Thanks to the snow this winter, the creek was running higher. Its banks were almost vertically sloped in some places, four feet deep at the most. In other spots, the grade was gradual. Mags didn’t know the land as well as she might have. Aunt Jeep had taken her in, and her sister Catherine, after their parents were killed in a car wreck. As soon as Mags graduated high school, she hastened away to college. Her sister, two years older, also left Nevada. Catherine’s progress was quite different from her younger sister’s. She wound up in porn films where she made a lot of money before burning out on drugs. Mags, a hot trader in commodities, went down in flames with many others when the market crashed. Both sisters had succeeded and failed quite spectacularly.
Mags was putting herself back together. Catherine still believed she could be a legitimate movie star. Unfortunately, she couldn’t act with her clothes on. Worse, she’d tried to break Jeep’s will so Enrique wouldn’t inherit as much of the estate. This had so enraged Jeep that she threw Catherine out of her will and out of her life. The estate would now pass to Enrique and Mags, not that Mags counted on that. She’d make her own money her own way, and when the time came she hoped that Enrique and she could, together, wisely manage her great-aunt’s vast resources.
Looking up, she noticed snow swirls on top of the Peterson range. Spring didn’t come to Reno any faster than it did to New York, but still the sight of more snow coming their way on March 20 was depressing.
The unpaved, hardpacked road proved easier on her legs than macadam or asphalt. The two dogs preferred this surface, too. Sometimes asphalt got slippery. The dogs dug in with their claws and then later had to pick the black bits out. Tasted awful. Dirt was better.
Mags turned, heading back toward Wings Ranch. Traffic was a rarity on Dixie Lane. Even once out on Red Rock Road, twisty in parts, one could run in relative peace. The road clogged up for the morning and evening commute, as Reno was eleven to twenty miles south depending upon how far out one lived, but still it was pleasant enough.
A wet snowflake landed on her nose. Then another. Within minutes, visibility diminished.
“Remember, she can’t smell the snow, can’t retrace what scent we’ve left to get back home,” Baxter reminded King.
The bigger dog replied, “Good eyes. Humans can see through this. It’s not that bad yet.”
Mags’s long stride came up on the gateway within ten minutes. She looked up to see the evergreen sprig behind the P-47 propeller. When spring finally arrived, her aunt would have the propeller taken down, cleaned, put back up and a new evergreen sprig placed behind it. Another thing that she claimed brought her luck. Given her long life and talent for making money, she might be on to something with her superstitions.
Mags sprinted toward the porch, a half mile down the road. She could hold it together for a quarter of a mile but a half mile tested her. For the dogs, this was effortless but people were terribly slow.
She reached the porch steps, stopped, and bent over to catch her breath. Then she put her foot on the lowest step, slipping a bit. She grabbed the railing and quickly got up under the roof overhang. The wraparound porch offered extra protection to the house, which faced west, plus it was perfect to sit on when the weather was better than this.
Opening the door and entering, she wiped her feet on the heavy rug as the dogs walked over it, then left perfect wet paw prints as they proceeded down the hall.
Jeep, in the kitchen, called out, “Good run?”
Mags walked back. “Yes, but it’s snowing hard.”
“I can see that.”
“When does spring really arrive?”
“When the snow has melted from the top of Peavine Mountain.” Jeep named a mountain just north of Reno that still had vast fields of peavines in many spots. Originally, it had been covered with the rose-purple flowers, but then the land became overgrazed.
“Well, I guess I’d better keep my eye on Peavine.” Mags unzipped her close-fitting running pullover.
“By May first it’s usually clear, and then you can plant.”
“Seems far away.”
“Six weeks give or take. Coffee?”
“I’ll take a fast shower, then join you.”
“I’ll be here. You know I’m not going out for a jog.” Jeep laughed.
The old lady had had a hip replacement. She could move around pretty well, but she never was one for running and she wasn’t about to start.
Jeep fed the dogs, then sat down for her second cup of coffee.
Mags soon joined her. “Is this one of your special blends?”
“Kona. Carlotta buys all these different types. It’s fun to taste them.”
“We’re going to church, right?”
“Unless you want a big breakfast, we can make the early service.”
“That’s perfect.”
After the service at Trinity Episcopal, light snow still falling, Jeep and Mags lingered briefly outside to talk to their friends, as well as other congregants who had agreed to deliver food. Given the hardship the families on Spring Street endured, a number of folks had promised to deliver food that afternoon.
Babs, a Methodist, also had people from her church on board for today’s delivery. Blankets, scarves, and other warm things had also been gathered.
It was a start, thanks especially to Babs. After seeing the weather report Friday, she kept after all those with whom she’d spoken at the various churches, to work for Sunday delivery. Jeep had done the same.
Jeep and Mags returned home, as Jeep didn’t want to walk in the snow. She was pretty tough, but if she fell it would do her more damage than someone younger.
That evening, Pete took Mags to dinner, then she asked him to drive her along Spring Street. She told him what they’d done and what they hoped to do.
Little curls of smoke rose from some of the chimneys but the weather flattened the gray plumes.
“I hope it works.” Pete smiled. “There’s not much danger that the sheriff will ask us to throw people out. We’ve got other things right now to concentrate on.”
“Like that murder in Cracktown?”
“Candidate Wentworth is sure pounding on the department, at least to the media. This makes my boss nervous. Remember, in Washoe County the sheriff is elected.”
“He’s a good sheriff.”
“Yes, he is, but it only takes one person to throw mud, to create doubt by giving out half of the facts. You’ve seen it done.”
“It seems like that’s all politics is anymore. One big smear campaign. Whatever happened to the common good?”
“Couldn’t say, but the truth is we do have a problem. We have so many homeless. We have the usual types: alcoholics, drug addicts, the mentally impaired, but we also have able-bodied gambling addicts. Add to that an endless flow of people escaping California, some bringing what money they salvaged and others broke, fleeing a sinking ship. Reno has a lot of unique problems.” His brow furrowed momentarily before continuing. “The best we can hope for is that what you, Aunt Jeep, and Babs Gallagher are doing will encourage others to help. But if these people you’re trying to help don’t get jobs, the problem will just worsen.”
“I can see that.” Mags loved the sound of his deep voice.
“The real reason the Reno police department hasn’t been sent down here to clear those people out is there’s nowhere else for them to go.”
“Kind of a brutal reality, isn’t it?”
“It’s when people lose hope that you have to worry,” Pete said, a thoughtful expression on his strong masculine face.
“Because then they feel they have nothing to lose. Yeah. I get that.”
Pete headed back toward Red Rock. They chatted away, two people in tune with each other. They’d been dating since shortly before Christmas and were steadily growing closer. They’d both been hurt in the past; each wanted to enjoy the relationship’s progression without rushing into things or creating unnecessary pressures.
Pete walked Mags to the door. Baxt
er waited on the other side.
“Come on in. I’ll make you a nightcap.”
Pete stayed the night for the first time. Mags’s room was at the other end of the long upstairs hall.
In the morning Jeep was probably as happy as Mags. Jeep loved having a man in the house. She loved a man’s voice, his scent, his laughter. Enrique lived in a smaller house on the ranch. She loved having her son around, too.
Jeep kept her nose out of her great-niece’s romantic life, but she adored Pete. She’d known him since he was a child. He was a good man and plenty handsome, which never hurt.
The day started with warmth, laughter, and still more stray snowflakes. This pleasant interlude wouldn’t last. As with many things that go wrong, it started with something out of the blue.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Every city in America, even if no bigger than a minute, has its seedy side wherein the residents are not rendered tedious by respectability. No exception to this rule, Reno proved creative in this direction.
Fourth Street was festooned with tattoo parlors and exotic dance clubs, where dubious antique furniture was displayed while the real merchandise—sex toys—was found in the back. A topless bar had a painted black front and recessed door with a bouncer of biblical proportions. The Black Box was a hub of activity, especially a few hours after sunset. The seasons did not affect the clientele, always there to admire nature’s bounty.
Washoe County outlawed prostitution. The legality of this oldest moneymaker was decided county by county. In reality, laws on the books meant nothing on the street, especially where physical pleasure was concerned. The young women dancing inside the Black Box weren’t hookers, though this didn’t mean a girl in need might not service a customer after hours and far away from the bar. Still, mostly the stripping working girls held themselves above the oldest profession. Some had boyfriends, some had girlfriends, some even cared about them. Many were young, filled with Hollywood hopes. Unfortunately, they were forty-watt bulbs in one-hundred-watt sockets. They all liked a good time, clearly being extroverts.
Like any bar, the Black Box had regulars. One, Teton Benson, from a leading Reno family, haunted the barstools. Teton, who’d changed his first name, was estranged from his family thanks to a long struggle with drink and drugs. There wasn’t a substance he hadn’t inhaled or ingested. Initially, when he was in college, the family paid for two hideously expensive rehabs. They didn’t work. They often don’t, which is no comment on the rehabilitation centers, more of a comment on the person who relapsed.
While he wished no contact with his family, he also didn’t want to embarrass them further. His sister, Lolly Johnson, kept in erratic touch with him. As her husband was president of SSRM, Darryl Johnson, and Darryl had shelled out his own money to help Teton during one of his forty-thousand-dollar, twenty-eight-day stays in a clinic, the situation was fraught with difficulty. Darryl didn’t hate his brother-in-law, but he disregarded him, had written him off as a hopeless, self-centered nonentity.
And he was. After stealing a car, Teton had saved himself a jail term by squealing what he knew about a scam. But he still worried sometimes, usually at three in the morning when he especially wanted a drink, that there may have been silent partners in that scam. He prayed to sweet Jesus there weren’t.
His rehabilitation had come through love. Lark, the star of the Black Box, had grown to like him. He pursued her quietly, with lovely presents, usually jewelry. Lark was fond of display. The customers were fond of Lark, though not so much for the jewelry—which looked wonderful on her for she was naturally pretty—but for her rack. You could put a dinner setting on it.
Tu’Lia, Lark’s best friend, could have held up a full dessert plate.
The girls, each of them having paid good money for them, proudly paraded their distinguishing features. Those patrons at the table enjoyed it when the girls, bringing drinks, leaned over to serve them.
Breasts raise spirits and the temperature, hence the bouncer.
Congressional candidate Patrick Wentworth, along with a small video team, trolled Fourth Street this Saturday night. They’d banked shots of storefronts, dim colored lights inside, men in old coats leaning against buildings smoking skinny cigarettes. Other reprobates drank from bottles wrapped in paper bags. One urinated publicly, against city code. As he faced the camera, evidence in hand, Patrick realized the shot would be useless.
“We need to get someone who at least has the decency to turn his back,” said Reggie Wilcox, the cameraman.
“If he had decency, he wouldn’t pee in public.” Patrick sniffed.
“Hey, sometimes you can’t get to a head,” said Reggie. “You need to spend money to pee in America. There are no public urinals. If you can’t find a gas station, you pee wherever you can.”
“Are you on my team or not?” Patrick growled.
Reggie’s reply was clever. “I’m only throwing at you what your opponents will throw at you. Keeping you on your toes.”
“Anson Sorenson writes me off, thinks I’m not on the political radar screen. Believe you me, my name will be fixed in the public’s mind, come election time.” Merely voicing the incumbent’s name, the man who had paid no attention to his challenger, infuriated Patrick.
A candidate needed a focus as well as personal appeal. Patrick had focus: Clean up Reno. His appeal was visceral. He was good-looking, young but stiff, censorious.
With his camera steadied on the sill, Reggie shot out of the open window in the backseat of an SUV. In the seat directly in front of him, Patrick drove.
“Okay, now we’ve got both sides of the street for half a mile.” Patrick turned the SUV around.
“Not too many people out on the street in this cold,” Reggie said.
“Let’s see if we can get inside one of these dumps.”
“I’m the one who will be hit, not you,” Reggie complained.
“I’ll go first. All you have to do is shoot over my shoulder. Get a few pole dancers, get some sound from the audience if you can. Catcalls show them up for the vulgarians they are.” Patrick said this with relish.
Parking the SUV on the Black Box block, the one with the most shops, they first ducked into a storefront advertising antiques. The antiques happened to be statuary of an erotic nature. The shop owner, a man of Arab descent and quite fat, managed to get on his feet, waved his arms, and finally shooed them out.
“All he needed was a fez.” Reggie laughed because he knew they’d use that film.
Next they shot through the window of a tattoo parlor. A young woman was having an elaborate tattoo of interlocking roses done on the small of her back. Reggie shot a close-up. The interior of the shop was clean, he swung the camera to get the needles in their sterile, hot tray. The tattoo artist never looked up from his canvas nor did the canvas.
They moved on to a pole-dancing bar. No sooner did they get through the door than the bouncer, a wiry, quick man with a long, ragged scar on his left cheek, sprang for them.
All they got was a long shot of one woman, leg wrapped around the pole, and a red-faced middle-aged man pounding on the table in a group of middle-aged men. He was shouting, but the audio didn’t record cleanly.
As they were shoved out, Patrick said to Reggie, “I couldn’t make out what that geezer was shouting.”
“Show us the baloney sandwich.”
“How revolting.” Patrick’s upper lip curled.
Reggie thought genitals, male or female, were pretty much like any other body part. Some people were better-looking than others. Best not to dwell on it because that was one area plastic surgery couldn’t much help.
As it wasn’t yet peak hour, and it was cold outside, the bouncer at the Black Box happened to be at the bar sipping a Perrier with lime. He wasn’t a drinker. In his capacity, he couldn’t be.
The door opened and it took him a moment to grasp the situation.
The girls did before he did.
“Hey, get out of here!” Lark growled.
/> Teton leapt from his barstool about the same time the bouncer did.
Reggie ran backward.
Tu’Lia defiantly shook her breasts at Reggie, even following him out onto the pavement.
Seeing the shock on Patrick’s face emboldened her. “Hey, pervert, you want a look but you don’t want to pay? This is your lucky night.”
She held out her arms lengthwise and shook her glories for all they were worth. Quickly, she realized that exposing her assets to potential frostbite was unwise. She turned tail with a shiver.
“Boss, we’ve got some good stuff here,” boasted Reggie.
“Let’s go back to HQ, go over it together, and I’ll start writing a script.”
“Don’t you want more footage of you on the street?”
“Not here. We’ll shoot in Cracktown for the next series of ads.”
Reggie never asked where all the campaign funds came from. So long as he was paid in full and on time he didn’t care. Still, he did wonder.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There’s eighty miles an hour, driving fast, and eighty years old, which comes on fast.
Howie Norris never could figure out how he got that old. Ranching four miles north of Jeep as the crow flies, he’d always run cattle, even when he was vice president of Reno National. Over the years the local bank had been gobbled up by bigger banks. Howie hated it because the policy decisions were made wherever corporate headquarters happened to be. After the first buyout, headquarters were in Salt Lake. The second, in Denver. By the time he retired at sixty-five, a huge outfit from Los Angeles had taken over. Against all odds, ownership, a few years ago, had shifted to Las Vegas. Best to keep decisions about Nevadans’ money in Nevada. A good banker knows the community, knows people’s characters, and is, most important, part of the community. The lack of this, as much as complicated duplicitous financial instruments and loose federal banking guidelines, had provoked the nation’s current crisis. How could a vice president of a bank, headquartered in L.A., make a good call on a borrower from Sparks, Nevada?
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