Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel

by Dave Stanton

  John was content working for the mob. The money was good, and his calculated, precise approach to the work minimized the risk. Then two events occurred that changed everything.

  John’s son Robert was ten years old when he came home from school one day complaining of a severe headache. John took him to the clinic and within a few hours a surgeon was drilling into his skull to relieve an aneurysm. The operation was successful, for the most part; the mental deficiencies Robert was born with had not worsened. But it was a bleak reminder to John that his only child would always rely on him. When Robert was released from the hospital, his head was wrapped in a huge ball of gauze. Tears welling in his eyes, John hugged his son and carried him to his Lincoln Continental. He carefully belted the small boy into the front seat and held his hand as he drove home.

  The second event, in retrospect, may have been in some intangible way related to the first. It involved a contract on a bookie who was under investigation by the New Jersey anti-racketeering task force. John planned the hit meticulously. He spent seven days casing the target, following him around town, documenting his schedule and habits. When the man pulled up to the curb in front of his house at three in the morning on the eighth night, the timing couldn’t have been better. John was parked across the street, waiting. As soon as his victim’s car rolled to a stop, John slid from his Lincoln and crept up in the shadows. The man climbed from the driver’s seat, and John stepped forward and parked two silenced .38 rounds behind the man’s ear. Very smooth. Except when the body crumpled back into the car, the head came to rest on the center of the steering wheel. The horn bleated for only a second before John pushed him aside, but a light went on in the house. A small boy in pajamas stood staring out a bedroom window, his eyes unnaturally bright and fixed on John.

  John moved back to his car and eased away from the curb, lights off. Just as he began to accelerate, he felt a bump and heard a screech of metal. He turned on the headlights and saw a mangled tricycle in the street. He stared at it, certain it had not been there earlier.

  Driving across town through the deserted streets, John could not shake the image of the young child framed in the window. The horn had sounded only briefly, but the child appeared at almost that instant. The boy’s face looked calm, his blond hair combed, his eyes still, as if the events taking place before him were preordained and unstoppable. It was goddamned eerie. And so was the tricycle that appeared out of nowhere, as if it had been pushed in front of his car by an unseen hand.

  He told himself it was explainable, probably coincidental, and meant nothing. The important thing was he’d pulled off another job, and the payday would be nice this time. Robert had been asking for a drum set, and John had been putting it off. He decided as he drove that he would buy him one the next day.

  When John pulled into his garage and turned off his motor, he sat in silence for a moment. Suddenly he was struck by an overwhelming sense that he was not alone. He whipped his head around toward his back seat, but it was empty.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, wondering if he was losing it. His hair felt like it was standing on end. He got out of the Lincoln and his hand was on the doorknob to the house when he noticed something in his peripheral vision. Bending down to the front of his car, he saw a tuft of fine blond hair jammed in the crease of the steel bumper. Beside it, a wet smear of blood was streaked across the chrome.

  John had never been a religious or spiritual man, but the sense of foreboding that plagued him after that night would not relent, and only grew worse as the weeks passed. He tried to ignore the dread in his heart, but it finally became so strong he concluded it must be a warning. He became convinced that not heeding it would precipitate his death. And that would leave Robert without a provider, something John would not allow to happen.

  John thus made the decision to extricate himself from organized crime. It was a delicate matter, and there were some in the Tuma family who would view it as a traitorous act. In the end, it was John’s Irish blood that saved him—the Italians never fully embraced him as a family member, despite his loyalty and unquestionable effectiveness. If he’d been Italian, they probably never would have let him go. Since he was not, his exodus had been begrudgingly granted.

  For the next twenty years, John lived a quiet, peaceful existence. He forged a career in real estate, buying and selling small commercial buildings, and rarely thought of the life he’d left behind. With early retirement within his grasp, he decided to sell all his properties. He was waiting for the right moment when disaster struck. A severe recession took hold of the economy, causing the valuation of his holdings to plummet. John listed his properties for sale, but there were no takers. Companies began defaulting on their monthly lease payments, and John couldn’t make his mortgages. Within six months he was wiped out; the banks sold off his buildings at cut-rate prices, and he was left with nothing.

  John had adapted well to life as a legitimate businessman, but he needed cash flow, not only for his own needs, but also to take care of his son. Robert Switton was born mentally disabled and with physical deformities that made him a curiosity. His mother, an alcoholic, coke-addicted floozy who abandoned them once Robert was born, was the biggest mistake of John’s life. She continued her drinking and cocaine habits after she knew she was pregnant, and by the time she was showing, it was too late. She gave birth to a baby that would never have a chance at a normal life. John alone had cared for Robert ever since.

  Once worth millions, John lowered himself and called his contacts in real estate to ask for work. When that bore no fruit, he looked into careers outside of real estate, but people were losing their jobs at a rate unprecedented since the Great Depression, and no one was hiring. His checking account dangerously low, John considered selling his house, but recent foreclosures in his neighborhood caused his equity to vanish, and now he owed more on the home than it was worth.

  John the Hammer Switton, ex-Mafia enforcer, felt himself coming apart at the seams. He found it impossible to concentrate on mundane tasks, and when he touched his face, it was either painfully dry or so oily his fingers shined with grease. No matter what he ate, his gut churned as if he’d swallowed a burrowing rodent, and he began to drop weight. He dreamt of blood and corpses and gunshots and often woke soaked in sweat. He finally reached his breaking point one afternoon when something inside him snapped while he tried to relax in the shade of his backyard. He leapt up and destroyed the bird bath on his lawn, smashing the heavy cement unit to pieces against the porch.

  That evening John put in a call to Salvatore Tuma, once his closest friend from back in the day. John had lost all contact with his past life, and he wasn’t surprised when the number he dialed was disconnected. He spent all evening trying to reach someone who could put him in touch with Sal. He finally spoke to some kid, probably a driver or a gopher for the Tumas, who said he would take a message.

  Three days later John was playing cards with his son when the phone rang with a number he didn’t recognize.

  “Irish John the Hammer,” the voice said. “It’s been a long time, Paisan.”

  “That you, Sal?”

  “It’s me. How are you?”

  “I’ve been better. How about yourself?”

  “Ah, you know. Ups and downs.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for getting back to me, Sal. I appreciate it.”

  “What’s on your mind, John?”

  “I was thinking, maybe we could get together, have a drink, maybe something to eat, talk about old times.”

  The line went quiet for a moment. “My schedule’s pretty busy, you know,” Sal said. “Anything in particular you want to talk about?’

  “I’m thinking, you know, maybe get back in the business.”

  “Huh? I thought you were doing good in real estate.”

  “Things change.”

  “Yeah, they do. I don’t know what I can do for you, John. It’s not like we’re recession-proof here.”

  John suppressed a chuckle. “I
know. But think about it, would you? I’m asking for a favor with this.”

  “You still living upstate?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I got some business midtown tomorrow. Drive into the city, meet me around four.”

  • • •

  They met at a restaurant John knew well, a place that had been a favorite of the Tuma’s for almost fifty years. The dark lounge had no windows and a musty odor particular to rooms that hadn’t been redecorated for decades. The booths against the walls were upholstered in red vinyl sectioned by brass buttons. A small antique lamp lit each table.

  John was grateful Sal Tuma agreed to meet with him. While they had been through a lot together, John knew any request on his part to reenter mob life would be tenuous. Sal’s embrace of John in a traditional Italian hug surprised and pleased John. It was a good start. They took a booth, reminiscing and exchanging small talk for a while, feeling each other out. It was Sal who finally got to business.

  “If you’re interested in moving to Nevada, I might have something for you,” Sal said.

  “Nevada? You mean Vegas?”

  “No. Lake Tahoe.”

  “Tell me more,” John said.

  The Tuma family had deep roots in gambling. They’d run a sports betting network along the eastern seaboard since the first world war, and when Vegas became the hot spot in the 1960s, Sal’s father Leo bought two small casinos on The Strip, and later one in Stateline, Nevada. For two decades these casinos provided the ideal means to launder cash from the Tuma’s other favorite enterprise, drug dealing.

  When the Feds cracked down on Mafia casino interests in the late seventies, Leo Tuma was forced out of Vegas. But his casino in the smaller market on the shores of Lake Tahoe avoided the fallout, after certain payouts were made. Envelopes of cash went out monthly to gaming commission officials, who bought new cars, went on expensive vacations, and had their children’s college tuition loans paid off. In return, Pistol Pete’s Casino was allowed to remain under the ownership of the Tuma family. Until recently, it was managed by Sal, Leo’s oldest son.

  A series of unfortunate events in the last twelve months brought increased federal scrutiny on Pistol Pete’s. A corrupt Tahoe County sheriff had run amuck, resulting in the imprisonment of Sal’s son for running a local drug ring. The money trail led to the casino, and a team of government accountants was sent in to scour the books. The newspapers played it up, and public outcry forced Salvatore Tuma to flee to Italy to avoid a federal indictment. He returned to New Jersey when the uproar subsided and quietly paid off the necessary parties. But the damage had been done; the casino would not be allowed to continue under Tuma ownership.

  “I’ve done a little checking since we spoke,” Sal said. “You’re a pretty unique guy, John. Not a single mark on your record. Not even a freaking traffic ticket.”

  “I’ve always been careful.”

  “From the outside, you look like a successful real estate investor.”

  “That’s what I was, until the economy took a dump.”

  Sal uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I need to arrange a transfer of the ownership of Pistol Pete’s Casino. Harrah’s has offered to buy me out, but I’m not interested.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “How’d you like to own a casino?”

  John cocked his head. “You want me to front points for you?”

  “Your background is clean. Any links you had to us are too old to come up.”

  “Wouldn’t the Feds need to approve of me first? I mean—”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  “All right. Tell me more.”

  “We’ll handle all the paperwork. The legal ownership of Pistol Pete’s will be formally transferred to your name. You’ll be given a monthly salary and health benefits. It will be enough for you to live comfortably.”

  John felt one of his eyebrows raise “What do I have to do?”

  Sal Tuma pulled a cigar from his suit coat and offered one to John. “Just stay out of trouble, stay low key. That’s it.”

  “Nothing else?” John asked.

  A hint of a smile showed on Sal’s mouth. “If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

  Ice cubes rattled against his teeth as John drained his scotch. He knew what Sal meant. The day would come when Sal would call on John the Hammer, and when that day came, saying no would not be an option.

  • • •

  For the first three weeks after moving across the country to Stateline, Nevada, everything went smoothly. John leased a home a few minutes’ drive from Pistol Pete’s, a ranch-style house on a large lot, painted white, just the way he liked it. He’d developed a preference for well-lit, light-colored homes with minimal shrubbery after an incident when Robert was a toddler. A pair of thugs broke into the house where John and Robert lived, a brown Victorian surrounded by shade trees in Hoboken. They came on a moonless night and hid behind a hedge while jimmying the window. If not for one stepping on Robert’s squeeze-activated stuffed animal, John might not have heard them.

  When they opened his bedroom door, John blew them out of their socks with a silenced .45 automatic. By dawn their bodies were stuffed in metal barrels and resting on the bottom of the Hudson, and John was back home repainting the wall smeared with their blood. Robert never even woke up.

  Having spent his entire life in Jersey or New York, John found the Lake Tahoe area a strange place to live. Clearly, the population was highly transient. Wealthy retirees spent weeks in vacation homes and then disappeared. Young men, often teenagers, showed up for the ski season and moved away when the resorts closed. The population seemed to expand or contract on a weekly basis as tourists flowed in and out of the casinos. The permanent residents were an odd blend of mountain men, outdoor adventurers, Birkenstock chicks, and miscellaneous escapees from California’s suburbs.

  John missed being able to walk into a good, old-fashioned, working-class bar where men born and raised in the community gathered. He tried a few local joints, but they were mostly hangouts for ski bums and assorted white trash. By default, he found himself spending his idle hours with the crew that ran Sal Tuma’s casino. They were all East Coast transplants like him.

  John knew two of them from his days working for the Tumas. Denny Totaglia and Carlo Bianchi were old-school boys about his age. Denny had been an odds maker in Queens. He’d always been overweight, but John almost didn’t recognize him when he saw him sitting at the sports bar at Pistol Pete’s. Fat Denny had to be pushing four hundred pounds.

  Age had been easier on Carlo Bianchi. His head was hairless, but that’s how John remembered him—he’d gone bald by the time he was twenty-five. He’d kept his body builder’s physique after all these years, probably pumping iron daily by the looks of him. Carlo spent much of his career as a loan shark, and had also been active in enforcing labor contracts.

  John also knew Pistol Pete’s chief executive, Victor Severino. He was a tall, lean man, about fifty. His expertise was numbers—he managed the incoming cash from various Tuma enterprises, setting up systems to launder the money and make it invisible to the IRS. He was a master at cooking the books; the IRS had come after him on numerous occasions earlier in his career, but they had been unable to make anything stick.

  But Vic Severino was more than a backroom bean counter. He’d done his share of wet work for the Tuma family, and was considered among the most valued and ruthless of Sal Tuma’s men. Always wearing a business suit, his black hair slicked back, Severino was never seen having more than one drink at a sitting, smoked neither cigarettes nor cigars, and did not dally with prostitutes. He rarely changed expression and kept his own council, leaving John to wonder if maybe a traumatic childhood event had rendered him incapable of showing emotion. His taciturn nature made his associates wary and sometimes uncomfortable.

  When John had learned he’d be working with Severino, he almost reconsidered his decision to accept Sal Tuma’s offer. He’d crossed paths with Se
verino only a few times back in Jersey, but on one of those occasions John had been ordered to whack a close friend of Severino’s. The hit was legitimate, and John was just following orders—it was strictly business. But even though the killing was ordered by Don Tuma himself, Severino had still confronted John, let him know he was unhappy, made it personal. John had not given Severino’s thinly veiled threats much credence at the time—after all, they worked for the same family—but John felt Severino was the type who could harbor a grudge for years. Given the opportunity, might Severino still be out for payback? It was possible.

  The fourth member of Sal Tuma’s team was his twenty-four-year-old nephew, Vinnie. He had a receding hairline, a hooked nose, close-set eyes, and a mouth that ran like a motor. John mostly ignored him. He suspected Sal sent Vinnie to Nevada because no one in Jersey could tolerate the weasel.

  • • •

  A few months after John got settled in his new home, he and Robert were relaxing on a Sunday afternoon, cooking a Bolognese sauce and a pot of pasta, when Sal Tuma called.

  “I’m sending ten more men to Tahoe, John.”

  “To work at the casino?”

  “No, it’s for something else. Listen, I want you to help get them situated. They’ll need to rent a couple houses. Until they do, let them stay at your place.”

  “Ten guys? What, I’m running a freakin’ hotel?”

  “It will be short term. Severino will take care of the finances, he knows all about it. I need you to help them find places to rent. In Nevada, right? Not California.”

  “When will they be here?”

  “Some are flying in tomorrow. I’ll send you their flights and you can pick them up at the Reno airport. A couple others are driving, so it’ll take them a week or so.”

  John knew better than to ask questions. Since his brother Leo was in semiretirement, Sal was the next logical choice to be the big boss. If John played his cards right, he’d never have to worry about money again. Maybe he could eventually return to New York.