by Dave Stanton
“I’m down with that. But how?”
“Let’s start by talking to Lou Calgaretti,” John said. He poked at his cell phone, and Lou picked up right away.
“Lou, John Homestead. Listen, the shit’s really hit the fan over here.”
John put his phone on speaker, and Jimmy talked for ten minutes before Lou began asking questions.
“Have you pressed charges against Heather Sanderson?”
“No. I figured she’d been through enough already,” Jimmy said. In the back of his mind, he thought he might call her and arrange a few sex sessions in return for him not pursuing legal action.
“Apparently, the police don’t plan on charging her either. Do you think she could be a threat to you moving forward?”
“I doubt it. Not with her husband out of the picture.”
“What about Sanzini?” Lou said. “He’s still being held, right?”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard. I’m not sure what they’re going to charge him with.”
“A number of things, I’m sure. Accessory to kidnapping and robbery, for a start.”
“Sounds like he’s in deep shit.”
“I’d say that’s an accurate assessment.”
“What about Dan Reno?” John said. “I think my ex-wife is still trying to find a way to get her hands on Jimmy’s money. And she hired Reno.”
“I know of Reno, but I don’t know him personally,” Lou said. “He’s a private eye here in South Lake Tahoe.”
“Can you find him and get him to tell you what Sheila’s up to?”
Lou grunted. “Finding him should be easy. But I doubt he’ll tell me anything useful.”
“I see your point,” John said. “Jimmy and I have discussed hiring professional body guards, at least until we feel comfortable he’s no longer in danger. Can you recommend anyone?”
“I’ll make a few calls and get back to you. Give me until tomorrow.”
Afterward, they settled in to watch a movie, a comedy about horny frat house boys getting drunk and chasing college girls. Jimmy had finished the better part of a fifth of vodka and was sitting on the couch smoking a joint, his head lolled back on the cushion, his legs splayed, his body nearly horizontal. When John looked at him, he felt a surge of annoyance, followed by a creeping twinge of disappointment, not only in Jimmy, but also in his own parental ineptitude. Then, he thought back to when Jimmy was a small boy, sitting on his lap. John looked away, stunned as a rush of paternal affection replaced the distress he’d felt only a moment before. His eyes moistened and he blinked rapidly. How strange that a parent could never let go of those early images and feelings. Even after not speaking to Jimmy for fifteen years, John Homestead still loved his son as if he were a child.
In the morning, John made coffee, then spent a half hour in the exercise room. He showered and dressed, and at 9:30, went to check on Jimmy.
“You want coffee, son?”
Jimmy groused out of bed, gobbled some aspirin, and staggered out to the kitchen. “Next time, let me sleep in, would you?” he said, but he cut his complaining short when his cell rang. He talked for a moment, then snapped the phone shut. “Hey, my car’s ready,” he said, his face brightening.
“I was going to head out to the Caddy dealership,” John said. “I can drop you off.”
“Let me wake up first,” Jimmy said, pouring a second cup and scratching his balls.
John sat on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “You said you used to know Dan Reno. And, obviously, he knows who you are. So, why don’t you call him and ask him what’s up with Sheila? He might be more likely to talk to you than Lou.”
Jimmy rubbed his eyes. “That’s not a bad idea, I guess. Just give me until the caffeine kicks in. Then, I’ll call him.”
46
The skies were still dark when I woke. I rekindled my stove and drove Cody’s truck to a convenience store and bought yogurt, fruit, and some pastries, hoping it would be to Heather’s liking. If not, she could join me for toast, eggs, and bacon. But she was still asleep when I got home. I’d read the entire Tahoe Daily Tribune and finished my sixteen-ounce coffee by the time she finally came out of the guest room.
Her eye and lip had swelled overnight, and she had traded her sweatshirt for a pink, short-sleeve top. She was braless, her breasts high and firm, and she didn’t seem aware her nipples were neatly outlined against the material.
“Good morning,” she said.
I brought her coffee and told her the options for breakfast.
“You’re a very nice man, do you know that?” Her smile looked crooked under her swollen lip.
“Thanks,” I said, a little uncomfortable with the compliment.
“Well, thank you for letting me stay. The bed was very nice.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes. Well, no, actually. My head was full of thoughts, trying to figure out what I’m going to do.”
“Did you reach any conclusions?”
“A couple, I think. First, I need to get a real career. I don’t want to have to rely on a man to take care of me.”
“You might find working fun.”
“I always did before. But I don’t want to do anything that has to do with my looks. I’ve got a good brain. It’s time I made use of it.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said, smiling at her enthusiasm.
She giggled. “When are you going to feed me?”
After we ate, she went to dress, and I stood looking out the large window behind my desk. The sun had crept over the ridgeline to the east and rested in a narrow strip of blue sky under a layer of storm clouds. A pair of squirrels scurried from below my deck and sniffed at the air and poked around my yard before heading out to the meadow, leaving tiny tracks in the light dusting of snow from the night before.
My cell rang. I didn’t recognize the number.
“Is this Dan Reno?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“Hey, Dan, it’s Jimmy Homestead.”
“What’s happening, Jimmy?” I said after a second.
“Too much, man. That was some pretty crazy shit that went down yesterday, huh?”
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
“Well, I’m lucky to be alive.”
“You ain’t the only one,” I said.
“I heard you killed two of those guys. Is that true?”
“Someone had to kill them.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess so.”
“What can I do for you, Jimmy?”
“Well, first, I want to say, that was a hell of a way for us to get reacquainted. What have you been up to all these years?”
“Just trying to make a living. How about yourself?”
“Shit, it’s a long story. Look, I wanted to talk to you about something, if you got a minute.”
“Go ahead.”
“Right. So, after everything that happened yesterday, I’m trying to sort things out. I’d like to ask you about a few questions, because I’m pretty confused.”
“Why don’t we start with you telling me your version of what happened yesterday,” I said.
“My version? Okay, it’s pretty simple. I put up an ad on an Internet dating site, and Heather, who actually said her name was Debbie, responded and drove to my house. We were ready to get it on when this big dude, who I’m told was her husband, comes into my room and roughs me up and demands three million in cash, or else he’ll beat me to a pulp. Either that, or they’d call the cops and charge me with attempted rape.”
I felt my stomach sink. “And then?”
“We were leaving when the Mexicans showed up and shot the dude.”
I looked up and saw Heather walk from the guest room to the bathroom.
“What do you want to know, Jimmy?”
“It’s about Sheila. You were with her at that bar near Mount Whitney, and you slapped my drink out of my hand.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Are you
working for her?”
“Not anymore,” I said.
“Well, I want to know if she was behind some of the shit that went down.”
“Here’s the deal, Jimmy. I was hired by Sheila, but she hasn’t paid me, which means our contract is null and void. So, I’m free to tell you all I know. I’m willing to do so, if you’ll pay what she owes me.”
“How much is that?”
“About thirty grand. Plus whatever it takes to fix my truck.”
“You mean the one shot to shit?”
“That’s right.”
“Thirty grand, huh? That’s pretty steep. But I feel like I owe you for killing those assholes, so I don’t mind. You want to come over to my place?”
“What time?”
“Make it in the afternoon.”
Heather walked into my kitchen wearing fitted jeans and high heels. She had done her hair and applied makeup to her eye. Her shirt was the same pink number she had worn earlier, but at least this time, she’d put on a bra. Just the same, my breath caught in my throat, and I felt an electric buzz course through my groin.
“I guess I better get going,” she said.
I carried her bag outside and set it in the backseat of her car. “Here’s my card. Call me and let me know how you’re doing.”
She smiled and thanked me and drove away. As I watched her car disappear, I told myself the person inside was flawed, and that she was nothing but trouble. That’s what my mind said, but my body kept declaring otherwise. I went in my garage and did four sets of curls, hoping to reroute my blood flow. Then, I gassed up Cody’s Dodge, and began driving to Reno.
47
When Mort answered his cell, he could tell his connection at the security outfit in Reno was getting nervous.
“I finally got through to your number. But this is the last time,” the man named Joe said. “I traced it to this address,” he said, reading it to Mort. “Whatever you do, you didn’t get it from me. Right?”
“Of course,” Mort said, his eyes dilating as he scribbled down the address.
After unfolding a map and finding the street, he checked the shoebox he always kept near him. The lump of plastic explosive was still there, along with the rest of the components he’d assembled. A sense of calm came over Mort. These items were his tools, the necessary instruments to do a job efficiently, the result of a well-thought-out plan. Now, he just had to hope Jimmy was still at the address.
Hurrying, he dressed in his costume, sans the beard, which no longer fit convincingly. He put his survival knife in its leather sheath and looked in the mirror. The frustrations of the last few weeks were in the past. It was time to focus his energies on the present.
The noontime traffic was heavy, and he crawled down the main thoroughfare, hitting every light. The skies above Reno had turned gloomy again, after a brief clearing the day before. This morning, a thin layer of snow coated the ground. Mort clenched his fist, looking at the cracked skin around his knuckles, brought on by the cold and the dry desert air.
He made it to the freeway and took the exit for 431 and, within fifteen minutes, turned into a newly built subdivision. The homes were large, and none were exactly alike, but they all shared the same color scheme. The subdued but classy designs reminded Mort of the house he used to own.
At the end of the subdivision, the street steepened and led to a house set apart from the others. It sat on a plateau overlooking rolling hills and, in the distance, the Reno cityscape. His pulse quickened when he saw the orange Lamborghini Diablo parked in the driveway.
Mort drove past the house slowly. Because it was built on top of a rise, there was no ideal spot for surveillance. He coasted down the hill a bit and parked where the road flattened, near a stand of white birch surrounded by heavy brush. A small trail led into the scrub, and when he was sure no one from the nearby houses was watching, he left his car for the trees and hiked a hundred yards down the trail.
From this vantage point, Mort could see the rear of the big house, the swimming pool, and the well-maintained lawn and landscaping. He was roughly 150 feet away and could barely make out a flicker of light through the sliding glass doors off the deck—most likely from a television, he thought. He crouched and waited thirty long minutes, hoping to confirm that Jimmy was there and was alone. A light blinked on and off from a small window, probably a bathroom. Mort returned to his car and drove back up the hill. He peered at the front of the house and regretted it was daylight. But he’d waited long enough for the opportunity and was not about to risk losing Jimmy again. He opened his shoebox and spilled the bottle of chloroform onto a hotel hand towel. Then, he walked to the front door.
48
The cost to replace and install two tires was double what Rancour had expected. His wallet, comfortably fat the day before, was now reduced to, at most, another two days’ living expenses.
“Fuck me,” he said, riding away from the repair shop. It was early afternoon, and he’d not yet eaten. He stopped at a chain restaurant and powered down a chili cheeseburger with fries and onion rings, and washed it down with two beers. He leaned back and relaxed after he finished eating. Sanzini’s black leather jacket lay next to him in the booth. The coat had served him well. Rancour figured he’d dispose of it when he got back to San Jose—which might be sooner rather than later, unless he was able to score some cash in a hurry.
From the pay phone out front, he dialed his buddy at the security agency.
“Hey man, I need to know where Jimmy Homestead is, or I’m gonna have to call this thing off.”
“Like I told you, it’s becoming a problem. How much you gonna guarantee me?”
“Minimum a thousand,” Rancour said.
“Call me back in a half an hour.”
Killing time, he cruised around downtown, checking out girls on the street, and he almost stopped at a strip joint. But he rode on and eventually found himself in a run-down apartment neighborhood. He watched a woman with droopy eyes and a cigarette dangling from her lips throw a bag of trash in a dumpster. A man with a huge beer gut covered by a dirty white T-shirt yelled something at her, a cigar clenched between his teeth. Two grease-smeared black men wrenched on a junker next to the curb, while the cry of a baby sounded from a broken window bound with masking tape. A scattering of beer cans and a shattered whiskey bottle littered a nearby patch of lawn.
It all reminded Rancour of his childhood, a piecemeal blur of Tennessee foster homes. He’d run away from the last, after telling his foster parents he wished them dead. He eventually came to California, his wry grin in place no matter what life threw at him. He didn’t ask for much—never had. A bedroll, the clothes on his back, and enough scratch for smokes, food, and a few brews. An odd job here or there, maybe snatch a purse or boost a car when the opportunity presented itself. If things got a little sketchy, he could always just move on, down the road to the next town.
But then, he got popped and had spent fifteen months in the can. Not a big deal, it was an occupational hazard. Except when he hit the streets, he was flat-ass broke, and his parole officer said he had to get a steady job and a permanent address. He went with the program at first, trying to fit the mold. Sure, his warehouse job had been a joke, and the rent money he paid each month was for a squalid boarding house room. He didn’t mind it, though. He saw it all as temporary. If today was grim, there was always tomorrow. Such was life—an unstoppable chain of negative and positive events, mostly beyond his control or influence. Whoever thought up ‘shit happens’ was right on the money.
He remembered a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl he banged on a blanket one night in a park. She still made his heart ache a bit, but he knew that nothing was permanent, so why sweat it? She was an opportunity, and there would be more. The good times would come again, when he’d ride victory laps with his dick hard, leaving his adversaries awestruck and bitter. His gut told him his time would be coming soon. And it would be in the way of a big cash score, courtesy of Lotto winner Jimmy Homestead.
He imagined the reaction from his dumb-ass roommates when he rolled back home, his pockets stuffed with cash. He’d throw his clothes in a bag and tell them they could keep the shabby furniture in his room, since he’d be upgrading. When they asked questions, he’d smile and wink, and let them wonder. Maybe he’d piss all over Sanzini’s jacket and leave it with them. Then, after heading south to San Diego or maybe Santa Fe, he’d call Sanzini and tell him he could go pick it up.
Rancour found a pay phone at a gas station on the outskirts of town, and his friend read him the address where Jimmy had charged a cable movie. Bingo—it was that easy. When he hung up, Rancour looked out at the vast desert landscape. The sun rested high over a jagged collection of ridgelines, its heat stifled behind the heavy skies. Then, the clouds parted, and the shadows lifted into the heavens, and the surface of the land was bathed in warm light. Rancour stood watching for a long moment and swore he heard horns playing in the background.
49
Sporting a new herringbone sport coat, pink shirt, and tasseled loafers, John stood outside the auto garage and listened to Jimmy rev the Lamborghini’s motor. Jimmy dumped the clutch and left two black rows of rubber on the road as he roared away. John shook his head, trying to remember what it felt like to be an irresponsible, crazy teenager. Then, he remembered Jimmy was in his mid-thirties.
When John pulled up to the Cadillac dealership, the LTD sputtered and coughed after he turned off the ignition, and the motor continued to run until it finally died with a loud bang. Two of the younger salesmen tried unsuccessfully to stifle their laughter. John ignored them and found the elderly, black manager he had spoken to before.
“How much will you give me for my trade in?” John said.
The man smiled. “I’ll take her out back, and shoot her and bury her, free of charge.”
John laughed, and they started in on the paperwork. Jimmy had called earlier to arrange for the dealer to accept his credit card. After signing forms for an hour, John took a break and removed his personal effects from the glove box of the LTD. A bottle of aspirin, a few stray diet pills, and his small, semiautomatic handgun. It had lain untouched since John had put it there, after Mort had first called him. He dropped it inside the pocket of his blazer, the weight heavy on his chest, and went back into the dealership.