by Dave Stanton
Thank god that’s over with, he thought, feeling a sense of relief she was out of his life. It didn’t matter that she was the greatest lover he’d ever had, a truly unique woman in bed. He still became aroused when he thought of their lovemaking, of her sheer sexual prowess. But eventually he’d realized she used her sexuality to control men. At her core, she knew how badly men wanted her, and how easy it was to get the so-called stronger sex to do whatever she wanted. This was his strongest and most enduring recollection of her. He could almost forgive her for it; imagine how easy life could be with that power. Still, to use people like she did, you had to have a dark place in your heart.
John started after Sheila, but the crowds of gamblers were thick, and he wasn’t a nimble man. He soon lost sight of her, and a wave of dizziness overcame him. He sat down heavily on a bench in a quiet hallway. Christ, he was out of shape. He felt a pang of shame when it occurred to him how bad he looked compared to his ex-wife, who seemed as attractive as ever.
After a few minutes his head cleared, and he made his way back to the reservation counter.
“I’m sorry, there’s no one named Jimmy Homestead staying here,” the clerk said.
“But, he was here yesterday,” John said.
“He must have checked out.”
“How about Sheila Homestead? I’d like to leave a message for her.”
The keyboard clicked briefly.
“No Sheila Homestead on record.”
“Try Sheila Majorie.”
Click, click, click. “No record of her either.”
John walked away slowly and found an empty bar where he could think. He hadn’t considered what he’d do if Jimmy wasn’t at Harrah’s. Nor had he anticipated seeing his ex-wife at the casino. He forced thoughts of her aside for the moment, and concentrated on where Jimmy might be.
His son, with all those millions of dollars. Enough money to buy anything, be anywhere, be anyone. Where would he go? Did the fact he had checked out of Harrah’s mean he was leaving the Tahoe area? Or had he just decided on a different hotel? At this moment he could be checking into the fanciest suite at any hotel in the area. Or maybe he was on the road, driving a fancy new car to who knows where. Maybe to an airport.
Christ, this was getting him nowhere, John mused. He needed an angle.
Okay, what about Sheila being here? What a bizarre day it was turning out to be. Drive up to Tahoe to find your son, and find your wicked ex-wife instead. She had to be here because she was with Jimmy, right? But she hadn’t stayed at Harrah’s, unless…oh god, no. She couldn’t have been sharing the same room with Jimmy, could she? A flood of dreaded emotions from a buried place surged to the forefront of his thoughts. John closed his eyes and pressed his temples. You have no way of knowing if it ever happened, he told himself. And it’s foolish to contemplate if they are sleeping together now. It’s a ridiculous suspicion. Shut it out, think logically.
An hour later, John found himself pacing along a wooded trail that led from the casino to the sandy shores of Lake Tahoe. Fortunately he’d brought his coat, because it had grown dark and cold. How long had he walked? A mile? Three miles? His legs were tired and his back ached. But the walk had served its purpose; his mind was at ease, and he had drawn what he felt were logical conclusions:
1. Sheila likely had already found Jimmy, and had either tapped into his money, or was in the process of doing so.
2. If she hadn’t already found him, she was definitely trying to, for the obvious purpose of getting her hands on his money.
3. Sheila’s agenda almost certainly would create some conflict with his own.
4. Finding Jimmy quickly was key. Sheila could influence Jimmy against him.
5. Finding Jimmy would require some advanced people-tracking skills, something John lacked.
By the time John hiked back to his car he was exhausted and hungry. He bought a bag of fast food, found a cheap hotel near the California-Nevada state line, and went to bed. Tomorrow would be a taxing day, and he wanted to be well rested.
11
It was one in the morning when Mort finally lay down to sleep in the downtown Sacramento hotel room. He had spent the evening applying his most logical and creative thinking to a plan to seize his nephew’s lottery winnings. He didn’t quit until he felt satisfied the plan covered every unexpected twist he could imagine. It was meticulous and exhausting work, but it was a process necessary to succeed in business, whether legitimate or otherwise. The primary goal in lawful business was to make an honest profit. The end game in an illegal enterprise was to steal and not get caught. The latter required especially concise, rational planning, because denial of personal freedom was the penalty for failure. Mort’s previous enterprise ended disastrously when he ignored certain fundamentals. This time, Mort planned painstakingly. He did not intend to return to prison.
His plan was broken down into three primary elements:
1. Locate and secure Jimmy Homestead.
2. Extract and secure funds.
3. Get away safely.
As an experienced criminal, Mort realized the challenges he was facing. Finding Jimmy would be the easiest part, he assumed. Arranging the transfer of millions into his hands would be considerably more difficult. Vanishing with the money would be equally tricky. To manage these phases, Mort broke down each into three analytical subsets: strategy, methodology, and tactics.
The strategy to locate Jimmy was simple. First, check building permits and real estate transactions. It was likely Jimmy would spend part of his fortune on a fancy home. The method to access this data required a trip to the city library, or city hall if necessary, to check public records. The tactical execution of this was slightly challenging because Mort’s goal was to maintain total anonymity. Any activity creating a trail back to him must be avoided. But finding Jimmy would require talking to people, and that meant there would be links that could result in Mort being identified.
The next morning Mort walked two miles to a theatrical outfitting shop running early Halloween ads in the newspaper. In a cash transaction, he bought a tweed cap, a professional-quality reddish-gray beard complete with bushy eyebrow kit, and an apparatus that attached to his torso with suspenders, giving him the appearance of a man with a bulky midsection and a large rear end. He then took the city transit bus to a discount store, where he found a pair of yellow-tinted, wire-rimmed spectacles that obscured his greenish eyes. Next, a pair of pants, a belt, and a button-down shirt to fit his new physique. As a finishing touch, he found a used pipe reeking of tobacco at a thrift shop.
Thus attired, Mort spent the afternoon at the library and city hall, searching real estate records for Jimmy Homestead. But the fruits of his labor were elusive, and he returned to his hotel that evening empty-handed. Evidently, Jimmy had not moved forward with any real estate plans in California. Mort accepted the situation with even-keeled stoicism. His criminal plan was not one born out of laziness and aversion to work. Setbacks were to be dealt with intellectually and rationally. Lack of patience was a habit of failed criminals.
Mort checked out of his hotel the following morning and took the first Greyhound bus to Reno. The hundred-and-twenty-mile trip took four hot, gritty hours. By sundown Mort had finished checking the Nevada State real estate records. There was no record of Jimmy Homestead. Deep in his gut, he felt a flicker of irritation. He swallowed the emotion and concentrated on thinking logically. Anger was counterproductive—until it could be applied as a means to an end.
That evening Mort decided to begin executing a second strategy to locate his target. The real estate idea would be scuttled—it wasn’t feasible to search every state for Jimmy Homestead. He had assumed Jimmy would buy a home in California, but he could have selected any state—Hawaii, Florida, it was impossible to predict. So it was time for plan B.
Now staying at a sprawling, inexpensive chain hotel in Reno, Mort began calling private investigation and security firms. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for
. He got the response he needed on his third call.
“Yes, I’m looking for an old friend who I haven’t been able to reach. I don’t think it’s called for to hire an investigative service, but I’m wondering if you can provide reports of some kind, perhaps listing residences, phone numbers, or any other data that might help me locate this person.”
“Yeah, we can do that. We have a basic report we run that includes address history, phone number, date of birth, that sort of thing. You can go to our website and order it with your credit card. The report costs fifty bucks.”
“That sounds like it would be helpful. But unfortunately, I don’t have access to a PC. Would it be possible for you to run the report, and then I could come pick it up?”
The voice on the other end hesitated. “Sure, that’ll work. Just ask for Joe.”
Mort woke early the following morning and meticulously applied his beard, working with the glue and blending lotion until he was confident it would pass a face-to-face encounter.
At nine o’clock sharp, a portly, bearded man smoking a pipe arrived at the offices of American Security in Reno. A few minutes later, Mort was seated across from Joe, a fleshy, dark-haired fellow in his thirties. Mort paid him with two twenties and a ten, and noticed Joe quickly slid the cash into his desk drawer.
As Mort suspected, the background report on Jimmy Homestead was not updated recently enough to reflect anything Jimmy may have done since winning the lottery.
“Do you have any other reports, showing more recent activity?” Mort said.
Joe picked at the corner of his mouth. “Recent activity,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Well, we could triangulate his cell phone. We have a GPS system that can pinpoint his location to fifty feet. The fee for that is two hundred fifty. But we can’t just provide that service to anyone. You need certain clearances.”
“I see,” Mort said. He had begun slipping into a Southern drawl while in costume. He counted $400 from the roll of bills in his pocket. “Is this clearance enough?”
Joe’s eyes shifted back and forth. He took the money, and it disappeared into his desk. “Come back at two,” he said.
12
What a joke, Jimmy thought. What a bone-smoking joke. All anybody can talk about is the Internet, yeah, check this website, check that website, yeah, yeah, you can find anything. What a bunch of bullshit. Jimmy was at the bar at the Mirage, trying to drink away a grinding coke-and-booze hangover. The last three days had been a blur of casino gambling, liquor of every variety, and a snowstorm of cocaine. It was too much, even for Jimmy.
Within the first twenty-four hours of posting his personal ad, he had received three responses. Two were from Russian women who Jimmy learned were part of a mail-order-bride scam. The third was from a dumpy-looking, dark-haired woman from Sacramento, who sent him a simple six-word greeting: “You sound like a real asshole.”
Jimmy blew a gasket when he read that e-mail. What kind of rude, ugly bitch would send a message like that? He was deeply offended a woman so beneath him had actually reached out and made contact. He felt soiled by it. And he was also perplexed and outraged that no quality babes had responded. It was freaking ridiculous.
So he spent three days drinking and snorting away his frustration. And now he was paying the price. He had danced, and it was time to pay the fiddler. It was the worst hangover he could remember, and he’d had plenty.
The midweek crowds at the Mirage were light, and Jimmy spent the afternoon sipping slow, medicinal Bloody Marys, trying to feel human again. Eventually, he went back to his room and passed out for a while, and when he woke he drank a strong Irish coffee, and finally his head started to clear. He searched around for his cell phone, which he’d lost at some point, and found it, dead, buried in his suitcase. It didn’t matter, no one ever called him anyway.
He made his way to the bar again and was irritated to find it was now crowded, and the only open seat was next to two men who were laughing and having an animated conversation.
“Man, I’m telling you,” said a red-haired guy with blotchy skin and hunched shoulders. “The women down there have a completely different attitude. It’s a different culture. In the US, women have it made, right? They expect you to open doors for them, buy jewelry, kiss their ass, and if you’re lucky, maybe you get laid every now and them. But it’s totally different down there.”
The other man was a short, bearded fellow wearing thick-rimmed glasses. “So what are Costa Rican women like?” he asked.
“They’re incredible, I’m telling you! Costa Rica has more beautiful women than any other country in the world. And Costa Rican women—they call them Ticas—treat men totally different. It’s like the man is dominant, and the woman’s role is to please. They cook, they clean, they ask you if you want your back rubbed, or if you’d like to pound their poontang. And they love us gringos!”
“It sounds almost too good to be true.”
“I’ve been there, man! I know! I found this twenty-three-year-old who was a perfect ten. I mean just incredible. And nice as can be. We hung out for three days; it was insane! Dude, when I left to come back to the US, she was totally bummed. And she only wanted, like, eighty bucks a day.”
“She was really a ten?”
“Hell, yes! Costa Rica is swarming with women like her. Prostitution is legal there, and it’s totally casual. The whores down there love it!”
Jimmy caught enough of the conversation to raise his interest. He turned toward the men and managed a meager smile. “Where are you guys talking about?”
“Huh?” said the red-haired man, looking at Jimmy’s horribly bloodshot eyes.
“I overheard you talking.” Jimmy’s nerves were shot and his voice was shaky.
“Hey, you feeling okay?”
“I’ve had a few long nights, it’s no big deal.”
The red-haired man laughed. “I’m Larry,” he said and stuck out his hand. “My friends call me Fast Larry.”
Jimmy gave his hand a weak shake.
“We were talking about Costa Rica,” Larry said.
“That’s in Europe, right?”
“Europe?” Larry said, one eyebrow raised quizzically. “No, it’s in Central America, down near the Panama Canal.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Jimmy said, and he was tempted to spin a tale about how he’d been to a lot of countries, but he didn’t have the energy.
“It’s about a five-hour flight from here,” Larry said. “Costa Rica is a tropical paradise. Lush rain forests, stellar deep sea fishing, great food, and it’s all dirt cheap.”
“Well, the money’s not an issue for me,” Jimmy said. “But I wouldn’t mind checking out a new scene.” As the words came out of his mouth, Jimmy had an odd realization he was speaking the pure truth, a somewhat unusual event for him. He was sick of Vegas. He was sick of the murderous weather, which was still a hundred degrees in early October. And he was sick of bitchy, greedy American women, whores or otherwise. An exotic new locale might be just what he needed—especially a tropical paradise with nubile, young Latinas who treated men with the proper respect and admiration.
“Yeah? You got the money and the time, you ought to go, man,” Larry said.
“Tell me more about this place.”
An hour and a number of cocktails later, Larry was in Jimmy’s suite, prompted by Jimmy’s offer of a few lines of Peruvian flake. Afterward, Jimmy watched Larry pull up a number of websites on Costa Rica. He wouldn’t admit it, but Jimmy found the prospect of visiting a foreign country intimidating. What about the language? And what about a passport? Jimmy didn’t have one. But when he brought up his concerns, they were quickly dismissed.
“Dude, everybody speaks English. And anybody can get a passport,” Larry told him.
There was something about Larry that Jimmy found soothing, in a down home sort of way. Larry had big, innocent, light-colored eyes, and eyebrows that seemed perpetually raised in laughter or exclamation.
His smile was constant and seemed natural, and he had a casual, optimistic aura about him, as if he were immune to typical annoyances. Although Jimmy had only known him for a very short time, he felt Larry was harmless and trustworthy.
As he listened to Larry excitedly prattle on about Costa Rica (everything there was “the best”) it struck Jimmy that since winning the lottery he had not contacted anyone he knew—no friends, no family, no one. Instead, he’d spent his time just drifting from place to place, Southern California, Tahoe, Vegas, and mingling with strangers, people who had no idea who he was. There was no question he was a very sociable person, and actually he’d met a lot of people recently, although when he thought about it, they were mostly whores and drunks. Well, what the hell, he was on a roll, living it up, and the truth was, he didn’t feel compelled to contact anyone from his past life. Why should he? They’d probably just be looking for a handout, and he didn’t owe anybody a thing, not a goddamned thing.
But in the back of his mind he felt a gnawing concern, like a sense of unfinished business. Should he feel any obligation to take care of people who used to be close to him, like his immediate family? No, hell no. Not his father, a man Jimmy thought of as more an acquaintance than a parent. What real guidance and support had his dad ever provided? What real love? John Homestead always put himself first, before his children. Not that this made him such a bad guy, but he hadn’t sacrificed much for his son, certainly not enough for Jimmy to feel obliged to reach out and share his wealth. Still, Jimmy felt a tiny edge of guilt when he thought about his father.
As far as his friends, there were so many Jimmy had known over the years that trying to define who might be worthy of a handout made his head spin. The majority of people who came to mind were from San Jose, back in the days before he started drifting. He hadn’t talked to most of them for over a decade. He thought back to the different faces, to his old partying buddies, different women he’d bedded, AA contacts, and his dead brother Marty. Sitting in his suite at the Mirage, watching Larry work the computer, the truth slowly dawned on Jimmy: he no longer had any real friends. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t have friends if he wanted—he’d always been popular. But somehow, over the course of time, it just seemed more natural to keep people at arm’s length. People were just too damned sensitive, always judging and blaming him, as if he were actually responsible for the difficulties typically present in his life.