Stateline

by Dave Stanton

  “So, it’s getting pretty late, and actually me and Whitey wanted to leave for San Jose yesterday afternoon ’cause we’re both supposed to be working today, but Osterlund hadn’t gotten his truck yet. He was gonna pick it up today.”

  “Why didn’t he pick it up yesterday?” I said, curious if Osterlund had told them he had to wait for his mother to wire him the money.

  “Who the hell knows?” Whitey said. “I’ve known the guy for years, and he used to be pretty normal, but like every year he’d get a little more screwed up in the brain. It got to the point where being around him was pretty sketchy. He was doing a lot of coke, and there was some weird shit goin’ on with his mom and her psychic business. They used to be swimming in dough, but I think they lost some money in the stock market or something, I dunno.”

  Brad nodded, then said, “Dan, by the way, that was pretty awesome the way you went after Sven. His lip was cut to hell and puffed up like a balloon.” He pulled his lower lip down to demonstrate.

  “I guess he wanted to get into it,” I said. “Was he always like that?”

  “Dude,” Whitey said, “ever since he got into the steroids and the kick-boxing thing, it’s like he went through life trying to prove he could kick anybody’s ass. It was getting pretty old.”

  “Okay,” I said, “so you’re at Pistol Pete’s. Then what?”

  “He disappeared,” Brad said. “I think he went to take a leak, and after about half an hour we start looking for him, and he’s nowhere. We spent a while searching around the casino, but we couldn’t find him, so we walked back here, and that’s it.”

  “And that’s what you told the cops?”

  “Yeah, and they kept on asking us if we saw him talking to anyone, or if there was anybody hanging around, and I finally said, ‘Look, go check with the freaking casino. They got all those guys watching everything from up in the ceilings, they got video cameras, all that shit. And then the guy tells us Sven was killed last night, like he has no respect for our feelings. He doesn’t give a shit our buddy’s dead, he’s here at six-fuckin’-thirty, giving us the business.”

  “This is the round-headed cop, right?”

  “Yeah, him. The other guy at least said something nice. What was it, Whitey?”

  “‘I’m sorry your friend got killed,’ or ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ or some phony shit like that,” Whitey said.

  “At least he tried. That’s better than nothing,” Brad said. His eyes turned red and watery, and his voice sounded like it was ready to crack. “I’ll tell you, personally, I’m pretty damn sad about it. I’ve known Sven since before I could jerk off.”

  “When was that, about two weeks ago?” Whitey said.

  “Ah, blow me, Cheeseball. You got no feelings,” Brad said. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and load me a goddamn bong hit?”

  “Brad, you told the cops about my fight with Osterlund, right?” I saw his body twitch, and his head looked like it was vibrating. He hesitated a long moment before answering.

  “Yeah, I did.” He sounded like he was admitting to his wife he got the clap from a street whore.

  “Don’t sweat it, Brado, it was the right thing to do. I got nothing to hide.”

  “Did they come talk to you yet?”

  “Yeah, they woke me up.”

  “Is everything cool?”

  “Sure, they’re just doing their job. Now, Osterlund didn’t say anything about taking off last night, maybe to meet a call girl or for any other reason?” Both Brad and Whitey shrugged and said no.

  “What about Osterlund and Sylvester Bascom? I get the idea they hadn’t known each other for that long, and it seems kind of odd Osterlund would be in the wedding. What do you guys think about that?”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Whitey said. “Sven always had money, and that was a big part of him. It’s like, if he was paying for the party, he could be a total prick and people would tolerate it. But I’m pretty sure he was running low on bucks. He’d never admit it or talk about it, but it was pretty obvious his mom was turning off the faucet.”

  “Yup, definitely,” Brad said. “My opinion is he was hoping some of Bascom’s money would rub off on him one way or another.”

  “Yeah, but why would Bascom want to be friends with him?” I said.

  We were all silent for a moment.

  “Maybe drugs?” Whitey said.

  ******

  The visibility had dropped dramatically by the time I left the Lazy 8. Thick gunmetal-gray clouds hung low over the valley, covering the choppy lake and surrounding mountains in a dense winter haze. Light flurries were falling from the heavy sky, and the town seemed deserted and quiet, except for the eerie roar of the wind sweeping down off the peaks and across the lake.

  I drove slowly down Highway 50, fighting to think clearly through my hangover, which was emerging through my drunken state like an unstoppable illness. I felt Brad and Whitey were telling me everything they knew, but none of it pointed me in any particular direction.

  Horns blared, and I looked up to see myself rolling through a red light. I pulled into the local bank, opened a checking account with the $50,000-check from Bascom, then drove over to the King’s Head to pick up my credit card. The daytime bartender found it and I signed the slip for the tab, but I was in such a daze I couldn’t calculate the tip, so I told the bartender I’d trust him to do the math. I sat at the bar alone, drank two pints, then went to the head and threw up. On the way back to my hotel I picked up one of the free local papers, but when I got to my room my eyes wouldn’t focus, and I fell asleep.

  It was midafternoon when I woke. I felt like dirt, but I’d be functional, whereas I’d have been useless without the sleep. The curtains were open and I could see the snow falling while I brewed a pot of coffee. I poured myself a cup, then sat down at the small table with the local phone book.

  There were at least a dozen ads for escort services advertising dancers for bachelor parties and the like. Some had low-key names, like Top Shelf Entertainment or Hourglass Escorts, but others were more obvious in their marketing. Starting with the largest ads first, I began calling the numbers. SchoolGirl Playmates had a recording, and no one answered at Ecstasy Phase, but I did get an answer at Fantasies Unlimited. They claimed to have no record of sending anyone to the Crown Ambassador on Friday night.

  I spent half an hour calling the remaining numbers and got nowhere. I was considering laying down again when my cell rang.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Edward Cutlip said.

  “All sorts of shit. Have you talked to the police today?”

  “No, I left them a message but haven’t heard back.”

  “Sven Osterlund was murdered sometime last night. They found his body over toward the west shore of the lake, in Emerald Bay.”

  “My god,” Edward exclaimed. “Do you…do you think his murder is connected in some way to Sylvester’s?”

  “I’d say it’s likely.”

  “Are there any suspects?”

  “Osterlund was the primary suspect in Sylvester’s murder and also the best potential witness. I think he was killed for that reason; because he either witnessed Sylvester’s murder or at least knew who did it and why. I suspect he was involved in some sort of scheme with Sylvester, possibly involving drugs, probably cocaine or meth.”

  “Drugs? Sylvester? He seemed to function well at work, I never saw him miss a day. I don’t think he was on drugs.”

  “He didn’t necessarily have to be using. He may have been financing a dealing operation for Osterlund.”

  “But Sylvester had it made! It would be sheer idiocy for him to get involved in something like that. He would have no reason.”

  “That you know of,” I said. “Edward, I’d like you to get Sylvester’s bank records for the last twelve months. Whoever is executor of his estate has legal access. You can get copies of canceled checks too. We may find something.”

  “Okay, I’ll work on it. It just seems crazy.”
r />   “Look, everything I’ve learned about Osterlund points to him being a world-class asshole. Besides being a coke head and a steroid freak, he’d go around looking for fights to prove how tough he was. His truck was towed by the sheriff because he had a phony handicapped parking pass, and he also declared bankruptcy last month.”

  “Jesus, what in the world was Sylvester doing hanging around him?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. Also, I need to know where the strippers at Sylvester’s bachelor party came from.”

  “I can tell you that, I arranged it. The company is called Dancing Babes. Their office is in Stateline, up on Kingsbury Grade.”

  “Thanks,” I said, mentally kicking myself for not calling Edward in the first place. “Hey, you know this detective on the case, Don Raneswich?”

  “Yes, what about him?”

  “He and I didn’t exactly hit it off. Don’t be surprised if he brings my name up.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “He tried to convince me that the police have evidence Sven Osterlund killed Sylvester, so there’s nothing left for me to investigate. Have the detectives said anything to you about this?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “That’s what I figured. Anyway, Raneswich gave me a bunch of shit about staying out of his way. I basically told him I’m going after the case all gas, no brakes, and he had a problem with that.”

  “Will that affect your ability to investigate the murder?”

  “No. But it might make it interesting at some point.”

  “Keep me posted,” he said.

  We hung up, and I called the number for Dancing Babes. A male voice answered and put me on hold. I set the phone back in its cradle, looked out the window into the snowy twilight, then headed downstairs.

  Highway 50 was plowed, but I had to chain up at Kingsbury Grade. I found the address about a mile up the road in a little strip mall housing a pizza joint, a snowboard shop, and a few business offices. I walked through the glass door into a hallway and found suite B.

  A guy in his twenties was on the phone in the small office, and he motioned for me to sit. His foot was up on the edge of the desk, and he was wearing a very hip and funky white satin V-neck shirt. There were two small silver hoops in his right ear, a stud below his lip, and two more hoops in his left eyebrow.

  I took a seat and listened to his conversation. He had a cigarette lit, which he tapped constantly in a marble ashtray.

  “Yeah, man, these chicks are cool, they got a good attitude. Huh? Yeah, but they basically work for tips, that’s how it works. Yeah, they do the two-girl number, the double-ended dildo show, all that. You’ll be happy with them, they’re the bomb. What do you mean, anything else? They’re dancers, man. Yeah, they do more the more you tip. Huh? Look, like I said, the gig is dancing, the two-girl show, for tips, okay? All right, lemme know.”

  “What can I do ya for?” he said, turning toward me. He was a good-looking guy with a square jaw and even features, but he looked like a walking fashion trend magazine. I guessed he was ten years younger than me. I handed him my card, and he glanced at it briefly before flipping it onto his desk.

  “I’m investigating a murder that happened last Friday night,” I said. “Three of your girls were in a suite at Caesar’s that night, and I need to talk to them.”

  His eyes clicked, and his lips turned downward. I felt a stab of irritation at his expression.

  “Harsh, man. Who got killed?” he said.

  “Guy named Sylvester Bascom.”

  “The ultimate bad trip, huh?” He held his smoke between his thumb and forefinger and took a couple quick puffs.

  “Are these your girls?” I pointed toward a large white binder on his desk.

  “That’s our talent book,” he said. I thumbed through a couple of pages and looked at the different promotional photos of the strippers.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” I said.

  “I didn’t offer it.”

  Okay, tough guy, I thought. I picked up a card from a holder on his desk. It read “Dust—Talent Agent.”

  “You’re Dust, huh?”

  He nodded blithely.

  “Dustin?”

  “Nope, just Dust.”

  I wondered what his mother really named him. I looked at a couple more of the pictures, then closed the binder and set it neatly on the corner of the desk.

  “Maybe you can help me out here. I really don’t feel like chasing down your girls and questioning them.”

  He lit another cigarette. “I’m a busy man,” he said.

  “I’m sure you are, so I’ll make it quick. I imagine guys are always calling and trying to figure out if your dancers will hook on the side. Like your last call, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Let me tell you first, some guys were trying to solicit your girls at Caesar’s for sex, and they shut them down. Not that it matters to me, Dust, but I imagine you run a clean operation.”

  “As clean as they come, man.”

  “So suppose a guy is looking for a local hooker. Who does he call?”

  “The Mustang Ranch,” he said in a bored voice, referring to the infamous whorehouse outside of Reno that had shut down years ago.

  “No, I mean, he wants a woman to come up to his room, and he’s-”

  “I heard what you said,” he interrupted. The phone rang and he picked it up. I waited for about five minutes while he talked to another potential customer. When he hung up, he pulled a file from his drawer and started writing something.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Like I said, I’m busy, man. Sorry I can’t help you.” After a moment, he leaned back in his chair and pointed toward the door with his pen. “You still here?” he said. The phone rang again, and I watched him reach for it.

  I took a deep breath, but suddenly my mind felt like a cassette tape switched to fast forward, and I shot out of the chair like a piston under full load. I grabbed Dust’s wrist just as his fingers touched the phone, his mouth in mid-syllable. I snatched the phone with my other hand and flung it against the wall, the plastic and metal crashing and busting apart. Then I jumped over the desk.

  His eyes were wide in disbelief as he tried to push me away. I slapped his arms aside, grabbed him by the throat, and shook him like a rag doll. He put one arm over my wrists and tried to pop me in the nose with his other fist, but I threw him against the wall before he could hit me, and when he bounced off I punched him with two short rights across the head, my fist ripping out his eyebrow rings and leaving watery trails of blood running down his face. His foot kicked out at my crotch, but I turned sideways, undercut him in the gut with enough power to make his feet come off the ground, then I grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him down on the desktop.

  “Answer my fucking questions,” I yelled, holding him down by the neck. “A man’s son is dead, you piece of shit!” I could feel my eyes rolling around like a lunatic’s, but the adrenaline rush felt wonderful, as the tension of the last couple days exploded to the surface. I bounced his head off the desk and swore at him for another minute until I regained control. Dust was white as a sheet and hadn’t yet caught his breath from the gut shot. I finally backed off and paced around a little.

  “Whew, that felt good,” I said, a crazed grin on my face. “Now, where were we?”

  “I think I’m gonna puke,” Dust moaned. He rolled off the desk and vomited in his trashcan. I went over, patted him on the back and helped him into his chair.

  “Two places,” he said in a small voice. “Try Dana’s Escorts or Erotic Striptease. They’re both in Reno.”

  “They run call girls?”

  He nodded. “The cops seem to lay off them. Erotic has been busted once, but I don’t think Dana’s ever has. Dana’s is owned by the same people who run Pistol Pete’s.”

  “I need their addresses.”

  “Here,” he said, pushing his Rolodex to me with shaky fingers.

 
CHAPTER 14

  I left Dust to clean his office and tend to his wounds as I drove back down the grade. The snow had let up, and I took my chains off at 50, then headed east over Spooner Summit. The roads were icy, the visibility obscured behind a heavy mist that had settled over the pass.

  I kept my speed at about thirty-five, climbing the pass toward the high desert and Carson City. Reno lay thirty miles north of Carson City, and in clear weather the drive from South Lake Tahoe to Reno could be done in an hour. Given the night’s conditions, it would take close to two. I had plenty of time to think as I drove through the swirling snowfall, up into the shrouded desolation of the Sierra’s eastern ridge.

  Toward the end of our marriage, Julia had once called me a no-good, drunken, brawling son of a bitch. I laughed out loud when she said it—I was drunk at the time—but her words stuck in the back of my mind like a bent nail buried in a fencepost. After I sobered up, and during my three dry years, I tried to develop a more cerebral approach to my job. My goal was to convince people to cooperate through the leverage and persuasiveness of my words. Sometimes that worked, but often it didn’t. In the event of the latter, I returned to the old tried-and-true methods: when in doubt, put your hands on someone.

  In a business where information is a vital commodity, it often can only be bought with threats or violence. The ability to gain real intelligence is the difference between success and failure in an investigation. Problem is, people have endless reasons to not cooperate. Most criminals share one thing in common—they are habitual liars out of necessity, as a practical means of sustaining.

  But what about supposedly law-abiding citizens like Mandy, or Desiree, or even borderline crooks like Dust? I asked Mandy to talk to me about Osterlund, and she blew me off. Desiree didn’t want to talk about her sex life because she was embarrassed, which was understandable. Dust made the mistake of blatantly not cooperating, probably just the result of a philosophical resentment of authority. If he had been a little more responsive or polite, I might have let it go. But the punk had picked a bad time to be disrespectful.