THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF

by Lex Lander

  ‘What are you yammering about, you black asshole?’ Randazzo’s scowl suggested he was not best pleased by the prospect of my handing him some money.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ I said. I took his arm in a grip that showed I meant business. ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet.’ To Blondie, I said. ‘Bring me a vodka with ice, will you?’

  ‘You got it, man.’

  Randazzo snatched up his glass and let me guide him to a corner table, far from twitching ears.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ he whined, as we settled in.

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  I did a casual recce, just in case any of his Reno friends were here. The same couple I had seen on my previous visit – her tall, him short – were doing a smoochy dance to an inappropriate tune; “Can’t Feel my Face”, I think it was. With that much height disparity, she had to be really in love with the guy. Or maybe he was loaded.

  ‘That depends on whether you’re going to behave yourself or not. I wouldn’t be happy if you reported this conversation to the Tosi boys, the way you did last time.’

  He shifted nervously in his seat.

  ‘Look, Freeman, I get paid to keep my ear to the ground. Somebody new breezes into town and starts asking questions, it’s my job to pass it on.’ His smile was ingratiating and wholly false. ‘It was nothing personal.’

  ‘I’m prepared to overlook it. If it happened again, I wouldn’t be.’ I drew an envelope from my inside pocket. ‘Here’s half a grand. All you have to do is answer one question and forget I ever asked, and you get the other half.’

  When I tossed the envelope on the table between us, he snatched it up faster than a lizard snapping up a fly. It wasn’t sealed. He peered inside.

  ‘You’ve torn ’em in half!’

  ‘You’re very perceptive, my friend. It’s as I said – half a grand. Literally.’

  The music changed to a more upbeat number that I didn’t recognize. It was quite a few years since I graduated from pop to classical, and ceased to monitor the charts. Blondie passed by with a tray containing a bottle of champagne and two flute glasses.

  ‘I get it.’ With a resigned air Randazzo stuffed the envelope inside his windbreaker. ‘You give me the other half when I tell you whatever it is you wanna know.’

  ‘More or less. You’ll have to wait a week for it, until I’m sure you haven’t sicked the Tosis onto me again.’

  Trusting this man was a far bigger gamble than my bets on the roulette wheel last night. He was just as likely to sell me out for two grand and write off the thousand I had promised him.

  ‘What do you need to know?’ he said, lifting his glass to his lips.

  ‘Simple really. Where Silvano lives, that’s all.’

  His spluttered bourbon into his glass.

  ‘You don’t expect much, do you? In any case, what makes you think I know? We ain’t exactly bosom buddies, for fuck’s sake.’

  It would have surprised me if he’d been willing to play ball even for a thousand, but it was worth a try.

  ‘Too bad. You’re no use to me then.’ I snapped my fingers at him. ‘Give me back the envelope.’

  I was bluffing, but with a full house in my hand.

  ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute. I didn’t say I couldn’t point you in the right direction.’

  ‘Well?’ I said, as he fretted and fidgeted over how much he dare tell me.

  ‘I can tell you where their headquarters are. That’s all.’

  I sat back to contemplate him. Lowlife like him, who made a living from being in the know and selling the knowledge, were indispensable. An ear to the ground, a snout in the sewer. Useful, even invaluable, but never take anything they say or do on trust, deal with them at your peril, and always, always, be on guard for the stab in the back.

  He wasn’t willing to put it in writing, and I can’t say I blamed him. So I wrote what he dictated in my notebook. Reno, a city I had visited for my sole meeting with Vittorio Tosi two years before, was an unknown quantity to me, so the address meant nothing.

  ‘Anything you want to add?’

  He shook his head vigorously. My expectations were low so I was not disappointed. I would be entering enemy territory blind. It wouldn’t exactly be a new experience.

  I fished a twist of paper out of my pants pocket and dropped it in his glass. Its content was heavy, and it made a splash.

  ‘What the fuck ...?’ He peered in the glass and fished out the package. He opened it out on the table top. The ACP round sat upright on its base. The blunt nose, instead of being smooth, bore criss-cross grooves, sawn by me using the serrated blade of a penknife. Otherwise known as a dum-dum. It sent Randazzo a timeless, wordless message.

  ‘So what?’ he said, truculent now, refusing to be intimidated.

  ‘It’s a keepsake, Regan. There’s a twin with your name on it. That’s my keepsake. If you decide to break our agreement, I’ll deliver it to you at the speed of sound. Do I make myself clear?’

  If he could have breathed fire, it would have been jetting from his nostrils.

  ‘You motherfucker.’

  It was all he needed to say to convince me the message had gotten through. Positive reinforcement, negative reinforcement. Together a potent combination.

  ‘Who the fuck are you, Freeman?’ he snarled, getting to his feet.

  ‘Nobody,’ I said, with a mocking grin. ‘I don’t exist.’

  Las Vegas and Reno were both founded on gambling, but the similarity ends there. Vegas is more than twice the size and ten times as prestigious. Reno has its fans though. The inspired Biggest Little City tag give it a personality of its own, and some say it’s more user friendly than its big sister.

  It was after midnight when the Greyhound bus crossed the Tugela River to enter downtown Reno, the Nugget diner with its shimmering starburst on our left and Harrah’s casino front on our right. At the next intersection, we made a small detour to pass under the Biggest Little City arch. Most of my fellow passengers craned their necks for a sight of it. Some took pictures.

  At the Greyhound bus station off West 1st Street, I disembarked with the rest, stiff and hungry after seven-and-a-half hours on board. I was booked at the Harrah’s Hotel beside Interstate 395. It was only a half mile from the bus station, so I man-hauled my overnight bag there. Not using a taxi meant one less witness to my presence in Reno. I was booked for two nights. This was an exploratory trip only, quick in, quick out. The longer I lingered in a place, the more people would remember me. When you have to think like a criminal to stay ahead of the law and outlaws both, it becomes as second nature.

  Harrah’s Reno was unremarkable. A tall rectangular block with a pillared entrance. It doubled as a casino, no surprise there. My room on the eighth floor was averagely comfortable, my sleep more or less dreamless. Morning brought light rain that petered out while I was jogging through the featureless streets behind the hotel. It was cooler than Vegas, which suited me.

  My three miles jog, aided by a free town plan from the hotel, took me thirty minutes. After a mile or so of pounding I turned a corner into Sunshine Lane, and again after a hundred or so yards, into narrower, seedier Sunshine Alley, which consisted mostly of small back street businesses, such as an auto body paint shop, computer repairs, reprographics, ornamental ironwork, tyre and muffler repairs, and more, each with its own parking lot in front. The Tosi operation went by the name Whichway Enterprises. No. 12 was the physical address. I reduced my pace as I trotted past, my baseball cap bill and my oversize sunglasses hiding my features in case Silvano or Cesare happened to be peeping out of one of the two square, barred windows. The door had a window too, much smaller and of reinforced glass. No display sign. Nondescript was good in the netherworld of ne’er-do-wells.

  On the other side of Sunshine Alley, opposite but at an oblique angle to Whichway, was a catering supplies outfit; outside its front entrance two Asiatics were stacking cartons on a pallet. In a corner of the single window of
the second floor of their premises was a sign that read APARTMENT TO RENT. I cruised past, feigning uninterest. On reaching the end of the street, I considered doing a U-turn for a second look, but decided against it. No point in calling attention to myself, even from a couple of Chinese.

  Back in my hotel room I showered and shaved, and made myself presentable. A little after nine I entered the breakfast bar. It was self-service and busy. I lined up with the rest for a yoghurt and a bowl of fruit, ate at a square table with a laminated top among a cross section of tourists bent on getting rich, and suits sitting alone, fiddling with cell phones and tablets. I might have been taken for one if I had been wearing a suit instead of pale blue jeans, sweatshirt, and windbreaker.

  The sun was breaking through when I set out for my objective, again on foot. I entered Sunshine Street from the opposite end. It was busier now. A number of vans and small trucks as well as cars were parked outside the businesses, and plenty of people for me to mingle with. Being dressed differently from earlier, I didn’t expect to ring bells with anyone.

  The apartment above the catering business was owned by a Chinese, whose name sounded like Young Fat. He seemed overjoyed when I enquired about it, so it was probably a dump or overpriced.

  ‘You like, very nice, very clean. Got Wi-Fi. You no pay hot water.’

  If there was any.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said, remaining to be convinced.

  In fact, it proved to be reasonably clean and adequately furnished. A shade overpriced by my reckoning, and I haggled for appearance’s sake, getting a $50 reduction in return for payment of a month up front. In cash, what else? He didn’t ask for ID, so I didn’t even use my Freeman pseudo. I was Bill Smith for the duration of my tenancy.

  Young Fat left me alone to get acquainted with my surroundings, which consisted of a living room-cum-kitchen with a breakfast nook, a good sized bedroom with two single beds, and a bathroom with a shower cubicle the size of a sentry box for an undernourished sentry. The shower itself had plenty of pressure, though the water came through cold.

  The view directly in front of my window was of a Sporting Goods retailer, while Whichway Enterprises next door was at a diagonal. Good enough for my purpose. I pulled up a chair and sat down to wait and watch with the Swarovski Optik binoculars I had brought from Spain. A car stood outside, a muscular Plymouth Barracuda in electric blue. Nearly new. The driver’s window was half lowered, so the owner wasn’t far away.

  About forty-five minutes into my vigil, another car pulled into No. 12’s lot, a black and beat-up Dodge pickup. The man who got out was a stranger to me. He went in, and stayed in.

  Aside from the occasional break for a pee, and a somewhat longer absence to grab a coffee and a burger at a greasy café down the street, I remained at my post until 3pm, when I hit a double jackpot. A dark green Bentley Continental rolled up to disgorge brothers Silvano and Cesare. Boss and assistant boss, respectively. Silvano flicked a cigarette towards the road and swaggered up to the door, Cesare dogging his heels, very much the subordinate. How they gained access wasn’t apparent. The door slammed shut after them.

  Progress. I had ascertained that the Tosi brothers really were based here, and that they were in town. With the zoom feature of my binoculars I inspected the door lock. No keyhole, Yale or otherwise. No card slot. Just a glass square about 1.1/2 inches each way. Of course! A thumbprint recognition pad. The Tosis were into the latest technology.

  The next phase was to monitor their movements. Silvano had to be isolated, either by chance or by manipulation. Ideally, he would be someplace alone and indoors and far from other human habitation and humans themselves. If he could be persuaded to stay late at his “office”, most of my criteria would be met. The street was chiefly commercial premises, and the chances were they would be empty at night.

  The sky was darkening when I left. The transportation at No. 12 hadn’t moved. My job was done for the day.

  Young Fat snared me at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Apartment okay?’ he enquired anxiously. I didn’t know what he was worried about. He had his month’s rent.

  ‘Apartment fine,’ I said, and patted his fat shoulder. ‘See you later.’

  His cannonball of a head bobbed as if supported on a coiled spring.

  ‘Very good. Very nice.’

  To ensure that I didn’t have to pass in front of the Tosi place, I turned left on coming out of the stairwell into the street. Back to the hotel on foot, to plan and plot the demise of the man who would be me.

  The major challenge was how to make it stick that my chosen fall guy really was the perpetrator, when he really wasn’t. You could say that killing him was the easy bit. Convincing Heider that Silvano Tosi was the guilty party was going to tax my creativity.

  An embryo of an idea was developing in my mind. Too soon to say if it would answer my concerns. Tossing it around would help keep boredom at bay on the seven hours return drive to Vegas. My job in the Biggest Little City in the World was done for now. I had, to use the vernacular, cased the joint. The where was settled. The when would wait. The how was evolving.

  The thumbprint entry lock was not an obstacle. It might entail removing someone’s thumb, it might be less barbaric. I wasn’t squeamish about the prospect.

  The Greyhound service from Reno back to Las Vegas was on a round-about route with several stops, and was scheduled to take twenty hours. It wasn’t for me. I decided to hire a car, choosing a small outfit that wouldn’t be too fussy about ID if I paid cash with a generous gratuity. So it proved, and I returned to base in a bland Honda sedan, arriving at dusk. After my two nights away, it was like a homecoming.

  In my hotel room, I checked my emails. Among a dozen or so spam messages was an email from Carl Heider. He and Richard were back in the States, and all three male Heiders required me to attend a progress meeting in Nick’s office at the Pieces of Eight. Tomorrow at ten-thirty prompt. I assumed he meant morning, but when I confirmed my OK, I added am. Just in case.

  While I was deleting the contents of my inbox Simone summoned me by Skype. I wished she hadn’t. Not because it wasn’t good to hear from her, but because she was naked. In the course of our conversation, she succeeded in displaying every part of her anatomy, leaving me all dressed up and nobody to share it with.

  ‘When are you coming back?’ she demanded, pout well to the fore.

  ‘Why?’ I said. My pants were becoming very tight around the crotch area. ‘Are you running short of money?’

  ‘You are a pig!’ she flashed, and proceeded to bring out my porcine side by repositioning her laptop between her knees, screen and camera lens facing her body. The sight was enough to debauch a bishop.

  By the time we said our goodbyes, I was in a frenzy of unrequited lust, and would have bedded the room service maid if she had shown up at that point. If you had seen the maid who tended my room, you would appreciate just how frantic I was.

  TEN

  A light drizzle put paid to my plan to walk to the conference venue. The cab was held up by a shunt on Virginia Street, and I was late. The Heider three were all present and tapping their feet when a secretary eased me into Nick’s office, which was a mirror image of Maura’s.

  ‘Traffic accident,’ I explained.

  Heider, sitting behind a curved desk with a leather top, grunted. Richard said, ‘Hey, man, don’t fuss. We weren’t going anywhere.’

  Heider told him to speak for himself.

  ‘Take a seat, James,’ Nick said. The lounge area was occupied by two long couches. Heider and Nick were side by side, Richard was on his own. I took the space next to him.

  Empty coffee cups reposed before them. Richard noticed the direction of my glance.

  ‘You want some?’ he offered. I had tagged him as the friendliest of the bunch from our previous meeting, and his behaviour today bore out my reading.

  ‘We’ll all have some,’ Heider said.

  While the coffee was being perked, he wasted no time in o
pening the meeting.

  ‘Fill us in on your activities since you emailed your report.’

  ‘Sure.’ I crossed my legs, forced myself to relax. Rain spattered against the expanse of glass. The taller downtown buildings had their heads in the clouds. ‘I have a strong lead that I spent all of yesterday following up. When I emailed you, it was only a long shot; now it’s a short shot. Give me a few more days, a week at the most, and you’ll have your brother’s killer’s head on a platter.’

  Heider stared at me long and hard while peeling the cellophane wrapper from a pack of king-size Pall Malls.

  ‘Very commendable. Too bad we don’t have a name.’

  ‘No names until I’m hundred percent sure. I don’t want somebody going off a half cock.’

  ‘Even so, we’d like to know who,’ Nick said. ‘Maybe we can add a bit of fuel to the fire.’

  ‘This fire needs no fuel, nor does it need some hothead jumping the gun.’

  He took that personally. His eyes narrowed and he leaned towards me, his hands that were resting on his knees closing into fists.

  ‘Who are you calling a hothead? Tell me if I’m wrong, but aren’t we paying you to do a job?’

  ‘Chill, Nicky,’ Heider said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘You’re paying me, so let me do it. If you want to take over, fine, I’ll consider myself paid for what I’ve done so far and we’ll call it quits.’

  ‘Don’t get excited, James,’ Richard cut in. ‘We’re not about to start knocking guys off. We need to stay clean.’ He flashed a glance at Nick, who conceded the point and sank back into the cushions. Scowling, but pacified for now.

  My bluff, which is what it was, had not been called. For this I was grateful. Only when Silvano Tosi was dead and gone was I prepared to reveal all. I dared not chance the Heiders descending on him to extract a confession. Instead of confirming his complicity, he was more likely to give an eyewitness account of the meeting I had with his father two years and four months ago. The Heiders would draw their own conclusions.