Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (30 page)

At sixteen, Juan knew his entire life lay ahead of him. He was determined to graduate from high school, and then the next big step, on to a college degree. Who knows where his path might lead after that? Maybe to one of these spectacular homes. Perhaps the world wasn’t so mysterious after all.

Teresa stopped in front of a multilevel spread, its front highlighted with decorative stonework. A column of river rock rose from the foundation up one side, the chimney reaching a few feet above the peak of the shingled roofline. From the street Juan could see to the rear of the property, where thick wooden pillars supported a redwood deck that overlooked the snowcapped peaks beyond.

“This is where Stuart lives?”

Teresa double-checked the address. “Yes, this is it.” She looked at Juan with an odd smile he couldn’t quite read.

They followed a flagstone walkway to the front door and rang the chimes.

“Teresa, gracious, you’re here. Come in, please. And you must be Juan.”

The man wore sandals, loose-fitting corduroy pants, and a lavender T-shirt with a yellow smiley face in the center.

After a moment Teresa nudged him, and Juan realized he was staring. Embarrassed, he said, “Yes, hello.”

“Well, come in, let me show you around. I got a great deal here on a six-month lease. The rent is astronomical during the winter season, but surprisingly affordable until then.”

As Stuart led them from room to room, then outside to the back deck, Juan kept shooting glances at Teresa, confused as to the purpose of the tour. What did this strange man wish to do, make them jealous of his fancy home?

When they got to the bedrooms upstairs, Stuart said, “So, what do you think?”

“Would you give us a minute, Stuart?”

“Of course.” Stuart left and Teresa sat on the queen-size bed. She looked up at Juan.

“Stuart says he’s worried our apartments are not safe. He wants us to move in here.”

“What? In this house? With him?”

“Well, yes. Juan, Stuart is a very nice man, and he has nothing but our best interest in mind.”

“But, we could never afford a place like this!”

“He’s offering us free rent.”

Juan paused and blinked. Outside the bedroom window, a tall pine partially obscured the sun, the light splintering through the needles. A bluebird landed on a branch and added a twig to the nest it was building.

“Nothing is free, Teresa,” he said, feeling foolish as it occurred to him he was repeating words often uttered by his father.

“You’re right. Stuart will let me pay him back once my career takes off. And,” she added, “with the money we save, think how much sooner we can bring Mama and Papa here.”

Juan peered into the spacious bathroom, where polished fixtures gleamed against granite tile.

“We’ve always paid our way. This doesn’t seem right.”

“Things are changing for us, Juan, for the better.” Teresa stood and placed her hands on her brother’s shoulders. “Can’t you see that?”

Juan looked into Teresa’s gold-flecked eyes. The opportunities she’d dreamt of were now becoming real, and Juan knew he must support her. But things were happening so suddenly—moving was a major event, and they’d never even discussed it! The fact that it was being thrust upon him made him feel like he had no control over the path of his life. Was this how things would be, now that Teresa’s career was gaining traction? If so, he would need to tolerate it, at least until he was old enough to forge his own way.

But one thing Juan would not tolerate is walking into a bad situation. The offer of free rent at a resort-like home would almost certainly come with obligations. Stuart might have other motivations. But he seemed harmless enough. No doubt Stuart wasn’t interested in Teresa sexually; Teresa had said he was a
puta,
and Juan saw this was true from the moment he saw him. Maybe Stuart really was a kind soul who wanted to help them. Time would tell.

Despite his reservations, he couldn’t deny the lure of moving from his low-rent apartment to a place palatial compared to anywhere he’d lived. Juan sighed, as a fresh storm of colliding issues and emotions swarmed into his head. The prospect of moving from the environment of poor Mexicans and the Diablos Sierra losers both excited him and made him feel a creeping sense of shame. Living at Stuart’s place would be a guilty indulgence, a lifestyle unearned by a lowly teenage busboy. It also allowed him a convenient escape from the gangbangers, who had not only humiliated him, but had also insulted Teresa. The sense of relief he felt over this made him grit his teeth in frustration.

For a moment, Juan felt the weight of his life bearing down, and he longed for the guiding hand of his parents. It wasn’t right he’d been forced into adult situations at such an early age. He’d never had a chance to experience being a kid. He was sure he must have been a carefree child once, but it was too long ago to remember. Now, all that pertained to his life, his decisions, his actions, seemed to have an unfair gravity.

Juan set his jaw. It was weakness that birthed thoughts like these. The weakness was always lurking, continually challenging him to be strong, to become a man. He had his whole life in front of him to be cautious, if he chose. But opportunity had knocked
today
, and it was the time to stop being a coward.

“We’d be crazy to turn this down,” he said to Teresa. “Which bedroom is mine?”

I
t was past eight when Cody finally ambled out of the guest room.

“Good morning,” I said. I’d already drunk a pot of coffee and my eyes were bloodshot from staring at my computer screen.

Cody stretched and ripped an explosive fart. “What’s for breakfast?”

“We’re out of grub. Let’s go out.”

He went to dress, and I turned back to my computer. My search for the ownership of Pistol Pete’s had been fruitless. If I wanted the information, I’d have to drive to Carson City and inquire at the state office.

I went outside and leaned on the deck railing, surveying the damage to my lawn. After breakfast I’d stop at the local nursery and pick up some rolls of sod. Repairing Loohan’s work would require at least a couple hours of hard labor. The pentagram would still be visible no matter how meticulous I was. I was sure Candi would ask about it when she came into town tomorrow.

Other than that, it was a splendid morning. Birds chirping, sunlight scattered over the deck, the sky a peaceful blue. The air was crisp when a light breeze stirred the pine needles. It would have been a good day to straighten up my place, lift some weights, and prepare for Candi’s visit.

I said as much to Cody as we drove out to the restaurant a few minutes later.

“So, instead, you’re working. That’s life. Why complain?” he said.

“Just in a bitchy mood, I guess.”

“I think you need to get laid.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Pull up your panties and let’s concentrate on finding Loohan.”

I parked, and we walked into the local diner. A noisy clatter of activity, every table full.

“We need to find where Tom lives,” I said. “Rabbit the drummer probably knows.” A waitress sat us and cleared the dirty plates and glasses from our table.

“Or we could spin on by the Pine Mountains, check to see if HCU is hanging out.”

“So you can check on Teresa?” I said.

“Why not?”

“Let’s try the Switton house first.”

“Fine. You should order the works. You’re looking a little gaunt.”

“I feel all right. Just tired, maybe.”

The waitress took our order, then Cody told her to double it. She returned with an impossible amount of food. I didn’t think I was that hungry, but once I started eating, I couldn’t stop. Scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, flapjacks, toast, sausage links, orange juice. When the plates were empty, I should have felt like a stuffed bear heading for hibernation. Instead I was surprisingly refreshed.

“Now you look ready to work,” Cody said once we were outside, his face ruddy in the glittery sunshine.

“I guess I was low on fuel.”

Cody drove us toward the house where John and Robert Switton lived, his elbow propped out his window as he steered through the light traffic. He tried a few different radio stations until he found a song he liked, an old number by George Thorogood. Watching him tap his fingers to the music, I was struck with a sense that Cody was at his most content when facing adversity. Actually, it was more than that. He was happiest when he sensed direct conflict. Violent conflict.

But in this case, I didn’t know why he was in such a good mood. The week we’d spent hunting Jason Loohan had got us next to nowhere. Last night I was certain he would soon show his face, but doubt was already creeping around the edge of my mind. Loohan could have already left town, leaving us to flounder in a futile search. He could already be in Canada or Mexico, smiling as he imagined me endlessly looking over my shoulder.

I was hesitant to ask Cody what he was thinking. We had no real leads, and I wasn’t in the mood to hear his gut instinct or intuitions.

Nonetheless: “Why the happy face?”

Cody smiled, his eyes bright and clear. “I had a dream last night.”

“And?”

“I pissed on Loohan’s corpse. Call it a premonition.”

I burst out laughing. Served me right for asking.

We turned off 50 and drove to the white house where the Swittons lived. No cars out front, or in the driveway. We knocked on the door.

“Nobody home,” Cody said.

“Listen. You hear that?”

“No.”

We stood silently, and I could make out a faint thumping. At times random, then falling into a pattern.

“I think Rabbit’s playing the drums,” I said.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“There’s a cinder block building in the backyard. It’s probably where they jam.”

“You want to go back there?”

I didn’t answer, straining my ears, but the thumping had stopped. I rang the doorbell again.

We stood on the porch for the next few minutes, knocking and ringing the bell, until the door swung open. Rabbit was wearing cut-off jeans, jogging shoes, and a sleeveless shirt wet with perspiration. A yellow sweatband, the kind NBA players wore in the seventies, was plastered to his forehead.

“Hi, Rabbit,” I said. “How’s it going?”

He looked at me, his expression blank, one eye roving. Then he smiled.

“Oh, hi guys.”

“Pounding the skins?” Cody asked.

“Huh?”

“Were you playing the drums?” I said.

“Yeah! I just made a new solo. Want to check it out?”

“Sure,” Cody said.

“How about your dad, Rabbit? Is he home?”

“Nooo. He went to Sac-a-tomatoes.”

“Sacramento?”

Rabbit didn’t answer, instead waving for us to follow him inside. We went through the house, out a sliding glass door, and across the backyard to the building in the rear of the property. He opened the double doors to reveal a room dominated by a huge black drum set. Against the walls were guitar amps, mic stands, and racks of electronic gear.

Hopping lithely onto a platform that elevated his drums a foot off the floor, Rabbit sat behind the kit. He closed his eyes and after a pause began playing a light cadence on the snare drum. He alternated buzz rolls with rim shots and off-time accents, creating something I thought had a jazzy feel. But then he went into a simpler pattern, increasing in speed and volume on the snare until his hands flew upward to the cymbals and his feet went crazy on the bass drums. He started mixing bass drum blasts with patterns on the tom toms, his hands a blur as they went from the smallest drums to the deep floor toms. He finally fell into a syncopated rhythm, blasting away on the double bass pedals while his sticks whipped from drum to drum and crashed away at his cymbals.

When he stopped he was breathing hard. He wiped his face with a towel and stared out in our direction.

“Bravo!” Cody said, shaking his fist. “That was hot!”

I clapped my hands and said, “Rabbit, that was incredible. I’ve never seen anybody play like that.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes, man, it was great.”

“Outstanding,” Cody said.

“Oh, thanks,” Rabbit said, and I think he might have blushed, or maybe his face was red from the exertion.

“Rabbit,” I said as he climbed down from the drum riser, “the reason we came by is because we need to talk to Tom.”

“Tom is my guitar player.”

“I know.”

He didn’t reply, his face contorting, perhaps in confusion, or maybe in an effort to make a decision.

“Do you want to hurt him?” he said.

“No. No, I promise we don’t.”

“Will your dad be home soon?” Cody asked.

“No.”

“Maybe we should go, Dirt.”

“Tom’s probably at home. You want his address?”

Cody and I stared at Rabbit, our mouths open in surprise.

“I don’t need my dad’s permission for everything,” Rabbit said. “I’m a man.” He pulled a card out of his wallet and read slowly: “Tom lives at two, three, seven, two Callow Avenue.”

• • •

The address Rabbit gave us was for a street a block away from Joe Norton’s ex-residence. The powder-blue paint on the duplex was peeling, and the driveway was stained with years of dirty motor oil. We idled by, my eyes straining for motorcycle tracks.

“See anything?” Cody said

“No. But park down the street. We should gear up.”

Five minutes later we approached Tom’s home. Cody took the near side and I came from the opposite direction. I wrapped my fingers around the grips of my automatic but left it holstered as I peeked over a fence alongside the property. Garbage cans, a rusted snow shovel, a stack of yellowed newspapers.

We came to the front door, and I tried without success to peer around the curtains behind the street-facing window. I heard the murmur of a television, then a loud laugh. I rang the doorbell.

“We don’t want any!” A male voice, more laughter. I rang again.

“Man, what part of ‘no soliciting’ don’t you understand?” a voice said as the door opened. It was the weak-chinned, bearded guitarist I’d first seen at the Switton’s house. Sitting on a couch inside I could see Tom and another dude I didn’t recognize. A bong smoldered on the coffee table, and the room was hazy with pot smoke.