Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel

by Dave Stanton

  “I think that’s just the vodka talking.”

  He guffawed at that, his meaty paw massaging my neck, his fingers rough as raw leather.

  “Maybe so, Dirt. Maybe so.”

  • • •

  We spent the rest of the afternoon driving from one side of Reno to the other, then south of Carson City to Minden. None of the names provided by Luther Conway amounted to anything. The phone numbers were either disconnected or wrong numbers, the addresses vacant, nonexistent, and, at our final stop, to a closed machine shop.

  The sun had dropped behind a swath of hazy clouds. I sat on Cody’s hood, my feet on his bumper, while he stood and stared at the steep, craggy mountainside behind us. We were now well south of Spooner Pass and would have to drive up the sharp, narrow road leading up Kingsbury Grade back to Tahoe.

  “Give me a cigarette, would you?” I said.

  He tossed me his pack. “You want to go back and do a prayer session with Conway?”

  I shook my head. “Not today. I think it might be a waste of time.”

  “You got any better ideas?”

  I took a couple drags, then flicked the cigarette into the gravel. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s time for round two with Joe Norton.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Cody said, his eyes lighted with a knowing gleam, as if he’d been waiting patiently all day for me to reach that conclusion.

  15

  For the first time since he’d arrived in Lake Tahoe, John Switton felt truly at peace with the world. It was an odd sensation, he thought, as he drove along the highway and watched the blue waters of the lake sparkle in the morning sun. Life doesn’t always have to be a battle. Sometimes it’s best not to sweat the little things. So what if Vinnie Tuma was procuring the services of his whore? She was a prostitute, after all. If John wanted something more, a real girlfriend, he could always go down that road. Maybe one day.

  More importantly, his bigger concerns, those revolving around his son, seemed to be in control. After his little powwow with Tom, John showed up at the gig at Zeke’s. The freak show was in full force, but the music was almost tolerable, since John borrowed some of Robert’s industrial-strength earplugs. And his son’s performance on the drums was nothing short of amazing. Where he’d acquired the talent, John didn’t know. Probably some random recessive gene from who knows how many generations ago.

  Even the bizarre show in the mosh pit was entertaining. John enjoyed watching the fools stomp around like raving lunatics in their strange celebration of violence. Every so often one of them would take an elbow to the face or a knee to the groin, and then the swarm would gain in intensity, like a school of hungry piranhas smelling blood in the water.

  During the band’s break, Robert came to where John stood near the bar.

  “Hey, Dad. What do you think?”

  “You did great, son. I’m very proud.”

  Robert beamed, at a loss for words as he often was, but his affection for his father was clear in his eyes.

  The other band members approached. “Hello, Mr. Switton,” the bearded guitar player said. The bassist said the same and shook hands. Then Tom stepped forward and made eye contact, bowing slightly, showing respect. They left quickly afterward, leaving John alone to consider whether their reconciliatory gestures were authentic or not. He decided they were—his roughing up of Tom had apparently gotten through to them.

  When John reached his office, he read the Tahoe Daily Tribune while drinking a cup of coffee. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard getting used to this town. Sure, he still missed some things about the East Coast, but the clean mountain air, the breathtaking scenery, and some of the funky local restaurants were starting to grow on him. Just the night before last, he and Robert had eaten at a place called The Redwood Tavern, and John couldn’t deny their twenty-two-ounce T-bone was the best he’d ever had.

  After finishing some paperwork, John walked out to the casino floor. When he passed by the sports book, he saw Vic Severino come out of the “Employees Only” doorway. It struck John as unusual; Severino rarely showed his face in the casino.

  “John, I was looking for you,” Severino said, waving John toward him and retreating to the hallway leading to his office.

  “You found me,” John said, following him. “What’s up?”

  Severino didn’t reply until they reached his office, a large, carpeted room. One wall was lined with file cabinets, the others with cheap framed posters of motivational messages. The phrases might have been appropriate for the halls of a high school, or maybe even a corporate boardroom, but in this office, John thought they were ludicrous. Severino sat behind his desk, a large, glass-top unit.

  “Sit,” Severino said, motioning at the single chair facing the desk.

  A tiny buzz coursed through John’s viscera. He studied Severino: his long fingers curled around a pen, the stiff posture, the downturned lips. John lowered himself into the chair.

  “Have you seen Vinnie Tuma?” Severino said, staring straight into John’s eyes.

  John relaxed a bit and allowed himself a small smile.

  “No, I haven’t seen the kid. What, I’m his babysitter?”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I don’t know—two, three nights ago. Why?”

  “He’s missing,” Severino said. Still staring, his pupils like black marbles.

  “He is, huh? I’m sure he’ll turn up. Maybe he’s out on a binge somewhere.”

  “What were you doing Saturday morning?”

  “What? What is this, an interrogation?” John stopped himself. An odd glow had taken hold on Severino’s face, his eyes shining with an intensity that seemed almost carnal. It occurred to John he’d never known Severino to be with a woman, and maybe it was because the creepy prick was the type who got his rocks off on snuff films.

  “I was enjoying my day off. Eating breakfast and relaxing at home.”

  Severino was quiet for a moment. He put his fists together in front of his mouth, his elbow resting on the desktop.

  “Everyone knows you can’t stand the kid.”

  “So what? He’s a jerkoff. Nobody likes him.”

  “He told me you threatened him, and he was going to talk to Sal about replacing you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I never threatened Vinnie Tuma.”

  “He claimed you did. And now he’s vanished.”

  “He’s probably shacked up with a hooker or two and frying his brain on crack. The kid’s got a drug problem. He’ll probably show up sometime today.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Severino said, his eyebrows creased low, the grainy skin on his forehead shining in the light, his gaze fixed on Irish John.

  Standing to leave, John looked at Severino one last time. Perhaps Severino had been seething all these years because John whacked Severino’s old friend. If so, was this the opportunity Severino had been waiting for, a chance to settle the score?

  • • •

  The desert floor fell behind us as we climbed the two-lane through the foothills and into the deep forest. The road wound up the grade through a sea of pine and fir, the trees towering above us, their tips touching the darkening sky. The last of the twilight had given way to a starless night by the time we reached the summit and started descending toward Lake Tahoe. When we reached Highway 50, it was pitch black outside. We turned right, heading toward Joe Norton’s rental home.

  There were no streetlamps on Norton’s street, and the light emitting from the neighboring houses was almost nonexistent. Norton’s blue Chevy was not in the driveway, as it had been on our previous visit. We parked and watched the dark house for a few minutes.

  “Looks empty,” Cody said.

  “Maybe he’s taking another nap.”

  “Let’s go see.”

  We crept across the front yard. Cody went to the side yard while I approached the front door. The dead bolt that had been there before was replaced with a cheap bedroom-style lockset, and the splintered doorjamb looked like it had been
glued together. I turned the knob and gave the door a quick bump with my shoulder. A cracking sound, and the latch snapped free of the jamb. I slid into the entryway, past a small kitchen, and into the main room, where through the sliding glass door I could see Cody’s silhouette move silently in the backyard.

  It was dead quiet inside. I felt my way down the hallway to the two bedrooms. My Beretta in my hand, I pushed open Norton’s bedroom door and flicked on the light. I let out my breath. The room was empty.

  So was the other bedroom, but a rumpled green blanket and a grayish pillow lay on the bed. I was sure they hadn’t been there when I was here before. I ran my finger over the pillow and came away with two long, black hairs. I paused for a second, then checked the closet—nothing, not even a hanger.

  I moved to the family room and hit the light switch. A couch, coffee table, and a TV, all dated and probably bought used. Some jackoff mags on the coffee table. Hustler and a few others I’d never heard of.

  Cody knocked on the window, and I opened the slider. In one hand was his flashlight, in the other an empty quart container of Castrol 4-stroke motorcycle oil.

  “This was in the garbage can,” he said. “Let’s go check the garage.”

  We went through the dingy kitchen to a door leading to a vacant two-car garage. Spider webs hung thickly from the two-by-fours, and dust floated under the fluorescent light overhead.

  “Look,” Cody said, pointing downward, to where the distinct tread pattern of an off-road motorcycle tire tracked the concrete floor.

  “Question is,” I said, “assuming Loohan was here, when was it?”

  “Better question is, when will he be back?”

  Before leaving we turned out the lights, and I pressed the splintered doorframe back in place, hoping Norton wouldn’t notice it had been re-broken. Unless he was brain-dead, he’d probably see it had been. But at this point, I didn’t really give a shit. I planned on kicking the door in again first thing in the morning, and then we’d see how Norton liked my personal version of heavy metal.

  • • •

  We drove away into the moonless night and were almost to 50 when a sedan pulled up close behind us. A moment later a single red light atop its roof flashed, followed by the long piercing note of a siren. As Cody pulled over onto the dirt shoulder, I turned and looked behind us, but the spotlight attached to the driver’s door was blinding.

  “Routine traffic stop?” Cody said.

  “Doubt it.”

  They approached from either side, the two men shining flashlights.

  “Driver’s license and registration,” the voice on the left said.

  A dark night. An unmarked car. An anonymous voice. I looked at Cody. He hadn’t yet switched off the ignition key. I could tell by his grimace he was thinking along the lines I was: maybe best to punch the gas and barrel into California. The state line was less than half a mile away.

  But then the man on Cody’s side leaned down and showed his face. It was the plainclothesman from Douglas County, the tall man whose patch-like complexion and thick eyelids made me think of a grouper. The same cop who came into California and busted the Mexican drug dealers, the same one who evidently played by rules that stretched both legality and convention.

  I found the registration in the glove box and handed it to Cody. “What’s happening, Detective?” I said.

  The man took the document from Cody’s hand and studied it, and after a minute he leaned his face back into the window.

  “You Dan Reno?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A complaint’s been filed against you both for breaking and entering and destruction of property. Step out of the car so I can read you your rights.”

  “We’re licensed fugitive recovery agents,” I said. “Anything we’ve done is within our legal rights.”

  “Really? Interesting stuff. Step out of the car, please.”

  Cody and I climbed out. The man on my side of the truck was of average height and had well-shaped facial features compromised by bumpy and pitted skin. As he began reading us our Miranda rights, an odor like spoiled cologne wafted from his body. When he finished he said, “Assume the position. Hands on the hood, legs spread.”

  While the man patted me down, I fixed my eyes on the big cop.

  “Joe Norton has a rap sheet that includes a charge of murder. I suspected he was harboring a bail skip from New Jersey. The bail skip is a guy who makes Norton look like a boy scout.”

  The policeman clicked a cuff around one of my wrists and pulled my arms together behind me. “Tell it to the judge,” he said.

  “Hey, guys,” Cody said, as he was cuffed, “I spent five years on the force in San Jose. I worked for one of the most corrupt squads in the western US. When it all came crashing down, two of my ex-partners were sent to San Quentin. They’re still there.”

  “And I give a shit, why?” said the smaller cop.

  “Just something to think about, know what I mean?”

  “Nope,” the cop said, and cinched the cuffs tight enough to cut off my circulation. Then they escorted us to the back of their car, and fifteen minutes later we were booked into the Douglas County jail.

  • • •

  I imagine after a certain length of incarceration, you reach a point where getting a decent night’s sleep is not impossible. The olfactory system tends to desensitize quickly, so maybe the thick odor of stale sweat, unwashed clothes, and low-grade institutional food becomes tolerable. As for the constant assault on the ears, the answer is less clear. During the quietest moments in a holding cell, the noise level is a cacophony of snores, groans, sighs, and gaseous eruptions. Dozing through it might be feasible for a deep sleeper. But on a regular basis, perhaps every hour or so, the night is disrupted by the heavy clang of cell doors, or loud, angry voices, or the wretched coughing and convulsions of a drunk heaving his guts out.

  At dawn I sat up on my cot and surveyed the dozen or so men sharing the pen with Cody and me. A gray-bearded schizophrenic lay sleeping across the room, his hands black with grime, his body encased in layers of clothes. On the cot above him a skinny black man snuffled continuously, dealing with some private grief. In the next bunk, a young white kid was curled beneath his blanket, while the mattress over him sagged low with the weight of a snoring Mexican. Two cots over, a pair of bikers sat whispering, their eyes lit as if hatching some grand scheme, probably wired out of their gourds on crank.

  An hour later not much had changed, except the grayness in the room had lessened as daylight ebbed through a pair of small, barred windows. One of the bikers, a stout, greasy man, shorter than me but just as heavy, walked to where the white youth lay, and stripped his blanket from him, revealing the kid huddled in a blue ski coat.

  “I like your jacket,” the biker said. “Take it off.”

  His eyes round with fear, the kid sat up and began pushing his arms out of the sleeves.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said from where I sat. “What’s the matter, don’t you like my coat?”

  The biker shot his eyes at me, his face at first surprised, then he put on his best deadeye stare.

  “Mind your own fuckin’ business,” he said.

  I stood and walked toward him. “I’m serious, man.” I said. “I think my coat would fit you better. His is too small. Are you telling me you think different?”

  He shook his head, one side of his mouth opening in an incredulous sneer that exposed blackened gums and a missing tooth. I could see his hostility recede as he sized me up.

  “What’s your problem, bro?” he said.

  “I ain’t your brother, asshole.”

  “Hey, man—”

  I felt an icy blast of adrenaline course through my veins, as if the frustrations of the last twenty-four hours were encased in a crystal sphere held together only by the glue of my patience, and now that the first cracks in the shell had manifested, its shattering was imminent and outside my control. I smiled, my mouth cold and suddenly flooded with a taste like ra
w copper. The biker backed up a step.

  “Tell me if I’m right, here,” I said. “You’re a chickenshit cocksucker who preys on those who can’t defend themselves. You hang around with other so-called badasses because left alone you wet your pants when someone gets in your face.”

  The other biker, a bald-headed dude with a Fu Manchu mustache, scrambled down from the upper bunk.

  “Back off now, man,” he said. “We’re cool here.”

  “Bullshit we are,” said the stocky biker, his voice coming from the gut. He rushed forward and feigned a left hook, then tried to tackle me. I grabbed him by the back of the neck with both hands and brought my knee into his face, the crunch of bone on bone loud in the dank room, the impact like a sledge hammer busting through a piece of rotted wood. The man fell back unconscious, but before he hit the ground, his partner threw a fast right aimed at my ear. I ducked the punch, felt his fist graze my hair, and came up swinging, landing a hard shot to his ribs. His mouth went round as he tried to suck air, one eye clamped shut against the pain. Bent at the waist and backing up, he jabbed ineffectually until his heel caught the metal leg of a bed frame, and he fell onto his back. He tried to scramble to his feet, but I kicked him in the midsection, the toe of my boot ramming deep into his stomach. He collapsed gasping onto the dirty concrete floor. Curled in the fetal position, he raised his hand in surrender.

  “Bravo,” Cody said, clapping twice, his legs hanging down from the top bunk. After a long moment, I said, “Fuck it,” and returned to my cot.

  A few minutes later the jailer came by, a crusty, bow-legged man of indeterminate years who briefly cast his opaque blue eyes on the unconscious and bleeding biker, and seemingly discounted the situation as if it were no more a nuisance than a tipped-over trash can.

  “What happened to him?” the jailer croaked.

  “He fell out of bed,” said the other biker, who’d slithered back up to his bunk.

  The jailer left without reply and within a few minutes, two men with a stretcher came and took the injured man away.

  Breakfast came and went, and around ten in the morning, my lawyer, Sam Ruby, an ex-San Jose defense attorney who now worked out of Tahoe City, arrived. By noon we were kicked free on our own recognizance, Norton’s complaint still pending.