by Dave Stanton
“You got no problem with them coming to your club, skimming the door, and raising hell?”
“Huh? I get the raising hell part, but what about the door?”
“It’s their MO. They take a cut of the ticket prices from you, right?”
“No, hell no. That’s never happened.”
I stared at him.
“Why would I lie, man?” he said. “You a cop, or what?”
“Private.” I pulled a picture of Jason Loohan from my pocket. “Ever seen him?”
He studied the picture. “Freaky-looking dude, ain’t he?” He handed it back to me. “I’ve never seen him. I’d remember if I did.”
“You’ve never seen him here with any of the HCU boys, huh?”
“Like I said, I’ve never seen him, period. Why, what’s he done?”
“All sorts of bad shit, Zak. He needs to be taken off the street.”
He thought that over for a bit, then moved his hand from his mouth. “Look, I’m a good citizen,” he said. “A businessman. You think he’s part of HCU? Then come by tonight—three of them are in the warm-up band. They kind of suck, but their drummer is this psycho-retard who’s smoking hot.”
“Is that right? You know where they might be hanging out?”
“No clue. I never see them outside of here.”
“All right. In the meantime, call me if you see him, would you?” I tapped Loohan’s picture and handed him my card. He glanced at it, then looked back again, his eyes widening.
“Oh, shit! You’re the whack job who shot up my bar! I can’t believe I’m so damn stupid!”
“Blame it on the dummy dust.”
“Oh, fuck me. Man, you ain’t allowed back here, you stay clear of my business, you—”
“Hey, Zak.” He stopped and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, like he was ready to cry. “I can’t say I blame you for not wanting me around,” I said. “And to be honest, I think the music you guys listen to is the shits, so I really don’t want to come back tonight. Give me a couple of the right answers and maybe I won’t have to.”
“What? What do you want?”
“An HCU member named Tom. Wears a ring in his nose. Sound familiar?”
“Sure. He plays guitar.”
“Know where he lives?”
“No.”
“I’m sure he’ll be here tonight anyway, right?”
“No, bullshit. Listen to me. His band rehearses at the drummer’s house. They’re probably over there loading their gear.”
“You got an address?”
“No—”
“How about a name?”
“Okay, yeah. The drummer, Rabbit. Rabbit Switton. He’s a freak, man, plays as good as anyone, I mean Vinnie Paul, Joey Jordison…”
“Why’s he called Rabbit?”
“His real name’s Robert. His dad has some funky East Coast accent. When he says Robert, it sounds like Rabbit. So that’s what everyone calls him.”
“He’s the ‘psycho-retard,’ huh?”
“Look, he’s got some kind of mental disability, call it whatever you want.” He stood. “We straight here?”
“Look, Zak,” I said. “I don’t mean to be a life coach or anything, but I got some advice for you. This death metal thing attracts trouble like flies on shit. You like the music, fine. But you want to base your business around it? Bad move.”
“Opinions are like assholes—”
“Yeah, I know. Everyone’s got one.”
When we got back downstairs, Cody was talking with the lady on the bar, who had lost the attitude and seemed to be enjoying his attention. The other two dudes were distracted by a TV newscast covering an earthquake in Haiti that had left tens of thousands dead. They were giggling at a scene showing corpses strewn like trash in the street. “Those spooks are up shit creek,” one said.
“Let’s go,” I said, interrupting Cody’s conversation.
“What’s your name, anyway?” the girl said, grasping Cody’s hand and leaning her head near his.
“Lance Romance,” I interjected.
Cody winked. “See you, babe.”
“Anytime,” she purred.
“What’d you find out?” he asked, once we’d walked into the fresh air.
“One of the bands playing tonight is made up of HCU members. I think they rehearse at the house we checked out the other day.”
“Let’s pick up lunch and drop by, then.”
“Sounds like a plan, Stan.”
“What happened to Lance?”
Twenty minutes later we sat eating sandwiches in my truck down the street from the white house listed as John Switton’s residence. I assumed he was the father of Rabbit Switton, the man I’d watched smash a bar glass to smithereens at Whiskey Dick’s. Despite his physical deformities and mental issues, Rabbit was supposedly a great drummer. It was hard to imagine, but I’d seen stranger things. Regardless, I didn’t think he was the one who vandalized my home, unless others put him up to it.
We opened the windows and waited, listening to birds chirp and the occasional jet pass overhead. The afternoon had turned balmy, and Cody lit a cigarette. I considered bumming one out of boredom.
“What time you got?” he asked.
“Two.”
The minutes passed slowly, until a little before three a Ford pickup with Nevada plates drove up the street and parked in the driveway of the Switton house. From our spot a football field away, I could see the three men who climbed out wore black shorts and white T-shirts. I started my truck, but they quickly disappeared into the house.
“Come on, let’s go straighten their shit out,” Cody said. I drove up and parked in front. He started to get out, but I stopped him.
“Let’s wait for them to come out. I want to do this in the street.”
“Who knows how long they’ll be inside?”
“Be patient. I have a feeling it won’t be long.”
I was right. Within five minutes the garage door opened, and the man named Tom wheeled out a large speaker cabinet on a dolly. Following him, a lanky, bearded man lugged a smaller amplifier, and then came Rabbit Switton, straining under the weight of a black bass drum. Before Tom spotted us, Cody and I were across the lawn and on the driveway. Tom’s expression went blank with surprise and fear, but he regained his composure quickly and smirked.
“Hey, it’s the douchebag patrol.”
I walked up to him, my legs energized, blood pounding in my temples. I caught his right wrist and twisted it until I could see the tip of his index finger was stained with red paint. He tried to jerk away, but I cranked his arm behind his back and tripped him to the ground, my knee on his spine.
“You think you can spray paint my house and get away with it, asshole?”
“Get the off me, man, or I swear to god, we will fuck you up.”
I yanked him to his feet by the collar. “Go ahead, fuck me up.”
He froze, and in my peripheral vision the bearded man and Rabbit were staring open-mouthed, as if witnessing a bad traffic accident. I saw in Tom’s eyes a brief glimmer of regret, like maybe he was remembering a turning point in his life, perhaps a choice he made years ago that was now irreversible. Then he let out a yell, his eyes round with rage, and threw a roundhouse right. The punch was telegraphed from a different time zone, and I easily blocked it, then stepped forward and hit him with an uppercut to the midsection that made his feet come off the ground. He would have collapsed, but I snatched him by the hair and grabbed his right hand. I squeezed, feeling his finger bones shift under the pressure.
“I’m in a charitable mood today, Tom, so I’m going to give you a chance to right this situation. Then you can go play your gig and everyone will think you’re a badass heavy metal man, and you can pretend this never happened. You hear me?”
He gagged and I thought he might puke. I waited until the color returned to his face as Cody discouraged the other two, who had snapped out of it and were talking and gesturing, trying to figure how to come to the a
id of their buddy.
“I’m looking for Jason Loohan,” I said. “Yeah, Billy Morrison’s best friend, asshole, so don’t tell me you don’t know him.”
“I, I got no idea…”
I squeezed harder. “Think on it, Tom. I’m sure you can come up with something. Where can I find him?”
“You’re gonna break my hand,” he cried.
“Wouldn’t that be a shame, you’ll never play guitar again. What a loss for the music industry.”
He dropped to his knees. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he whimpered.
“Last chance, Tom.” I tightened my grip, feeling the connective tissue ready to snap.
“Stop!” he screamed, sweat beaded on his forehead. “Jesus, Joe Norton, please let go. He’s been with Norton, shit, let go—”
“Where’s Norton live?”
“Green house, the only green house on Zane Ave, in Nevada behind the Safeway.”
I eased my hold. “All right, Tom, I’ll go check it out. If I find out you lied to me, I’ll come see you at Zeke’s tonight.”
“I ain’t lying.”
“Good boy. One more thing. Don’t even think of calling Norton. That would be a life-threatening mistake. You clear on that?”
He stood slowly. “Yes.”
“You also owe me for paint and my time,” I said, and spun him around and yanked his wallet out of his back pocket. When I saw it contained only three one-dollar bills, I rolled my eyes and flung it onto the roof of the house. “Let’s go,” I said to Cody, but as I started for my truck, a white Lincoln pulled up to the curb. The door swung open and a man dressed in gray slacks, dress shoes, and a lavender polo shirt stepped onto the asphalt. He was in his fifties, wide shoulders, neck like a bull, his eyes small in his meaty face.
“What’s going on here?”
“Who are you?” I said.
“John Switton. I live here.”
“Hey, Pop, we’re loading our gear for the gig.”
“I can see that, Rabbit. What’s your problem?” he said to Tom.
“Nothing,” Tom mumbled, and walked back to where he’d left the dolly. Switton shifted his eyes back to me.
“He vandalized my house,” I said. “We’ve just been discussing the matter. I consider it resolved, for now.”
“Vandalized? Was Rabbit part of this?” He addressed me, then turned and looked at the others. Cody was standing next to Rabbit, whose mouth moved silently, as if he was trying to formulate a sentence but the words escaped him.
John Switton moved in a blur, and in a second had his hands on Tom, who yelled in protest as the older man grabbed his collar and slammed him down on the hood of the Ford truck.
“What kind of shit are you dragging my son into?” he snarled, holding Tom by the neck. The bearded man took a step forward, but Cody stopped him with a forearm to the chest.
Tom got out a few strangled words before Switton lifted him and again slammed him on the hood. “Rabbit doesn’t think too well,” Switton said through clenched teeth. “He’s easily influenced. I hold you personally responsible for any trouble he gets into. Understand?” Before Tom could answer, Switton pivoted at the hip and flung him through the air. Tom landed on the lawn with a snort.
“Well done,” Cody said, walking between them to my rig.
Switton and I met eyes but neither of us spoke. I felt an odd bond, as if we shared an agenda beyond our dislike of Tom, but it was probably nothing more than a random thought. I nodded at Switton, and for a second, a smile began on his face. Then it was gone, and I climbed into my cab and drove away.
• • •
As we crossed the state line, I found myself thinking back to earlier in my career, to the eccentric personalities, the neurotics, the cavalier, the violent. My last boss, Rick Wenger, had motivations straightforward and without complexity—he was in it for the money. Wenger was obsessed by wealth, and judged all individuals solely on their financial status. If someone was relatively poor, he considered them a dirtbag. Conversely, if a person was wealthier than he was, Wenger was wracked with envy. There was no middle ground, no moral or ethical considerations in Wenger’s equation. A hospice nurse making fifty thousand a year helping terminally ill patients die in comfort was simply inferior to a used car salesman pulling down sixty grand. In applying his perspective to his job, Wenger sought out cases posing minimal risk and high potential for billable hours. As long as he got paid, he had no philosophical concern as to the resolution of any case.
Before my career with Wenger, I worked for a bail bondsman named Ray Loretta. A man of extraordinary physical and mental energy, Loretta loved the challenges of the job. For him, pitting his skills against the criminals he worked with was great fun. He provided bond to the highest risk crooks, and eagerly chased them down when they fled. He pepper-sprayed con artists, beat murder suspects bloody with his fists, kicked gangbangers in the balls and laughed at them, and once shot a rapist in the head during a hundred-mile-per-hour chase through downtown San Jose. In his spare time, he was a prolific ladies’ man and had multiple affairs ongoing at any given moment. How he managed all this while maintaining his wife and three kids was beyond me.
A mile into Nevada, I stopped in an empty parking lot, and as I assembled my gear, I considered my own motivations. It would have been easy to assume Jason Loohan was long gone by now, so why not forget about him? I wasn’t in dire straits for money, and the three-grand bounty seemed a paltry fee for chasing a man I knew would kill me given the chance. Instead, Cody and I could turn around and head over to Pistol Pete’s, play some cards, maybe say hello to Teresa Perez. Maybe get drunk, then tomorrow I could work on revitalizing my investigations business, solicit the local attorneys, try to land a divorce case or two. I felt the weight of my automatic in my hand, and thought, “Why not?”
Years ago, a district attorney had taken exception to my involvement in a shooting. The charges were eventually dropped, but in the process, I was sent to a court-appointed psychologist. After a couple sessions on the couch, the shrink submitted his report, professing that I suffered from “social vengeance syndrome, a desire to rid society of its ills by violent means.” He went on to elaborate: “This behavior is classic overcompensation for anger and feelings of loss due to his father’s murder. His tendency to proactively defend what is near and dear to him is extreme and borderline antisocial. He displays a lack of faith in the legal justice system, and if threatened will likely respond with extreme prejudice.”
This kind of psychobabble always made me chuckle, because it ignored a fundamental reality; when dealing with criminals who’d gladly see me dead, the best defense, and actually the safest tact, was a full-blown offense. A passive approach was almost always foolhardy. It was as simple as that.
Bottom line: Jason Loohan had shot my best friend and the bullet meant for me had blown out my truck’s windshield. He may have left for parts unknown, or he could be lying in wait for the right moment to finish the job. As much as I might have liked to find a rationale to discount the threat he represented, I knew I wouldn’t. Loohan needed to be found and dealt with.
Body armor on, stun gun, handcuffs, mace, and my Beretta .40 cal. in place, I watched Cody strap on his vest and secure his shoulder holster. He swung my sawed-off to an upright position, the barrel resting on his shoulder.
“If he runs, shoot for his legs,” I said.
Five minutes later we drove down the street where I’d been told Joe Norton lived. It was a neighborhood of working-class tract homes, probably thirty or forty years old, most shabby and unkempt, some with faded FOR RENT placards in the windows, all anonymous and unremarkable. Abrupt late afternoon clouds had moved in, blotting out the sun and casting a dreary grayness over the residences and the scattering of aged vehicles parked along the curb. Toward the end of the street was an olive-green house, its front lawn dead and a familiar blue Chevy Chevelle in the driveway. A BEWARE OF DOG sign hung on a chain link gate barricading the side yard.
“Yeah.” I handed him a plastic container from my gear case. We parked a few doors down and watched the neighborhood for a while. The quiet and stillness left me with the impression this was a place where people kept to themselves, greeting their neighbors with blank stares and nods but nothing more. No block parties, gleeful children’s voices, or Fourth of July fireworks here. No Christmas lights either, just the occasional kaleidoscope of spinning red-and-blue lights atop a police cruiser. Peel away the weathered siding and brittle roofs on these houses, and you’d find plenty of dirty secrets and unhappy lives.
Nothing stirred at the green house. We left my truck and once we were close enough, Cody winged some nuggets of dog food into the side yard. When no dog appeared, he walked over and rattled the gate. He waited a moment, then opened it and moved along the side of the house.
I checked the windows in front, but the curtains were drawn. I moved to the front step and tried the locked doorknob. If the door had been a stout, solid unit, I would have knocked, but this one was moisture warped and maybe just flimsy enough. “Decisions, decisions,” I sighed. Then I reared my leg back and kicked as hard as I could, my heel slamming into the jamb. The wood splintered with a loud crack and the door flew open so fast it bounced off the interior wall and slapped shut before I could react. I hit it with my palm and burst into the house, covering the room with my automatic.
A thump sounded down a dark hallway. I ran over and opened a door to an empty bedroom, then kicked in the locked door across from it, ready to fire. Joe Norton stood shirtless, struggling to pull on a pair of pants. His bed was unmade, and the room smelled stale and foul.
“The fuck is this?” he said, his eyes puffy with sleep.
“Jason Loohan. Where is he?”
“Beats the hell out of me. I’m calling the cops.”
“You, call the cops? What, you got some friends on the force? Maybe Nevada PD?”
He sat on the bed and rubbed his eyes, the thick cords of muscle in his shoulders bulging against his white skin. “I was taking a nap, man.”