Stateline

by Dave Stanton

  “Where you guys staying, Whitey?”

  “Over at the Lazy Eight, it’s right next to Harvey’s.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “We walked,” he said. “Did you hear, Osterlund’s truck got ripped off.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, somebody freakin’ heisted it from Caesar’s parking lot. Can you believe that?”

  “Did Osterlund report it to the cops?”

  “Shit, I dunno. We’ve been so fried this trip, I got no idea.”

  “You think maybe Sylvester OD’ed last night?” I said.

  “He wasn’t too messed up. At least not when I saw him.”

  I looked at Whitey. He was a likable guy, but I wondered what his future held in store. I knew guys I went to school with who were thirty-three, thirty-four years old, and hopelessly addicted to alcohol and drugs. They lived with their parents and worked occasionally at menial odd jobs. Their worlds revolved around the daily challenge of coming up with enough scratch for a cheap twelve-pack and a pack of hacks. In times of prosperity they’d splurge on a bag of crank or maybe find some Ritalin or ecstasy. Eventually, I imagined they’d either become successful twelve-steppers or end up on the street and probably die prematurely of liver disease or exposure.

  I looked in the rearview mirror. Brad was leaning back with his eyes closed and his mouth open. I could hear him breathing.

  “Hey, Whitey,” I said, “check it out. I’m driving up 50 yesterday afternoon, I’m chaining up about ten miles past Placerville, and this big white Chevy truck comes power sliding around the curve and sprays me with a bunch of snow. Then a guy sticks his head out the passenger window and yells some shit and flings a half empty can of Coors at me. I see the license plate on the truck. It says ‘PSYCHIC.’”

  Whitey’s mouth opened and his eyes widened. He looked like he’d just been caught in a ladies’ locker room.

  “Hey, man,” I said. “I’m not pissed anymore. I just want to know who did it.”

  “Dude, I can’t say for sure, but it was probably me,” he blurted. “I mean, yeah, I was with Osterlund in his truck, we were drunk, and we did a couple fat rips right after we scored, and we were screwin’ off on the drive back. I’m sorry, dude. I didn’t know it was you.”

  “It’s cool, Whitey. But I was pissed at the time, you know?”

  “I’m sorry, dude.”

  “Osterlund’s a good buddy of yours?”

  “Yeah, he’s all right. He just goes a little psycho at times.”

  “When he’s too messed up?”

  “Shit, sometimes even when he’s straight. It’s like he’s got demons in his head or something.”

  I turned into the Lazy 8 and parked in front of their room. Brad was snoring. I pulled him out of the backseat and lifted him over my shoulder. Whitey opened the door, and I dropped Brad on one of the beds.

  “I think I’ll take a bong hit and pass out too,” Whitey said.

  “When you see Osterlund, tell him he should check to see if his truck was towed by the police.”

  “Towed?”

  “Happens all the time around here.”

  I went to my car, thinking I’d head back over to Caesar’s and offer my condolences to the families, but I didn’t know the Bascoms, and the McGees would be surrounded by relatives and close friends. Maybe I’d just send a card to Julia’s family, although I wasn’t sure what kind of card would be appropriate.

  I looked down at my fancy shirt and slacks, and it occurred to me my plans for dinner and the rest of the evening were shot. It was a few minutes past five when I drove from the Lazy 8 back toward the Lakeside. I hadn’t slept much the night before, and the prospect of a slow night started sounding pretty good. There was an off-the-beaten-path bar and grill a little ways up 50 in Nevada that served good, old-fashioned greasy chow, burgers, tacos, pizza—the kind of food that made you feel warm and content when it hit your stomach. I could sit at the bar, drink a couple of margaritas on the rocks, play some video poker and mellow out, maybe crash around ten or so. But first I wanted to change clothes, so I pulled into my hotel.

  I hung up my jacket and slacks and put on my Levi’s and my old, comfortable, rust-colored cowboy boots. I was just walking out the door when my cell rang.

  “Is this Dan Reno?”

  “Yes, who’s calling?”

  “This is Edward Cutlip, personal assistant to John Bascom, president of Bascom Lumber. I’m calling because Mr. Bascom wants to speak to you regarding investigating his son’s death. He’d like to see you immediately. Can you come to our suite at Caesar’s right now?”

  “Actually, I was just heading out to get a bite.”

  “Mr. Bascom views this situation with tremendous gravity, as you might imagine. He also pays very well, but he insists on timeliness. I think you’ll find it worthwhile to delay your dinner plans.”

  I looked down and watched the toe of my boot tap the floor a few times. “Okay, I’ll come over. What room number?”

  “Suite four hundred. It’s five-seventeen. Can you make it by five-thirty?”

  “No problem.”

  “Good. I’ll tell Mr. Bascom. Please don’t be late.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The sun was setting over the snow-capped ridges above the west shores of Lake Tahoe. A strong wind had kicked up, dropping the temperature below freezing. The lake was twinkling with the sun’s last reflections, and the trees were fading to black. I had to park at the outer edge of Caesar’s crowded lot, and I zipped my ski jacket while I made the hike to the lobby.

  I took the elevator to the fourth floor. A slightly built, brown-haired man in a dark business suit stood outside suite 400.

  “Dan Reno?”

  “Reno,” I said. “As in Reynolds.”

  “I’m Edward Cutlip,” he said in a hushed tone. “This way, please.” I followed him into the suite, a large room lined with couches and padded chairs. On a small conference table in the center was a phone, some coffee cups, and a bottle of Wild Turkey. Two notebook computers and a printer sat on a credenza against the back wall, where a small group of people huddled together, talking in whispers. A woman with a tear-stained face came out of the bathroom; her puffy eyes met mine for a moment before she left the suite.

  We went through a side door I assumed was to a bedroom, but instead of a bed there was a large wood veneer desk. Behind the desk sat a man in his late fifties: John Bascom.

  Cutlip closed the door behind us and motioned for me to sit in a chair facing the desk. He took a seat at a small table off to the side.

  Bascom had changed out of his tuxedo into slacks and a black polo shirt. An oversized vein pulsated on the side of his forehead, and he looked at me with small, darting eyes. His lips were pressed against his teeth, and his jaw quivered in the last of the day’s sunlight, which weakly lit the room from a large window looking over the street.

  “Do you have a business card?” he asked. I pulled one out of my wallet and handed it to him. He looked at it long enough to read every word twice.

  “Okay, Reno, here’s my situation,” he said. “My son was beaten, robbed, stabbed to death. He died of his wounds, probably bled to death, in a suite at the Crown Ambassador Hotel. I just got back from there, and now I need to go formally identify his body at the coroner’s office.” He stopped talking and turned and gazed out the window. I waited, and the silence grew awkward, but he just sat and stared, for a minute, then two, until finally he regained his composure and continued.

  “I just met with the two local detectives assigned to investigate my son’s murder. I don’t have a great deal of faith in small-town police agencies, and these two are a good example why. I question their commitment and competency—let’s leave it at that. And I won’t even go into my opinions about the state of our courts.” He stood, sighed deeply, and walked over to the window.

  “I lost my first son when he was twenty-one. My remaining son has just been murdered…” His voice cracked, and I
thought he might break into tears, but instead he whipped around so quickly I almost put up my hands. His eyes were red-rimmed, his teeth clenched in a snarl. “And I want the lousy scum who did it.” He stood looming over me, shaking with anger. “Am I clear?” he hissed. “I want who did it! I don’t give a flying fuck about anything else! I don’t want the murdering bastard on the streets or even sitting in a cozy little jail and getting butt-rammed all day long! I want him!” His words exploded from deep in his chest, his face purple, spittle flying from his lips.

  He took a couple of long breaths, then snapped his fingers at Edward Cutlip and said, “Turkey.” Cutlip scrambled out the door and returned with the fifth of whiskey. Bascom splashed a few ounces in his coffee cup, drained it, and sat back down heavily.

  “Reno, I’ve checked your background. I know your history. The only thing that concerns me is you’ve never been in the service,” he said.

  “How did you access my background?”

  “I’m connected, believe me.”

  I wondered to what extent. “What does the service have to do with it?” I asked.

  “I did two tours in ’Nam, Reno, and spent six months in a POW camp. It gives one a certain perspective on crime and punishment.”

  “I’m not sure what you want from me,” I said. “The police are just beginning their investigation, and there’s a good chance they’ll make arrests within a couple days. Why do you need a private investigator?”

  “And if they don’t make arrests quickly?” Bascom said.

  “Why not give them a chance?”

  “Yes, and wait for them to flounder and let the trail grow cold. And then I wait for them to commit more time and resources they don’t have to the investigation. And eventually the case gets old and stagnant, and that’s it.” He paused, and we looked at each other for a long moment.

  “Answer me this, Reno,” he said. “In most cases that get solved, an arrest is made in the first seventy-two hours. Am I right?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Let me clarify a few things for you,” he continued. “I’ll make this very simple. I will pay you to drop everything and focus entirely on finding who killed my son. Take a leave of absence or quit your job at…” he picked up my card from his desk. “Wenger Associates. Understand, I don’t want a large, accredited detective agency involved. This is under the table. I do not want it publicized. The bottom line is I want you to identify and bring me the person responsible for…” He paused, and the room became quiet, then his shoulders hunched and he looked deflated and much older. “For the murder of my son.”

  I looked away from Bascom, unable to resist a weird but profound sense that in some dark corner of my psyche, I shared his loss. I shook my head, trying to ignore the random emotion, and glanced over at Cutlip, who was eyeing the whiskey. I stood, poured myself a jolt in a plastic cup, then poured one for Cutlip, but he wouldn’t take it from my hand so I set it in front of him. Bascom held out his cup, and I measured him a shot. The sky was dark outside, and the casino lights reflected into the room.

  “You’re asking me to leave my job and undertake a secret investigation without the knowledge of any police agency,” I said.

  “I didn’t say ‘secret.’ I want low profile.” Bascom leaned back in his chair. “If the police learn of your involvement, so be it. Your job will be to do what they can’t, or won’t do, if that’s what it takes.”

  I tasted the whiskey. A slew of issues and pros and cons jumbled around in my head, and finally I went to the bottom line. My old man had told me years ago to never lead with your chin in a negotiation; get the other party to the name the price first.

  “How much are you willing to pay?” I said. My sympathy for John Bascom did not extend to his bank account.

  “Name your price,” he shot back. So much for my strategy. I decided to start wildly high—from what I’d heard, he could afford it.

  “One hundred thousand up front.”

  He didn’t blink. “I’ll give you fifty thousand up front and the remaining fifty K for delivering the killer.”

  “Delivering a person constitutes kidnapping, and my bounty hunting license is expired,” I said.

  “Get it renewed.”

  “It’s not an overnight process.”

  “You’re not the right man for the job then. I’ll find someone else.”

  I looked at Bascom warily. “You’re asking me to stretch the law,” I said. “But for a hundred K, I’ll deliver your man.”

  “Dead or alive,” Bascom said flatly.

  “I’m a private investigator, not a hit man. I’ll deliver the killer. You want him dead, that’s your business.”

  “Yes. It is,” he said slowly. Then his eyes snapped back on mine, once again addressing me as a subordinate. “I’ll want daily reports,” he said. There was a light knock on the door, and Nora Bascom stuck her head in. “Edward will take care of the paperwork and details,” Bascom said. “I need you to call him with a progress report daily.” He stood without further comment, went to his wife, and left me with Cutlip.

  “Give me a minute,” Cutlip said as he typed on a notebook computer. I went over to the window and gazed out at the neon lights of Pistol Pete’s casino. A thirty-foot-tall cowboy was in a fast-draw stance, the sign underneath him boasting, “Loosest slots in Nevada.” The sidewalks were crowded with tourists pouring in and out of the casinos, and the road was a solid line of cars. For a moment I felt strangely removed, like I was down on the street, not here in a room watching the masses from above. It was an odd feeling—fifty grand. More money than I made working for Wenger the year before. I had under five hundred dollars in my checking account at the moment. What the hell would I say to Wenger? He’d probably want in on the deal; I smiled at the thought. I’d have to ask him for vacation time, or maybe a leave of absence. He’d have a shit hemorrhage.

  It took fifteen minutes for Cutlip to create the paperwork detailing our arrangement. When I read it I saw a provision for expenses, including travel, meals, and entertainment. That gave me moment for pause—Wenger reimbursed me for nothing. If I wanted to loosen someone’s lips with a few cocktails, I did it on my own dime. I finished reading the contract, signed it, and Edward made me a copy. Then he wrote and handed me a check for $50,000. I looked at him, and his face was impassive. I stared at the Bascom Lumber Enterprises check, carefully folded it, and put it in my wallet.

  “You realize if the police make the arrest first, the remaining payment becomes null and void,” he said.

  “Right,” I said. And there was the catch. If the cops solved the case quickly, I’d walk away with the fifty thousand, but wouldn’t collect the balance. If they didn’t make an arrest within a week or so, I might have a reasonable shot at the bounty. I wondered what the odds were of my being able to identify the killer before the police. Hell, they could wrap the case up in twenty-four hours.

  “Mr. Bascom is a stickler for detail,” Cutlip said. “Make sure you call me every day with an update.” He searched his pockets. “Shoot, I’ve left my cards in my car. Come with me.”

  On our way outside, we passed a lounge where the groomsmen and bridesmaids, still in their wedding clothes, had congregated, along with a number of the McGee family members. Jerry and Shelly were there, as well as Mandy, who was wearing a burgundy gown and holding a martini glass in her hand.

  We walked through the icy lot to Cutlip’s car, a dark Ford Crown Victoria. He reached in the glove box and handed me his card.

  “Gad, it’s cold out here,” he said, rubbing his arms through his suit jacket.

  I looked at my watch. “Have you eaten yet?”

  “No, but I need to-”

  “Come on, let’s go down the road, get a beer and something to eat. You look like you’ve had a long day.”

  “No kidding,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “All right, a beer sounds good. Where do you want to go?”

  I climbed into his car. “Go out on 50 and
hang a right. There’s a good place a couple miles up the road.”

  Edward accelerated into the stream of traffic on the highway, heading out of town. I stared through his windshield across the road, out to the dark waters of Lake Tahoe. I had to resist the urge to pull the check out, look at it again, make sure it was real. A financial windfall was the last thing I expected to walk into. Some people were born into their money, others dedicated their lives to chasing it. I fell in neither category. I’d always had just enough to get by, and never much more. Carrying a $50,000 check in my wallet seemed absurd. The money would completely change my financial situation.

  But maybe the idea wouldn’t be so hard to get used to. I let my mind wander to what I might spend the dough on, thinking easily, not really concentrating, just indulging myself for a moment or two. Then I added in the additional fifty K and started figuring a little harder. And it was then that I felt the workings of greed seeping in from the corners of my mind. I was surprised at how quickly a small hit of wealth could launch a covetous thought process. It made me feel an odd psychic connection to Wenger, like I was seeing out of his eyes.

  A couple of minutes later we pulled into a small bar and grill called Chuck’s Pit. Inside, it was warm and dark, like a cave. We took a seat at the bar, and Edward asked for a bottle of Heineken, which he drained in long swallows. The bar maid took our dinner orders, and Edward ordered another beer and a shot of Patron. He leaned his head back and shot the cognac-like tequila, then sat hunched over the bar on his elbows. He kept shaking his head.

  “It’s unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe the preparations that went into the wedding. And the impact this has on Bascom Lumber and the Bascom family. It’s monumental. I’m in a state of shock.” His brown hair was parted on the side—it looked like it had been hair sprayed in place, but the wind had messed it up. I noticed one of his front teeth was bigger than the other, which made him look boyish, like a child whose adult teeth were still growing in. But he had to be close to forty.

  “How well did you know Sylvester?” I asked.

  “Fairly well, I guess. Understand, he’s a lot younger than me. We didn’t socialize outside of work, but he seemed to be pretty typical.”