by Dave Stanton
“Hey, Debbie, babe,” Jimmy said, eyeing her up and down.
“And you must be Jimmy.”
“None other.” She walked in and gave Jimmy a little hug, pushing her boobs against his chest while closing the door herself. She made sure it was unlocked, just the way Eric told her.
“Nice pad,” she said. “Are you gonna show me around?”
“Sure, Deb. How about a drink first?”
Heather was glad he asked. The five-hour drive to Reno with her husband had been hell. Eric had made her repeat every order he had given her on the operation. When he was finally satisfied that she’d memorized his instructions, he had turned on the music and ignored her. When she had asked what his plans were for the money they planned to coerce from Jimmy, he had told her that information was only available on a ‘need-to-know’ basis. “I’ll give you an allowance, don’t worry,” he had said.
Jimmy gave Heather a tour of the house, getting behind her every chance he got to check out her magnificently curvy ass and the tattoo on her lower back. They went out on the deck overlooking the swimming pool, but it was too chilly for a swim. When he asked if she wanted to burn a joint, she declined, and instead asked for another Vodka Collins.
As they walked around the house, Heather’s nerves calmed. Clearly, Jimmy didn’t recognize her from that regrettable one-nighter when they were in high school. She barely recognized him, all wrinkly and looking like a middle-aged man trying to cling to his youth. The fact that he didn’t remember her meant he must have really cooked his brain on alcohol and drugs, because she knew she hadn’t changed that much in the last seventeen years.
They took a seat on the couch and listened to music, mostly annoying classic rock, while Jimmy talked about himself. Heather let him blather on, and at exactly 3:30, she touched his leg.
“You haven’t showed me the bedroom yet.”
Jimmy gave her a knowing leer. “Ah, yes, my boudoir is right this way.” He led her down the hall, his heart beginning to thump in anticipation.
The master bedroom was large and spacious. Jimmy sat on the king-sized bed, leaning back on his elbows. She asked him to put some music on, then came to him and began performing a lap dance. Jimmy pawed her ass and rubbed his face in her bosom, and she pulled her top up so he wouldn’t cover it in slobber. She told herself to relax, and that she’d done it a thousand times, but she was repulsed by the man who had given her warts when she was a teenager. She let him squeeze her breasts through her bra while she checked her watch. Three more minutes, then Eric would be here.
Almost on cue, Jimmy reached down, unzipped his pants, and freed himself.
“Just needed to give the big guy some room,” he said.
Heather backed away, dancing and killing time. After a minute, she reached down and pulled his leather pants down to his ankles, carefully avoiding his hairy rod, which was at full attention. Where the hell was Eric?
“Come on, Deb, let me check out your hot ass.”
Heather toyed with the buttons on her jeans and pushed them partially down her hips.
“Oh yeah,” Jimmy said. “Man, you’re teasing me. Come here, baby.”
With Jimmy’s pants bunched around his ankles, Heather thought she’d be safe, as long as she kept out of his reach. She danced around him, watching him squirm. Then, Jimmy kicked his boots off, and his pants were next, and in a second, he was up and lunging toward her.
“Hey!” she yelled, squirming, trying to avoid his stiffened member. He got behind her and pushed her pants down, and she felt his cock hard against the flesh of her ass. She was beginning to panic when Eric burst in the bedroom door.
“Get your hands off her, slimeball!” he yelled.
“Rape! He tried to rape me!”
“You scumbag piece of shit,” Eric said, rushing forward and hitting Jimmy with a tremendous uppercut to the gut. Jimmy collapsed to the ground, his wind gone, his mouth wide in a futile effort to catch his breath.
“Oh my god, he’s turning blue,” Heather said.
“He’s gonna wish he was dead when I get through with him,” Eric said. He lifted Jimmy by the hair and pinned the bare-assed man against the wall. “Say your prayers, asswipe.”
Jimmy’s eyes were round with shock and fear. He couldn’t breathe, but finally, his diaphragm relaxed, and he gulped air and then projectile vomited his lunch onto the bedspread.
Eric deftly stepped aside to avoid a direct hit. “Jesus Christ, what a pussy. You don’t deserve to live. I’m gonna snap your freaking neck.”
“Wait, don’t kill him!” Heather said. “Let’s just call the police and send him to jail. Then, he can get raped and see what it’s like.”
“It’s a nice thought, but I don’t think so,” Eric said, and reared back his fist.
“No, please,” Jimmy moaned.
Eric shot a punch at Jimmy’s face, but pulled his fist back at the last instant. “Ah, fuck it. You’re not worth skinning my knuckles, you piece of shit.” He tossed his mobile phone to Heather. “Call 911. And you,” he said, turning back to Jimmy, “put your pants on. I’m tired of looking at your scrawny ass. You’re going to prison. Your ass will be real popular there. It will be the size of the Holland Tunnel in no time at all, with at least as much traffic. Count on it.”
“But I didn’t try to rape her!” Jimmy cried.
“It’s your word against ours. Good luck on that one.”
“Why?” Jimmy stammered. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because you’re a spoiled little homo, trying to prove he’s a real man. Which you ain’t.”
“But who are you? What did I ever do to you?”
“Sit down and stop cringing,” Eric said. “You’re pathetic.”
Jimmy yanked his pants on and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to calm his breathing and compose himself.
“You want out of this mess, you got one chance, right here, right now. We drive out to your bank, just the three of us. You withdraw three million in cash. Then, I’ll drop you off somewhere, maybe a little inconvenient, but you’ll live.”
Jimmy’s eyes shaded for a moment, a gesture that did not escape Eric. “You don’t like this deal, just say so. Then, I’ll decide whether to call the cops or maybe just put you in a wheelchair for life.”
Jimmy took a deep breath and risked a brief glare at Debbie and Eric. Did this muscle-bound moron and his fake-titted cohort really think he could walk into a bank and withdraw three million in cash? When Jimmy was in a bank last, in South Lake Tahoe, he tried to take out fifty grand and was told only thirty thousand in hundred-dollar bills was available. If these two were stupid enough to think ripping him off for three mil was so simple, maybe the best answer was to get into a public situation at the bank, and wait for the police to arrive.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said.
Eric let Jimmy brush his teeth and put on his boots. Then, they headed downstairs and opened the front door to a late afternoon warmed by a sun low in the blue and cloudless sky. It had been overcast for days, and the clear weather was a welcome change, but there was a slight problem. Standing in the doorway were four men who shouldn’t have been there. And one was pointing an ugly little automatic at Eric’s gut.
38
“It will take me about an hour to finish my report,” I told Cody. “Why don’t you relax and read a good book?”
Cody looked at me as if my suggestion was the silliest thing he’d ever heard, and wandered back to the computer he’d been using. In fifteen minutes he was back by my side. He slid a sheet of paper over my keyboard.
“Here’s the address where Jimmy’s logged on. It’s a residential neighborhood about twenty minutes from here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Finish your report later. Let’s roll.”
I raised my head. “I need to do this now, if I want to get paid in time for my mortgage. Why don’t you wait until I’m done?”
“No guarantees how long he’ll be there, Dirt. Let me borrow
your rig, then.”
I sighed and pulled the keys from my pocket. “Don’t stop at any bars.”
“Hey,” he replied, his large paw outstretched. “Maybe I’ll come back with your ten grand.”
“That would be nice,” I muttered, but my interest in Cody’s scheme had waned. I needed to prioritize my time on work that would definitely result in a payday. “Call me and let me know how it goes,” I said, dropping the keys in his palm and turning back to my report.
I raised my head again when I heard tires squealing and the blare of horns. I looked out the window and saw Cody pull away from the curb, cutting off an elderly lady driving a 70s Plymouth sedan. She jammed the horn and shot her middle finger out the window. I could see Cody grinning as he stabbed the accelerator and drove away.
When Hector Escobar saw the scowling hulk of a body builder appear in the doorway, it took him no longer than a second to decide what to do. Escobar pulled the trigger of his .32-caliber Kel-Tec pistol, the three-inch barrel bucked, and a small red hole appeared in Eric’s shirt. Then, Escobar raised his arm and fired a round through Eric’s forehead. Eric fell back into the hallway, dead before he hit the ground, his stunned eyes locked open as if he’d just learned that all he ever believed in was illusory, and his true role was that of a bit player and a dupe.
Heather and Jimmy stared down at Eric in mute horror, watching the pool of blood spread across the marble tile. Then, they simultaneously looked up, as if their heads were attached to a puppeteer’s string. Three Latinos and one white man stood before them. The Latino with the gun was clearly in charge—the other men stood back and seemed to await his instruction. He was almost six feet tall and rail lean. Tattoos covered most of his exposed skin, including his unusually narrow face. His eyes were dark and set deep in his skull, his lips thin as blades, his sharp, angular jaw highlighted by a pointed goatee. Looking very out of place, his nose was broad and flat, like a boxer’s nose.
“Inside,” he said.
Jimmy and Heather, stunned and speechless, backed in as the men crowded into the foyer, stepping around Eric’s body. One of the group, a stocky Mexican wearing a red bandana, gave Heather’s ass a long squeeze as he went by. “Hola, chola,” he said. The third Latino, an older, mustachioed fellow who looked like a migrant farm worker, stared at Heather with a lusty smile, his teeth brown and disgusting.
The fourth man was Tony Sanzini.
“It’s too bad about your friend out there,” Escobar said, once they were assembled in the kitchen. “I guess it just wasn’t his day.”
From where Heather stood, she could see Eric’s arm, and the trickling path his blood had taken to the edge of the tiles. She felt nauseated and lightheaded, and thought she might be in shock. The only thing that held her together was a tiny, happy thought in the back of her mind: Eric was dead, and she would no longer have to fear him. But when she took account of the men holding her captive, she realized she might have bigger problems to deal with. They were all leering at her, except for the beefy white man.
“You owe me two grand, shit for brains,” Sanzini said, stepping toward Jimmy. “Plus interest and late fees. Call it twenty grand even. You got the cash?”
Before Jimmy could respond, Escobar cut his eyes to his associate and said, “Santiago.” The one with the bad dental situation reached out and smacked Sanzini with a sharp backhand across the face. “You were told to keep your mouth shut, white boy,” Escobar said. Sanzini froze, touching the blood on his lip. Jimmy glanced at Sanzini and looked away quickly when he saw the murderous glare in his eyes.
“Tie them up,” Escobar said.
“Hey, whoa,” Jimmy said. “There’s no need for any more violence, okay? Why don’t you just tell me what you want, and I’m sure we can find a happy ending.”
At that moment, they heard the clunk of a car door shutting.
“Expecting company?” Escobar said to Jimmy. “Go see who it is, Octavio.” The stocky cholo opened a leather bag, removed a few items, and went toward the front door.
“On your knees,” Escobar ordered. “And keep your mouths shut.”
Cody pulled up to the executive home in the posh South Reno neighborhood. Except for a gray Chevy Blazer out front, the house looked unlived in; no oil stains on the driveway, no potted plants, no knickknacks visible on the windowsills. He parked, finished a beer, and knocked on the front door. When it opened, he caught a brief glimpse of a red bandana over a white shirt, then he was hit in the eyes with a blast of mace.
“The fuck?” Cody said, staggering back, his eyes on fire.
A fist struck his ear, and Cody threw a blind roundhouse, catching nothing but air. His eyes were burning and tearing heavily, and when he opened one eye, he could make out only the faintest of colors and motion. He punched and flailed blindly at his attacker, taking a kick to the groin and another to the shin. One of his wild punches made contact, possibly a shot to his adversary’s shoulder or chest. He tangled with the man and tripped, his weight crushing downward. A loud crack sounded, the snap of bone, then a voice cried out in Spanish. Cody scrambled to his feet but was knocked down by a sharp blow to the back of the head. Another blow, and after that, nothing.
Octavio Sanchez pushed himself up, his body shaking, his face contorted in pain. “He broke my arm!”
“We’ll make you a sling,” the man called Santiago said, a lead-filled sap dangling from his hand. “You’re going to have to tough it out, guerrero.”
Sanzini came outside and helped Santiago drag Cody into the entryway, after they pushed Eric’s blood-soaked body to the side. Escobar led Jimmy and Heather, their hands bound behind their backs, to where Cody lay unconscious.
“Your friend?” Escobar said.
Jimmy stared at Cody in surprise, recognizing him as one of the two men he’d met when Sheila confronted him at the small-town bar off 395. But Sheila had said he was working for a Mexican drug gang. Obviously, that was not the case, at least not these Mexicans. Other than that, Jimmy had no idea who the huge, red-bearded man was, or what his motivations were. The events of the last hour had left him in a state of utter confusion. Who were all these crazy people messing with him?
“Yeah, he’s my friend,” Jimmy said, deciding it might somehow help his situation to portray the big dude as an ally.
Escobar ordered Santiago to pull the gray Blazer into the garage, and they bound Cody’s wrists and wrestled his mass into the rear section of the vehicle. Octavio, his arm in a sling, sat in the front passenger seat. Heather, Jimmy, and Santiago crowded into the bench seat in the rear. Sanzini stood outside the SUV, looking at Escobar, who started the engine.
“There’s no room for me. What do you want me to do?” Sanzini said.
“You wait here. Stuff that body in a closet and clean up the blood. We’ll get you when we’re ready.”
Sanzini opened his mouth to protest, but when he looked into Escobar’s eyes, he quickly decided otherwise.
About twenty minutes outside of Reno, the Blazer turned onto a dirt road. The road was rutted, and the vehicle swayed and bounced hard off the furrows in the terrain. Escobar steered around a huge pothole and looked at his friend in the passenger seat. Octavio clenched his teeth, holding his arm by the elbow, trying to insulate it from the sharp pain he felt every time they hit a bump.
In the back, Santiago sat wedged between Jimmy and Heather, who were squirming uncomfortably, their hands tied behind them. Santiago put his arm around Heather and cupped her breast. She looked at his pitted face and jerked her body away from him. He snickered, pulled her close by the hair, and whispered in her ear.
Jimmy watched Heather’s predicament, still feeling some leftover affection because she was so hot, but also fully aware she was part of a scheme to rip him off. Fine, then. Let the bitch be raped. She was the enemy. Maybe she and her partner, or boyfriend, or whatever he was, made a career out of scamming Lotto winners. But now, the boyfriend was dead, and she’d have to fend for herself. Jimmy would b
e too busy looking out for himself to worry about what she would have to endure.
The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fit together for Jimmy. The Latinos had to be Sanzini’s coke connection. Sanzini probably told them Jimmy would be an easy mark, once Sanzini had found out he’d won the lottery. As weird as it seemed, maybe there was some truth to Sheila’s story. The arrival of the red-bearded tough guy probably meant Sheila was still lurking somewhere in the background.
The Blazer slowed and made a sharp turn down a steep path that was little more than a trail overgrown with brush. They crept along the narrow passage, shadowed by a canyon wall rising some forty feet. At the end of the wall, the terrain gave way to a shallow desert valley. Bare rolling hills lined the small basin on either side. A decrepit structure, perhaps twelve feet square and built of ancient barn planks and adobe, stood at the base of one hillside. A ways out, a section of barbed-wire fencing began and ended with no seeming purpose. In the middle of the area, a half dozen six-foot fence posts had been set, as if a brief attempt to develop the land had been made and then reconsidered.
Escobar hit the brakes, and the vehicle rumbled to a stop. Santiago shoved Jimmy out the door. Santiago followed him and reached in and pulled Heather, struggling, out into the darkening afternoon. Octavio Sanchez climbed gingerly from the vehicle, his brown face pale. He walked to the building and sat against the wall, clutching a bottle of tequila.
It took ten minutes to tie Heather, Jimmy, and Cody to the fence posts. The three sat with their backs against the wood, tightly bound and unable to stand. Cody was only half conscious. His chin lay on his chest, and every now and again, his head would loll from side to side. Escobar and Santiago stood watching them. Then, Escobar reached back and snapped his arm forward, the bullwhip in his hand hissing through the air. The string popper tip cracked on Cody’s forehead, and blood spilled down his face. Santiago grinned and spoke to Escobar in Spanish. Escobar moved to where Jimmy sat.
“I gave your friend a small idea of what is to come,” he said. “But your girlfriend there—she is so pretty, it would be a shame to give her a taste of the whip, don’t you think?”