Blind Luck

by Dave Stanton

  After brewing a pot of coffee, I logged onto the website I subscribed to, and began searching for information on Jimmy Homestead. The site tapped into databases storing mortgage information, court records, business licenses, and other data sources the US government deemed open to public access. Although far less than one-hundred percent reliable, it usually allowed me to find basic information on a subject, such as recent addresses, phone numbers, income level, and criminal history.

  Within a half hour, I printed all I could find on Jimmy. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t much. As Sheila suggested, Jimmy lived mostly off the grid, meaning his public footprint would be less than your typical taxpaying citizen’s. Two addresses were listed: one in Fresno and a more recent one in Barstow, CA. There was a brief reference to a DUI conviction. No history of property ownership. No record of having ever married. No data available on education, occupation, or relatives. Besides his address in Barstow, the only thing useful was a listing for his cell phone number.

  I sipped my second cup of coffee and stared out the window behind my desk. The sun was well above the steep, tree-lined ridges to the north, the clouds sparse against the blue sky. I took my foot off the desk and dialed Jimmy’s number. It didn’t ring, but instead, connected to a generic voicemail message. I tried three more times with the same result. His phone must have been turned off. Either that, or it was an old number no longer in service.

  I called the number every fifteen minutes, between doing a half-hearted job of vacuuming and a solid hour of sit-ups, curls with a ninety-pound bar, and eight sets of bench press. Then, I fixed myself a turkey sandwich and brought it out to the deck. A family of deer was grazing in the meadow beyond my yard, enjoying the last of the season’s warmth. The sunlight filtered through the pines, the patterns of light shifting here and there in the breeze.

  It was a fine, early fall morning in South Lake Tahoe, a day perfect for optimism and new beginnings. How tough could it be to track down a guy like Jimmy Homestead? Ideally, I could locate him without leaving town. But I wouldn’t get paid until I arranged a meeting with him and Sheila, and that might not be so easy, especially if he didn’t want to be found. Although nothing Sheila said gave me reason to believe Jimmy was purposely off the air, I couldn’t rule out the possibility. Missing people are almost always hiding. Or dead.

  After finishing lunch, I drove my pickup truck to the sheriff’s complex off Black Bear Road. The air outside was fresh and cool in the shade of the huge old-growth redwoods in the parking lot. In contrast, the police station lobby was stuffy and cramped. I waited for Sheriff Marcus Grier, wondering how he would react to my presence. Not happily, once he learned what I wanted from him. But he owed me.

  “Mr. Reno,” he said when he walked into the lobby five minutes later, his voice all bass notes. He gripped my hand and smiled, a gold molar flashing against his black skin. Marcus Grier had a way of putting people at ease—he always made me feel as if we’d known each other for longer than we had. He was also the type who remembered names, and I appreciated the fact he pronounced mine correctly.

  “Good to see you, Marcus. You’re looking fit.”

  “Hey, thanks for noticing. Lost twelve pounds so far.”

  I followed him back through the bowels of the structure to his office. Grier was close to six feet, but his body was puffy, like an overfilled inner tube, and it made him look shorter. His sheriff’s cap barely covered his jumbo-sized head, and his beige short-sleeve shirt and green-striped pants seemed a size too small. But I’d learned long ago to not underestimate men with comic proportions. A few weeks back, I’d watched Grier wade into a drunken brawl at Zeke’s Pit and single-handedly remove half-a-dozen snowboarders who were expending their off-season energies by using the bar as their personal boxing ring. Grier threw them out of the place by the scruff of their necks, as if they were puppies. The rowdiest of the group, a young man with a Mohawk hairdo, threw a wild punch at Grier and found himself slapped into an arm lock and begging for forgiveness.

  “How’s the private investigations business?” he asked from behind his desk.

  “Been slow.”

  “The demographics aren’t in your favor is my opinion,” he said. “Half the population up here is transient. Mostly kids, come up here for the winter, work at the resorts or casinos for a ski season or two, then move on and settle somewhere they can find a more permanent job. You also got a high population of Mexican immigrants, here to work the restaurants and other low-wage jobs. If you’re relying on lawyers to hire you, we only have a handful in town, that’s about it.”

  “I probably should have considered that before I moved up here, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Lake Tahoe’s a great place to live. The challenge is making a living here.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  The phone on his desk rang, and Grier punched a button, and it went quiet. “What can I do for you, Dan?”

  “I’m working a missing person case. I need to ask a favor.”

  “What kind?”

  I pulled myself up in my seat. “You told me once you had a connection at a credit bureau that could provide credit card transaction records.”

  I heard his feet shuffle underneath his desk. “That was related to an official police investigation.”

  “I know.”

  Grier frowned, then said, “Did you ever hear again from Beverly?” The sympathy in his tone made me uncomfortable. My twenty-two-year-old live-in girlfriend had left me a few months back. Grier was happily married, and he and his wife had thought Beverly was a great gal. So did I, until she ran off with a waiter from a local steakhouse.

  “How about it, Marcus?”

  “Dan, I’m in your debt. You put your butt on the line, and I might not be here, if it wasn’t for you. But doing this sort of thing creates issues for me. I’ll do it this once, but it will be the last time.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “The guy’s name is Jimmy Homestead.”

  Grier told me to give him a couple of hours, then we spent a minute chatting about our shared history, a positive subject, I suppose, though it had damn near killed me, and left a case of frostbite on my toes that sent me reminders every time the temperature dropped below fifty.

  I had visited Tahoe for a wedding last winter, while I still lived in San Jose, and was hired to investigate the murder of the groom. A corrupt county sheriff out of Placerville was impeding the case, and in the course of events, he had fired Grier. During the investigation, my car was destroyed when I was run off the highway outside of Truckee, then I was handcuffed and nearly drowned. When I had finally caught up with the county sheriff, I took a round from his .38 against my Kevlar flak jacket before I hit him with a cross-body tackle. I’d busted his nose and knocked out one of his teeth, and in my rage, I might have killed him, if not for Cody Gibbons arriving and shot-putting him over a truck. The sheriff had left town after his crimes were discovered, and was executed in a mob-style hit a month later. Grier was rehired as sheriff, and I came out of it with enough cash for a down payment on an upgraded A-frame cabin a mile off the lake.

  I drove from Grier’s office out to Highway 50, heading away from the casinos and restaurants that were the anchor of South Lake Tahoe’s economy. A few minutes later, I pulled into my driveway, the pine needles from the two trees in my front yard crunching under my tires. I kept busy working around the house for the next few hours. When Grier called late in the afternoon, I was replacing a board in my fence that had been mangled by critters, maybe raccoons, or a coyote seeking passage.

  “This guy Jimmy Homestead must be swimming in dough,” Grier said.

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, get this. He bought a Lamborghini at a dealership in Orange County a couple weeks ago. Bought it on his credit card. Total came to a hundred sixty-eight thousand dollars.”

  “Really?”

  “There’s more. He rang up thirty thousand dollars in other purchases. Looks like he bought hims
elf a new wardrobe and some jewelry at Nordstrom’s in Los Angeles. And look at this, he charged fifty-five hundred at one of the brothels in Carson City.”

  “When?”

  “A week ago.”

  “Any hotel charges?”

  “He was staying here, at Harrah’s, last week. But since they already charged him, it seems he’s checked out.”

  I thanked Grier and said I’d come by to pick up the reports. Then, I sat and considered the information. A $168,000 Lamborghini? It was preposterous. Jimmy Homestead was the kind of guy who talked about fancy cars, not owned one. Where could the money have come from? I guess he could have pulled off a major score on a cocaine deal. It didn’t seem likely, though; I couldn’t imagine Jimmy having the brains or balls for it. Or maybe, he’d become a gigolo for a wealthy old lady. That was possible, but seemed farfetched.

  I went to my desk, did a Google search on Jimmy Homestead, and got my answer. A brief newspaper article came up, reporting that four weeks ago, Jimmy Homestead had won a California State Lottery prize of $43 million. I was stunned for a moment. “Well, that explains that,” I said out loud, sipping coffee and staring out my window. What would a guy like Jimmy Homestead do with all of that money? Based on my recollection of him from fifteen years ago, it was feasible he might blow through it in a couple of years. Sheila Marjorie’s account of his life had also suggested Jimmy would probably not take a prudent approach to money management. His new car and his other purchases, including over five grand at the bordello, seemed to indicate Jimmy was on a roll. I imagined he was partying up a storm—booze, blow, and expensive hookers.

  It now seemed pretty clear how Sheila intended to pay me. Obviously, she knew Jimmy had run into a windfall, and she intended to get him to share the wealth. I was curious why she wouldn’t tell me about it. Maybe she thought I’d double my rates.

  Half an hour later, I returned home with the reports from Grier. I pored over the papers, plotting Jimmy’s activity over the last thirty days, searching for some pattern that might reveal his whereabouts. He seemed to be bouncing around California and Nevada like a pinball. I finally set the records aside and took off in my truck, heading east across the border into Nevada, settling in for the forty-five-minute drive over Spooner Pass to Carson City. My destination was the last place the records showed Jimmy had used his credit card: The Tumbleweed Parlor Ranch.

  5

  It should have been a happy day for Mort Homestead. After five years in the state prison at Folsom, his parole was granted. They kicked him free with the clothes on his back, forty-eight dollars cash, and a ride to the bus stop. The guard in the prison van gave him a hard look as Mort stepped out onto the street.

  “You think you’re something special,” the guard said. “You ain’t.”

  “Go back to your job. It’s your calling,” Mort said, his eyes pale green under his thin eyebrows.

  “Good luck out there, asshole,” the guard sneered. The van pulled away in a wash of gravel and exhaust.

  Mort stood at the bus stop, internalizing the brief exchange, filing it away as fuel for future situations. It was a mental practice he’d learned at a young age, at first to deal with his father, and later as a response to the myriad frustrations of his teen years. Every denial he suffered, every woman who rejected him, every person who didn’t cooperate—Mort stored it all, saving it as an energy source for when it was needed.

  For his first three weeks in Folsom, each day had been a proving exercise. As a forty-three-year-old white man convicted of investment fraud, he was an obvious target, a white-collar criminal thrust into a jungle of predators. The facility was divided into camps run by the Black Guerrilla Family, the Mexican Mafia, and the Aryan Brotherhood. They ruled via intimidation and swift violence. The penalty for the slightest disrespect was generally a severe beating, if you

  were lucky, or if not, a gang rape. Of course, the latter also could occur without provocation. Mort was attacked by a group of black inmates his first week, and while defending himself, bit off one of his attacker’s ears. The next night, they came for him again. This time, Mort was prepared with a knife he had bought from a fellow inmate. He had nearly castrated one man and cut off another’s thumb.

  It didn’t take long for the rumors to spread. Mort Homestead was a psychotic loner who was quick with a knife if provoked. Yard wolves sought out younger, easier victims. The gang members kept their distance and watched him warily. Mort didn’t fraternize much with the inmates, whom he generally considered a lower life form. But at times, it was necessary to reinforce his reputation, and once, during a fight with a drug-crazed Mexican, Mort’s cheek was sliced open. He still wore the scar, like a diagonal second mouth.

  Mort didn’t wait for the bus. Instead, he walked six miles east, pacing steadily toward the foothills, away from Sacramento. Eventually, he left the road and hiked into the rolling hills. He strode with a single-minded purpose, and though the midday sun was hot, he did not stop to rest in the shade of the oak trees, even after his feet began to blister in his loafers. Sweat soaked through his shirt, and he stripped it off and let the sun beat down on his shoulders and back. His muscles glistened, taut and corded from hours of mindless prison workouts. He shaded his eyes from the sun and kept walking.

  He didn’t stop until he reached the base of a large oak on a small rise. He stepped off ten paces north, stopped at the three rocks he had left there, then continued through some scrub into a gully where he’d hidden a shovel. Mort went back to the spot and began digging into the hard, crusty ground. It took over an hour, but finally, the shovel hit a small steel box. Mort pried it from the earth and opened it. The canvas bag was still there, with the $7,000 in cash Mort had stashed before the courts confiscated his bank accounts, cars, and real estate.

  A couple of hours later, he was on a bus, heading into Sacramento. He got off and walked to the Hilton near the state capitol building.

  The clerk at the reception counter was a man of mixed race in his twenties. He looked up as Mort approached and wrinkled his nose.

  “A room, please,” Mort said.

  “Sir, this is a business-class hotel, and we have a dress code.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  The clerk felt Mort’s eyes staring into his, and he involuntarily stepped back. “Yes, then. I’ll need to see a credit card to cover incidentals.”

  “I’ll give you a cash deposit.”

  “Sir, we typically…”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name?”

  “Is there something the matter with your hearing?”

  The young man opened his mouth but could only manage a confused sputter.

  “You want to leave your name out of it, fine. Here’s enough cash to cover the room and a deposit. Get me a key, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said, deciding he wanted this man away from the counter as quickly as possible.

  Mort took the elevator to his room and went inside. He washed his face over the sink, then lay on the bed. He expected he’d be tired, but after a minute, he rose, sat at the desk, and again considered the blend of fate and circumstance now directing his future. He had learned of his nephew winning the lottery while in prison. What strange cosmic alignment would result in a worthless dirtbag becoming vastly wealthy, while a rich executive loses everything and rots in jail? The world was a mysterious place. People suffered undeserved fates all the time.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the number for his older brother, John Homestead. Mort was mildly surprised when John picked up.

  “Well, I didn’t think you’d be home, but I figured I’d try anyway,” Mort said. “I thought you’d be working, but looks like I was wrong.”

  “Who is this? Is it…Mort?”

  “That’s right, John, it’s your long-lost brother.”

  “You calling from Folsom?”

  “No, they released me today.”

  “They did, huh?”

  “Yeah. T
hanks for staying in touch.”

  “I find it funny you’d think I would.”

  “Five years in that shithole, and you couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone?”

  “I don’t want anything to do with you, Mort. I don’t think I can put it more plainly than that.”

  “We’re brothers.”

  “You know our status,” John said. “You going to prison hasn’t changed a thing.”

  “You gonna hold a grudge against me forever?”

  “Listen to me. I was stupid to trust you on your swindle. It bankrupted me and screwed up my existence beyond repair. But I’ve moved on in my life.”

  “You need to get over yourself,” Mort said.

  “You got to be kidding.”

  The phone went quiet, then Mort said, “So, have you talked to Jimmy?”

  “Why?” John said.

  “I don’t know, John, seeing how all you ever did is complain about money, I think it’s an obvious question.”

  “Maybe your time in jail has left you with some wires disconnected.”

  “No, I’m thinking real clearly.”

  “Then spell it out, Mort, because I’m ready to hang up.”

  “The California Super Lotto was forty-three million a month ago.”

  “Who gives a shit?”

  “You’re telling me you don’t know?”

  “About what?”

  “The little dipstick hasn’t told you, huh? Jimmy won it, John. Forty-three million bucks.”

  “Yeah, sure he did. You know what, Mort? I’m not as gullible as I used to be. I think this is another one of your scams. I don’t believe a damned thing you say.”

  “Hey, don’t take my word for it. Contact the San Jose Mercury. They wrote an article about it. You know what’s funny, John? Your own son wins forty-three mil and won’t even cut his old man in for a few hundred grand. You must feel real special about that. Kind of makes you want to revisit the whole concept of fatherhood, huh?”