Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (10 page)

“The final scene in the second act, she’ll appear, dressed in black, and sing a slow, haunting number, to punctuate the demise of the Russian spy.”

“But this is a light comedy!” blurted the man, his face hot and pouty beneath his curly blond hair.

“And that’s why it will work.” Stuart patted the man’s rear. “Now let’s get to the blocking.”

“As long as my songs aren’t changed, I really don’t care,” said a red-haired woman.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Desi. Everyone, take your places. Chop-chop.”

Teresa memorized the stage movements after three tries. On the fourth run-through, Stuart told her to be ready, the sound man would play the musical score she’d sing to. She thought she’d be nervous, but when the music started, Teresa felt calm and confident. As she sang she noticed the looks of surprise, then envy, and from one of the gals, a nod of begrudging respect.

“Fabulous, you, simply fabulous,” Stuart said, standing and clapping when the song ended. The cast members couldn’t help smiling. Stuart Gold had not been a big time Vegas producer by accident. The man had his faults, but by god, he had a nose for talent.

“One week from today, people, Teresa will go live.”

Before Teresa left, she handed Stuart the signed contract, granting him the right to represent her, and awarding him a percentage of her income for the next five years. He knew most agents would have taken a much larger cut, but Stuart didn’t need the money—he’d already socked away enough to retire comfortably. His motivations were of a different ilk. Once Teresa Perez became a star, he planned to launch himself back to the forefront of the Las Vegas entertainment business. And then, if he played his cards right, the time would come when he would pay back Cornhole Porter, the pompous, beguiling prick. Teresa Perez would be Stuart’s vehicle for both success and revenge. The young Latina would be the next Jennifer Lopez, or maybe even bigger. Stuart had never felt so sure of anything in his life.

C
oming up with no solid leads in my search for Jason Loohan, I called the bondsman in New Jersey to ask if Loohan had surfaced there.

“He’s vanished. If he was in town, I’d know it. That’s why I offered you his paper.”

“Well, he’s not turning up out here,” I said. “I need something more to go on. How about his affiliation with Hard Core United? Is he part of the gang?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You said he was best friends with Billy Morrison, right?”

“That’s right—they go back a ways. But that doesn’t mean they shared the same taste in music. Or were in the same gang, for that matter.”

“What about hobbies, or habits?”

“Hold on, I’ll pull my notes.”

I waited a few minutes, listening to papers shuffle and his mumbling and grumbling.

“All right, one source said he likes to hustle pool in bars. Another guy told me he’s a real whoremonger. Said if he was starving and had to choose between a meal and getting his crank turned, it’d be a toss-up.”

“How reliable would you consider these sources?”

“About as reliable as all the other pus bags I deal with.”

“What about his police record? You have a copy, right?”

“I should, but I don’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“My relationship’s a bit strained with some of detectives at the precinct, if it’s any of your business.”

“It is my business. Jason Loohan could be in Canada for all you know.” I started to say something else, but he interrupted me.

“Look, the bounty on Loohan is three grand, Reno. It’s coming out of my pocket, too. Finding him may require a little detective work. If that’s too much to ask, just let me know.”

“You tell me you have a hunch he
might
have come with Morrison to Tahoe, just because they’re buddies? And based on that, you want me to canvass every bar with a pool table in the region? Oh, and in my spare time, also search for prostitutes he may have boned? That’s pretty damn slim. Tell you what—I’ll pass.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down there. Look, Loohan’s a career criminal. He’s also got a face that’s easy to recognize. Spend a day or two on this, would you? Start with the seediest joints and the streetwalkers, and maybe he’ll pop up.”

“It’s a long shot.”

“It’s also a nice payday. What’s the matter, are you too busy?”

He had me there. Except for dodging whatever grief Cody tried to pull me into, I didn’t have a goddamned thing on my plate. Maybe I’d gotten lazy, after running into a chunk of money that allowed me a break from the pressure of making my bills every month. I felt a creeping shame at having spent the entire winter skiing at my leisure, not working, and then complaining when offered a job that probably would require some real effort. Shit, when I was broke, as I had been most of my career, I would have jumped at the chance for a three grand bounty.

“All right, I’ll pound the pavement for you,” I said, resolved to resume my old work habits. “Okay? Just call me if you hear anything that might help.”

I hung up and printed fifty copies of the picture the bondsman had provided of Loohan. He had a ruddy complexion, like you’d expect of an Irishman, but beneath his coal-black hair his eyes were 100 percent Asian. The incongruity of his features reminded me of an unfinished computer-generated police sketch.

It was still not nine
A.M.
, and since touring the bars and looking for hookers would be pointless until later in the day, I went out to my garage to lift weights and kill some time. I was lying on my bench press when Cody opened the door.

“My boiler is giving me grief,” he said, holding his gut.

I sat up. “Maybe you ought to cut down on the consumption.” The dozen donuts I’d bought two days ago were gone, as was the case of beer and fifth of vodka.

“Thanks, doc,” he said, and went back inside.

By noon I was ready to hit the road, but as I was leaving, Cody came out of the bathroom.

“I just puked. I feel a lot better already. Wait up and I’ll go with you.”

“Bad idea,” I said. “Why don’t you rest up, maybe dry out for the afternoon?”

“I told you I feel fine.”

“I got a long day in front of me, Cody. If things don’t pan out in town, I’ll probably head over to Carson, and maybe even to Reno.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m good,” he said. “I don’t even feel like drinking.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

Cody smiled like a man all too familiar with his own weaknesses. I waited while he put on a fresh shirt and gargled with the mouthwash I kept in the bathroom. Then we drove off to the nearest bar.

Whiskey Dick’s had just opened and was empty. The bartender came around from the back with a tub of ice.

“Hi, Pam,” I said. She dumped the ice into the bin next to the well bottles and wiped her brow.

“Little early for you, ain’t it?”

I put a picture of Jason Loohan on the bar. “Ever seen this dude?”

She picked it up with wet fingers and studied the printed photo.

“Nope, can’t say I have. He’s not related to those freaks that came in the other day, is he?”

“He might be. Do me a favor and call me if he comes in, okay?”

She sighed, folded the picture, and propped it between two spigots on the back bar. Then she gave me a look, her resigned face accusing me of transgressions past and future. I left quickly, hurrying to escape her scornful eyes, and memories of my divorce.

Next we hit Houlihan’s, a large hotel bar on Highway 50 that used to be called O’Shay’s, and before that it was Mulligan’s. It looked like it was originally a banquet hall, but the owners decided pool tables, video games, and air hockey would be a better use of the real estate. I’d never seen any cars in the parking lot, and the last time I’d stopped in, on a Friday night, the place was like a morgue.

There was no bartender on duty, and when we went to the adjoining hotel lobby, the kid at the reservations counter said the bar was only open on weekends.

We walked outside, squinting into the bright heat of the day. I put on my sunglasses and said, “Let’s go check out the local knife and gun club.” We drove to the west end of town and stopped at South Lake Tahoe’s only true biker bar, a ramshackle, red-painted A-frame called The Ho-down Club. A rust-bucket Chrysler and a collection of Harleys were parked out front, where a bearded, overweight man in a black leather vest tended to a smoking barbeque. He eyed us as we walked to the entrance.

“What’s going on, kemosabe?” Cody said.

Inside, cigarette smoke swirled in the shaft of light from the doorway. Apparently The Ho-down was not buying into California’s anti-smoking laws. We sat at a corner of the bar waiting for the bartender, an older fellow who looked like country singer Willie Nelson, to finish his conversation with a long-haired biker and his bitch, a bleached blonde with huge breasts that had to be implants. She caught my eyes on her and shot me an evil smile. I nodded and looked away, thinking this one belonged to the clan, for their use whenever the mood struck.

After a minute the bartender made his way to us. “What’s drinkin’, men?”

“Diet Coke.”

“Two,” Cody said.

I paid with a ten, and pushed the change onto the tip rail. The bartender scooped up the cash and dropped it into a glass pitcher behind the bar.

“You guys want lunch? We got five-dollar burgers fresh off the grill.”

I shook my head. “I’m looking for a guy, name’s Jason. An Irishman with black hair and Asian eyes. Shoots a good game of pool. Seen him around by chance?”

“Don’t sound familiar. He a local?”

“No, he’s new in town.”

He shrugged and started walking away.

“Hey,” I said, pulling a folded sheet from the pocket of my Levis. “Take a look at his picture, would you?”

He gave the page a cursory glance, then raised his eyes to mine. His face was screwed up in a grimace, the skin age-spotted and folded, his stained teeth clenched inside his gray beard like rotted eggs in an abandoned nest. He put his paw over the paper and learned forward on his elbows, his voice not much above a whisper. “We get all sorts in here, but I haven’t seen anyone resembling your friend. You’re free to ask around, but I wish you wouldn’t, you know what I mean?” He cut his eyes toward a handful of bikers sitting on the other side of the place. They were in full road gear—boots, black leather chaps, arms wrapped in ink, their faces grainy and wind burnt.

“How about one of them burgers, boss?” Cody said.

“Make you a deal—I’ll give you one on the house, just take it to go.”

“We mean no trouble,” I said.

“Mister, you don’t look like you’d back away from it either. And sometimes it don’t take much to bring it on here.”

“Call me if you see him. I’ll make it worth your while.”

He looked at me with bleak eyes. The biker and his female friend were now staring at us.

“You can get your lunch from Frank,” the bartender said, motioning toward the front door. “On your way out.”

“Let’s boogie,” I said to Cody.

“It’s a little too early for heavy metal anyway, Dirt.” Cody eased himself off the barstool, looked around the room, and said, “Y’all have a nice afternoon now, ya hear?” He grinned and waved, then followed me outside.

We watched the man at the grill wrap a couple cheeseburgers in tinfoil, then drove across the street to a public campground and ate at a picnic table in a grove of pine trees.

“Not bad,” Cody said, balling the foil and tossing it in a trash can. “What was the barkeep’s problem?”

“He’s the owner, and the ABC put his liquor license on probation.”

“Serving minors?”

“That, and crank was being dealt out of the bathroom. And a month ago a man was stabbed near where we were sitting.”

“A quaint, charming place, known for its discerning clientele and gourmet menu.” Cody stood and blew his nose in a napkin. “Let’s roll.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon bouncing around local hangouts on the California side of the border, before crossing into Nevada.

“Are we gonna hit the casinos?” Cody asked.

“Just the security offices. I know a couple of the managers. Do me a favor and play it low key, would you? I want to stay on good terms with these people.”

“Isn’t it getting close to happy hour?”

“I thought you didn’t feel like drinking.”

“Did I say that?”

“You want to wait in a bar while I take care of this?”

“Naw, I’m good.”

I parked in the back of Harrah’s, Tahoe’s largest casino. The casino conglomerate that owned Harrah’s also owned Harvey’s, and a smaller adjoining casino that targeted a younger crowd. The security chief at Harrah’s, a sexless black woman in her fifties, oversaw security for all three casinos, and we’d gotten along well the one time we’d met. But that was a while ago, and I didn’t know if she’d remember me.

I went to a half-door next to the cashier’s cage, where a sign said SECURITY in large, gold letters. A balding man with a mustache stood behind the door, writing on a clipboard.

“Joan Wallace, please.” I handed him my card and he glanced at it, his lips downturned, his eyes shaded with disinterest. Then he handed it back. Maybe he felt the big boss had more important things to do than talk to the likes of me.

“What’s it pertaining to?” he said.

“An armed robbery suspect jumped bail and we think he’s in the area.” I held up a picture of Jason Loohan’s face. “Ever seen him?”

“Nope.” He continued writing on his clipboard.

“How about Ms. Wallace?”

“She’s a busy woman, buddy. Do you have an appointment?”

I felt Cody move closer.

“I’ll just call her then,” I said, punching numbers into my cell. “What did you say your name was?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Hold up there. Let me go see if she’s in her office.”

“What’s his deal?” Cody said, watching him walk away.

“His wife’s blowing the milkman, his hemorrhoids are killing him, and the cat shit in his shoes.”

“Really?”

I shrugged. “Just my overactive imagination.”

We waited for a few minutes until the man came back and opened the door for us. We followed him into the bowels of the casino, past a team of workers counting and recounting stacks of cash, until we came to an office. He knocked lightly and let us in.