Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (22 page)

She tried to continue but her voice cracked and she began sobbing into her hands. Cody stood and placed his hand on her shoulder, and we waited for her to cry herself out. But just when her sobs faded to whimpers, she jumped to her feet, her face wild with rage.

“So that’s been my experience with parenthood!” she screamed. “And you know what? It sucks! It fucking sucks! Get it? Do you get it?”

I pulled a picture of Loohan from my pocket.

“Have you ever seen this man?”

She looked at the paper, then guzzled the rest of her drink.

“No, I’ve never seen him.” Her face no longer livid, she dropped back into her chair, her head lolling on her neck.

“I think I’ll pass out now,” she said. “Please show yourselves out.”

We didn’t hesitate.

• • •

As we drove out of the neighborhood, I wondered about the lives behind the facades of those homes, about how the wealthy inhabitants were not immune from the most sordid, desperate circumstances. Knock on the door to the Wenhert house, and welcome to a private hell.

“Money sure doesn’t buy happiness, huh, Dirt?”

“You got that right. Christ, I think she even scared you off.”

“That she did, old buddy. I’m starving. Hysterical women always make me hungry. And thirsty too. Let’s get lunch.”

We drifted back toward downtown Reno and found a hofbrau with chicken and sides of beef roasting on spits in the front window. The chill of the morning hours had succumbed to the afternoon sun, and the promise of cold beer and real food drew us into the place like a magnet.

The dining room was crowded and noisy, but the bar, done in stained and lacquered pine, was mostly empty. Hunched over at the bar, I scribbled in my notebook, while we waited for our lunch order.

“No wonder Luther Conway didn’t give us Eric Wenhert’s name,” I said.

“Obviously he didn’t want us to find out he’d had sex with the kid. Fuckin’ pervert.”

“I bet that’s part of the reason the kid croaked himself. Not only is he gay, but getting it on with an old creep like Conway?”

Cody swigged off his beer. “You told me Loohan is supposedly a poon hound. And now we find out Conway is a sexual degenerate. Think there’s a connection?”

“I don’t know. I think these Satanists are all sexual deviants to some extent.”

“Yeah? Let me tell you something. If none of these names old Luther gave us pan out, I want to go back and nail his nuts to the wall.”

“We already know one is bogus—Greg Ruehr. Wenhert’s mother said he moved away a year ago.”

Before Cody could respond, my cell rang.

“Yeah, Frank Swaney,” the voice said.

“Dan Reno. Thanks for calling, Detective.”

“DeHart called me, said you’re looking for a bail jump named Jason Loohan.”

“That’s right.

“I saw the APB on Loohan. He hasn’t turned up yet, but we’ll keep our eyes open.”

“Right. I wanted to ask you about a case from a couple years ago. Two men arrested for spray painting pentagrams.”

“Sure, I remember it. What’s your interest?”

“Loohan’s into devil worship. I’m trying to locate people into the same.”

“Ah. Sorry this is not gonna help you. One of them moved away months ago. The other committed suicide recently.”

“How about Luther Conway, Detective? What’s your take on him?”

“Conway? He’s a strange one, no doubt, but he’s stayed off the radar since doing a week in the county slam a while back.”

“Anybody else you can think of that’s into Satanism or the occult?”

He paused. “Hmm. Not really, no.”

Cody looked at me after we hung up. “Nothing,” I said.

The bartender brought our lunch orders, and my barbeque beef sandwich was so messy I had to eat it with a knife and fork. Not that I was complaining. I washed it down with a cold brew while I studied the three remaining names Luther Conway had provided. After we finished eating, Cody ambled off to take a leak, and my cell rang again. It was Candi, my sometimes girlfriend from Elko. We hadn’t spoken in a week, and in the back of my mind, I was a bit concerned. I should have called her.

“Hello, doll,” I said.

“Hey, you. Staying busy?”

“Yeah, I’m in the middle of a new case. I’m sorry for not calling.”

“It’s okay, Dan. I’ve been up to my eyeballs myself. I can always pick up the phone too, you know.”

“I know,” I said, smiling. Candi always put me at ease when I thought she might be unhappy with me.

“Listen,” she said. “Remember I told you about that job opportunity at the community college out there?”

“Yeah?”

“I have an interview scheduled for next Wednesday.”

“Really? Hey, that’s great.”

“Are you just saying that?”

“Huh? No, of course not.”

“They’re considering me for art director. They were very impressed with my work.”

“They should be. You’re stuff is great, Candi.”

“Thank you, Dan.”

“You’re welcome, doll.”

“Are you still staying in shape, jogging with that fifty-pound pack?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Good,” she said, a sly edge to her voice. “I want to spend the night with you Wednesday and test your stamina.”

“Oh, god.”

“So, I’ll be hitting the road Wednesday morning, probably be in South Lake Tahoe midafternoon. Will you be at home?”

“Yeah, I should be.”

“Oh, well if—”

“No, I’ll make sure I’m home, Candi. It’s just this case I’m working has me on the run.”

“What kind of case?”

“An elusive bail jumper.”

“Well, I won’t be there for three days. Do you think you can find him by then?”

“I’ll be doubly motivated to.”

“Good,” she said, the suggestive tone back. In my mind’s eye, I saw her tongue curl as she spoke, her eyes sparkling beneath the bangs of her brown hair.

We hung up, and Cody, who returned to hear the last half of the conversation, toasted me with his mug.

“Your brunette from Elko?”

“Yeah.”

“Getting serious?”

“You never know.”

“I think I see a second marriage in your future.”

“I think that’s just the vodka talking.”

He guffawed at that, his meaty paw massaging my neck, his fingers rough as raw leather.

“Maybe so, Dirt. Maybe so.”

• • •

We spent the rest of the afternoon driving from one side of Reno to the other, then south of Carson City to Minden. None of the names provided by Luther Conway amounted to anything. The phone numbers were either disconnected or wrong numbers, the addresses vacant, nonexistent, and, at our final stop, to a closed machine shop.

The sun had dropped behind a swath of hazy clouds. I sat on Cody’s hood, my feet on his bumper, while he stood and stared at the steep, craggy mountainside behind us. We were now well south of Spooner Pass and would have to drive up the sharp, narrow road leading up Kingsbury Grade back to Tahoe.

“Give me a cigarette, would you?” I said.

He tossed me his pack. “You want to go back and do a prayer session with Conway?”

I shook my head. “Not today. I think it might be a waste of time.”

“You got any better ideas?”

I took a couple drags, then flicked the cigarette into the gravel. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s time for round two with Joe Norton.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Cody said, his eyes lighted with a knowing gleam, as if he’d been waiting patiently all day for me to reach that conclusion.

F
or the first time since he’d arrived in Lake Tahoe, John Switton felt truly at peace with the world. It was an odd sensation, he thought, as he drove along the highway and watched the blue waters of the lake sparkle in the morning sun. Life doesn’t always have to be a battle. Sometimes it’s best not to sweat the little things. So what if Vinnie Tuma was procuring the services of his whore? She was a prostitute, after all. If John wanted something more, a real girlfriend, he could always go down that road. Maybe one day.

More importantly, his bigger concerns, those revolving around his son, seemed to be in control. After his little powwow with Tom, John showed up at the gig at Zeke’s. The freak show was in full force, but the music was almost tolerable, since John borrowed some of Robert’s industrial-strength earplugs. And his son’s performance on the drums was nothing short of amazing. Where he’d acquired the talent, John didn’t know. Probably some random recessive gene from who knows how many generations ago.

Even the bizarre show in the mosh pit was entertaining. John enjoyed watching the fools stomp around like raving lunatics in their strange celebration of violence. Every so often one of them would take an elbow to the face or a knee to the groin, and then the swarm would gain in intensity, like a school of hungry piranhas smelling blood in the water.

During the band’s break, Robert came to where John stood near the bar.

“Hey, Dad. What do you think?”

“You did great, son. I’m very proud.”

Robert beamed, at a loss for words as he often was, but his affection for his father was clear in his eyes.

The other band members approached. “Hello, Mr. Switton,” the bearded guitar player said. The bassist said the same and shook hands. Then Tom stepped forward and made eye contact, bowing slightly, showing respect. They left quickly afterward, leaving John alone to consider whether their reconciliatory gestures were authentic or not. He decided they were—his roughing up of Tom had apparently gotten through to them.

When John reached his office, he read the
Tahoe Daily Tribune
while drinking a cup of coffee. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard getting used to this town. Sure, he still missed some things about the East Coast, but the clean mountain air, the breathtaking scenery, and some of the funky local restaurants were starting to grow on him. Just the night before last, he and Robert had eaten at a place called The Redwood Tavern, and John couldn’t deny their twenty-two-ounce T-bone was the best he’d ever had.

After finishing some paperwork, John walked out to the casino floor. When he passed by the sports book, he saw Vic Severino come out of the “Employees Only” doorway. It struck John as unusual; Severino rarely showed his face in the casino.

“John, I was looking for you,” Severino said, waving John toward him and retreating to the hallway leading to his office.

“You found me,” John said, following him. “What’s up?”

Severino didn’t reply until they reached his office, a large, carpeted room. One wall was lined with file cabinets, the others with cheap framed posters of motivational messages. The phrases might have been appropriate for the halls of a high school, or maybe even a corporate boardroom, but in this office, John thought they were ludicrous. Severino sat behind his desk, a large, glass-top unit.

“Sit,” Severino said, motioning at the single chair facing the desk.

A tiny buzz coursed through John’s viscera. He studied Severino: his long fingers curled around a pen, the stiff posture, the downturned lips. John lowered himself into the chair.

“Have you seen Vinnie Tuma?” Severino said, staring straight into John’s eyes.

John relaxed a bit and allowed himself a small smile.

“No, I haven’t seen the kid. What, I’m his babysitter?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t know—two, three nights ago. Why?”

“He’s missing,” Severino said. Still staring, his pupils like black marbles.

“He is, huh? I’m sure he’ll turn up. Maybe he’s out on a binge somewhere.”

“What were you doing Saturday morning?”

“What? What is this, an interrogation?” John stopped himself. An odd glow had taken hold on Severino’s face, his eyes shining with an intensity that seemed almost carnal. It occurred to John he’d never known Severino to be with a woman, and maybe it was because the creepy prick was the type who got his rocks off on snuff films.

“I was enjoying my day off. Eating breakfast and relaxing at home.”

Severino was quiet for a moment. He put his fists together in front of his mouth, his elbow resting on the desktop.

“Everyone knows you can’t stand the kid.”

“So what? He’s a jerkoff. Nobody likes him.”

“He told me you threatened him, and he was going to talk to Sal about replacing you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I never threatened Vinnie Tuma.”

“He claimed you did. And now he’s vanished.”

“He’s probably shacked up with a hooker or two and frying his brain on crack. The kid’s got a drug problem. He’ll probably show up sometime today.”

“Let’s hope so,” Severino said, his eyebrows creased low, the grainy skin on his forehead shining in the light, his gaze fixed on Irish John.

Standing to leave, John looked at Severino one last time. Perhaps Severino had been seething all these years because John whacked Severino’s old friend. If so, was this the opportunity Severino had been waiting for, a chance to settle the score?

• • •

The desert floor fell behind us as we climbed the two-lane through the foothills and into the deep forest. The road wound up the grade through a sea of pine and fir, the trees towering above us, their tips touching the darkening sky. The last of the twilight had given way to a starless night by the time we reached the summit and started descending toward Lake Tahoe. When we reached Highway 50, it was pitch black outside. We turned right, heading toward Joe Norton’s rental home.

There were no streetlamps on Norton’s street, and the light emitting from the neighboring houses was almost nonexistent. Norton’s blue Chevy was not in the driveway, as it had been on our previous visit. We parked and watched the dark house for a few minutes.

“Looks empty,” Cody said.

“Maybe he’s taking another nap.”

“Let’s go see.”

We crept across the front yard. Cody went to the side yard while I approached the front door. The dead bolt that had been there before was replaced with a cheap bedroom-style lockset, and the splintered doorjamb looked like it had been glued together. I turned the knob and gave the door a quick bump with my shoulder. A cracking sound, and the latch snapped free of the jamb. I slid into the entryway, past a small kitchen, and into the main room, where through the sliding glass door I could see Cody’s silhouette move silently in the backyard.