Blind Luck

by Dave Stanton

  How could a man not drink to that?

  The following morning, after an uneventful night in Salt Lake, we drove back to Reno and then south to Carson City. I wanted to continue over the pass to South Lake Tahoe, but Cody suggested we stop at the library in Carson.

  “His car hasn’t left that garage, right?” he said.

  “I’d have been sent an alert if it did.”

  “So, he’s probably still local. Let’s go use the wireless hotspot at the library. I want to check a couple things.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll type up my case report and e-mail it to the lawyer while we’re there.”

  Cody began working on one of the library PCs while I downloaded the photos from my camera onto my computer. A few minutes later, he interrupted me.

  “Guess what? Jimmy Homestead is logged onto an e-mail account right now.”

  “Where?”

  “The IP address has a longitude and latitude in Reno. My hacker buddy is dialing in the exact location. In ten minutes, he’ll be sending me an address.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “Always the skeptic,” Cody smiled, slapping my back and drumming a quick cadence on the table with his knuckles.

  35

  It was Sunday, and Jimmy and John Homestead were lounging around, watching football and eating roast beef sandwiches, when John heard his cell ring. He hauled himself off the couch and retrieved it from the bedroom.

  “John, it’s Lou Calgaretti. Everything okay there?”

  “Sure. All quiet. Why?”

  “Just checking. I’m driving back to Tahoe from San Jose. Is your son there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you put me on the speaker, and I’ll give you an update.”

  John brought the phone to the living room and turned off the TV.

  “I found nothing to support Sheila’s claims she has any association or involvement with a Mexican drug dealing ring,” Lou said.

  “You’re sure about this?” John said.

  “I checked her phone records and tailed her for a few days. I even visited her for a haircut. If she has any connection, I could find no sign of it.”

  “It’s like I figured,” Jimmy said. “She’s full of crap.”

  “Based on my findings, you’re probably right. But I also spent some time watching Tony Sanzini. He is involved with a Mexican gang, and they are definitely not nice people.”

  “What about Sheila being connected to Sanzini?” John asked. “She told Jimmy that Sanzini had brought the Mexicans to her house, to offer Sheila the chance to get Jimmy to pay them off to resolve the stolen coke issue.”

  “Clearly, Sheila had contact with Sanzini at one point,” Lou said. “How else would she know him? But my suspicion is Sanzini contacted her back when Jimmy ripped him off, in an effort to find him. That could well be the extent of their connection.”

  “Meaning she’s had no recent communication with him?” John said.

  “None that I could uncover.”

  “So, what’s the bottom line, Lou? Do I need to be worried about any of this?”

  “Jimmy, I think the most likely scenario is your stepmother fabricated the story to trick you into paying her.”

  “What about the two guys with her?” John said.

  “They could be hired muscle, but I haven’t been able to turn up anything on them yet.”

  “Well, screw her, then,” Jimmy said. “I got people to meet and places to be.”

  “Here’s what I think would be best, gentlemen,” Lou said. “I’ll keep tabs on Sheila and Sanzini from my office for the next couple weeks. If I see anything to be concerned about, I’ll contact you. If you see or hear from Sheila again, call me. Or call 911, if need be.”

  “Cool,” Jimmy said.

  After Lou hung up, Jimmy looked at his dad. John Homestead had lost a few pounds but still looked flabby and out of shape. Jimmy was about to suggest he put down his greasy sandwich and hit the exercise room, but instead, he went into the den to check his computer. His eyes lit up when he saw hot Debbie had sent him a message. She said she had a few days off work and proposed driving up to meet him! Jimmy e-mailed her his address, and Debbie wrote back saying to expect her tomorrow afternoon.

  Jimmy paced around the room, grinning and pumping his fist. This chick was smokin’ sexy, and she was chasing after him. It was like a blast from the past, to the days when he bedded the hottest babes in town. Back then, he used to practice his motto, ‘find ‘em, feel ‘em, fuck ‘em, and forget ‘em,’ every chance he got. And he’d done so many, he lost count. Those were the days when he ruled, when he was on top of the world. He smoothed his hair back with one hand and grabbed his crotch with the other. Were his younger years as a womanizing cocksman really a thing of the past? Hell, no. The time had come to give the whores a rest and reclaim his position as a mainline stud.

  He took his shirt off and looked in the mirror. Shit, the good life was starting to take its toll on his slim physique. He’d have to start riding the stationary bike and maybe pump some iron. No time like the present, he thought, feeling a burst of energy. He changed into shorts and tennis shoes, went into the mirrored room that served as a gym, and began pedaling. Soon, he was breathing hard and sweating. He turned the resistance down and slowed his pace.

  All he could think about was the upcoming date with Debbie—the suave, witty things he’d say, and how she would no doubt find him irresistible. It had been over ten years since he’d been on a real date, but he didn’t feel the slightest trepidation. Rather, the anticipation of meeting her was like being high, like he’d just snorted a big rip of uncut Colombian rock. Hey, maybe he would score some coke, in case she wanted a toot. He remembered having some great romps in the hay with Bettys who were whacked on blow. But there was always the danger he’d get a case of coke dick, and going limp would be a disaster. The hell with it, then. Forget the blow. Instead, they could have a few drinks, maybe smoke some weed, and then, let the humpathon begin. Not a bad agenda.

  A half an hour later, Jimmy toweled off and found his father still watching sports in the living room.

  “Hey, Pop, I’ve got a gal coming to visit me tomorrow.”

  “You do? Who is she?” John said.

  “I met her on the Internet.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, so I need you to make yourself scarce tomorrow, beginning around two. Probably best you spend the night somewhere. Maybe I can book you a room at the Atlantis or the Peppermill.”

  “Okay, no problem.”

  Jimmy sat down, and they watched the Raiders get their asses kicked by the Broncos for a few minutes, until the game paused for a commercial. “You think we’ll ever hear from Sheila again?” he said.

  John leaned forward and put his chin on his fist. “I don’t think we’ve heard the last of her,” he said. “We should keep our guard up, in case she tries something else.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “I’m not worried about her.” He pointed the clicker at the TV and started changing channels.

  “Look, we can order the new James Bond movie on pay per view. I just need to call Comcast and set up an account. I’m gonna turn my phone back on.” When John started to protest, Jimmy shook his head. “Should be no problem, Pop, Lou said we got nothing to worry about.” He dialed the cable service and gave them all the information they needed. When the flick started, Jimmy kicked his feet up, watching Bond defy death and still find time to get laid by sexy babes. Not too different from his own life, he thought.

  36

  After nine hours of hard driving, Mort arrived in Tahoe Valley. As he neared the darkened town, he looked at his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes were horribly bloodshot and burned as if soap were dripping from his brow into his pupils. At the first gas station in South Lake Tahoe, he pulled over and rubbed his eyes with his fists until the sting receded. He sat with his lids shut, and after a while, he needed to relieve his bladder, but when he climbed from
the car, his back cramped so badly, he could barely breathe. He finally wrenched himself straight and shuffled to the restroom, his teeth gritted, sweat beading on his forehead.

  When he returned to the Toyota, he drove behind the building where it was dark and quiet. He reclined his seat and took shallow breaths until the spasms in his back subsided. Within a minute, he was asleep, and his dreams came fast and vivid.

  A faceless man walked beside him along a paved trail between rolling fields of freshly mowed grass and a sparkling lake. Paddling silently, a family of ducks swam near the shoreline, the parents leading a string of ducklings. It was a warm summer day, and families and young couples were picnicking under colorful umbrellas. The scent of charcoal and barbequed hamburgers wafted in the air. Dogs chased and leaped after Frisbees, and children played on swings, their faces bright and exuberant. The sun shined down on this idyllic setting, and Mort asked for a cold soda when they walked past a sidewalk vendor. The faceless man said no.

  “Please?” Mort asked.

  Then, the scene shifted to a room, and Mort was punching the man bloody, until he was swinging his fists into a liquid maw. His anger unabated, he continued punching after the man was headless. His mother watched quietly from a corner. Every now and then, she would sneak a sip from a bottle she hid in her purse. Mort finally took the bottle from her and tossed it out the window.

  It was past midnight when Mort woke. For a few minutes, he was disoriented and unable to fully extract himself from the dream. He was desperately thirsty. After finding and gulping a bottle of water that had rolled under his seat, he sat hunched for a time. He was struck by a strange and powerful sense that he was detached from everything that was him, as if he occupied the body of a stranger whose background and motivations were unknown. Finally, he snapped out of it, telling himself it must be exhaustion.

  He dialed the number for Harrah’s on his disposable, untraceable cell phone and asked for Jimmy Homestead. When the clerk said no one by that name was checked in, Mort was neither surprised nor frustrated. Instead, he felt an odd emptiness, as if he had been drained of all emotion. Crawling into the back of his little car, he wrapped himself in his jacket and slept until dawn. He woke shivering, walked into the mini-mart, and bought himself a coffee and a donut that left a coat of grease on the roof of his mouth. When he finished eating, he drove off into the dark gloom of the morning, heading around the black lake toward Reno.

  The fleabag he chose in Reno was among the sleaziest hotels in town. A pair of whores leaned against a car, eyeing him sullenly as he went into his room. After washing his clothes in the shower and hanging them to dry, he counted the remaining money stashed in his suitcase. Then, he called the security firm in Reno and asked for Joe, the man who had originally traced Jimmy’s cellular signal to Las Vegas. Joe agreed to meet with him, but needed to wait until tomorrow.

  Mort hung up, sat in the wooden chair in the hotel room, and stared at the wall. A police car pulled into the parking lot, siren wailing. There was a commotion involving a guest and a prostitute, and the cops eventually sorted it out and took them both away in cuffs. Mort continued staring blankly. Hours later, when his clothes had dried, he dressed in his disguise and drove to an army surplus store, where he bought a survival knife and a sharpening stone. Back in his room, he sat holding the knife, weighing its presence in his hand. The furrows above his eyes finally eased, and his jaw went slack. He began honing the blade, meticulously working it until it was razor sharp.

  The next day, he paid Joe $400, and drove back to his hotel to wait, after the initial attempt to connect to Jimmy’s phone was unsuccessful. He tore pages from the phonebook and passed the time dangling the sheets from his fingertips, slowly slicing them to ribbons.

  That evening, Mort saw a dude riding a chopped Honda check into the hotel and take the neighboring room. Within a few minutes, the volume from the TV next door was cranked up so high that Mort could hear every word. He pounded on the wall, and the man, who looked like white trash prison riffraff, pounded back. The TV continued to blare for the next hour. Mort held his knife, his hand trembling. It would be so easy to kick the door down and slit the man’s throat. Instead, he settled for puncturing the Honda’s tires in the wee hours of the morning.

  He left at daybreak, found another discount hotel, and called Joe, who said it seemed that Jimmy’s phone was turned off. Joe promised to continue calling until he could get a signal. Mort began exercising in his room, doing hundreds of pushups and sit ups. He wanted to be ready to take down Jimmy Homestead when the time came. The physical exertion made him feel focused, and he felt his angst recede. So far, Jimmy had been very lucky. That was the only explanation Mort could fathom for him being so hard to track down. But Jimmy’s good fortune was coming to an end. Mort could feel it in his bones.

  When Garrett Rancour walked outside in the morning and saw his motorcycle’s tires were flat, he turned in a slow 360, staring hard in every direction. The sun had just edged over the horizon, and the parking lot was still and empty of people. The signal light on the boulevard turned green, and trucks and busses went through their gears, filling the air with gritty fumes. A young black man stepped out of his room a few doors down and lit a cigarette. He walked past Rancour, looking at the Honda.

  “That’s fucked up, man,” he said.

  “You see who did this?”

  The brother shrugged, and a shit-eating grin formed on his face, as if Rancour’s misfortune had brightened his day. He continued walking down the street to the bus stop.

  Rancour sat on the pavement and inspected his front tire. He hoped someone had simply let the air out of the valve. But the chrome stem cap was still in place. He looked closer, his stomach sinking, and saw the sidewall had been punctured. His eyes clouded in despair when he saw the rear tire had suffered the same fate. Both tires would need to be replaced.

  He had intended on having a big breakfast at the Denny’s out near the freeway. Now, he would have to deal with buying new tires and finding a shop to install them. He went back to his room to look through the phone book for the closest motorcycle repair shop. But he stopped when he noticed the empty parking space next to his bike. Last night, a shit-box silver Toyota Corolla had been parked there. It probably belonged to the asshole next door who had pounded on the wall.

  Rancour knocked on the door of the room next to his. No answer. He knocked again and put his ear to the window. Then, he went to the hotel office. A fat, unshaven man with bad breath sat behind the counter.

  “I need the name of whoever was staying in 108,” Rancour said.

  “You do, huh?”

  Rancour slid a ten-dollar bill across the counter.

  The man glanced at it and smirked. “Not much I can do with that.”

  Rancour placed two fives on top of the ten.

  The man took the bills and flipped open the registration book. “John Smith,” he said with a chuckle.

  Rancour leaned over the counter and grabbed the book. He saw that license plate numbers were recorded next to each guest’s name, including his own. He copied down the plate number next to John Smith, then tossed the book onto the lap of the fat man.

  “My tires were slashed outside my room last night. Don’t you got any security at this roach pit?”

  The man rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Reno PD. You got a problem, take it up with them.”

  Half an hour later, Rancour was pushing his motorcycle down the street. He’d underestimated the effort it would take to push the bike with two flats. He made it a quarter mile before stopping to rest, the repair shop still a mile away. His pits were soaked through, and he’d stripped to his T-shirt even though the temperature hadn’t yet hit fifty. By the time he made it a half mile, he was swearing out loud and had to rest for ten minutes before the burn in his shoulders and legs faded. He sat on the curb, smoking a Marlboro 100, wondering who rat-fucked his ride, and why. He knew there were uppity bikers out there who considered his Honda a joke. He even beat
the shit out of a smartass yuppie once, for referring to his bike as a chopped moped. But, most likely, he felt it was John Smith who had screwed him over—whoever that chickenshit bastard was. Maybe the prick was pissed about the TV being turned up too loud. But slashing his tires was a pretty extreme reaction.

  Until today, Rancour had been enjoying his stay in Nevada. The last seventy-two hours had been especially pleasant, since he had a pocketful of cash, and there wasn’t much to do since his security agency buddy claimed he needed to lay low for a bit. Without any input to help him locate Jimmy Homestead, Rancour was content to chill and wait. He was in no hurry, and he found the small casinos and strip clubs in Reno to his liking.

  He started down the street again, and decided to definitely find John Smith and beat him to a pulp. With the license plate number, locating him might not be too tough. Ripping off Jimmy Homestead was still his first priority, but he would find time for Smith too—let there be no mistake about it. He would do so as a bonus to himself.

  37

  Dressed in leather pants, snakeskin boots, and a button-down designer shirt, Jimmy watched the street from his upstairs window. His new shirt had cost $185, and was embroidered with a trippy purple and green pattern. He felt the shirt conveyed his cool and edgy persona, and he wore it outside his jeans and unbuttoned halfway down his chest. The watch he’d bought along with the shirt read 2:30. When Jimmy looked again, three minutes had passed. He went downstairs and double-checked his bedroom and bathroom. Shit, he wished he’d had time to hire a maid.

  The doorbell rang, and Jimmy bolted to his feet, then stopped and took a deep breath. He walked to the door and slowly opened it, his lips parted. The female standing in the doorway wore tight bell-bottom jeans low on her hips and a short, orange top showing off her tanned midriff.