by Dave Stanton
By the end of an hour, I must have looked into a thousand faces. A man in his sixties sitting next to me at a blackjack table lost eight straight ten-dollar hands and finally quit, red faced and muttering “fuck,” “shit,” and “goddamn” in all their possible combinations. Two dudes who looked barely out of their teens caught fire at the craps table; one rolled the dice for twenty minutes before crapping out. He said he was up $900, then he doubled his bets and walked away broke five minutes later. At the roulette wheel a stunning platinum blonde in a low-cut red dress stood next to a short fat man in a black overcoat. He wore sunglasses, a gold derby with a pink feather in the band, and his blond hair went past his shoulders. His hands stayed busy moving three-inch-high stacks of chips around the board.
Cody and I met at the casino’s Mexican restaurant. Neither of us had had any luck spotting the Samoan. But Cody hit a $200-dollar jackpot on the slots and was anxious to try his luck again. We had lunch and headed back to the casino, trading sections. By midafternoon I was bored stiff and doubting Samantha Nunez’s tip that the Samoan would be at Pistol Pete’s. She’d have every reason to lie; I couldn’t think of a good reason for her to tell the truth.
I walked across the casino to find Cody, and was passing the show ticket window when the man I knew as the Samoan stepped out from a door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY.” I froze and watched him speak briefly to a cocktail waitress, who seemed anxious to be on her way. He wore black slacks, a black sports coat, and a gold turtleneck stretched tight across his wide chest. Our eyes met, and I took a step in his direction, my hand reaching inside my coat for my stun gun. He blinked, as if irritated, and his thick lips flattened.
I could see his muscles flexing under his coat from ten feet away. I instinctively moved laterally, getting in better position to strike. His knees were bent, his hands moving away from his body, and I felt sure he’d come at me—he looked like a coiled cobra. But instead he turned and calmly went back through the door from which he’d come.
Within a minute I found Cody wandering the floor. He had lost most of the money he’d won at slots and was grumpy. “I should have quit when I was ahead,” he said.
“Famous last words. Come on, I found our man.”
“Where?”
“This way.” We walked around the casino to the door next to the ticket window. “He came out from here.”
“He’s an employee, huh? How do you want to play it?”
“Let’s stake out the parking lot and take him down when he leaves the building.”
“I got a better idea,” Cody said. “Let’s go knock his dick in the dirt.”
“No, wait,” I said, but Cody was already opening the door.
“Goddammit,” I said, and followed him in.
The hallway was dingy and cramped. It was so narrow Cody almost had to turn sideways to accommodate the width of his shoulders. The walls were once white, but had faded to a dirty gray and were streaked with black in places.
We turned the corner into an area where three women were counting money, filling out slips of paper, and handing them through one of a series of teller-style windows. Behind the window a dozen people sat recounting the money and signing slips. At the end of the row a man was banding stacks of cash and placing the bills in a metal rack.
“So this is where the money goes,” Cody said.
“The bowels of gambling,” I said. “This is the ass end.”
We continued through the room to a wider hallway, past a wall of lockers, a lunchroom, and some closed doors. The hallway turned, and at the end of the corridor I could see a glass door leading outside.
“Hold on,” I said, turning around. We walked back and almost ran into the Samoan as he came around the corner.
Later, I would remember a particular odor that emanated from his body. He smelled of char and smoke, as if he’d been tending a garbage fire.
“You work here, where’s your name tag?” Cody said.
“You’re trespassing,” the Samoan said.
My hand was on my stun gun, but at that moment the door from the parking lot opened, and Raneswich and Deputy Fingsten walked in.
I unzipped my jacket to give me access to the Beretta.
“What are you gonna do, tough guy, draw on us here?” Fingsten said, sneering around a plug of chewing tobacco in his lip.
“You know, Fingsten, I think you’re in the wrong business,” I said. “I think you’re going to learn that the hard way, very soon.”
Fingsten glared at me, but his hand went to his ribs and he grimaced.
Raneswich hadn’t yet acknowledged Cody or me. He stood with his lips pressed and his eyes averted. “These men your guests?” Raneswich finally said to the Samoan. The Samoan shook his head, and Fingsten grabbed Cody by the elbow. “Let’s go,” he said.
Cody pulled away as if a child were playing with him. “Have you been drinking chocolate milk?” Cody said. “It looks like you got a little mustache. Here, I’ll clean it up.” Cody grabbed Fingsten by the head and roughly ran his finger over Fingsten’s mustache in a scrubbing motion. Fingsten flailed like mad, his feet skittering, his fists hitting Cody ineffectually on the forearms.
I laughed out loud, and even Raneswich smiled.
The Samoan watched impassively, his eyes never leaving me.
Cody finally let Fingsten go, and he immediately drew his service revolver. “Hands on top of your head, now!” Fingsten screamed, his face reddened and his hair a mess. His cap was on the floor—Cody had smashed it flat with his size-thirteen shoe. “Assault on an officer, motherfucker. You are going down!”
A few feet from us, a door opened and a man stuck his head out. “What the hell is going on out here?”
“A trespassing and drunk-in-public violation,” Raneswich said.
“These fucking assholes are looking at serious time!” Fingsten yelled, waving his pistol. A group of casino employees had heard the commotion and were gathering down the hall and watching.
“Jesus Christ,” the man said. “Let’s resolve this in my office.”
“Who are you?” I said.
“I’m Salvador Tuma, manager of this casino.”
I looked at Cody, who shrugged, and we walked into a big office with paneled walls, tan carpet, a large oak desk, and a number of padded chairs. On the desk was a name stand that read “SALVADOR TUMA, PRESIDENT.”
The Samoan walked behind the desk and stood to the side. He continued to stare at me, his pupils small, the whites of his eyes opaque and fractured by a network of tiny veins that looked like electrical current. The rest of us sat, except for Fingsten, who paced back and forth, his face a mask of fury and humiliation.
Salvador Tuma looked about fifty. His hair was graying and his complexion was like coarse sand. He had thick shoulders and good posture. A thin scar ran from the corner of his eye down a cheek.
“Take a seat, Deputy,” he sighed. Fingsten scowled and sat down.
“What do we have here?” he said, a man used to dealing with problems, with confrontations.
“A couple drunks trespassing,” Raneswich replied.
“How about assault on an officer?” Fingsten yelled, standing and pointing at Cody.
“Junior, if you point at me again, I’m gonna take your arm off and stick it up your ass,” Cody said.
Tuma’s eyes flickered impatiently. “What’s your name?” he asked me.
“I took a wrong turn on my way out. I was gambling at your casino, and I was on my way home.”
“His name’s Dan Reno,” Fingsten said. “He’s a private eye.”
“You mean the one who-”
“That’s right,” Fingsten said. “That’s the asshole.”
Tuma stared at me with eyes that were almost black, and it wasn’t until then I made the connection between him and Jake Tuma, the whacked-out dude I had fought at the Midnight Tavern.
“Jake’s your son?” I asked.
“You’re the one who beat him up?” Tuma said, his voice
thick and rising.
“He was blasted out of his gourd on drugs and booze, harassing women at a bar, and he took a swing at me. He brought it on himself.”
“That’s not how I heard it,” Tuma said. He started out of his chair but quickly composed himself and sat back down. His expression went blank as stone, and he stared past me at a point on the wall.
I had no idea if my incident with Jake Tuma could be related to the Samoan stabbing Sylvester Bascom. For that matter, I didn’t know if the fact the Samoan worked for Salvador Tuma had anything to do with the murder. But I had no doubt it was not coincidental that we were all in this room together. Regardless, my goal was to get the Samoan alone and take him down, and it wasn’t going to happen here and now.
“Well, sorry for the imposition. I’ll watch where I’m going next time.” I rose from my chair. “By the way,” I said, looking at the Samoan, “I enjoyed meeting you the other day, out by that stream. But you forgot to properly introduce yourself.”
The Samoan stared back at me, not moving, his ugly face watching, his eyes dead and cold, like a shark’s eyes.
“I don’t think he’s interested in conversing with you,” Tuma said.
As we left the office, Fingsten jumped up and protested, but Raneswich pulled him back. We went out the back door into the snowy parking lot.
“Tuma is paying off those cops, no doubt,” Cody said as we walked to his truck. “You see how they acted? It’s obvious. They work for Tuma big time. You can see it in the way he talks to them.”
“That would explain why Marcus Grier wasn’t interested in busting Jake Tuma,” I mumbled.
“Huh?”
I gave Cody a quick run-down on the fight at Zeke’s. “Marcus Grier mentioned Jake was the son of a Pistol Pete’s executive, and it was obvious Jake wasn’t going to be charged.”
“The whole department’s probably on the take.”
“Grier doesn’t strike me as corrupt,” I said, then I thought of Mr. 187’s final words: “The sheriff…”
“Let’s hope not,” Cody said. “It’d be nice to know if there’s a cop or two in this county we can trust.”
“A casino paying off the police,” I mused. “What’s the point? Aren’t they getting rich enough off gambling?”
“Get real. It smells like the mob. The goal is always to make more money.”
“I find it hard to believe any law enforcement agency could let someone get away with murder,” I said. “I can see them allowing smaller stuff, drugs, prostitution, the usual vices, but not violent crimes.”
“Greed’s a powerful thing, Dirt. The Samoan didn’t shy away from ramming you off the interstate and blasting away at you with an Uzi. Since he’s working for Tuma, the cops won’t touch him. There’s no telling what he might do.”
I looked at Cody in silence. Snowflakes were gathering on his head and beard. The creases on his forehead forced his eyebrows into a V, and his mouth was set in a scowl.
******
We decided to stake out the rear employees’ exit at Pistol Pete’s, hoping the Samoan would eventually leave by that door. Cody drove us around the employee parking area first, searching for a dark, full-size American-made truck, but there were at least two hundred vehicles there, and probably a dozen trucks that fit the description.
It became a moot point fifteen minutes later, when the Samoan, Raneswich, and Fingsten all came out of the casino’s back door and left together in Raneswich’s Subaru. We followed them to a liquor store, and then south, past the city limits and into Myers. When they went by the last gas station in town, I slowed and hung a U-turn.
“What are you doing?” Cody said.
“They’re headed over the pass,” I said. “We’re going to have to wait to get the Samoan alone. But I’ve got a hunch. Hang with me.” Cody glanced at me sharply, then shrugged. “It’s your party.”
I pulled a crumpled telephone book page out of my back pocket, and in twenty minutes we parked in front of the address for Marcus Grier’s residence. The house was in a quiet neighborhood, about a mile off the main drag. A silver Jeep Cherokee was parked in the plowed driveway under the shadow of a huge old-growth pine, its needles stretching high into the darkening afternoon. Three feet of snow buried the yard, but a neat walkway was carved up to the front door.
We parked on the icy curb and walked to the door, vests on, weapons loaded. I didn’t think Grier was part of Conrad Pace’s gang, but I wasn’t in the mood to take chances.
Near the front door, hidden from plain sight by the shadows, was a broad red discoloration in the snow. The stain was fresh. Cody and I stared at it grimly, and I eased my gun out of its holster. Cody motioned to me and stood on the small, covered porch aside the door, holding his .44. I stood opposite him, my back against the wall, and reached out and rapped on the door. It swung open after a moment, and Marcus Grier took a step onto the porch. He wore a green, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of pleated khaki pants. He saw Cody first and froze.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” I said. “That’s Cody Gibbons.”
Grier turned in my direction. “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Reno?”
“What happened?” I said, nodding at the spot.
“None of your business,” he said, his eyes locked on my gun hand.
“I asked you a question, Sheriff.”
“I’m no longer sheriff, Reno, but as a citizen I don’t take kindly to two armed men trespassing on my property. What do you want?”
“I’d like to talk to you about a couple people—Jake Tuma and Conrad Pace.”
He shook his head. “Sounds like police business. I’m out of it now.”
“I don’t think so,” Cody said.
“Why did you lose your job?” I said.
He raised his head. “Why do you assume it’s any of your business?” His voice was a course baritone.
“Cody and I had a run-in two nights ago with Deputies Fingsten and Perdie, along with Conrad Pace and an assassin who works for Salvador Tuma. We were fortunate to survive.”
His thumbs hooked in his belt loops, Grier stared us down.
“Pace is going down big time,” I said. “Nothing can stop that now.”
Grier’s face creased in doubt, but I saw a glimmer of hope flicker in his eyes. He looked down for a long moment, then raised his head.
“This morning I found our family dog, dead,” he said. “Someone cut him from his throat to belly. I tried to remove the animal before my daughter saw it. But I was too late.”
“You know who did it?” I said.
Grier’s eyes, bulging and bloodshot, locked onto mine. Then he turned and gestured for us to follow him inside. Cody and I re-holstered our pieces and did so.
We stood at his kitchen table. The area was well heated by a wood-burning stove in the adjoining family room.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“No, thank you,” Cody said. But when Marcus Grier set a bottle of bourbon on the table, Cody’s eyes lit up. “Whiskey will do,” he said.
“You say you’ve met Conrad Pace,” Grier said.
“Yeah, I’ve had the pleasure,” I said, then I told him about Pace’s attempt to scare us out of town.
“The Samoan,” Grier said. “His name is Julo Nafui. Ex-mercenary, spent time in El Salvador, Libya, Afghanistan—he’s not particular. He works wherever there’s a paycheck to be had. Apparently, he found an opportunity here.”
“He works for Salvador Tuma.”
“That’s right,” Grier said. “Which means he also works for Conrad Pace.”
“Nafui’s the man who stabbed Sylvester Bascom to death.”
“That I didn’t know, but I can’t say I’m shocked.”
“Why is Salvador Tuma paying off Pace? What’s their deal?”
Grier poured a jolt of whiskey into his coffee cup. “You ever been to New Mexico, Mr. Reno?”
“I spent a week in Albuquerque one night. Why?”
; “There’s a small town out there looking for a sheriff. I hear it’s not a bad place to live. Maybe I’ll drive down there, see the sights, check it out.”
“Or maybe you’ll stay here and help fry Pace’s grits,” Cody said, helping himself to the whiskey. “That is, unless you got something to hide.”
“What the hell do you know about it?” Grier rose to his feet, his voice booming. He snatched the bottle out of Cody’s hands.
“I’m a detective with San Jose PD,” Cody said, standing in turn. “I’ve been on the job for six years. I was right in the middle of the big shakeout a few years ago, when eleven patrolmen were indicted for taking bribes, stealing drugs, and falsifying evidence. One of the patrolmen was my partner. I hear they still keep him in solitary confinement at San Quentin for his own safety.”
“I never ratted out another cop,” Grier said. “What about you?”
“Let me tell you this, I never took a damn dime, and I watched the guys around me buying new cars and fancy clothes, going out to dinner all the time at expensive joints, divorcing their wives and screwing bimbos, and acting like their shit don’t stink. I didn’t say a word, but when they put me on the stand, put my hand on the goddamned Bible and said, ‘Tell the truth or risk perjury,’ you know what?” Cody slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the plates in the cabinet behind him. “I told the truth. Because those patrolmen weren’t cops anymore. They were crooks, just like the everyday scumbags we busted on the streets. My loyalty to them went out the window when they started living the fucking highlife with dirty money.”
Grier rolled the whiskey bottle back and forth in his hands. Cody sat back down, and Grier reached over and poured a splash into his cup. He placed his hands flat on the table, looking at the two of us.
“So you guys think you can put away Conrad Pace.”
“He’s going down, Sheriff,” I said.
“Talk is cheap,” Grier said.
“We’ll finish him…with your help.”
Grier’s eyes seemed intent on bulging out of his skull, and his skin shone as if a coat of oil lay on the surface. Finally he looked away and took a quick pull straight from the bottle.
“Pace,” he snorted, his voice edged with disgust. “When he was elected, I’d been deputy sheriff in South Lake Tahoe for four years. I own this home free and clear, and it’s a nice life for my wife and daughters. Clean air, slow pace, nice scenery. Not a bad place to raise a family, right?”