Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (17 page)

But that life hadn’t been good enough. Not when men were making more in a day than his family made in a month. Everyone there was getting rich from the drug trade, including the local police. Teenagers fresh out of poverty were cruising the streets in shiny Cadillac SUVs, smirking at the poor working-class shop owners and the factory laborers. The best-looking
senoritas
in town hit the streets parading in new wardrobes and sparkling jewelry, and their parents knew it was wrong but said nothing. The lure of the drug money was simply too much for the impoverished people of Juarez to resist.

Pedro rolled to his side and tried to get comfortable. He had known of the shootouts and seen the dead bodies in the streets and heard the stories of men abducted in the night and found decapitated. The reports of torture and of entire families massacred became frequent and no one doubted their authenticity. Juarez had become the murder capital of the world. The cartels owned the city.

He talked with his family about moving away from the violence. To Baja perhaps, maybe all the way to Cabo San Lucas, where the tourist trade was booming. He’d heard the American-owned hotels and resorts paid well. His English was decent, and the coastline along the Sea of Cortez was said to be the most beautiful on earth.

But then Pedro learned Juarez’s most powerful cartel was recruiting men, offering a chance to work not in Mexico, but in an American town 1,200 miles away. The money offered was incredible. If he was paid as promised, it would only take six months to put away enough to launch a new life, perhaps open his own cantina in Cabo. In the end, it was his dreams that seduced him. Pedro felt it was the best chance he’d ever have to escape the squalor of the violent border city where he’d been born and raised.

And now the most feared killer in Juarez was making a special trip to Lake Tahoe, coming to meet face to face with Pedro. It was rumored very few had actually seen The Angel in person and lived to speak of it. Would Pedro be considered a liability once he laid eyes on him? It was a too real possibility. Pedro knew working for the cartel would be risky. He had accepted this, but did not anticipate his dreams of escape would turn so quickly into a nightmare.

• • •

The hardware store didn’t open until nine, and by the time I finished repainting the garage door, it was almost noon. I sat at my picnic table and closed my eyes for a moment, letting the sun warm my face. Through the screen door I could hear a mixed martial arts match on TV. When I went in, Cody had my Remington pump shotgun disassembled on the kitchen table and was cleaning the shortened barrel.

“You got ammo for this bad boy?”

“There’s a box of shells in the closet.”

“How about lunch?” he said, eyeballing the breech.

We drove down 50 toward a sandwich place and were passing Zeke’s when Cody said, “Whoa, pull in here.” I hit the brakes and bounced over the curb into a parking lot split by a huge redwood, its bark chipped away where countless drunk patrons had scraped their bumpers against it. I had a hazy recollection I might have been one of them, back before Zeke Papas died and his son gutted the dining room.

“You hoping they’ll fire up the kitchen for us?” I said.

“Let’s just see if anyone’s around.”

The large two-story building, painted an odd peach color, looked like it may have been a fancy home in the past, just shy of a mansion. Neon beer signs lit up every window, and no one had bothered unplugging one that advertised
BBQ chicken.
On the siding next to the front entry, a hodgepodge of concert flyers were pasted over one another.

“Looks like the moral majority have an event planned for tonight,” I said, pointing at an advertisement for a headlining band named Blood Screw, and a backup act that called itself Suicide Pact
.

The sign on the door said CLOSED, but a couple cars were parked out front, and I could hear laughter from inside.

“Must be early cocktail hour,” Cody said, pushing open the door.

“And they didn’t even invite us.” I followed him in, leaving behind a bright spring afternoon and wading into the gloom of what was once the best Old West-style restaurant and saloon in the region. At least the bar was still intact, but the floor planks had been pulled out to reveal a sunken concrete foundation. The area was cleared of tables and the chairs shoved to the walls, I assumed for death metal fans to stand on to better view the mosh pit and stage. The cacophony of odors inside was a potent brew of mildew, beer, sweat, unwashed clothes, and skanky sex. The latter emanated from the single female in the place, a shorthaired brunette with a face studded and ringed through the nose and eyebrows. She sat on the bar, her breasts perky, the nipples visible through a skimpy halter. Her legs were spread lazily and dark public hair curled from around the frayed crotch of her cut-off jeans.

“Hey,” said one of the three men at the bar, a scraggly dude with long hair. “We’re closed. Can’t you read?” His buddy pulled a mirror smeared with white powder off the bar top and moved it out of sight.

“I must have left my reading glasses at home,” Cody said. “How’s tricks, toots?” he said to the woman. She blew a stream of smoke at him and shifted her heavily lidded eyes away, feigning boredom.

“I’m looking for Zak Papas,” I said.

The men eyed us, maybe figuring we were cops, but it was hard to say with this bunch. They were unshaven, eyes dilated, chewing their cuds like cokeheads do, blown away on blow and not particularly concerned we’d wandered in.

“You got him,” said the shortest of them, a rotund, prematurely balding fellow with a red goatee.

“You got somewhere we can talk in private?”

“Why don’t you weirdos split, man?” the lady said. “You’re bringing me down.”

“Have another drink, then,” I replied. Zak Papas looked at me uncertainly, then shrugged and motioned for me to follow him. We climbed a narrow flight of stairs to his office, a room lined with bookshelves and cluttered with model replicas of schooners and countless dust-coated knickknacks.

“I’d met your old man a few times,” I said, as he sat behind a relic of a desk. “He was a good guy.”

“Some people say that.”

“Served damn good food, too.”

“Yeah, yeah. What is it you want, mister?”

“Besides a good plate of BBQ? I want to know about your relationship with Hard Core United. They your buddies?”

His jaw fell a bit, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. “My buddies? I wouldn’t say that. We dig the same music, but that’s about it.”

“You got no problem with them coming to your club, skimming the door, and raising hell?”

“Huh? I get the raising hell part, but what about the door?”

“It’s their MO. They take a cut of the ticket prices from you, right?”

“No, hell no. That’s never happened.”

I stared at him.

“Why would I lie, man?” he said. “You a cop, or what?”

“Private.” I pulled a picture of Jason Loohan from my pocket. “Ever seen him?”

He studied the picture. “Freaky-looking dude, ain’t he?” He handed it back to me. “I’ve never seen him. I’d remember if I did.”

“You’ve never seen him here with any of the HCU boys, huh?”

“Like I said, I’ve never seen him, period. Why, what’s he done?”

“All sorts of bad shit, Zak. He needs to be taken off the street.”

He thought that over for a bit, then moved his hand from his mouth. “Look, I’m a good citizen,” he said. “A businessman. You think he’s part of HCU? Then come by tonight—three of them are in the warm-up band. They kind of suck, but their drummer is this psycho-retard who’s smoking hot.”

“Is that right? You know where they might be hanging out?”

“No clue. I never see them outside of here.”

“All right. In the meantime, call me if you see him, would you?” I tapped Loohan’s picture and handed him my card. He glanced at it, then looked back again, his eyes widening.

“Oh, shit! You’re the whack job who shot up my bar! I can’t believe I’m so damn stupid!”

“Blame it on the dummy dust.”

“Oh, fuck me. Man, you ain’t allowed back here, you stay clear of my business, you—”

“Hey, Zak.” He stopped and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, like he was ready to cry. “I can’t say I blame you for not wanting me around,” I said. “And to be honest, I think the music you guys listen to is the shits, so I really don’t want to come back tonight. Give me a couple of the right answers and maybe I won’t have to.”

“What? What do you want?”

“An HCU member named Tom. Wears a ring in his nose. Sound familiar?”

“Sure. He plays guitar.”

“Know where he lives?”

“No.”

“I’m sure he’ll be here tonight anyway, right?”

“No, bullshit. Listen to me. His band rehearses at the drummer’s house. They’re probably over there loading their gear.”

“You got an address?”

“No—”

“How about a name?”

“Okay, yeah. The drummer, Rabbit. Rabbit Switton. He’s a freak, man, plays as good as anyone, I mean Vinnie Paul, Joey Jordison…”

“Why’s he called Rabbit?”

“His real name’s Robert. His dad has some funky East Coast accent. When he says Robert, it sounds like Rabbit. So that’s what everyone calls him.”

“He’s the ‘psycho-retard,’ huh?”

“Look, he’s got some kind of mental disability, call it whatever you want.” He stood. “We straight here?”

“Look, Zak,” I said. “I don’t mean to be a life coach or anything, but I got some advice for you. This death metal thing attracts trouble like flies on shit. You like the music, fine. But you want to base your business around it? Bad move.”

“Opinions are like assholes—”

“Yeah, I know. Everyone’s got one.”

When we got back downstairs, Cody was talking with the lady on the bar, who had lost the attitude and seemed to be enjoying his attention. The other two dudes were distracted by a TV newscast covering an earthquake in Haiti that had left tens of thousands dead. They were giggling at a scene showing corpses strewn like trash in the street. “Those spooks are up shit creek,” one said.

“Let’s go,” I said, interrupting Cody’s conversation.

“What’s your name, anyway?” the girl said, grasping Cody’s hand and leaning her head near his.

“Lance Romance,” I interjected.

Cody winked. “See you, babe.”

“Anytime,” she purred.

“What’d you find out?” he asked, once we’d walked into the fresh air.

“One of the bands playing tonight is made up of HCU members. I think they rehearse at the house we checked out the other day.”

“Let’s pick up lunch and drop by, then.”

“Sounds like a plan, Stan.”

“What happened to Lance?”

Twenty minutes later we sat eating sandwiches in my truck down the street from the white house listed as John Switton’s residence. I assumed he was the father of Rabbit Switton, the man I’d watched smash a bar glass to smithereens at Whiskey Dick’s. Despite his physical deformities and mental issues, Rabbit was supposedly a great drummer. It was hard to imagine, but I’d seen stranger things. Regardless, I didn’t think he was the one who vandalized my home, unless others put him up to it.

We opened the windows and waited, listening to birds chirp and the occasional jet pass overhead. The afternoon had turned balmy, and Cody lit a cigarette. I considered bumming one out of boredom.

“What time you got?” he asked.

“Two.”

The minutes passed slowly, until a little before three a Ford pickup with Nevada plates drove up the street and parked in the driveway of the Switton house. From our spot a football field away, I could see the three men who climbed out wore black shorts and white T-shirts. I started my truck, but they quickly disappeared into the house.

“Come on, let’s go straighten their shit out,” Cody said. I drove up and parked in front. He started to get out, but I stopped him.

“Let’s wait for them to come out. I want to do this in the street.”

“Who knows how long they’ll be inside?”

“Be patient. I have a feeling it won’t be long.”

I was right. Within five minutes the garage door opened, and the man named Tom wheeled out a large speaker cabinet on a dolly. Following him, a lanky, bearded man lugged a smaller amplifier, and then came Rabbit Switton, straining under the weight of a black bass drum. Before Tom spotted us, Cody and I were across the lawn and on the driveway. Tom’s expression went blank with surprise and fear, but he regained his composure quickly and smirked.

“Hey, it’s the douchebag patrol.”

I walked up to him, my legs energized, blood pounding in my temples. I caught his right wrist and twisted it until I could see the tip of his index finger was stained with red paint. He tried to jerk away, but I cranked his arm behind his back and tripped him to the ground, my knee on his spine.

“You think you can spray paint my house and get away with it, asshole?”

“Get the off me, man, or I swear to god, we will fuck you up.”

I yanked him to his feet by the collar. “Go ahead, fuck me up.”

He froze, and in my peripheral vision the bearded man and Rabbit were staring open-mouthed, as if witnessing a bad traffic accident. I saw in Tom’s eyes a brief glimmer of regret, like maybe he was remembering a turning point in his life, perhaps a choice he made years ago that was now irreversible. Then he let out a yell, his eyes round with rage, and threw a roundhouse right. The punch was telegraphed from a different time zone, and I easily blocked it, then stepped forward and hit him with an uppercut to the midsection that made his feet come off the ground. He would have collapsed, but I snatched him by the hair and grabbed his right hand. I squeezed, feeling his finger bones shift under the pressure.

“I’m in a charitable mood today, Tom, so I’m going to give you a chance to right this situation. Then you can go play your gig and everyone will think you’re a badass heavy metal man, and you can pretend this never happened. You hear me?”

He gagged and I thought he might puke. I waited until the color returned to his face as Cody discouraged the other two, who had snapped out of it and were talking and gesturing, trying to figure how to come to the aid of their buddy.