Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (18 page)

“I’m looking for Jason Loohan,” I said. “Yeah, Billy Morrison’s best friend, asshole, so don’t tell me you don’t know him.”

“I, I got no idea…”

I squeezed harder. “Think on it, Tom. I’m sure you can come up with something. Where can I find him?”

“You’re gonna break my hand,” he cried.

“Wouldn’t that be a shame, you’ll never play guitar again. What a loss for the music industry.”

He dropped to his knees. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he whimpered.

“Last chance, Tom.” I tightened my grip, feeling the connective tissue ready to snap.

“Stop!” he screamed, sweat beaded on his forehead. “Jesus, Joe Norton, please let go. He’s been with Norton, shit, let go—”

“Where’s Norton live?”

“Green house, the only green house on Zane Ave, in Nevada behind the Safeway.”

I eased my hold. “All right, Tom, I’ll go check it out. If I find out you lied to me, I’ll come see you at Zeke’s tonight.”

“I ain’t lying.”

“Good boy. One more thing. Don’t even think of calling Norton. That would be a life-threatening mistake. You clear on that?”

He stood slowly. “Yes.”

“You also owe me for paint and my time,” I said, and spun him around and yanked his wallet out of his back pocket. When I saw it contained only three one-dollar bills, I rolled my eyes and flung it onto the roof of the house. “Let’s go,” I said to Cody, but as I started for my truck, a white Lincoln pulled up to the curb. The door swung open and a man dressed in gray slacks, dress shoes, and a lavender polo shirt stepped onto the asphalt. He was in his fifties, wide shoulders, neck like a bull, his eyes small in his meaty face.

“What’s going on here?”

“Who are you?” I said.

“John Switton. I live here.”

“Hey, Pop, we’re loading our gear for the gig.”

“I can see that, Rabbit. What’s your problem?” he said to Tom.

“Nothing,” Tom mumbled, and walked back to where he’d left the dolly. Switton shifted his eyes back to me.

“He vandalized my house,” I said. “We’ve just been discussing the matter. I consider it resolved, for now.”

“
Vandalized?
Was Rabbit part of this?” He addressed me, then turned and looked at the others. Cody was standing next to Rabbit, whose mouth moved silently, as if he was trying to formulate a sentence but the words escaped him.

John Switton moved in a blur, and in a second had his hands on Tom, who yelled in protest as the older man grabbed his collar and slammed him down on the hood of the Ford truck.

“What kind of shit are you dragging my son into?” he snarled, holding Tom by the neck. The bearded man took a step forward, but Cody stopped him with a forearm to the chest.

Tom got out a few strangled words before Switton lifted him and again slammed him on the hood. “Rabbit doesn’t think too well,” Switton said through clenched teeth. “He’s easily influenced. I hold you personally responsible for any trouble he gets into. Understand?” Before Tom could answer, Switton pivoted at the hip and flung him through the air. Tom landed on the lawn with a snort.

“Well done,” Cody said, walking between them to my rig.

Switton and I met eyes but neither of us spoke. I felt an odd bond, as if we shared an agenda beyond our dislike of Tom, but it was probably nothing more than a random thought. I nodded at Switton, and for a second, a smile began on his face. Then it was gone, and I climbed into my cab and drove away.

• • •

As we crossed the state line, I found myself thinking back to earlier in my career, to the eccentric personalities, the neurotics, the cavalier, the violent. My last boss, Rick Wenger, had motivations straightforward and without complexity—he was in it for the money. Wenger was obsessed by wealth, and judged all individuals solely on their financial status. If someone was relatively poor, he considered them a dirtbag. Conversely, if a person was wealthier than he was, Wenger was wracked with envy. There was no middle ground, no moral or ethical considerations in Wenger’s equation. A hospice nurse making fifty thousand a year helping terminally ill patients die in comfort was simply inferior to a used car salesman pulling down sixty grand. In applying his perspective to his job, Wenger sought out cases posing minimal risk and high potential for billable hours. As long as he got paid, he had no philosophical concern as to the resolution of any case.

Before my career with Wenger, I worked for a bail bondsman named Ray Loretta. A man of extraordinary physical and mental energy, Loretta loved the challenges of the job. For him, pitting his skills against the criminals he worked with was great fun. He provided bond to the highest risk crooks, and eagerly chased them down when they fled. He pepper-sprayed con artists, beat murder suspects bloody with his fists, kicked gangbangers in the balls and laughed at them, and once shot a rapist in the head during a hundred-mile-per-hour chase through downtown San Jose. In his spare time, he was a prolific ladies’ man and had multiple affairs ongoing at any given moment. How he managed all this while maintaining his wife and three kids was beyond me.

A mile into Nevada, I stopped in an empty parking lot, and as I assembled my gear, I considered my own motivations. It would have been easy to assume Jason Loohan was long gone by now, so why not forget about him? I wasn’t in dire straits for money, and the three-grand bounty seemed a paltry fee for chasing a man I knew would kill me given the chance. Instead, Cody and I could turn around and head over to Pistol Pete’s, play some cards, maybe say hello to Teresa Perez. Maybe get drunk, then tomorrow I could work on revitalizing my investigations business, solicit the local attorneys, try to land a divorce case or two. I felt the weight of my automatic in my hand, and thought, “Why not?”

Years ago, a district attorney had taken exception to my involvement in a shooting. The charges were eventually dropped, but in the process, I was sent to a court-appointed psychologist. After a couple sessions on the couch, the shrink submitted his report, professing that I suffered from “social vengeance syndrome, a desire to rid society of its ills by violent means.” He went on to elaborate: “This behavior is classic overcompensation for anger and feelings of loss due to his father’s murder. His tendency to proactively defend what is near and dear to him is extreme and borderline antisocial. He displays a lack of faith in the legal justice system, and if threatened will likely respond with extreme prejudice.”

This kind of psychobabble always made me chuckle, because it ignored a fundamental reality; when dealing with criminals who’d gladly see me dead, the best defense, and actually the safest tact, was a full-blown offense. A passive approach was almost always foolhardy. It was as simple as that.

Bottom line: Jason Loohan had shot my best friend and the bullet meant for me had blown out my truck’s windshield. He may have left for parts unknown, or he could be lying in wait for the right moment to finish the job. As much as I might have liked to find a rationale to discount the threat he represented, I knew I wouldn’t. Loohan needed to be found and dealt with.

Body armor on, stun gun, handcuffs, mace, and my Beretta .40 cal. in place, I watched Cody strap on his vest and secure his shoulder holster. He swung my sawed-off to an upright position, the barrel resting on his shoulder.

“If he runs, shoot for his legs,” I said.

Five minutes later we drove down the street where I’d been told Joe Norton lived. It was a neighborhood of working-class tract homes, probably thirty or forty years old, most shabby and unkempt, some with faded FOR RENT placards in the windows, all anonymous and unremarkable. Abrupt late afternoon clouds had moved in, blotting out the sun and casting a dreary grayness over the residences and the scattering of aged vehicles parked along the curb. Toward the end of the street was an olive-green house, its front lawn dead and a familiar blue Chevy Chevelle in the driveway. A
BEWARE OF DOG
sign hung on a chain link gate barricading the side yard.

“Got any doggy treats?” Cody asked.

“Yeah.” I handed him a plastic container from my gear case. We parked a few doors down and watched the neighborhood for a while. The quiet and stillness left me with the impression this was a place where people kept to themselves, greeting their neighbors with blank stares and nods but nothing more. No block parties, gleeful children’s voices, or Fourth of July fireworks here. No Christmas lights either, just the occasional kaleidoscope of spinning red-and-blue lights atop a police cruiser. Peel away the weathered siding and brittle roofs on these houses, and you’d find plenty of dirty secrets and unhappy lives.

Nothing stirred at the green house. We left my truck and once we were close enough, Cody winged some nuggets of dog food into the side yard. When no dog appeared, he walked over and rattled the gate. He waited a moment, then opened it and moved along the side of the house.

I checked the windows in front, but the curtains were drawn. I moved to the front step and tried the locked doorknob. If the door had been a stout, solid unit, I would have knocked, but this one was moisture warped and maybe just flimsy enough. “Decisions, decisions,” I sighed. Then I reared my leg back and kicked as hard as I could, my heel slamming into the jamb. The wood splintered with a loud crack and the door flew open so fast it bounced off the interior wall and slapped shut before I could react. I hit it with my palm and burst into the house, covering the room with my automatic.

A thump sounded down a dark hallway. I ran over and opened a door to an empty bedroom, then kicked in the locked door across from it, ready to fire. Joe Norton stood shirtless, struggling to pull on a pair of pants. His bed was unmade, and the room smelled stale and foul.

“The fuck is this?” he said, his eyes puffy with sleep.

“Jason Loohan. Where is he?”

“Beats the hell out of me. I’m calling the cops.”

“You, call the cops? What, you got some friends on the force? Maybe Nevada PD?”

He sat on the bed and rubbed his eyes, the thick cords of muscle in his shoulders bulging against his white skin. “I was taking a nap, man.”

“Tell someone who gives a shit. Where’s Loohan?”

“You know what, pal? You’re not gonna shoot me, so put your gun away before I get annoyed and stick it up your ass.”

“House is clear, Dirt,” Cody’s voice boomed from behind a wall.

“You know, you’re right,” I said to Norton, holstering my piece and taking a can of mace from my belt. “I’d be happy to give you a taste of this, though, maybe help you wake up.”

Norton laughed, the skin around his bloodshot eyes gray and wrinkled. “You’re looking for Loohan, huh?”

“Care to let me in on the joke?”

“What’s in it for me?” he said, almost to himself, staring off into space. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and stuck one in his mouth.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” I pointed the spray nozzle at him. He took a deep drag off his smoke and looked up at me, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

“Sure, Mr. Badass Bounty Hunter. You want to hook up with Loohan? I ain’t gonna stand in your way. Problem is, he never stays in any place for long, like one night is the max, the dude is seriously mobile. And don’t look at me that way. I ain’t shittin’ you, jack.”

“Is he still in the area?”

“Yes, sir, he sure is. He mentioned he plans to stick around until he takes care of some unfinished business.”

I felt Cody’s shadow from the doorway fall over me. “He told you that, huh?” Cody said.

“That’s right.”

“Where can I find him?” I said.

Norton’s smirk broadened into a grin. “Why don’t you just hang loose, man? He ain’t gonna be found unless he’s good and ready. Then he’ll find
you
.”

Cody stepped past me and leveled the shotgun at Norton’s face. “How about some free dental work, asswipe?”

“Wow, this is like a bad scene out of
Starsky and Hutch
. I’m really pissin’ my pants. Tell you what—why don’t I call the cops and you can talk to them about your problems.” Norton picked up his cell phone from the nightstand and began punching numbers. Cody knocked it from his hand with the barrel and slammed the stock down, crushing the phone against the floor.

Norton’s face reddened, and he lost his buck tooth smile. “I’ll send you the bill for that,” he said. “And for the door, too. You don’t like it, we’ll sort it out in court.”

“You’re full of all kinds of scary threats,” I said. “Here’s something to keep in mind. Any trouble we have with Loohan, I’ll consider you responsible, and then we’ll settle it.”

“If you’re done spewing bullshit, get the fuck out of my house.”

I took a deep breath and decided further conversation was pointless. Cody and I left Norton sitting on his bed in his depressing rental home and drove back across the border into California. It was raining lightly, not quite a drizzle, more like spit coming down from the skies. I suddenly felt like a drink, like chugging a fifty-fifty CC Seven. But instead of heading to Whiskey Dick’s, I turned at the street leading to Marcus Grier’s office.

“You think Norton knows where Loohan is?” Cody said.

“Maybe. I doubt it. I don’t know.”

“We could always go back and beat it out of him. Maybe zap him with your Taser until he talks.”

“It’s tempting, but it’s also illegal.”

“You worried he’d bring the heat down on you? Like maybe he’s paying off those plainclothes cops in Douglas County?”

“I think it’s likely. How often do ex-con shitbirds threaten to call the police?”

“Never.” Cody shifted in his seat and adjusted his injured shoulder.

“He’s probably got a couple in his pocket, probably those two we saw at the apartments,” I said.

“Should we tattle to Grier?”

“He already knows, or at least suspects. Don’t know there’s much he can do about it.”

“He needs to grow a pair, then.”

“Give him a break.”

“Why?”

“Cody, you were fired for making your own rules, ignoring politics, and basically pissing off everybody at SJPD.”

“That’s because half the force was corrupt and I wasn’t buying into it.”