Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (4 page)

“How’s everything, man?”

“Just living the dream,” he said, as we walked inside. “I finished a case for Covie and Associates last week. They’re defending a Russian mobster, and they hired me to dig up the dirt on the prosecution’s chief witness, a twenty-two-year-old low-level Mafia douchebag. I tail him for five days, and he’s got call girls running in and out of his place like he can’t keep his dork in his pants for ten minutes without dialing up a blow job. Then he and his goombahs head to Vegas, and I bugged their hotel room. After two days there, you should have seen the report I wrote. It was the longest I’ve ever written—like a damn novel.”

He paused, set the chow on the kitchen table, and walked over to my refrigerator. I heard a beer can open as I put plates and silverware on the table.

“What about you? Anything exciting?” He belched loudly and crushed the can in his fist.

“I told you I got my bounty hunting license renewed.”

“And?” He cracked another beer while I began opening containers of potato salad, coleslaw, brisket, and cornbread.

“I captured a skip out of New Jersey last night. I had to pull him out of the mosh pit at Zeke’s. Unfortunately, he was surrounded by a bunch of his pals.”

“Things get a little rough?”

“I had to shoot him.”

“Dead?”

“No, but he ain’t gonna ever walk the same.”

“What a shame.”

“So, earlier today I was trying to relax over at Whiskey Dick’s, and a couple of them showed up and tried to start something.”

“Anything more than you could handle?”

“No.”

He came around and sat at the table. “You want to go to the casino and play some poker tonight?”

“Sure, I’m up for a few hands.”

I thought I heard the sound of a car idling out front, something I typically would have ignored. Though it was probably just a neighbor, I pushed myself out of my chair and went over to the front window. I peered out at a street empty and deep in shadow. In the distance I could see the sun clinging to a steep ridge over the lake, burning atop the granite face like a slice of molten steel. Stars were visible up high, but lower the sky was a florescent blue, glowing with the last of the day’s heat. The small swath of lake visible from my window was still glittering in sunlight, the curl of the swells like silver confetti.

The rumble of a motor grew louder, and the same faded, black Buick I’d seen earlier in the day crept into view on the opposite side of the street. The muffler was either shot or the car had a high-performance exhaust system. It was too dark to see the driver, or if there was more than one person in the vehicle.

Cody thrust his mug next to mine, his hand on my shoulder.

“What’s this?”

“We got visitors.”

The Buick pulled forward and stopped, hidden from sight by Cody’s truck. The driver killed the engine, and I heard the clunk of a door closing. A man’s upper body appeared.

“You recognize him?” Cody said.

“Yeah, from last night, and earlier today. Let’s go see what he wants.”

We went out the front door. The man named Tom, the one from Whiskey Dick’s a few hours before, stood near the back of Cody’s truck.

“What’s your interest with my rig?” Cody said. Tom appeared to be taking down the license plate on a small notepad.

“Nice ride you got,” he said, glancing up and then back down to finish his scribbling.

Cody snatched the notepad from Tom’s hand. When Tom reached out to try and take it back, Cody shoved him hard in the chest. Tom stumbled and fell to the pavement, then the doors of the Buick flew open and three men in white T-shirts, one of them Rabbit, jumped out. They tried to circle Cody and me, but Rabbit’s eyes were wide in confusion, and he hovered near Tom as if he was a child unwilling to let go of his parent’s sleeve. The other two men, average-size fellows, were trying to act tough, grimacing, spitting, flexing their muscles, but I didn’t buy it. Cody feinted toward them and they scurried back, and then, embarrassed, resumed their positions.

I stepped up to Tom as he scrambled to his feet. “You sure you want to push this, buddy?” I said. “I don’t like your odds.”

“HCU takes care of its own, dickhead.” He curled his lips in a snarl and his nostrils flared. But the belligerence of his tone was one more interested in saving face than fighting.

“You’re starting to piss me off, Tom. Haul your sorry ass out of here,” I said.

“I—I gonna kick your ass!” Rabbit said suddenly, one eye full of rage and the other fixed in its socket. “Right, Tom?”

Tom led Rabbit back to the Buick and waved his partners to the car. Once they were safely inside, Tom started the motor, but a moment later he opened the door. He stood, grabbed his crotch, and shot us the bone. “Have a nice night, pole smokers!” he yelled. Then he slammed the door shut and mashed the gas pedal, the gangbangers hooting and gesturing at us as they lurched forward in a shriek of burning rubber and tire smoke that left a single black strip down the street for as far as I could see.

“Come on, our dinner’s getting cold,” I said.

• • •

We finished eating and I cleared the mess of cartons and paper plates from the table while Cody sat at my desk, typing with two fingers and scanning the Internet for information on Hard Core United.

“Interesting little gang,” he said. “They’re based on the East Coast, and claim to be against drugs, alcohol, and racism.”

“Against alcohol? They’ve been drinking like fish when I’ve seen them.” I was on my couch, clicking back and forth between a boxing match and an old action movie starring Charles Bronson. “What do they do for money?”

“Here’s a new one,” Cody said, his eyes locked on the screen. “Their main gig appears to be shaking down heavy metal concerts. Not Led Zeppelin or Metallica, but the real death-rock stuff. Hardcore metal, they call it. Apparently hundreds of these bands are touring, and the local chapters of HCU offer protection to the clubs, or auditoriums, or whatever venues they play at.”

“So they tell the people running the show, give us a cut, or else?”

“Yeah, something like that. They’ve even gone as far as enforcing where bands can play. One of the promoters, a band manager, didn’t cooperate and got the shit kicked out of him. They put him in a wheelchair for life.”

“Anybody do time for that?”

“Six HCU members were arrested, and evidence showed they all were involved in attacking him. But it was unclear who actually delivered the blows, so no one was convicted. They all skated.”

“You know what doesn’t jive—”

“Wait, there’s more. They killed two guys in Philly last year. Gang beating is their specialty. It’s how they typically go after their enemies. They know it’s almost impossible to prosecute if it can’t be specifically determined who committed the murder.”

“Why would they bother with South Lake Tahoe, Cody? The only place here that would host a death-rock concert is Zeke’s, and it could hold maybe a hundred people. I don’t think that’s enough to make for a decent payday for HCU, no matter how deep their cut.”

“Huh,” Cody said, rubbing the scruff of his beard. “They must have some other income source. I’d be surprised if any of those punks are working a legit job, especially that one guy. Was he mentally retarded?”

“They were the B-team. Some of the other dudes I saw at Zekes wouldn’t have been as easy to handle.”

“You got any names?”

“Why?”

“These guys come stir up shit at your home and you ask why?”

“Maybe they’ll forget about it,” I said, but the lack of conviction in my voice was plain. Cody stood and walked in front of the television. “Dirt, you shot one of them and now he’s on his way to a federal penitentiary. They’ve already tried to mess with you twice, once at your bar and again at your house. Come on.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“We need to know where they live. Then, if they decide to up the ante, we hit back—fast and hard.”

I sat slumped on the sofa and rubbed a bruise on my thigh. Though I couldn’t argue with Cody’s logic, I wanted to discount the white trash gangbangers who had intruded on the idyllic mountain community where I’d bought my home and settled down. Hopefully, they’d find other targets for their energies, or better yet, go broke and move away. It was a nice thought, but probably one born from laziness. It was also the type of rationalization a man makes when he’s acted out of anger or impatience, and has yet to accept that he has predicated his stake in the events to follow.

I hauled myself off the couch to get a beer, but instead tossed back a shot of Canadian Club. As usual, my problems were of my own design. A small part of me still clung to the idea I’d eventually become more like my father, a respected district attorney and devoted family man. That dream probably began to die shortly after the old man was murdered, back when I was thirteen years old. The trajectory of my life since then had been pocked with episodes of violence and retribution. My ex-wife once said she was sure I was subconsciously seeking vengeance for my father’s death. That may have been true when I was younger, but I doubted it was behind my actions after all these years. Regardless, it looked like I’d not yet outgrown my inclinations.

I walked to the television and turned it off. Cody looked at me expectantly.

“Joe Norton,” I said. “And run the Buick’s license, too.” I handed him a scrap of paper with the number. Cody went back to the computer and began typing.

• • •

We drove out of my dark neighborhood in Cody’s truck, the diesel motor rattling softly. It was a quiet night, April being an off-season month for tourists. A mile up the road the glow from the casino lights in Nevada was faint, as if they’d conceded to slow business and dimmed the power.

Less than five minutes from my house, we turned into a subdivision of newer homes, mostly modern cabins on large lots. The peak-roofed structures looked new, the lawns mowed and free of leaves, the flowerbeds manicured and colorful. A few homes still had Christmas lights on, the bulbs twinkling and flashing against the old-growth pines in their yards.

“Turn left here,” I said, looking at the map Cody had printed. When we came around the corner, we slowed in front of a large single-story home on a corner lot. It was painted white, in contrast to the natural wood finishes of the other houses on the street. Bright lights mounted on steel poles lit the place up garishly, as if it was an industrial compound of some sort.

We idled past the house. The backyard was enclosed by plank fencing, but the upper portion of a cinder block building in the back of the lot was visible. Cody drove away from the property, then made a U-turn and parked down the street, where we had a good view of the front.

“This is the address for John Switton, the registered owner of the Buick,” he said.

“What else did you find on him?”

“Fifty-eight years old. No criminal record.” I looked over the sheet Cody had pulled up on Switton. There wasn’t a single blemish, not even a speeding ticket. But the data available was far less than a complete police file.

We sat looking at the house for a minute.

“Why would somebody light up their place like that?” Cody said, hunched over his steering wheel.

“Maybe they’re paranoid about being robbed.”

“You think Joe Norton’s blue Chevy is in the garage?” Cody stared at the house while he spoke. We had been unable to come up with a local address for Norton.

I shrugged. “Who knows? Hell, maybe Jason Loohan is living there.”

“Who?”

“He’s another bail skip I’m looking for. A friend of Billy Morrison’s.”

“You want to knock on the door and ask for him?”

“It’s tempting, but I don’t even know if he’s in town. Besides, I’d rather take him down when he’s alone.”

Cody started his truck. “There ought to be a law against all those lights,” he said. I nodded as we slowly drove away.

B
ehind the locked door of his office at Pistol Pete’s Casino, John Switton was enjoying a prostitute while watching a Yankees game on the television he’d mounted in the corner. The whore was a small-breasted blonde with a nice ass, and he’d positioned her bent over his desk so he could take her from behind and still watch the game. Holding her hip with one hand, he used his free hand to alternatively sip from a glass of Chivas and puff on a stogie.

After he sent her away, he relaxed in his leather executive’s chair and finished his drink. He’d left his slacks and shirt draped over the chair and sat in his shorts, his black socks clinging to his calves. Curls of coarse gray hair rose from around his wife-beater shirt. His upper body had thickened over the years, but he was not egg-shaped or fat like many men his age. He had wide shoulders and an eighteen-inch neck and his back was ramrod straight. When he walked into a room, his carriage still demanded respect from men half his age.

In the old days in Jersey, he had been one of the few non-Italians to make it to the inner circle of the Mafia. Although his Irish blood precluded him from ever being a made man, he was still a highly respected member of the Tuma family. He made his bones as a teenager and later earned a place in mob folklore when he beat a rival hit man to death with a claw hammer. Thus known as John the Hammer, he spent the next fifteen years reinforcing his reputation and amassing a sizable personal fortune, after investing his earnings in commercial real estate.

John was content working for the mob. The money was good, and his calculated, precise approach to the work minimized the risk. Then two events occurred that changed everything.

John’s son Robert was ten years old when he came home from school one day complaining of a severe headache. John took him to the clinic and within a few hours a surgeon was drilling into his skull to relieve an aneurysm. The operation was successful, for the most part; the mental deficiencies Robert was born with had not worsened. But it was a bleak reminder to John that his only child would always rely on him. When Robert was released from the hospital, his head was wrapped in a huge ball of gauze. Tears welling in his eyes, John hugged his son and carried him to his Lincoln Continental. He carefully belted the small boy into the front seat and held his hand as he drove home.