Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (25 page)

“I’m a licensed bounty hunter. I’m looking for a known associate of Norton’s, a rapist named Jason Loohan. I went to Norton’s house this morning to speak with him about Loohan.”

“And you found him dead?”

“Yes. It appeared to be a professional execution.”

“Big Joe was electrocuted?” Rabbit said.

“No, son,” Switton said. “Do you know who killed him? Or why?”

“Norton and his boys are involved in drug dealing. I suspect Jason Loohan is also involved. I consider it likely Norton’s death is drug related.”

Switton turned his eyes from me and stared out at the lake. The crow’s feet around his eyes looked etched in stone, and I could see his thick fingers flex around his water glass.

His eyes returned to mine briefly. “I appreciate you sharing this.”

“Mr. Switton, do you know Jason Loohan?”

“No. I’ve never heard the name.”

I handed him a rumpled picture. “Ever seen him?”

He dropped his eyes to the sheet of paper. “No.”

“Would you call me if you do?”

“Yeah,” Switton said. His voice was a hoarse whisper.

“I’m sorry if I’ve disrupted your day. Are you new in town? Retired?”

“I look old enough to retire?”

“A lot of people move here once they don’t have to work.”

“That doesn’t apply to me. I’m a manager at Pistol Pete’s.”

“I see.” I wrote my phone number on Loohan’s picture. “Please don’t hesitate to call if you have any information as to his whereabouts.”

Switton didn’t reply, seemingly lost in his thoughts. I went back to the bar, where Cody sat watching, his eyes raised in question. He’d filled my beer mug, but when I took a swig, it tasted stale and flat.

“Come on, let’s hit it,” I said.

We went outside into the heat of the day, the sun glaring in our faces. I squinted and saw Juan Perez pedal into the parking lot on his bicycle, his black hair windblown, his face shiny with perspiration.

“Hi, Mr. Reno and Cody,” he said, hopping off the bike. We walked over to where he’d stopped in the deeply shaded grass by the side of the restaurant.

“How’s things at the homestead?” Cody said.

“The what?”

“At home, Juan,” I said. “Anyone causing trouble at the picnic table?”

“Not recently, no.”

“How about those white guys we saw a few nights ago?”

“Two were there for a little while yesterday.”

“How about the Diablos Sierra?”

“They haven’t been out there since Rodrigo was injured. Why, what’s going on?”

I slid my last picture of Jason Loohan from the back pocket of my jeans.

“Ever see this guy hanging around?”

Juan’s eyes roamed over the photocopy. “Yes, I’ve seen him.”

“
You have?
”

“Three of four days ago. He was at the apartments.”

“What was he doing there?”

“I remember him because Teresa said some creepy man was staring at her.”

“This man,” Cody said, his finger jabbing at the paper, “was staring at Teresa?”

“Yes. He was in the common, with another man.”

“Can you describe the other man, Juan?” I said.

“Well, he was about your size. A white guy, tattoos on his arms.”

“What color hair?”

“Short, brown hair. And his teeth—very crooked, I remember.”

“What were they doing there?” Cody said.

“Nothing. Just standing around talking. They were only around for maybe fifteen minutes that I saw.”

“Shit,” Cody said.

“I better go. I don’t want to be late for my shift.”

We watched him push his bike through the restaurant’s back door. Up the street I could see a line of vehicles waiting at a signal light on 50. The cars began moving forward, the sun reflecting off the chrome in bursts of silver. A group of shirtless teenagers in a convertible were laughing and yelling, followed by a family in a station wagon weighted with luggage tied to the roof. Behind them, a pack of motorcyclists on big touring bikes rolled forward in rows of two.

“Let’s go rest up,” I said. Cody didn’t reply, his huge frame still as a statue, eyes squinted and jaw set, staring past the traffic in the direction of the Pine Mountain Apartments.

• • •

Irish John tried to shove the churning thoughts from his mind while he cut into the steak the waitress had brought. But the meat seemed tasteless, the green salad soggy, his scotch rocks a watery blur.

“Aren’t you hungry, Pop?” Robert said.

John shoved his plate aside. “I think I’ll get a go box.”

Sitting back while Robert ate noisily, John finished his drink and motioned for a refill. Two days ago he thought his problems were behind him, as if he’d reached the end of a rutted road, and was finally cruising the open freeway. He felt like a fool for his gullibility. Hadn’t he been around long enough to know that tranquility is nothing more than a temporary state?

When he’d agreed to the arrangement in Tahoe, John had pointedly sought to stay outside the inner workings of the Tuma family. This in itself wasn’t hard, because that’s the way Sal Tuma wanted it. But John had also done his best to remain completely uninformed and oblivious to the Tuma’s criminal activities. When Sal told John to house the HCU gang, John had asked no questions. When on occasion he’d overheard snippets of conversation hinting at drug business, he’d left the room. The less known the better.

But now things were unraveling, and the recent sequence of events pointed to a situation spinning out of control. Vinnie Tuma was still missing, and John no longer believed he was out on a binge somewhere. Severino had not hid his suspicion that John had killed the kid, and actually seemed to take a perverse pleasure in accusing John of it. Severino was one of Sal Tuma’s most trusted men. If Vinnie Tuma remained missing, or turned up dead, all it would take was Severino’s word, and the Tumas could conclude John was guilty. Despite John’s history with the Tuma family, he would not be afforded the slightest benefit of the doubt. They’d find someone else to serve as paper owner of the casino, then his elimination would follow, probably by way of a bullet to the head.

Robert started talking, but John didn’t process the words. He was still trying to digest the news of Joe Norton’s murder. Was Norton’s death linked to Vinnie Tuma’s disappearance? It seemed likely, maybe even obvious. Would Severino see it that way? If so, John should be off the hook.

Or not, he mused. Being accused of killing a family member was akin to having one foot in the grave. John had seen fellow mobsters killed for less. In the Mafia, suspicion was often cause enough for execution. Factor in that Severino still likely harbored a grudge, and John’s future was about as promising as a death row inmate’s.

John widened his eyes and tried to relax the muscles in his face. He looked at his son, who was eating happily. What would become of Robert if the Tumas decided to whack Irish John the Hammer? The possible scenarios made John’s head feel like it was in a vice. Left alone, Robert would be unable to fend for himself. He’d probably be sent to an institution for the mentally disabled, a place where lunatics wiped shit on their faces and were put in straitjackets for their own protection.

Maybe it was because Robert was disabled and had the mental capacity of a child that John felt such an overwhelming love for him. His feelings for his son had never evolved past the point when Robert was a cuddly five-year-old sitting on his lap. John doubted his affection was normal, but then again, neither was Robert.

Living with the threat that Vic Severino might put a hit on him was unacceptable. But what were the options? An idea skirting the edges of John’s consciousness for the last twenty-four hours propelled itself to the center stage of his thoughts. “Okay, then,” he said, whispering the words out loud. “Time for Plan B.”

I
’d planned on taking a long shower the minute I got home, but when I walked inside, I dropped onto the couch and was asleep within seconds. The sun was low in the sky when I woke, and my backyard and the meadow beyond were deep in shadow. I poured myself a cup of two-day-old coffee and heated it in the microwave.

“Hey, Cody,” I said, once the cobwebs began to clear. When he didn’t answer, I checked the house, then saw his truck was no longer in the driveway. Maybe he’d gone out to get food, I thought. He was probably still hungry, and we were low on provisions.

I tossed my clothes in the washing machine and showered with the water as hot as I could stand it, scrubbing the jailhouse stench off my skin. I was standing in my living room in my boxers, drying my hair with a towel, when Cody burst in.

“Throw your duds on, man. Let’s head out to Pistol Pete’s.”

“What for?”

“I swung by the apartments, and no one’s home.”

“So what?”

“According to her brother, Teresa said Loohan was scoping her. We should talk to her, don’t you think?”

“Probably a good idea.”

“Come on, let’s ramble.”

“Anyone in the common when you were there?”

“No. It was quiet.”

“Let me print out some more pictures of Loohan first.”

Ten minutes later we parked in the lot outside Pistol Pete’s and hiked toward the casino. Above the thirty-foot-tall neon cowboy at the entrance, the black glass of the upper story hotel rooms shimmered in the last of the day’s sun. The air was still warm and no breeze blew off the lake. Some folks were getting stoned in a nearby car, their voices and laughter drifting out the open windows. A drowsy haze of pot smoke engulfed us as we walked by.

“You got any ganja at home?” Cody asked me.

“I’ve got half a joint somewhere, from the last time Candi was in town.”

“I think I could use a few hits.”

In the final row of parking spots, a dark blue Ford sedan with exempt plates was parked in a handicapped spot. I stopped at the car.

“Look familiar?’ I said.

“Maybe.”

“It’s Saxton and Boyce’s car,” I said.

“It could be some other cop’s ride.”

“No, it’s theirs. I memorized the license when they hauled us in.”

“I admire your attention to detail,” Cody said. “Any idea why they’re here?”

We continued walking to the front doors, but I paused before going in.

“Not yet.”

We went onto the casino floor, past the theatre, and into a maze of slot machines. Did I think it was coincidental Saxton and Boyce were here? One of the first dictums of investigative work is coincidences don’t happen. John Switton, whose son was in a band with Joe Norton’s buddies, worked at Pistol Pete’s. So did Teresa Perez, who reportedly said Jason Loohan had stared at her. And now Saxton and Boyce show up, a few hours after Norton’s death. The confluence of these four individuals was too much to ignore, especially given the history of Pistol Pete’s.

It had only been a year since the casino’s previous owner, Sal Tuma, had quietly fled town, one step ahead of federal accusations of racketeering. Word on the street was he left the country to avoid being indicted along with his son, Jake, who today was enjoying twenty years in Folsom for dealing serious quantities of coke, meth, and pot. Shortly after Jake Tuma was sentenced, the Nevada gaming commission forced the Tuma family to liquidate their interest in Pistol Pete’s. But did the mob ever really leave? The presence of thickly built middle-aged men with Bronx accents gave me reason to doubt it.

I followed Cody out toward the gaming tables, trying to keep up with his quick stride. So far, the few clues I’d uncovered in my search for Loohan had come up bust. The devil worship angle had gone nowhere, and the only man I thought likely knew where Loohan might be was now on a slab in the morgue. The most obvious next move was to sweat the other HCU members, but maybe there was another card to play. My original assumption was Saxton and Boyce were being paid off by Norton, to allow HCU to sell drugs. So what were the two detectives doing at Pistol Pete’s now that Norton had his ticket punched? Conclusion: maybe Norton was just a pawn, maybe the money trail really led to Pistol Pete’s.

But it was a theory, nothing more, and besides, even if I was on the right track, would it lead to Loohan?

It was a Monday night and the card tables were slow. We stood near a Pai Gow poker table and watched the lady dealer flip cards to a young couple.

“Is Teresa Perez working tonight?” Cody asked her.

“Don’t know,” she said, never taking her eyes off the cards.

We began walking the perimeter of the area, scanning for lime-green cocktail outfits. But I was also looking for men who fit a certain mold, their dress and mannerisms out of sync with the tourist and local populations, their physical presence exuding a sense of threat that made passersby avoid them like the flow of a stream around dumped trash.

It only took a few minutes, and it was Teresa who found us.

“Cody, you’re always so easy to spot,” she said, coming around a bank of slots, an empty tray in her hand. “Your head of hair is the only thing taller than the slot machines.”

“Hey, supergirl,” Cody said.

“Hi, Teresa,” I said, marveling at the impression she made every time I saw her. Was she blessed with a destiny reserved for only the fewest of individuals? Her physical attributes were undeniable, her provocative figure and lovely features enough to stop a man in his tracks. But it was more than her beauty. I felt an aura radiating from her, one that was far more potent than appearances alone.
Stardom,
I thought. At that moment, though I knew it was an impetuous notion, stardom is what I would have bet was in Teresa’s future.

“What brings you two handsome men to Pistol Pete’s tonight?” she said, her eyes twinkling.

“Teresa,” I said, handing her a picture of Loohan. “Have you ever seen this man?”

The shine went out of her face when she looked at the picture, and for a moment I saw a girl from an impoverished rural town where the local authorities portended not only corruption, but also a cruelty only those who lived in a third world country would understand.

“Yes,” she said. “I think four days ago, he was in the common at my apartment complex.”

“We saw Juan earlier today,” Cody said. “He said this man was staring at you.”