Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (26 page)

“It’s true. Sometimes men stare at me. But when this one did, I couldn’t wait to get out of his sight.”

“Why?” I said.

She paused, and when she spoke, her voice was small, as if she was retreating from her words.

“He looked at me the way men sometimes used to when I was a child in Mexico. There is something rotten in his heart, I know it.”

“Now, listen to me,” Cody said, sitting on a stool, bringing himself to eye level with Teresa, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “I don’t mean to scare you, but this is a very dangerous man. I don’t think he has any business being near your home. If you see him anywhere, you must call me right away.”

“You are hunting him, for bounty?”

“That’s right,” I said. “He needs to be put in jail, where he belongs.”

“The only time you saw him was four days ago?”

“Yes, Cody, only that once.”

Cody exhaled, and I saw some of the tension drain from his face.

“Teresa,” I said, “When you finish your shift, please don’t walk through the dark parking lot alone. Have someone escort you.”

“Okay.”

Cody held his phone next to his face. “If you see anything makes you uncomfortable, call right away. It doesn’t matter what time it is. I’ll have my cell with me.”

“I will,” she said.

“Good.” Cody’s face brightened. “Hey, are you working tomorrow night?”

“It’s my night off.”

“Well, would you like to join us for a barbeque at Dan’s place? Dan’s an excellent cook.”

“I am?”

“Oh, hell, yes. Quit being so modest. We’ll have a fiesta on the patio!”

“Is Juan invited too?” Teresa asked.

“Of course he is,” I said.

She paused, looking back and forth at each of us. “I think he’d enjoy it. And I will, too. Six o’clock?”

“Perfect,” Cody said.

Teresa left to take drink orders after that. I watched her walk away, then looked past her toward the sports book on the other side of the floor.

“A great cook?” I said, my eyebrows raised.

“How hard is it to barbeque chicken and steak? I’ll pick up everything we need at the supermarket.”

“Let’s take a walk.” I pointed toward the far side of the casino.

We made our way around the tables, past an overpriced jewelry store and an expensive Italian restaurant. Next to the restaurant was the sports book, a large room that could seat at least a couple hundred bettors. A horse race was under way on a six-foot screen, and basketball and baseball games played on numerous smaller displays.

“NBA playoffs,” Cody said. “The Jazz are still alive.”

A few men were scattered among rows of chairs fitted with small writing tables. The only other people in the area were a pair of fellows at the bar watching baseball. I recognized one of them.

“The bodybuilder with the shaved head works here,” I said.

“Doesn’t look like he’s working.”

“Working on a buzz, maybe. Let’s go say hello.”

“Who’s the blimp?” Cody asked, referring to an obese male sitting next to the bald man.

“No idea.”

We pulled up stools at the bar.

“Yankees look good so far, huh?” I said to the bald man.

He grunted, his eyes not leaving the screen.

“All the money they spend, they better be good,” I said.

He glanced at me, just trying to be civil, I thought, and said, “They’re the class of the league.” Then he looked again, his eyes clicking on mine.

“You were here the other night,” he said. “You’re the investigator, looking for the guy with the gook eyes.”

“That’s right.”

“You find him yet?”

“No, can’t say I have.”

“Hmm.” He turned his eyes back to the game, his pupils shining under the creases on his forehead.

“What did you say he’s wanted for?” he asked. His profile was lit by the light of the television, the skin on his face tanned and tight against the bone.

“Rape, robbery, murder.”

He turned on his stool, facing me. “Murder? Who’d he kill?”

“He’s suspected of killing at least a dozen men.”

“You shittin’ me?”

“Why would I lie?”

His expression turned contemplative. He was quiet for a moment, then said, “You got any good leads on him?”

“Hard to say.”

“I got your card in my office.”

“Yeah, I know. I gave it to you.”

“Hey,” said the fat man, leaning forward, his girth wedged over the bar top. “You crackin’ wise?”

“Not me, pal.”

“Tell you what,” said the weightlifter. “My name’s Carlo. I run security here. I got a favor to ask you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Give me a call if you find Loohan. That’s his name, right?”

“Yes, it is. Why you interested in him?”

He smiled, his teeth perfectly even and movie star white against the pitted grain of his bronze skin. “Like I said, I run security here. A bad guy like Loohan, he shows up at my casino, who knows what trouble he can cause?”

He wrote his first name and phone number on a square of paper and handed it to me.

“Hey, Nickie,” he said, raising his voice to get the attention of a black-haired bartender who was chatting up a slender cocktail waitress at the other end of the bar. “Get these two a round on the house, would you?”

“That’s all right, Carlo,” I said, standing. “We got to boogie.” I slipped his number into my pocket. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Carlo gave me a long look before nodding, while his fat friend stared at Cody and me as if we were standing between him and his next meal.

“Have a good one, fellas,” Cody said.

We walked straight out of the place, past Saxton and Boyce’s car, through the dark parking lot to my truck. I started the motor and drove around to the side of the building.

“I want to try something,” I said, parking in a stall with a view of an unmarked door.

“Employee’s exit?” Cody said.

“Right. I’ll bet you five bucks Saxton and Boyce come out here.”

“Who do you think they’re in there talking to?”

“Whoever’s running the show, old buddy.”

“And who’s that? You’re not talking about Sal Tuma? I thought he was long gone.”

“That’s right. He was forced to sell out.”

“Who, then?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure the ownership of Pistol Pete’s is a matter of public record. Maybe I can access it on the Internet.”

“Those two goombahs at the bar looked like a couple extras from
The Sopranos
.”

“My guess is Tuma probably sold the casino to parties of a like persuasion.”

“Huh?”

“Mobsters.”

“And Saxton and Boyce are getting paid off by them, to allow HCU to deal drugs?”

“It’s possible,” I said, just as the door we were watching swung open. Saxton and Boyce stepped from the building onto the asphalt, holding the door open and speaking to a figure hidden inside.

I reached in my glove box for my camera, switched it to full zoom, and began snapping photos. But whoever the cops were talking to remained in the shadow of the doorway.

“Come on, show your face, greaseball,” Cody said.

Saxton pushed the door open wider, and at that moment, I thought I might have got a decent shot of a lean man in a dark suit. Then the door swung shut, and Saxton and Boyce began trudging back toward the front of Pistol Pete’s.

“You know what, Dirt? Screw the crooked cops and these dickweed Mafiosos. Seems to me they’re both searching for Loohan, and maybe hoping we do the leg work.”

“They think Loohan killed Norton.”

“Yeah, I get that, but the problem is, none of this is getting us any closer to finding him.”

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and started the engine.

“Let’s take a spin by Zeke’s,” I said.

• • •

Monday night, nine
P.M.
, and as we drove down 50, I wondered if Zeke’s would even be open. After a long weekend of head banging, I imagined the death metal brigade might take a night off, to nurse their hangovers and lick their wounds. But the parking lot was half full, the windows glowing with neon light, and I could hear the bass thumping even before we got out of my truck.

As we walked to the entrance, our boots crunching over gravel and broken glass, I felt a pang of nostalgic regret. A year ago, I would have been walking this path into a friendly neighborhood saloon, the floor covered in peanut shells, country music playing on the jukebox, the air smoky and fragrant with barbeque. It had been a joint where locals and tourists alike relaxed in an ambiance that seemed a throwback to a simpler time. I remember getting drunk here one night, shortly after Sal Tuma’s drug business got shit-canned. I should have been celebrating, but my girlfriend had just left me, and my drunk was a remorseful one. At the end of the blurry night, I somehow ended up at the home of the bartender, a braless twenty-five year-old thing with long brown hair, a belly button ring, and nipples that seemed permanently erect.

When we went through the doors, we were greeted with a wall of sound, the chugging assault of guitar and drums almost incomprehensible as music. But there was no band; the noise was pumping out of the house PA system. A few metal heads reeled around the mosh pit, but their gyrations lacked conviction. At the bar sat a motley collection of skinheads, long hairs, a couple bikers, and two tattooed young ladies I doubted were of legal drinking age.

None inside were dressed in HCU colors. More out of a desire to get away from the noise level than anything else, I pointed toward a door in the back, which led to a beer garden.

A half dozen picnic benches were arranged under lamps mounted on the pine trees surrounding the fenced-in clearing. From electric cords strung between the trees, a variety of banners advertised beer and liquor. A large barbeque on a trailer was parked off to the side, its black hulk beginning to rust.

Perched on a middle table were two dudes, cigarettes in their mouths and beer bottles dangling from their fingers. They wore black shorts and white T-shirts and glared at us as if we were intruding on a private moment. Cody apparently took this as an invitation and strode toward them without a moment’s hesitation.

“How’s it hangin’, boys?” Cody said, a grin on his face, his eyes crinkled with good humor. They stared back at him without responding.

“Say, Joe Norton told me I should come lick y’all up to score some nose candy. I’m just looking for a half gram. Can you take care of me?”

The expressions on their faces went from incredulous to suspicious.

“Who are you guys, cops?” said one, a bony man of average height. He was tapping his skate shoe on the picnic bench rapidly, as if he possessed a wiry energy that needed constant release.

“Are you kidding?” I said. “Do we look like cops?”

“How do you know Joe Norton?” said the other guy, a stocky fellow with small, blunt eyes.

“I know how he knows him,” said the wiry man, hopping off the bench and pointing at me. “He’s the one who freaking shot Billy.”

The other man stared at me hard. “You got a lot of balls to show your face around here.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, smiling. “Say, can I bum a smoke from you?”

The two HCU boys looked at each other, then the stocky one said, “What the fuck do you want?”

Cody took a step forward, his grin gone.

“We want to know who killed your boss,” he said.

“Well, join the crowd.”

“We think it was Jason Loohan. You know where he’s at?” I said.

“Whoa, hold it,” said the wiry man, his throat framed by tattoos crawling up from his shirt collar. “We never even met Loohan. He does his own thing, man. He ain’t a part of us.”

“What was he doing with Norton, then?” Cody said.

“Maybe they—”

“Shut up, Jimmy,” the stocky one said.

“Hey,” Cody said. “We think Loohan killed your boss, and we want to find him. You got a problem with that?”

The stocky man puffed out his chest and stared at Cody with half-lidded eyes.

“No,” he said. “I got a problem with you.”

“You do, huh? Tell you what, prick. Take your best shot, hit me as hard as you can. If you knock me out, you win. But if I’m still standing, I’m gonna snap your neck. I’m not kidding with that. If you survive, you’ll go through the rest of your life in a wheelchair. Your hands probably won’t work too good, so you’ll have a nurse following you around to wipe your ass.”

The man held his expression for a long moment, then turned his head and spat. “Fuck this,” he said, and walked between the picnic benches and into Zeke’s.

I sat on top of the table. “Take a seat, Jimmy.”

He fumbled another cigarette from his pack and lit it with his last one, then licked his lips and gnashed his jaw as if he was chewing on his tongue. No doubt he was blasted on speed. He remained standing, trying to think, but I could tell his decision-making capability was short-circuiting.

“You’re not cops, then?”

“Private investigators,” I said.

“All right, look, man, Norton didn’t tell anyone what he was doing with Loohan. But we all thought it had to do with a run Norton was making.”

“A run?”

“Yeah. They were heading down south to the border, get it?”

“So Loohan went with Norton down south?”

“Don’t know for sure, but I think so.”

“What happened then?”

“Nothing. I mean, Norton came back with what he’d gone for.”

“What about Loohan?

“What about him?”

“You think he had reason to shoot Norton?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I doubt it. Everything went smooth, far as I could tell.”

“Fine,” Cody said. “Where can we find Loohan?”

“I got no idea, man.”

Cody put his hand on the man’s shoulder and sat him down, hard, on the picnic bench.

“Where would you look for him?”

“That’s a good question. Sometimes he stays in hotels, but I think mostly he’s camping.”

“Outdoors?”

“Yeah. Norton said he liked to follow a stream into the mountains on his dirt bike and make camp wherever the land is flat.”

“What stream?”

“How would I know? Any damned stream.”

“When do you expect to see him next?” I said.

He laughed. “I’ve never seen him in person, and now I probably never will. And I got no problem with that.”