded the photos from my camera onto my computer. A few minutes later he interrupted me.

“Guess what? Jimmy Homestead is logged onto an e-mail account right now.”

“Where?”

“The IP address has a longitude and latitude in Reno. My hacker buddy is dialing in the exact location. In ten minutes he’ll be sending me an address.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Always the skeptic,” Cody smiled, slapping my back and drumming a quick cadence on the table with his knuckles.

I
t was Sunday, and Jimmy and John Homestead were lounging around, watching football and eating roast beef sandwiches, when John heard his cell ring. He hauled himself off the couch and retrieved it from the bedroom.

“John, it’s Lou Calgaretti. Everything okay there?”

“Sure. All quiet. Why?”

“Just checking. I’m driving back to Tahoe from San Jose. Is your son there?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you put me on the speaker, and I’ll give you an update.”

John brought the phone to the living room and turned off the TV.

“I found nothing to support Sheila’s claims she has any association or involvement with a Mexican drug dealing ring,” Lou said.

“You’re sure about this?” John said.

“I checked her phone records and tailed her for a few days. I even visited her for a haircut. If she has any connection, I could find no sign of it.”

“It’s like I figured,” Jimmy said. “She’s full of crap.”

“Based on my findings, you’re probably right. But I also spent some time watching Tony Sanzini. He
is
involved with a Mexican gang, and they are definitely not nice people.”

“What about Sheila being connected to Sanzini?” John asked. “She told Jimmy that Sanzini had brought the Mexicans to her house, to offer Sheila the chance to get Jimmy to pay them off to resolve the stolen coke issue.”

“Clearly Sheila had contact with Sanzini at one point,” Lou said. “How else would she know him? But my suspicion is Sanzini contacted her back when Jimmy ripped him off, in an effort to find him. That could well be the extent of their connection.”

“Meaning she’s had no recent communication with him?” John said.

“None that I could uncover.”

“So, what’s the bottom line, Lou? Do I need to be worried about any of this?”

“Jimmy, I think the most likely scenario is your stepmother fabricated the story to trick you into paying her.”

“What about the two guys with her?” John said.

“They could be hired muscle, but I haven’t been able to turn up anything on them yet.”

“Well, screw her, then,” Jimmy said. “I got people to meet and places to be.”

“Here’s what I think would be best, gentlemen,” Lou said. “I’ll keep tabs on Sheila and Sanzini from my office for the next couple weeks. If I see anything to be concerned about I’ll contact you. If you see or hear from Sheila again, call me. Or call 911 if need be.”

“Cool,” Jimmy said.

After Lou hung up, Jimmy looked at his dad. John Homestead had lost a few pounds but still looked flabby and out of shape. Jimmy was about to suggest he put down his greasy sandwich and hit the exercise room, but instead he went into the den to check his computer. His eyes lit up when he saw hot Debbie had sent him a message. She said she had a few days off work and proposed driving up to meet him! Jimmy e-mailed her his address, and Debbie wrote back saying to expect her tomorrow afternoon.

Jimmy paced around the room, grinning and pumping his fist. This chick was smokin’ sexy, and she was chasing after
him
. It was like a blast from the past, to the days when he bedded the hottest babes in town. Back then, he used to practice his motto,
find ’em, feel ’em, fuck em, and forget ’em,’
every chance he got. And he’d done so many he lost count. Those were the days when he ruled, when he was on top of the world. He smoothed his hair back with one hand and grabbed his crotch with the other. Were his younger years as a womanizing cocksman really a thing of the past? Hell, no. The time had come to give the whores a rest and reclaim his position as a mainline stud.

He took his shirt off and looked in the mirror. Shit, the good life was starting to take its toll on his slim physique. He’d have to start riding the stationary bike and maybe pump some iron. No time like the present, he thought, feeling a burst of energy. He changed into shorts and tennis shoes, went into the mirrored room that served as a gym, and began pedaling. Soon he was breathing hard and sweating. He turned the resistance down and slowed his pace.

All he could think about was the upcoming date with Debbie—the suave, witty things he’d say, and how she would no doubt find him irresistible. It had been over ten years since he’d been on a real date, but he didn’t feel the slightest trepidation. Rather, the anticipation of meeting her was like being high, like he’d just snorted a big rip of uncut Colombian rock. Hey, maybe he would score some coke, in case she wanted a toot. He remembered having some great romps in the hay with Bettys who were whacked on blow. But there was always the danger he’d get a case of coke dick, and going limp would be a disaster. The hell with it then, forget the blow. Instead, they could have a few drinks, maybe smoke some weed, and then let the humpathon begin. Not a bad agenda.

A half an hour later, Jimmy toweled off and found his father still watching sports in the living room.

“Hey, Pop, I’ve got a gal coming to visit me tomorrow.”

“You do? Who is she?” John said.

“I met her on the Internet.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so I need you to make yourself scarce tomorrow, beginning around two. Probably best you spend the night somewhere. Maybe I can book you a room at the Atlantis or the Peppermill.”

“Okay, no problem.”

Jimmy sat down and they watched the Raiders get their asses kicked by the Broncos for a few minutes, until the game paused for a commercial. “You think we’ll ever hear from Sheila again?” he said.

John leaned forward and put his chin on his fist. “I don’t think we’ve heard the last of her,” he said. “We should keep our guard up in case she tries something else.”

Jimmy shrugged. “I’m not worried about her.” He pointed the clicker at the TV and started changing channels.

“Look, we can order the new James Bond movie on pay per view. I just need to call Comcast and set up an account. I’m gonna turn my phone back on.” When John started to protest, Jimmy shook his head. “Should be no problem, Pop, Lou said we got nothing to worry about.” He dialed the cable service and gave them all the information they needed. When the flick started, Jimmy kicked his feet up, watching Bond defy death and still find time to get laid by sexy babes. Not too different from his own life, he thought.

A
fter nine hours of hard driving, Mort arrived in Tahoe Valley. As he neared the darkened town, he looked at his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes were horribly bloodshot and burned as if soap were dripping from his brow into his pupils. At the first gas station in South Lake Tahoe, he pulled over and rubbed his eyes with his fists until the sting receded. He sat with his lids shut, and after a while he needed to relieve his bladder, but when he climbed from the car his back cramped so badly he could barely breathe. He finally wrenched himself straight and shuffled to the restroom, his teeth gritted, sweat beading on his forehead.

When he returned to the Toyota, he drove behind the building where it was dark and quiet. He reclined his seat and took shallow breaths until the spasms in his back subsided. Within a minute he was asleep, and his dreams came fast and vivid.

A faceless man walked beside him along a paved trail between rolling fields of freshly mowed grass and a sparkling lake. Paddling silently, a family of ducks swam near the shoreline, the parents leading a string of ducklings. It was a warm summer day, and families and young couples were picnicking under colorful umbrellas. The scent of charcoal and barbequed hamburgers wafted in the air. Dogs chased and leaped after Frisbees, and children played on swings, their faces bright and exuberant. The sun shined down on this idyllic setting, and Mort asked for a cold soda when they walked past a sidewalk vendor. The faceless man said no.

“Please?” Mort asked.

Then the scene shifted to a room, and Mort was punching the man bloody, until he was swinging his fists into a liquid maw. His anger unabated, he continued punching after the man was headless. His mother watched quietly from a corner. Every now and then, she would sneak a sip from a bottle she hid in her purse. Mort finally took the bottle from her and tossed it out the window.

It was past midnight when Mort woke. For a few minutes he was disoriented and unable to fully extract himself from the dream. He was desperately thirsty. After finding and gulping a bottle of water that had rolled under his seat, he sat hunched for a time. He was struck by a strange and powerful sense that he was detached from everything that was him, as if he occupied the body of a stranger whose background and motivations were unknown. Finally he snapped out of it, telling himself it must be exhaustion.