Cyclone Rumble

by J.P. Voss

  13

  The Wonderland Ballroom was complete chaos. The cops were swarming the place, and it was like a Destruction Derby getting out of the parking lot. I made a short cut through the desert, punched it through a couple of whoop-de-doos, and got clear of the crowd. I was Vegas bound.

  After the rumble at the Wonderland, I was pretty jacked up, so I kept the gas pedal pegged until the lights of Barstow disappeared from my rearview mirror. As the night wore on, and the desert got lonelier, I felt like the white line on the highway was my only friend, and I was following it blindly into oblivion. When I stopped at the Stateline and got gas, the clock at the service station read 3:00 AM. It was still too early, so I went into the coffee shop across the street and spent two hours dropping nickels into a slot machine. Once I busted out, I sat down at the lunch counter and ordered blueberry pancakes with a strawberry shake.

  I finished my breakfast, then found a payphone and called the lawyer. I told his answering service, “Tell Trace that I’ll be at the Long Beach Pike tonight. If our mutual friends would like to take a ride, I’ll be standing in front of the Cyclone Racer at ten o’clock. Tell them that I’ve got it under control. And we’ll settle everything tonight.”

  Walking outside, I nearly went blind. Midsummer daybreak in Southern Nevada is like a thermonuclear blast. I drove north into a dusty-orange sunrise and got off on Tropicana Blvd. At the bottom of the off ramp, I asked some guy riding a Honda scooter where the Las Vegas Convention Center was.

  I hung a left at the first light and fell in behind a brand new Fleetwood pulling a horse trailer painted like an American Flag. At the Convention Center, I followed the Cadillac cowboy past the security guard, like I was part of his entourage, and cruised into the semi-secure rodeo staging area.

  Off to my right, I caught sight of an Indian Princess leading a magnificent black and tan horse into a huge open-sided frame tent. The tent was half filled with bales of hay, supplies, and a variety of horse tack. The girl secured her horse, tying the reins to a makeshift hitching post, and then started grooming her stallion. She looked easy to talk to, so I parked my truck, and moseyed on over.

  “You have a beautiful horse,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she replied. She looked at me with angel’s eyes and smiled.

  I fell in love with her smile. And her cocoa-brown eyes were so soft they looked like the chips in fresh baked cookies. Shimmering black hair flowed to just above her waist and moved in waves while she stroked her steed. I’d hoped that her genuine smile meant she was flirting, but I knew she was probably just being nice. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.

  “My name’s Duff Allison.” I extended my hand.

  She took my hand and said, “I’m Weeko Wihakayda.”

  “That’s a beautiful name. Are you with the rodeo?”

  She glanced down at her Ceremonial Costume, looked at me like I might be a little dense, and then went back to brushing her horse.

  “I meant do you travel with the rodeo. I was trying to find an old friend. She was married to one of the riders. You wouldn’t happen to know a girl by the name of Harper O’Neal?”

  She stopped in mid stroke and turned. “Did you say Harper?”

  “Yeah—do you know her?”

  “I knew a girl named Harper, but her last name wasn’t O’Neal. It was Reno, Mrs. Steve Reno.”

  “I’m pretty sure she got a divorce,” I said. “She’s blond, blues eyes, 5’7”, early twenties, with a subtle Texas twang.”

  “That sounds like Harper. I did hear rumors of a divorce. O’Neal could be her maiden name.” Her eyes got puppy-dog sad. “I haven’t seen her in months, and I miss her.”

  “What about her husband? What did you say his name was?”

  “His name is trouble,” she said. “Stay away from Harper’s ex-husband. Steve Reno is a bullheaded bull rider with a bad temper and a short fuse.”

  “I’m not afraid of any tough-guy cowboy types.”

  “You should always use caution around a wounded animal.” She looked at me with genuine concern. “That man is violent and unpredictable.”

  “After what I’ve been through, some rodeo clown with a bad attitude isn’t going to scare me. You said his name was Reno. What’s his story? Why did Harper dump him?”

  “He’s a bully, and a liar, and a cheat, and he treats his women worse than the bulls he rides.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “Why did Harper marry him?”

  A sigh of reluctant resignation was followed by a voice that reverberated universal injustice. “He’s one of the best looking men I’ve ever seen. And when he wants to—he can be as charming as any man ever was—but it’s a lie. Harper’s not the first woman, or the last, to find out about Steve Reno the hard way.”

  “So where the hell can I find this Steve Reno character. I need to talk to this chump.”

  Not too far behind me, I heard a voice call out. “You can find him right here partner.”

  I turned around slow, with my mouth open, a little unsure of what I’d heard.

  He was a couple of feet away when he said, “You lookin’ for me asshole?”

  I said, “What?”

  The guy stepped up and punched me in the mouth. It knocked me back, and I tripped over a bale of hay. Rolling with the punch, I was back on my feet in a flash. Blood filled my mouth and dripped along my chin. My rage gauge went redline, and I threw myself at the guy, throwing indiscriminant punches, like some kind of maniac. Instead of crumbling under my assault, he charged like a bull. As I was going over backwards, I realized he was about twenty pounds heavier, at least five years older, and a whole heck of lot stronger. He tackled me, ramming me into the ground, driving his shoulder into my gut for emphasis. I slipped out from under him, got to my feet, and backed away, struggling to catch my breath.

  He jumped up and said, “Nobody calls Steve Reno a chump. Call me a chump again, and I’ll bust you up. Go ahead you fucking pussy. Call me a chump again. I dare you.”

  Weeko cried out, “Stop it!”

  Reno clutched Weeko by the bicep and shook her so hard she dropped the curry brush. He raised his free hand in anger, like he was going to backhand her. “Who the hell is this guy? One of my buddies overheard this little pussy asking about Harper.” Still clutching Weeko’s arm, he turned and pointed in my direction. “I better never find you with my old lady. If I do, I kill you both.”

  Weeko yanked her arm free. Reno turned and his hand shot out, catching her just below the jaw. He clutched the soft tissue of her neck with his leathery hands. “Listen to me you little half-breed bitch.” He reached his free hand behind Weeko’s neck, gathered her hair in a bunch, and used the ponytail to pull the defenseless girl to her knees. “I’d better never hear you talking behind my back again.”

  I spotted a three-tined pitchfork, leaning against a stack of hay. I grabbed the handle and felt a surge of power, like I was a Roman Gladiator holding a Trident.

  Reno was about ten feet away with his back turned to me. I started charging toward him, recoiled my weapon, and twisted the handle so the tines lined up with his leg. After a few quick steps, I lunged forward and stuck the pitchfork into the meaty part of his calve. When I yanked it out, Reno squealed. He let go of Weeko, and I flipped the pitchfork end over end. He spun to attack, and I swung the hardwood handle like a Louisville Slugger. The sweet spot caught him along the jaw and just below the base of the skull. The handle fractured and split in two. His knees got wobbly, and he started to go down against his will, still struggling forward, arms flailing like a punch-drunk boxer. Landing on his knees, he took one more hopeless swing, and toppled over face first.

  Weeko crouched behind her horse, and Reno lay on the ground twitching. I was still holding the broken pitchfork when up walked detectives Sanchez and Zico from the San Bernardino Sheriffs Department. I let the farm tool slip out of my hand and fall behind a bale of hay.

  Zico, who looked like he’d slept in his suit, stood ov
er the comatose cowboy. The worn-out detective reeked of booze, and his face was flush with a pinkish-red hue. Zico poked Reno in the ribs with his boot, and Reno snapped out of his temporary coma with a moan.

  Zico bent at the knees and stuck his badge in Reno’s face. When Reno tried to sit up, Zico pushed him back down and said, “Stay down partner. Fight’s over. We’ve got it handled. You stay down until the fog clears.”

  I asked, “What are you two doing here?”

  Zico said, “Me and Sanchez were responding to a shooting at the Wonderland Ballroom last night when we spotted you scurrying across the desert. We followed the pickup on a hunch. We didn’t even know it was you until you stopped at Stateline and got gas.”

  “You don’t have any jurisdiction in Nevada.”

  “Shut the fuck up you little piss-ant. Turn around and put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.”

  Weeko came out from behind her horse. “You can’t arrest him. He was only defending me.”

  “He can still arrest me,” I said. “But he’ll have to explain why he’s in Nevada, and why he’s drunk. Then he’ll have to go before the judge and explain why he’s harassing me. That’s what this is, police harassment.”

  Detective Sanchez, whose eyes had glazed over, was standing close to Weeko. He told me to shut up. Then he pulled his shield and held it out so the girl could see it clearly. “I’m Detective Sanchez. What’s your name young lady?”

  “Weeko.”

  He pointed at me and said, “Do you have any idea who this guy is? Do you realize he’s implicated you in an armed robbery?”

  Weeko’s eyes darted about and finally settled on me. I got the feeling she wanted an explanation. I wasn’t sure I had one.

  “Did he tell you he’s being investigated by the FBI?”

  “Don’t listen to this guy. Him and his partner tried to pin a robbery on me, and the judge threw the case out of court. If they had any evidence, I’d be in jail.”

  “Shut up,” Sanchez said, “Or I’ll put the cuffs on you.”

  I scoffed, but kept my mouth shut.

  Sanchez pulled Weeko off to the side for a private conference. His tone was conciliatory, and I could barely hear what he had to say. “You need to tell me everything that happened here Weeko. If you hold anything back, you could be in some very serious trouble.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I want to believe you,” he replied. “Telling me exactly what happened here will go a long way towards convincing me your not part of the gang.”

  “I’m not part of any gang; I’m with the rodeo. I’ve never seen this guy before. He walked up to me a few minutes ago and said he was looking for an old friend.”

  Weeko told him everything, exactly as it had happened. Sanchez nodded his head like he was a priest, and Weeko’s confession would be good for her soul. When Sanchez asked her about Harpers marriage to Steve Reno, Weeko declined to say.

  Reno sat up. “You keep your mouth shut.” He tied a bandana around the puncture wound in his calve and stood up, balancing on one leg. He hopped twice and eased onto a bale of hay. “My marriage ain’t nobody’s Goddamn business.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Sanchez said. “If he gives you any trouble, I’ll take care of it personally. Right now, you need to tell me everything you know. You can’t hold anything back. You could be charged with accessory after the fact.”

  Weeko hesitated. “Last January we were in Dallas for a week. The day before we opened, Steve shows up with Harper hanging on his arm and starts telling everyone she’s going to be his wife. By the end of the week, they were married. She looked so happy those first few weeks.” Weeko looked at Reno with a piercing female glare. “The honeymoon was over fast. He drinks, and he’s a mean drunk. And he cheats. Harper suspected it almost from the beginning.”

  “That’s enough out of you woman.”

  Sanchez told Zico, “If he says another word, put the cuffs on him.”

  “The rest is a rumor,” she said. “But it’s a rumor no one is calling a lie. I heard Harper came home a day early from visiting her mom and caught him screwing some girl on the dinning room table. Legend has it, she grabbed a pistol out of the kitchen drawer and shot him in the butt.” Weeko giggled. “Word around the henhouse is that she was aiming for his little wiener, but the target was too small, and she missed.”

  Sanchez walked over to Steve Reno. “Tell me everything you know about Harper O’Neal.”

  “I don’t know anyone named O’Neal,” Reno said. “Harper’s maiden name was Bradley.”

  “Her full name?”

  “Harper Lee Bradley.”

  “You met her in Dallas?”

  “That’s right. Just like the girl told you.”

  “What about her family, brothers—sisters?”

  “No brothers or sisters. Her step dad’s some kind of big-shot insurance executive in Dallas.”

  “What about her mother,” Sanchez asked.

  “She’s a fulltime bitch.”

  Sanchez gave him a knowing smile, like a man who had a mother-in-law. He asked Weeko, “You want to press charges?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s too much trouble.”

  The detective nodded his head in agreement then turned to his partner. “We’re done here. We’ve got all the information we need. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley are going to lead us to their daughter. She’ll lead us to the money. When she realizes how much time she’s facing, she’ll give us the kid on a silver platter.”

  Detective Zico walked over and poked his finger in my face. “Where going to find this fucking Harper bitch. When we do, we’re going to turn the screws until she coughs you up. Then I’m going to flush your life down the toilet—you little turd.”

  Detectives Sanchez and Zico split, Weeko untied her horse and tiptoed away. Steve Reno rubbed his swollen jaw while resting his gimp leg on a hay bale. As I walked away, he swore he’d find me and settle the score. I wished him good luck.

  On my way out of Vegas, I pulled into a 7-Eleven and picked up supplies, mostly Hostess Cupcakes. I used the payphone to call my cousin Vince. Some chick picked up.

  “Is Vince there?”

  “Duff?”

  “Yeah—who’s this?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Stay right there.”