Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (15 page)

“Do you always carry it?”

“No. Sometimes.”

“Show me some of your moves.”

“Huh?”

“Like when you kick someone’s ass.”

“I don’t kick anyone’s ass. I think you’re talking about self-defense.”

“Yeah. Show me what to do.”

“Why? You got people messing with you?” He didn’t answer, but then I noticed some little cuts on his face. “Come here,” I said.

“Let’s say some tough guy grabs you by the collar. Grab me.” Juan reached up to my neck and held my shirt. I crossed my left hand over his arms and grasped his left wrist. “If anyone ever grabs you by the collar, just do this, and punch him in the nose with your right. They’ll never know what hit them.”

“Wow,” he said, trying it on me in slow motion. “Show me another one.”

“If you can get behind your opponent, try getting your arm around their neck, like this. Then grab your wrist with your other hand and hold it tight. It’s called a sleeper hold.”

“Why?”

“Because if you hold as tight as you can for about ten seconds, the person will lose consciousness.”

“I will remember that one.”

“Don’t use it unless you’re really in trouble, understand?”

“How about boxing? Do you know how to?”

“It takes some training,” I said as Cody walked up. “We ready to go?” he asked, his hand on his stomach.

I finished my drink. “Sure.”

We thanked Juan and Teresa and promised to return the favor. Before we left their doorway, I surveyed the dark street, looking where someone might hide, scanning for movement. We walked through the night to Cody’s truck, my hand itching to reach into my coat.

“Food was good,” I said as we drove away.

“Teresa signed a contract with an agent. Hopefully the guy’s legit.”

“You feeling okay?”

“Nothing a few vics and another drink won’t cure.”

“Take it easy on the pills.”

“No worries.”

Famous last words, I thought.

“Juan told me he saw the two Mexicans the cops arrested this morning at the apartments,” I said. “They were in bad shape.”

“Meaning?”

“Like maybe they had the shit kicked out of them.”

“By the cops?”

“Could be. And that’s not all. Guess who was sitting out at the picnic bench?”

Cody turned onto my street and cut his eyes at me.

“A couple of the HCU metal heads,” I said.

“What the hell?”

“I think we just found out what HCU does for money.”

“Sounds like trouble in paradise.”

We pulled into my driveway, Cody’s headlights illuminating the house.

“Yes, it does,” I said.

We sat idling, staring at the garage door. Someone had spray painted the word, COCKSUCKER, across the panels in bright red. The letters were poorly spaced, the last two shrunk to fit. The paint had dripped off every letter, reminding me of something out of a slasher horror movie.

My initial shock gave way to a churning sensation in my gut, as if I’d eaten something that might not stay down. The nausea lasted only a few seconds, before it ballooned into a black lump of fury in my throat. I swallowed and took a deep breath. Outrage and anger were emotions I couldn’t afford at the moment. I needed to think clearly.

“Kill the lights,” I said. I clicked off the Beretta’s safety, and Cody reached over and pulled his .44 revolver from the glove box. I slid out of the truck, creeping in the shadows leading to my front door. Cody flared to the perimeter of the yard and covered me from the trees.

The front door was locked, no signs of tampering. We made our way to the back of the house, checking the windows and back door. After a few minutes, we came back around to Cody’s truck.

“If anyone’s inside, they would have to have a key,” Cody whispered.

“Or know how to pick locks.”

“Let’s go in.”

We flattened our bodies against the walls on either side while I unlocked the front door and swung it open. The interior was dark and silent. I reached in and flicked the light switch. A quiet moment passed, then we burst inside, covering the room with our weapons. Nothing moved. A minute later we’d searched the house and found it empty. We stood, not speaking, in my living room.

“They shouldn’t have done that,” Cody said finally.

It was 9:30. I dialed Marcus Grier’s cell number.

“It’s late, Dan. What’s up?”

“You said you wanted to bust HCU? I believe they’ve vandalized my house with spray paint. If you want to investigate the crime scene, be here by eight in the morning. That’s what time I’ll start repainting.”

“How do you know it’s them?”

“If you don’t want to check it out, suit yourself.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said.

I washed the dishes in my sink and sponged up a few dirt smudges on the kitchen floor. Then I went out to the garage to check on painting supplies. The roller I’d used last summer was caked hard with paint. I tried removing it from the metal handle, but it wouldn’t budge. I threw the whole thing in the trashcan. When I went back inside and sat on the couch, Cody asked if I wanted a drink, but I shook my head and walked out to the front yard. Except for the chirping of crickets, it was quiet, almost serene. A mile past the meadow behind my property, I could see a line of lights from the gondola that ran up the mountainside to the ridge-top restaurant at the ski resort.

A moment later Cody came up behind me, his huge paw on my shoulder.

“Easy, Dirt, easy. Here, drink this.” He handed me a shot glass.

“I’m all right.”

“Drink it, man.”

I took the glass from his fingers and gunned it, the whiskey bitter on my throat.

“The only question I have is whether HCU did this, or if it was Loohan on his own,” I said.

“We’ll find out tomorrow.”

“How so?”

Cody smiled, his face bisected by light and shadow, his teeth glistening and feral against the course stubble on his cheeks. “It’s time to go have a serious chat with the HCU homos. They shouldn’t be hard to find.”

We waited on the porch, listening to the night. Headlights appeared down the street, and a moment later Marcus Grier’s squad car rolled to a stop in front of my driveway. Grier aimed his spotlight at the garage, lighting the crime scene with an artificial intensity that struck me as unnecessary and obscene. He got out of his car and Cody and I walked over to where he stood surveying the spray-painted letters.

“Any other damage, or is this it?” Grier said. He wore khaki pants, jogging shoes, and a crème-colored sweatshirt.

“Just this,” I said. He snapped a couple photos and turned his attention to Cody.

“It’s been a long time, Mr. Gibbons. Enjoying your visit?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You don’t look bad for someone who’s been shot.”

“I heal quick.”

Grier started to say something but apparently thought better of it. He shifted his spotlight to the side of the house. “You didn’t by chance find a spray can?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Let’s check your yard,” he said, handing me a flashlight. Cody leaned against Grier’s cruiser and watched us begin to comb through the shrubs.

“I think there’s something going on between HCU and some Mexican gangbangers that operate out of the Pine Mountain Apartments,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Like HCU is moving in on their drug territory.”

“How’d you find this out?”

“The common area where I saw the Nevada plainclothesmen arrest those two Mexicans, guess who’s hanging out there now?”

Grier looked up and stared at me.

“That’s right. A couple of the HCU tough guys.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he said, as we moved toward the back fence.

“What’s up with the Nevada cops?” When Grier didn’t respond, I added, “They seemed to have made a special trip into California just to harass the Mexicans.”

“You know how difficult it is to bust a cop?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe I’m an idealist, or maybe I’m just naïve, but the corruption up here never fails to amaze me.”

“We’re not gonna find a spray can,” I said. Grier shrugged, and we walked back to his car.

“I’ll ask your neighbors if they saw anything tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Appreciate it,” I said. “Then you’ll call New Jersey and see about getting Loohan’s record sent over?”

He nodded, his face tired, exasperated, a little sad maybe, or perhaps just plain unhappy at the recent developments on his plate. I watched him drive away, heading home to his wife and two daughters. I was sure there were times Marcus Grier questioned his career choice, and this was probably one of them. From my perspective, Grier was a cop equally suited to serve as a reverend or a social worker. I believed his most natural inclinations were to make people happy rather than to arrest them. This did not in itself make him a bad sheriff, but when things got rough, and I had no doubt they would continue to, Grier wasn’t always willing to shift into overdrive.

I watched Grier’s taillights disappear, then looked again at my defaced garage door. The obscene epithet and dripping paint made me think of cocktail party conversations I’ve overheard on the nature of criminal behavior. People outside law enforcement seem perpetually perplexed at human deviance and seek to answer the basic question, what makes a person go bad? It usually ends up as a nature versus nurture debate, and no matter how well schooled the discussions, no real clarity is ever drawn on the subject. To me and others in the trade, it’s a stupid conversation, really, moot and pointless. Criminality has countless manifestations, and every act has its own unique gestation, sometimes dating back to the womb.

I once knew a devout Mormon man who did not smoke, drink, gamble, or use profanity, and had never slept with a woman besides his wife. He worked like a fiend, supporting six children and tithing 10 percent of his earnings to his church. His vice? Speeding. An impatient man, he couldn’t help it. He tailgated on the freeways, drove down residential streets at forty-five, and one day ran a red light and T-boned a car packed with teenagers. Three died, and he’s still in prison. Figure that one out.

As for gangs like HCU, I imagine their members probably came from low-income, broken families, where violent crime is learned at a young age, as a survival tactic if nothing else. How do their backgrounds compare to those of the flocks of Wall Street executives accused of fleecing billions from ordinary citizens, including pseudo-intellectual liberals who voted for more lenient laws every chance they got?

Marcus Grier had fled the racism and depravity of a large Southern city to be sheriff in a relatively small resort town on the California-Nevada border. In the three years I’d known him, I hadn’t seen much evidence he’d been granted a reprieve from his past. South Lake Tahoe seemed an unlikely magnet for mobsters, drug dealers, and corruption. At least I’m sure that’s what Grier thought when he moved here. Unfortunately, he was wrong. Next time I run into a group of armchair sociologists, maybe I’ll ask them to explain it.

A
bout thirty miles west of Yuma, Arizona, sat the remains of a deserted border town. At the sole intersection, a few abandoned buildings stood, windows busted out, paint colorless and peeling, a rusted weather vane silhouetted against the dusk and creaking in the wind. The only sign of life was an emancipated yellow dog trotting woefully along the street. Farther out, a handful of decrepit structures dotted the flatlands, dust-colored and collapsing into the earth. The narrow road through town dead-ended near the fence along the border, where coils of razor wire spiraled off into a fading light. Beyond the boundary a bank of hills met a blood-red sky. The clouds above were like smoke, as if the earth was afire.

A solitary tumbleweed drifted by the idling SUV like an apparition searching for its grave. Vinnie Tuma pointed his finger and said, “Bang, bang.”

Joe Norton shook his head and turned onto a dirt side street. The inclusion of Tuma on the trip had been a last-minute development, and putting up with him for the long drive felt like something out of a bad reality show. It was like
Romper Room
with the freaking guy, Tuma whining he needed to take a leak, complaining about the fast food, talking about blow jobs, driving Norton and Loohan out of their gourds. And for what? What did Severino hope to accomplish by sending this dipshit gumball with them? The answer was obvious; Tuma was there as a watch guard, to assure the drug buy made its way back to Tahoe. He was perfect for the job—he was untouchable, and Severino knew it.

But the problem gnawing at Norton was of a different nature, and it made his head feel like it was in a vice. With Tuma there, any potential for scoring the drugs
and
keeping the hundred grand Severino provided was fried. Did Loohan understand that? Besides a brief flicker in his dark eyes, Loohan hadn’t reacted when Norton told him, an hour before they took off, that Tuma was coming with them.

“No point in even considering a rip-off,” Norton had said, “because Tuma would just bring the cash back to Severino. So there’s nothing we can gain.”

Loohan shrugged.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Norton said. “We cannot fuck with these people.”

“You worry too much.” Loohan brushed some lint from his black jeans.

“Too much, my ass. Are you hearing me, Loohan? We make the buy, deliver the goods, and you get your five grand and head for the hills. That’s the deal.”

The conversation ended there, leaving Norton to wonder what capacity for mayhem might be simmering within Loohan. Norton had never worked with him, in fact had only met him twice back in Jersey, but Billy Morrison had considered him an indispensable ally. Although Norton didn’t want to bring in an outsider for the run south, without a competent gunman in HCU’s ranks, he had little choice. His head-banging soldiers might be able to terrorize a mosh pit, but pitted against armed men with enough Colombian flake to generate a million in street sales—forget it. And Norton sure as hell wasn’t going to walk into a deserted border town alone with a hundred grand of mob cash.

They had spent the previous morning together, Norton wanting to get to know Loohan better before offering him the job. Hoping to gain some level of confidence that Loohan was trustworthy, that he would provide what was needed and then vanish. They had driven around town in Norton’s Chevelle, up and down Highway 50, stopping for coffee at a convenience store, and then paying a quick visit to the Pine Mountain Apartments. A couple of Norton’s men were positioned in the common, telling the visitors who wandered in they would need to drive just a few minutes into Nevada to score reefer or blow.