Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (8 page)

“What about this piece of shit?” Norton said, pointing at the remaining Mexican, a man almost Norton’s size.

“Don’t hurt him too bad,” Saxton said. “No broken bones or blows to the head or face, got it?”

The big
cholo
was expressionless, his fear hidden. Saxton turned to him. “You’ll be dropped off at the apartments with your
Mero Mero
there, or what’s left of him. Then you collect your friends, get on a bus, and vamoose.
Comprende?
I’m telling you to get out of town. We don’t tolerate drug-dealing scum like you in Lake Tahoe—and I’m talking South Lake, North Lake, Truckee, and I work in Reno, too. That means you and your gang need to disappear from the whole region. I’ve told these boys to take it easy on you so you’ll be able to clearly communicate to your fellow gangbangers that you are done here. Do you get what I’m saying?”

The man swallowed and nodded. Saxton removed the cuffs from his wrists, then climbed into the white van along with Boyce. He made a U-turn and slowly drove away, looking in his rearview mirror, watching Rodrigo crawl to a sitting position while the HCU team knocked the other Latino to the ground and took their boots to him.

T
he month the dozen HCU members spent at John Switton’s house had pushed John the Hammer to his breaking point. None of them lifted a finger to clean up after themselves; most lacked even the common decency to flush the toilet. The trail of food wrappers, soiled laundry, and dirty dishes they left in their wake reminded John of pictures he’d seen of a capsized garbage barge. Within two days, the tidy residential home became a filthy, chaotic flophouse. John talked to Vic Servino and Joe Norton, and when he got nowhere, he hired a full-time maid and spent his waking hours in his office at Pistol Pete’s.

When he finally found suitable rental properties and Norton and his boys split, John learned three of the gang members had left their guitars and amps behind, in the detached cinder block building where Robert played the drums. Switton wasn’t thrilled when his son told him they had formed a band and would be rehearsing three times a week. But John decided not to meddle, as Robert’s social life was limited, and he seemed excited about the prospect of his first metal band. At least the freaking room was mostly soundproof.

The previous night, when John came home from the casino and saw Robert wasn’t on the couch watching television, he went out to the back building. The blast of sound that greeted him when he opened the door was startling. The guitars howled over Robert’s driving beat, the bass drum propelling the rhythm at a speed John had never heard in any form of music. The singer, if that’s what he was to be called, was growling in a thick, horrible tone, as if Satan himself was speaking through his vocal chords.

The room’s walls and ceiling were carpeted, and sections were covered with yellow foam mattress pads. A coffee table was shoved in a corner and looked ready to collapse under the weight of empty beer cans and bottles and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. John stood with his fingers in his ears until the onslaught finally ended.

“What do you think, Dad?” Robert said, wiping the sweat from his face.

“It ain’t exactly the Bee Gees.”

“Who?”

John turned to the singer. “Do people actually listen to this?”

The lead guitar player put his beer down after a long swig. “No one your age, pops,” he said.

“No one my age would wear a ring in their nose, either.”

“It’s called fashion. You don’t know what it means? Try a dictionary.”

“Hey, Tom,” Robert said.

“Look, you can wear a ring through your scrotum if you want,” John said. “And I don’t really care what kind of noise you make, as long as I don’t have to listen to it. All I ask is you treat my property with respect. That means clean up after yourselves when you’re done playing.” John pointed at the coffee table.

The second guitarist, wearing a billy goat beard to hide his weak chin, began tuning his instrument. John reached over and yanked the power chord from the man’s guitar. “You need to clean the place before you leave tonight. Or you can find someplace else to play.” John flung the chord at the man and walked out.

An hour later Robert’s bandmates were talking loudly in front of the house. John waited for them to drive off, then went out to his back patio and stood in the shadows. After a minute Robert appeared from the structure, his deformed physique and unnatural gait silhouetted as he walked across the dark yard, carrying a small box clinking with beer bottles. He dumped the bottles into a garbage can on the far side of the house, then returned to the room, and a minute later began the trek again. After the third time, John wheeled the garbage can over to the cinder block building and helped Robert clear the trash from the interior. Then he led his son inside the main house, made him a snack, and they watched television together before going to bed.

• • •

By the time John left for the casino the next morning, the frost had given way to a spring sun that bathed the meadows along Highway 50 in light. Clumps of purple wildflowers spotted the glistening, dew-covered fields. Between stands of pine, John could see two white plumes reflected on the blue surface of the lake, as if painted on a sheet of glass.

Driving with his window open, John tried to enjoy the scenery. But it felt artificial, as if he was watching a movie, and once it ended, an ugly reality would resume. He shook his head at the thought. The gig in Tahoe had saved his ass from financial ruin. Sal Tuma had personally extended himself, offering John a deal he should be grateful for. So why couldn’t John accept the situation and be content?

The answer was obvious, he thought, walking to the Employees Only entrance at Pistol Pete’s. It was bad enough he was forced to board the HCU jackasses for a month. Now three of them had befriended Robert, and it seemed they would become frequent visitors to his home. If they showed John a modicum of deference, that would be one thing. But instead they displayed an utter lack of respect, in effect dismissing him as an old man whose comments and opinions carried no more weight than a child’s. In his prior life, it was an offense no sane man would make.

John had not asked Sal Tuma or Vic Severino why the HCU goons had been brought from Jersey to South Lake Tahoe. In truth, John didn’t give a shit, as long as they weren’t stupid enough to draw Robert into any trouble. But they were stupid, and that was the heart of the problem. No doubt HCU would be involved in criminal activity. If Robert was hanging around with these bozos, trouble would be inevitable. Go to bed with dogs, wake up with fleas.

Clearly it was time to have a serious chat with the so-called musicians who’d enlisted Robert as their drummer. John would start with the guitarist with the nose ring–Tom, if he remembered right. Nothing physical, just a one-on-one conversation to let him know the issues. And if he copped an attitude, then what? John felt a delicious rush course through his veins. How long had it been since he’d been involved in a violent situation? Twenty years, at least. He’d left his life as a mob hitman after what he’d thought was a supernatural warning. In retrospect, maybe it was just nerves. Regardless, his life as a legitimate businessman had suited him fine. But the situation in Tahoe might call for different tactics.

John sat at his desk until his emotions subsided and the impulse to crush Tom’s skull with a crowbar faded. He was surprised he would so readily contemplate reverting to his old ways. His career as a real estate investor had sometimes involved dealing with difficult adversaries, but from the beginning, he’d squelched any temptation to use muscle. All things considered, it had simply not been necessary.

But now he was playing in a different league, one where the rules of lawful citizenry might not apply. If Robert’s new friends weren’t the types to respond to reason, so be it. There were other ways to make a point.

John thumbed the cap off his scotch bottle and poured himself a short drink. Strong-arming any member of HCU presented a few problems. They were under the domain of Vic Severino and Sal Tuma, and pissing off either mobster would be a bad strategy. Severino signed his checks, and Tuma was John’s gravy train. So he would have to show restraint when the time came—he might rough up Tom a bit, but nothing heavy, no broken bones, just slap him around and send a message.

Whatever happened, John reminded himself he must avoid the police radar. As the paper owner of Pistol Pete’s, he could not afford problems with the law. Sal Tuma would have his ass if he didn’t keep his nose clean.

John spent the next hours handling miscellaneous paperwork. His signature was required on various documents on a daily basis. Besides the actual casino operation, in itself a complex undertaking, Pistol Pete’s also ran its own restaurants, gift shops, video arcade, and theatre, each managed as a separate profit center. The theatre alone was a large business, a two thousand-seat venue for pop concerts, comedy acts, cabarets, and the like. The hundreds of people employed by Pistol Pete’s reported up to a dozen senior managers responsible for their own respective departments (slots, card tables, security, dining, entertainment, etc.). These managers worked directly for Vic Severino.

It was late afternoon when John took a break. Though his role didn’t require any real decision making, he found himself spending an increasing portion of most days involved in the routines of the business. This was by choice, he realized. Still in his fifties, John had no desire to be retired. His habits were those of a professional businessman, and he enjoyed learning the nuances of Pistol Pete’s operations, and applying himself, if only to a minor degree, to the successful running of the company. And there was no mistaking his role was to be minor—Vic Severino had made it clear John was to remain outside of the enterprise’s true inner workings.

John turned on the Yankees game and dialed the number for the young, talkative prostitute he’d taken a liking to. She was also a Yankees fan, and he’d bought her dinner once, after she hung around in his office and watched a game with him. He felt his genitals react to the thought of her arrival—she was a wonderful piece of ass—but he also looked forward to her bubbly company. He got her voice mail and left a message.

When he called an hour later and she didn’t pick up, he headed out to the sports book, disappointed and fighting a surge of irritation. As usual, Denny Totaglia and Carlo Bianchi were parked at the mostly empty bar. Denny’s massive flab hid the bar stool, making it appear as if four steel posts were shoved up his ass.

“Gentlemen,” John said, sitting next to Carlo, who was wearing a powder blue polo shirt that looked a size too small, the sleeves tight around his pumped biceps.

“Johnny, have a drink, baby,” Denny slurred, his eyes red and hollow. “We were just talking about that time in the Bronx when we ran the Caluso brothers out of town. Those rat bastards. Goddamn, remember that?”

John glanced at his watch, then at Carlo. Denny loved reminiscing about the old days, but usually didn’t do so until late in the evening, after a number of drinks. It was only four, but Denny’s heavy jowls were flushed and his eyes were slits in his fleshy face.

“Severino around?” John said.

“He’s in Reno for the night.” Carlo pointed at Denny with his thumb. “He’s celebrating his absence by getting ripped.”

“Goddamn right,” Denny said.

“Let’s go across the street to Caesars.” John stood and patted Denny’s shoulder.

“Why?”

“You want Severino to know you’re soused this early?”

“What do I give a shit?” Denny said, but he glanced nervously over his shoulder.

“The walls have eyes. Be smart, Denny.”

Before Denny could respond, Vinnie Tuma walked into the sports book flanked by two bimbos. Vinnie was wearing a gray suit with wide lapels, and his feet were wedged into shiny two-toned loafers, as if he was a gangster out of the fifties. A smarmy smile was plastered on his face, interrupted by frequent drags off a cigarette. Despite his youth, he already had a noticeable potbelly beneath his shallow chest. The women with him, in high heels and short dresses, were obvious hookers. One was a curly-haired brunette with cannonball-sized breasts, and the other a slender blonde. Both wore a shiny gleam in their eyes, like they’d just been worked over real good in bed, or, more likely, were blasted to the gills on cocaine.

Vinnie acknowledged the men, pointing and winking, and sat with the women at a center table. John tried to ignore them, but the brunette had a shrill voice, and Vinnie began babbling loudly about his system to beat the roulette wheel.

“Jesus Christ, look at that fucking clown,” Denny said.

A burst of laughter erupted from the table, and John turned and saw Vinnie bury his head in the brunette’s cleavage. Then Vinnie reached in his pocket and took a quick snort from a small object cupped in his palm. He passed it around the table, the girls hitting off the vial before returning it to him.

“We got to get him out of here,” Carlo said, as a group of gamblers walked in and began scrutinizing the latest odds above the betting counter.

John watched Vinnie’s hand reach under the table, between the legs of the blonde. He hadn’t recognized her before—she’d done something different with her hair—but now John saw she was the call girl he’d been trying to reach. He felt his face redden as his eyes clicked with hers. She gave him a little smile and busied herself lighting a cigarette.

Carlo walked to the table and stood over Vinnie. “Come with me for a second. I need to talk to you.”

“Hey, Carlo, make it another time, huh?”

“No, right now, Vinnie.”

“Gimme a break, man—”

“Now, Vinnie.” Carlo dropped his hand to Vinnie’s shoulder, his thumb digging into the nerve above the collarbone. Vinnie tried unsuccessfully to smile through it. “Hang loose, ladies, need to take care of some business real quick.” He stood and went with Carlo to the far end of the bar.

Staring at the televised ballgame behind the bar, John heard Denny chattering at him, and he nodded and grunted, but none of the words registered. Of all the call girls in the area, what were the chances Vinnie just happened upon John’s regular squeeze? Slim and none, John thought, remembering how Vinnie had been eyeing the blonde when she and John were having dinner in the casino coffee shop. The weasel had probably come by to get her number when John used the men’s room.