by Dave Stanton
The room was dark, and John pulled open the heavy drapes, letting light pour into the suite. Jimmy sat on the couch, and John looked at him, his remaining son, now a full-grown man in his thirties. He looked like a stranger, but when Jimmy looked up at him with his blue eyes, John felt his heart sink. Jesus, it was his little boy, the same kid he had played with and bought birthday presents for, back in the days from the Super 8 films, back when both Jimmy and his brother Marty were sweet, playful kids. It seemed a lifetime ago. A huge sense of paternal love and regret overwhelmed John. How could he have allowed his own flesh and blood to simply disappear from his life?
A deep well of emptiness in his chest, John’s eyes filled with tears. Jimmy stared at him, puzzled.
“I’m so sorry, Jimmy,” John said. He sat on the couch and put his arm around Jimmy’s shoulders and hugged his son.
After years of drifting from town to town, and having almost no contact with anyone from his youth, Jimmy was stunned by the affectionate gesture. His adult life had been mostly void of anything resembling compassion. Love was a concept Jimmy thought was probably bullshit, something the masses contrived to convince themselves their daily existence had some special meaning. The closest Jimmy ever came to being in love was when he was with the different women he slept with. But that emotion always faded once the passion of the sex subsided.
Jimmy hugged his father back—he didn’t know what else to do. Then he saw tears streaming down John’s face, and the strangest damn thing happened. He felt his own eyes well up, and a weight in his stomach rose to his chest. Before he could give it a moment’s thought, Jimmy was crying on his dad’s shoulder, blubbering incoherently, his warm tears running everywhere.
They held each other for a while, until eventually John stood. Jimmy sat transfixed, amazed at what he was feeling. It felt good to have his father here. The thought of having a family member, someone who actually gave a shit about him, made Jimmy happy. He had repressed so much over the years, and now he thought maybe this was a turning point, maybe he could repair things and be more like a normal person. He dried his eyes and stood to face his dad. His pop had not aged well. He was fat and looked disheveled, a far cry from the fit and debonair figure Jimmy remembered.
“Come on, let’s go get some breakfast,” Jimmy said.
They went to the coffee shop off the casino floor and talked until their voices grew hoarse. Jimmy spoke of his life on the road, jobs he had worked, battles with the bottle, his various troubles. John told Jimmy how he had never recovered from losing his house after his brother Mort conned him into an ill-fated investment scheme. They talked about the pain of Marty’s death, and the pain of being alone in the world. They both felt a guilty pleasure from the release. It was noon when the waitress suggested they either order lunch or pay the check. Jimmy threw down some cash, and they went back to the suite.
They sat in the comfortable living room, Jimmy sprawled on a couch and John in an easy chair. The TV was on, but Jimmy muted the volume.
“Dad, I’m assuming you know about me winning the Lotto.”
“Yes, I heard,” John said. He noticed Jimmy’s eyes narrow a bit.
“Well, I got no problem helping you out,” Jimmy said. “It sounds like you could really use it.”
John blushed. He was grateful Jimmy was making it easy, but he felt a creeping shame over having to ask for money. It made him feel inferior to his son, who had just admitted spending fifteen years living barely above the ranks of a hobo.
He swallowed, then said, “Thank you, Jimmy. Things have been tough for me.” John started to say something else, but Jimmy interrupted him.
“There’s another thing you should know,” Jimmy said. “Yesterday I was driving here from Vegas in my Lamborghini—you should see it, it’ll blow your mind. I stopped at a small town down along 395 to have a drink, and guess who shows up?”
John started at him dumbly.
“Sheila.”
• • •
The sound of his ex-wife’s name made John freeze. Since the initial shock of seeing her in South Lake Tahoe a week ago, he had shoved all thoughts of her aside. She was an intangible problem he didn’t want to address unless he had to.
“She walked up to me at this bar in the middle of nowhere,” Jimmy said. “And she had these two big dudes with her, like they were bodyguards or something. I’m sitting there having a drink, and she just walks right on up.”
“What—what did she say?”
“Well, we sat at a table, and these guys with her, they sat away, far enough so they couldn’t hear us. Then she goes into this story, and I’m still trying to figure out what to believe or not. She tells me a dude I once stole some coke from was dealing for a Mexican drug cartel, and now these badass Mexicans know I won the Lotto. So they tracked Sheila down, and told her to make me this offer: pay two million to settle the score on the rip-off, or they’ll come after me personally.”
John blinked, trying to organize his thoughts. “Did you really steal some drugs?”
“Yeah. I was pretty down and out at the time. I was working a temporary job and met this dude named Sanzini, who’s got the IQ of a rock. I mean, if he was any dumber he’d need to be watered twice a week. He starts bragging about how he’s a big-time dealer, and we end up at his house, and I took off with about an ounce of his blow.”
“Do you think he was really connected with Mexican cartels?”
“I doubt it. He’s not Mexican, and he was just a low street dealer. But I saw him talking to some cholos in a lowrider…”
“Huh,” John sputtered, and started pacing the floor. “Did Sheila say the Mexicans contacted her directly?”
“Yeah. She said Sanzini brought them to her apartment. They supposedly offered her a chance to save my ass, is how she put it.”
“What about the two men with her?”
“She claims they were associates of the Mexicans, hired by them to make sure the money gets back to the cartel safely. While we were at the bar, Sheila went to the bathroom, and then these guys came up to me and said some threatening shit, like I better cooperate, or else.”
“My question is, why would the Mexicans go to Sheila?” John said. “If they wanted to find you, why would they need her?”
“She said she got involved to look out for my best interests, to prevent them from hurting or killing me.”
“I don’t think that makes sense, do you?”
Jimmy considered this before answering. He originally had thought his stepmom might well have a soft spot for him, given their night of passion. But he realized that was probably a vain notion—especially since she was telling him he needed to hand her $2 million in cash.
“She’s expecting me to pay her today. She took the keys to my car.”
“She did? Where is she?”
“She’s staying here, at this hotel.”
John’s mouth dropped. “Here? Now?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re not considering paying her, are you?”
“Hell, I sure don’t want to. I’m sure she’s been calling all morning, but I turned my cell off.”
“Why not just tell her to hand over your keys and get lost?”
“Okay, but what if these big dudes she’s with start hassling me?”
John paused for a moment, and decided the timing was right. “Jimmy, I hired a private eye to find you. He’s a very competent guy—a real pro. I think it might be a good idea to get him involved. He can help us find out what Sheila is up to.”
“I like that idea,” Jimmy said, “as long as you’re sure you can trust him.”
John nodded, then added, “One other thing. I owe him five grand for his services so far, and…”
“Not a problem, Dad. Five K is nothing. I wipe my ass with that kind of money.”
• • •
The fact that Sheila was staying at Harrah’s seemed unreal to John, and with each moment he felt increasingly nervous. He shook his head, won
dering what would have happened if she had wandered into the restaurant where Jimmy and he had spent the morning. “We need to get out of here, like now, Jimmy,” he said.
“I have a spare set of keys for the Lamborghini.”
“Maybe just leave it here for now, son. No need to alert Sheila and her friends what’s going on. Besides, if she takes your car, you can report it stolen and have her arrested.”
They made it to John’s LTD without issue and boogied a few miles down the road into California, until they found an expensive lodge at the base of the local ski resort. Jimmy booked them into the hotel’s fanciest room, a two-bedroom spread with a view of the lake. They went downstairs and ordered drinks at the nearly vacant bar. John drank his gin, ordered another, and dialed Lou Calgaretti.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Homestead.”
“Hi, Lou. I have good news. I’m with my son now, and I can pay you your fee. But I’d like to meet with you to discuss further services.”
“Ahh. Such as?”
“It will take some explaining. Can you meet us at the Timberlodge resort?
“I need to finish a few things first, Mr. Homestead. Perhaps we could meet over dinner?”
John checked his watch. It was four o’clock. “Okay, that’ll work,” he said.
“Perfect. There’s an excellent Italian restaurant at the Timberlodge. Their pasta is the best in town.”
John and Jimmy waited in the bar, drinking, chatting comfortably, momentarily unconcerned about whatever Sheila was up to. John assured his son that Lou Calgaretti, the tough, ex-cop private eye, would prove more than capable of shutting down her scam. They were pleasantly buzzed when Lou arrived. Jimmy bought him a drink, then they took a table in the back of the restaurant. The dark-paneled walls, dim lighting, and red-and-white checkerboard tablecloths reminded John of an old mobster movie. And Lou Calgaretti, with his black suit, beefy face, and a .38 in a shoulder holster that became visible when he unbuttoned his coat, fit in perfectly.
“Here’s the short version, Lou,” John said, once the waiter brought wine and bread. “Sheila Majorie, my ex-wife and Jimmy’s stepmother, found out Jimmy won the Lotto and tracked him down yesterday. She confronted him in a bar where he had stopped when he was driving here from Vegas. She must have been following him, and she had two rough-looking guys with her. She told Jimmy a man Jimmy had a bad experience with on a drug deal is linked to a Mexican drug cartel, and she was there to collect two million to settle the score. She said she got involved in order to prevent the Mexicans from coming after Jimmy on their own and potentially harming him.”
John had expected Lou to react with surprise, or at least some emotion, but Lou barely raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a story,” he said.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Jimmy said. “And I want to hire you to find out if I’m really in any danger, or if it’s just my stepmom trying to rip me off.”
“Describe for me your bad experience on this drug deal.”
“I stole an ounce of blow from this jackass a couple years back. It was worth about two grand. That’s it.”
Lou raised his eyes at Jimmy, his expression flat, then a small smile formed on his lips. “Sounds like it was a bad experience for him, but not necessarily for you.”
“I guess so,” Jimmy said with a shrug.
“And now you’re being told you need to pay two million to resolve it?”
“Basically, yeah.”
“I think you might need some protection until we get to the bottom of this.”
“At least until we know what we’re dealing with,” John said.
“Here’s what I can do for you,” Lou said, the diamond studded ring on his finger clinking against his wine glass. “First, I’ll investigate this woman’s story to find out if there’s any evidence to back it up. I’ll see what I can find out about the two guys with her. I’ll work to learn if she has any connection to anyone linked to a Mexican drug cartel. If so, I’ll find out, but it will take some digging. While I’m working on this, I think the most prudent thing would be for you both to become invisible.”
“What, you mean go into hiding?” Jimmy said.
“No, not exactly. The main thing is, I don’t want you having any more contact with your stepmother. I don’t want her to be able to find you. I’d suggest leaving the area.”
“Shit, I was ready to start shopping for a house.”
Lou sipped from his wine glass. “I think you probably want to wait on that.”
“Should we just go stay in a hotel somewhere?” John asked.
“We could always go chill in Mexico,” Jimmy added.
Lou shook his head. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Here’s an idea—I know a realtor in Reno who can rent you a vacation home, and she’ll let you use a phony name on the paperwork. You’ll be untraceable.”
The waiter brought plates of pasta and meat and a fresh bottle of red wine.
“Sheila thought I was going to give her the two mil today,” Jimmy said, around a mouthful of lasagna. “I turned my cell phone off, but I’m sure she’s called.”
Lou considered that for a moment. “It’s probably not a great idea for you to stay here tonight. You can spend the night at my place. I’ve got plenty of room.”
“You really think we’re in danger?” John said.
“Those two guys with her are my concern,” Lou said. “If they catch up to you now, it could be a problem.”
“You know, I swear I recognized one of those guys,” Jimmy said. “But I just can’t place him.”
“Really? Keep trying to remember. A name would definitely help.”
“I want to get my Lamborghini,” Jimmy said. “It’s still at Harrah’s. Sheila took my keys, but I’ve got a spare pair.”
John cleared his throat. “I thought we should leave it there,” he said. “And if Sheila takes a spin, have her arrested for stealing it.”
“It’s a nice thought. But auto theft is almost never prosecuted if the accused has the keys. Tell you what—why don’t I go with you to pick it up? Just in case they’re watching your car.” Lou looked at the pair, who nodded in agreement.
When they left the restaurant, Lou had a check from Jimmy for $20,000, to cover what John owed, with the balance to serve as a retainer. Jimmy turned on his cell before they got in their cars to head to Harrah’s.
“She called three times,” he said. “Hold on, she left a message.” Jimmy listened to Sheila saying she was concerned Jimmy was non-responsive, and that he needed to call her and arrange the funds right away or things could get ugly. Jimmy pressed a button and handed the phone to Lou, who carefully listened to the entire message.
“Well,” he said with a smile. “She sounds like quite a piece of work. Don’t erase it.”
Lou drove his black all-wheel-drive Lexus SUV and followed John’s LTD to Harrah’s parking garage. They picked up Jimmy’s car without incident, then Lou led them up a steep, winding road to his split-level house in a residential development in Nevada. The stands of redwood separating the homes were so thick the neighbors couldn’t see each other’s houses.
“Nice spread, Lou. You must have done well for yourself,” John said, climbing from his car and looking around.
“I got a good pension when I left the force.”
John and Jimmy settled into Lou’s downstairs quarters, a large room with a pool table, wet bar, big screen TV, and two couches. Lou brought in a tape recorder and began asking questions. He first asked Jimmy to provide detailed descriptions of the two men with Sheila, and then he began probing into the Homestead family history.
He wanted to know about John’s relationship with Sheila, how it had started and how it ended. He wanted a chronological account of everywhere Jimmy had been and everyone he’d met since he left his parents’ home. He asked about every family member in the Homestead clan. An hour later, when it seemed to John they must have covered every possible piece of relevant information, Lou started all over again, pushing fo
r even more detail.
Only when Lou asked about his relationship with Sheila did Jimmy pause. He saw no reason to confide he’d had sex with her—especially not with his father there.
Finally Lou concluded the interview and left the Homesteads alone. They each took a couch, and within a minute John was snoring. Jimmy lay awake, thinking how bizarre the events of the last thirty-six hours had been. His emotions were in a jumble over the sudden arrival of his parents in his life. He didn’t quite know what to make of his old man showing up, but felt comfortable that time would sort it out. As far as Sheila, he now was sure the sleazebag was trying to run a scam on him, but she would be bitch-slapped back into the hole she crawled from, once Lou got done with her. The thought made Jimmy smile. He picked up his cell phone from the coffee table and listened to Sheila’s voice mail again. He repressed a giggle and started typing her a text message, and he almost laughed out loud when he was done punching in the letters. The message read, GO FUCK A DUCK. He hit the send button, a huge smile on his face, then put away his phone and fell peacefully asleep.
• • •
When they woke the next morning, Lou brought them coffee. He had showered, shaved, and dressed while they were still sleeping. In fact, he looked like he’d been up for hours.
“I called the realtor in Reno and explained you’ll need an anonymous rental. She understands and can set you up. Bring cash—you don’t want to use your credit card for this. Here are directions to her office. She’ll be waiting for you.”
They walked outside into the crisp, shaded morning, and as Jimmy was climbing into his sports car, Lou stopped him. “One more thing—your cell phone. Don’t use it and keep it turned off. Since Sheila has your number, she may try to track you by triangulating the signal.”
“Can she do that?” Jimmy said.
“Depends how motivated she is. But yes, it can be done.”
Jimmy put on his seat belt and fired up the Lamborghini, its twelve-cylinder motor coming alive with an exotic purr. John started his car, the engine clattering like a card stuck in a bicycle’s spokes. The two vehicles pulled away, father following son, as if they were attached by an invisible financial umbilical cord. Lou stood watching until they were gone, shaking his head at the sight. Then he walked back inside and went to work.