by Dave Stanton
“Why don’t you come join us for an after-dinner drink?” he said.
I looked at Julie. “Come on, say hello to the gang,” she said.
“Okay, just one drink.”
“Excellent,” Parkash said. He had an affinity for sweet drinks. I’d seen him swill copious amounts of Grand Marnier, peppermint schnapps, Yukon Jack, and the like.
People were milling around the plush dining room as the waiters served coffee and the last of the desserts. We sat at an empty table.
“My god, I would be so pissed if I was Desiree,” Julie said.
“Why?”
“You should have heard all the speeches before dinner. Nobody hardly said a word about Desiree, it’s all about how amazing Sylvester is. Then, to top it off, John Bascom announces the great Sylvester is getting a big promotion.”
“Didn’t Jerry get up and say something?” I said, referring to Jerry McGee, Desiree’s father.
“I don’t think they even gave him a chance,” Julia said. “I think if the Bascoms had any class they would have said something nice about Desiree themselves.”
“Sounds a bit self-centered on their part,” I offered.
“That’s an understatement. I think they’re a bunch of snobs.”
Jerry McGee saw us and walked over, preventing Julia from elaborating further. Jerry was a handsome man, but even for an event like tonight’s, he hadn’t deviated from his typical dress code. His blue Dockers were rumpled, and his old pink oxford shirt looked like it had been pulled out of a laundry hamper. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and his worn, brown belt was too long—the end hung halfway down his pocket. I looked down and was relieved to see he was wearing shoes; Jerry’s habit was always to take off his shoes when indoors.
I shook hands with him and said, “Congratulations, Jerry.”
“Thanks…I think,” he replied, but then he laughed. “The Bascoms are nice people. I’m very happy for Desiree.”
“I hear they are famously wealthy,” Parkash commented.
“Well, I suppose that’s true,” Jerry said.
The guests were beginning to disperse. John Bascom, his wife, and the rest of the group at the head table stood and began making their way toward the exit. I spotted Desiree, looking quite slender and chic, and her husband-to-be, Sylvester Bascom, a well built, balding man of medium height. They went their separate ways; Sylvester joined a cluster of fellows I assumed were the groomsmen, and Desiree was gathered up by the bridesmaids.
In my peripheral vision I noticed a curvy female figure in black walking toward us. The tantalizing shape of her body was clearly visible through her sheer gown. It was Mandy McGee, Desiree’s voluptuous sister.
“Hello, Dan,” Mandy said, peeking at me from under her thick eyelashes. The bangs of her dirty blond hair hung in a straight line over her eyebrows. An electric jolt charged through my groin, and immediately my heart rate picked up. She gave me a sly little smile, leaned down, and brushed her lips against my cheek, affording me an unavoidable, close-up view of her large breasts, which were barely restrained by the lacy bra beneath her low-cut dress. I averted my eyes, embarrassed by the provocative gesture, especially because it was in plain view of her father and my ex-wife. But Mandy didn’t seem to care—I’d known her since she was sixteen, and she’d always loved to tease. I suspected she’d been doing so since she first reached puberty and realized the power she held over men.
“Hi, Mandy,” I said, and took a long sip from a cognac that had appeared in front of me. “How are you?”
“Just peachy.”
“Mandy, where’s Renaldo, your boyfriend?” Julia said.
Mandy pursed her lips in a mock pout. “Oh, him. He got upset about something and drove back to San Jose. Can you believe that?”
Jerry dropped his eyes. “Time for me to get some rest,” he said. “Goodnight, folks.”
“Goodnight, Daddy,” Mandy said. “I’m going to have a cigarette, Dan. Care to join me?”
“Sure,” I said. As I left with Mandy, I felt Julia’s eyes burning a hole in my back.
CHAPTER 3
She led me deep into the building to a lounge I’d never been to. The room, dark and elegant, had the unmistakable aura of old money. The bar’s ornate brass fixtures shined with a dull luster, like polished silver, and the woodwork looked carved from jade. Antique cocktail tables, glowing dimly under yellow mining lanterns, beckoned from the shadows. Between the tables, framed sepia photographs hung from the walls, depicting images of tycoons from the gold-rush era. I had a quick vision that maybe their ghosts would emerge from the pictures in the wee hours after closing time, to get drunk and relive the glory days of the boomtowns.
Mandy sat with her legs crossed, a Menthol 100 between her fingers, the smoke drifting into the shaft of yellow light above our table. Her black gown had a deep slit, and it fell open to reveal her shapely calf and tanned thigh.
“How long have you been up here?” I asked.
“Since Wednesday. We skied yesterday, before the storm came in.”
“How was the snow?”
“There was tons of fresh powder, it was awesome. But unfortunately my date didn’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because he told me he was a great skier, which was a lie. We went to the summit and he threw a total yard sale and never found one of his rental skis.”
“How did he get down the mountain?”
“They took him down on a stretcher sled. Can you believe that? He wasn’t even injured, and Renaldo goes down on a stretcher.”
“I guess it was either that or walk,” I said.
“He’s a big pussy, and I’m tired of his whining Chihuahua act. We got in a huge fight and when I got back to our room, all his stuff was gone. We drove up in his car and he left me. So, I’m here all alone.” She paused. “What have you got planned tonight?”
“Are you in the wedding tomorrow?” I asked. I assumed she was.
“Nope.” She blew a stream of smoke into the hazy lighting. “Desiree has a lot of friends. They just headed over to Nero’s for her bachelorette party.”
“Aren’t you going?”
“I might. Unless something more interesting comes up, Dan.” She tilted her head and looked up at me from under her bangs. I didn’t know if she did it instinctively or if it was rehearsed, but her brown eyes conveyed her offer as clearly as if she had spoken it outright. I’d also been around long enough to know she probably meant a boatload of trouble and heartache.
“Maybe another time, Mandy.”
She didn’t say anything, but leaned forward and put her hand on my chest, then glided her lips over the ridge of my ear. “That’s too bad,” she whispered. She moved back and took a sip from her drink, her eyes silently considering me.
“I guess I’ll go hang out with my sister and her friends,” she said after a moment. She excused herself to go the ladies’ room, and I headed back to the Midnight Tavern, glad to have resisted her, despite my body declaring otherwise.
******
Brad and Whitey were no longer at the bar, which was now nearly full. I sat alone near the end, drinking a cup of coffee. I was considering one more shot of whiskey before heading back to my hotel.
Two women at a nearby table were having an animated conversation. They looked to be in their thirties, and their dress seemed more appropriate for a nightclub than a casual bar. I couldn’t help overhearing as one said loudly, “My god, I went to the bridal shower last month, and I blacked out!”
“Tell me about it,” her friend said. “You know how some people are chain smokers? I’m a chain drinker.”
I finished my coffee and relaxed for a minute, wishing I had a cigarette. I turned around to the two ladies. “Excuse me, are you two by any chance in town for a wedding?”
“Why, yes,” giggled one with blond hair and dark eyebrows. “And you are?” She held out her hand, which looked like a junkyard of costume jewelry.
“Dan R
eno.” I shook her hand while taking a good look at her. She might have still been in her thirties, but if she was, those were some hard years.
“Say, could I bum a smoke from you?” I asked. There was a pack of Marlboros on the table.
“Absolutely,” said the other one. She had straight red hair parted in the middle and was wearing a low-cut blouse that showed a good four inches of freckly cleavage. She pulled a cigarette from the pack, but just before my hand reached hers she dropped it between her legs, and the cigarette tumbled to the floorboards.
“Oops,” I said automatically, bending to pick it up. I felt her hand on the back of my head and she held it down for a moment, near her lap. “While you’re down there,” she said, loud enough to make people look. She and her friend howled as I walked away, trying to hide an embarrassed grin.
It had stopped snowing and the cold outside was bone-numbing. The night air was still, but the high clouds were moving quickly against the thin moon, which meant the wind was probably whipping over the ridges. Patches of stars were becoming visible, twinkling above the black peaks. I smoked for a minute, then put the cigarette out in the snow and dropped the damp butt in a trashcan.
When I went back inside, a large man was leaning over the two ladies, his hands planted on their table. He was blocking my way to the bar. I said, “Excuse me,” and when he didn’t move I wedged my way past him and sat down. A slight man with stringy brown hair was also mixing drinks now, and I caught his eye. “What’ll it be?” he said, licking his lips and wiping his hands on his apron.
“CC straight up,” I said. The new bartender looked like a definite speed freak, like a rat that had spent too much time on the wheel.
Someone poked my shoulder. It was Julia, standing behind me with Parkash.
“I cannot believe her,” she said, and pointed across the room, where Mandy McGee had suddenly appeared. She was talking to a man I didn’t recognize. She looked to be in an intense conversation with the guy, who had bleached-blond hair cut in a flattop and a deep bronze tan that looked a little silly in the dead of winter. He leaned close to her ear, speaking rapidly with his brow furrowed. He stood about six-foot-three and was wearing tan slacks, tasseled loafers, and a light blue polo shirt stretched tight across his chest. The sleeves of the shirt clung halfway up his oversize biceps, and his forearms rippled with veins.
“She may be my niece, but that little sleaze is nothing but bad news, Dan,” Julia said.
Mandy glanced in our direction then turned back to her conversation. The man looked up, and our eyes clicked for an instant. It was Sven Osterlund.
“I’ll see you two tomorrow at the wedding,” I said.
Julia and Parkash left, and when I looked a minute later, Mandy was gone. Then a commotion caught my attention.
“I’m sorry, we’re leaving now,” the redhead who gave me the cigarette said. Her voice was shrill. She was standing, and the man at their table was holding her arm at the elbow. She tried to move away, but he pulled her toward him.
“Come on, why don’t we all go to my room and do some blow?” he said. I put my shot glass down and turned all the way around on my barstool. The man had one foot hiked up on a chair, and the sole of his boot was worn almost slick. He wore a brown Pendleton shirt with the sleeves rolled, showing light hair on his forearms that was kinky, like it had been singed by heat. His mug was framed by a choppy haircut, or maybe he just hadn’t bothered with a comb recently. He was probably a little over six feet, and I guessed his weight at 220. His pale blue eyes caught mine, and in that instant I knew it was trouble. I’d seen the look plenty of times, a bully’s insolent glare, one that was meant to demean through physical intimidation. Being whacked on coke or crank added fuel to the attitude, and this dude was chewing his cud like he hadn’t eaten in three days.
I stood up. “Take your hands off her,” I said. He curled his lip at me, then shoved her away. She tripped and fell to the floor.
“Who died and left you in charge, motherfucker?” he rasped. Before I could respond, he took two quick steps, cocked his shoulder, and threw a roundhouse punch at my head. I ducked, and a rush of rank air swept over my face, the stench like damp, unwashed clothes. I sprang forward and drilled him flush in the face with a straight left. His nose cracked like a chicken bone, and blood and white snot burst from his nostrils. He was stunned for only a second, then his eyes went wild and he came at me again with another right. I blocked the punch and hit him with a solid uppercut to the jaw. As he fell over a table, the back of his boot caught the scrawny bartender in the stomach. The bartender had foolishly come over the bar to break it up—now he lay gasping in the fetal position, tangled amid the legs of the tables and chairs.
The crowd was scrambling to get clear, but I thought the dude was done. I was wrong. He climbed back up, spit out a mouthful of blood, then threw a table out of the way and bull-rushed me. I grabbed a barstool, jabbed it at his knees and felt his shin crack against it. Then I shoved it in his midsection and ran forward, driving him into the double doors of the saloon’s entrance.
He grunted as his back slammed into the heavy wood, but he was still holding on to the barstool and trying to take it from me. The doors gave way, and I gave him one final shove, then let go as he fell outside. He tumbled backward down the steps, flailing wildly while clutching the barstool with one hand. The back of his head smacked hard against the steel bumper of an old Dodge pickup, and his body thudded to a stop in the snow. I’d seen men die from lesser blows to the back of the head, but the bastard must have had a thick skull, because he came to a moment later, groaning, and puked up a belly full of liquid.
I stood on the steps as the patrons spilled out the entrance. The two women came out, the redhead crying and holding a bloodied elbow. The crowd clustered around, chattering in stunned tones and watching intently. They formed a loose circle around the injured man, but most stayed far enough away to avoid catching a whiff of his vomit.
After a minute, two Ford Explorer sheriff’s vehicles with their bubble lights on bounced up the ice berm and skidded to a stop in the slush of the parking lot. A beefy black man climbed out of his rig and surveyed the scene. His striped Silverado County Sheriff’s Department pants were too short and looked too tight, and his gun belt rested on the paunch above his crotch. His thick upper body looked like it would split the seams of his green shirt if he moved too suddenly.
“Officer, I’m Dan Reno,” I said, sticking out my hand. He hesitated, then shook it briefly.
“Are you the one who called?” he said.
“No, I’m the one involved here.” I gestured at the man, who was on all fours over the contents of his stomach. Blood dripped out of his nose into the puddle. Three other deputies walked up. One of them stood with his palm resting on the butt of his service revolver. He wore aviator-style sunglasses, even though the sun had gone down hours ago. He looked to be in his early twenties.
The sheriff led me over to his vehicle. “Tell me what happened,” he said, looking past me at the other officers, who were talking to the spectators. The young cop was leaning down, speaking quietly to the man who was still on his hands and knees.
“The guy was bothering these ladies. I told him to knock it off, and he shoved one of them to the ground and took a swing at me. I hit him a couple times and pushed him out into the parking lot.”
“Looks like you beat the hell out of him.”
“He had it coming.”
“And you had no problem obliging, huh?”
“It was self-defense, Sheriff. The guy was looking for trouble, and if I hadn’t shoved him outside, people might have been hurt.”
“Sounds like you’re an A-number-one citizen. Let me see your ID, please.” I pulled my wallet out and was handing him my driver’s license when the cop in the sunglasses walked up and unclipped his cuffs from his belt.
“Put your hands on the car and spread ’em,” he said.
“No need, Fingsten,” the sheriff said. “Did
you call the ambulance?”
“No need, my butt,” the man named Fingsten said, and put his hand on my arm and tried to push me into position against the sheriff’s car. I leaned my weight against him and didn’t budge.
Fingsten’s lips quivered and he sneered under a mustache that looked like an undernourished caterpillar. He continued trying to force me against the car, but he was giving away about fifty pounds, and I’d tussled with stronger women.
“Move it, you son of a bitch,” he said, and unsnapped the steel button on his holster.
“Goddammit, Fingsten,” the sheriff said, “I told you to call an ambulance. Now.”
“You’re not gonna let this guy walk?”
The sheriff’s eyes flashed, and he took a quick step toward Fingsten. “Move,” he ordered. Fingsten smirked and sauntered away slowly, his shoulders back and his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. “Stupid…” he muttered, and I swore I heard him say “nigger.” I looked at the sheriff, but he’d already gone to his car to radio in my ID.
Fingsten bent down and put his hand on the injured man’s shoulder, as if reassuring him. I walked around and sat on the back bumper of the sheriff’s vehicle. Another deputy was taking a statement from the two gals, who were gesturing vigorously, waving their arms about and throwing punches in the air.
“Then he says, ‘I wouldn’t mind giving an older broad like you the high hard one,’” said the redhead. “Yeah,” the blonde said, “and he asked me if I take it up the ass!”
The redhead looked like she was doing a drunken imitation of a kung fu movie, when suddenly she ran over to the injured man, who was still on his knees, and hooked him in the nuts from behind, as if she were kicking a field goal. The dude jerked upright, screaming the way a man only does when his testicles are grievously injured, and fell over onto his side, knocking Fingsten’s legs out from under him.