by Dave Stanton
I jumped forward and grabbed the hot barrel of the shotgun with my left hand. Nafui yanked it back, but I stepped up and got my right hand around his wrist. He jerked the barrel upward, trying to wrench it from my grip. I ran at him, pushing, locking my forearm around the stock as he kicked out at my shins. He started whipping his powerful arms back and forth in a frenzy, trying to break my grip and throw me off. I held on with everything I had, squeezing desperately with my frostbitten hands.
Then from out of nowhere Edward leapt on to Nafui’s back, growling and snapping like a rabid dog. We whirled around the parking lot, gravel spitting beneath our feet. Edward wrapped his hands over Nafui’s face, and gouged at Nafui’s eyes as if trying to reach the brain. Nafui wrenched his head to the side, and I pushed forward, slamming him into the cab of a yellow pickup truck. The stock of the gun shattered the side window, and Edward’s head cracked hard against the window frame. I lashed out at Nafui’s face with my right hand, catching an eye, and pushed with my thumb as hard as I could. Nafui roared in pain and dropped the shotgun so he could swat my hand off his face, then the heels of his hands hit my shoulders, and I stumbled back. The shotgun had dropped to the ground next to the truck, and Edward lay collapsed on top of it.
For a split second Nafui and I faced each other, gasping for air, our chests heaving. We were no more than five feet apart. I went for the Beretta, but he pulled his backup piece a fraction faster. I felt the twenty-five-caliber round splat against my vest, and I returned fire as I was falling back. At that range there was no need to aim. The hollow-point bullet tore through his chest like an auger bit from hell and sent a bloody fountain out his back, streaking the door of the yellow pickup. Amazingly Nafui remained standing, his lips curled in a sneer, staring at me with eyes that had turned blood red. He raised his pistol again, and my finger tightened on the Beretta’s trigger.
A thunderous shot exploded behind me. I felt a hiss of air, then the right half of Nafui’s face vanished into a red mist, slivers of bone and brains spraying into the air like a sudden geyser. His legs kicked out and he fell on his back, the pulp of his head slapping the gravel with a liquid crunch.
Cody walked past me, his .44 Magnum smoking in his hand. His face was white as bleached stone in the moonlight, his eyes coal black. We stared down at the gore of Julo Nafui in silence. Cody’s new green parka had a jagged hole in the center, and his body armor was scored and blackened.
My eyes fell back to Julo Nafui. I swore I saw his corpse shudder, then I had an eerie sense his soul was leaving his body. For a second I felt his presence watching me. I froze, staring into air charged with electricity, then the sky flashed, and I saw his spirit being sucked into the earth, like sand falling through an hourglass in fast motion. I staggered back, the hair on my arms and back of my head standing straight out, my face on fire with needles and pins. A small dust twister appeared, danced around Nafui’s body for a few seconds, then vanished.
I didn’t notice the door to Tumbleweeds open, didn’t see the people spilling out until the crowd had formed around us. But I did notice a dark truck parked in the shadows at the far end of the lot, its engine idling. Cody and I looked at each other. “Pace,” I said, and then I was running through the parked cars, crouched low and approaching the idling truck from behind.
I heard the transmission clunk into drive, and the truck started forward. I sprinted full out, the Beretta clenched in my fist, and just as the driver began accelerating toward the exit road, I dove into the truck’s bed. The driver turned his head, and I saw Conrad Pace straining to look back. He floored the gas, and I tumbled and shoulder-rolled against the tailgate as the truck fishtailed on the gravel. I pulled myself up, balanced on one knee, and fired a round through the plastic window behind the cab. The slug split through the plastic and spider webbed the windshield.
The truck was catching traction and gaining speed. I crawled up to the cab, yanked the sliding plastic window open, reached in and grabbed Pace by the hair, then heaved with all my strength. He came off the seat and I jerked his head back through the window. His feet could no longer reach the pedals and the truck slowed, left the road, and began bouncing over the terrain of the desert.
I rammed my gun into Pace’s cheekbone. “Payback time, motherfucker,” I said.
“You know the penalty for killing a cop?” Pace said through gritted teeth. “You’ll ride the needle.”
“You ain’t a cop, Pace. You’re a crook.” The truck had slowed to just a few miles an hour and was careening over a series of deep ruts. The unmanned steering wheel was spinning back and forth wildly as the truck’s suspension twisted in every direction. I saw Pace trying to work his hand toward his holster. I gripped his hair tighter and pushed his neck against the window frame.
“In a day or two, your operation’s gonna be fully exposed, Pace. You’re done. You’re gonna have journalists crawling up your ass, and everyone’s gonna want a piece of you, the locals, the feds, the IRS. It’ll be a hell of a party.”
“You ain’t got the balls, punk,” Pace said.
“It’s too late for your bullshit, Pace. Nafui’s dead, and the only reason I don’t send you to hell with him right now is so you can spend the rest of your pathetic life in a cage.”
“Time for you to die,” he rasped, and his hand went for his gun.
“Don’t do it!” I jammed the Beretta hard into the flesh of his face.
“Fuck you.” He pointed his revolver over his shoulder and pulled the trigger. I dropped down low, and four shots popped over my head, the slugs ricocheting off the steel tailgate and singing out into the night. I was still holding him by the hair, but the truck lurched down a steep bank and almost flipped. I lost my grip on Pace and flew across the truck bed, my fingers clawing for a handhold. Then Pace hit the gas and the truck leapt forward, dropping into a shallow gully. The suspension bottomed out, and when the shocks rebounded I was launched from the bed. I landed sprawled in the dirt, and my gun flew out of my hand and disappeared in the darkness.
Pace swung a wide arc and was heading back toward the road. But the truck’s front end washed into deep sand and the back tires came off the ground. The motor revved but the tires couldn’t find traction. I pulled myself up and ran toward the truck, high-stepping through the scrub. I caught a glimpse of Cody’s silhouette running across the terrain, hundreds of feet away. Then Pace jumped out of the cab and drew down on me with his pistol.
His first shot missed, and I kept running. His next shot winged me in the side, tearing a streak through the outer mesh of my vest. The impact twisted me around and I almost lost my balance, but my legs continued to propel me forward. Then I heard the hammer of his revolver click on an empty cylinder. And then once more. He tried to back away, but I hit him at full speed flush in the chest, my shoulders hammering into him with the satisfying impact of a well-executed tackle. Our feet left the ground, and I body-slammed him to the desert floor. His eyes rolled madly, like a wounded animal’s. I swung down on him with a right and drilled him in the mouth. His head snapped back, and I felt the imprints of his teeth on my knuckles. “That’s for trying to drown me,” I said.
“You’re a dead man,” he hissed. He spit blood in my face and tried to throw me off, but I held him by the neck and punched him again. Blood burst from his nose and soaked his mustache. “And that’s for leaving me without a coat,” I said. I could see the fury in his face as I pulled him to his feet and flung him against the truck. He bounced off and came at me swinging. He’d done some boxing in his time. But his time had passed. I blocked a left and a right, then slammed my fist into his gut, and his eyes went round with shock. “And that’s for fucking with my friend Edward.”
Pace gagged and fell to his knees. Then I heard Cody from behind, and I turned and saw him coming like a freight train, like I remembered him on the football field, eyes crazed, his beard red and wild. He snorted like a bull, grabbed Pace by the neck and crotch, and heaved him over the truck.
“Fly away, shitbird,” Cody said. Pace hit the ground with a groan of pain.
I stuffed Pace’s revolver in my jeans and backtracked until I found my automatic. When I returned, Pace had pulled himself to his feet and leaned heavily on his truck. Cody grabbed him by the collar and started marching him back to the cathouse. I heard sirens in the distance.
“That’s right, dumb-ass,” Pace grunted. “The cavalry’s coming. Who do you think they’re going to believe, me or you?”
“Keep moving,” Cody said.
“You’ll be arrested before you can spit,” Pace said.
The crowd was waiting for us in front of Tumbleweeds. Edward had pushed himself into a sitting position against the front tire of the yellow pickup truck. One of the hookers was kneeling beside him, her eyes wide with concern.
“Edward,” I said, but he responded with an incoherent mumble. I bent down to him; the back of his head was matted with blood.
“Someone call a goddamn ambulance!” I yelled at the crowd. I sat down next to Edward, oblivious to the bits of flesh strewn about the gravel. “Take it easy, buddy,” I said. “You just got your bell rung.” He turned his head toward me, but his eyes were distant and unfocused. Cody kicked Pace’s legs out from under him and threw him to the ground. The prostitutes, their customers, the madam, and the bartender all stared at us as if they were watching a movie, waiting to see what would happen next.
“Could one of you people get me a damn beer?” Cody shouted hoarsely.
CHAPTER 25
The Carson City police raced into the parking lot a minute later, sirens blaring, and skidded to a stop in the gravel, raising a huge cloud of dust. One squad car lost control, spun out in a 180, and ended up stuck in a ditch. I counted a total of three sheriff’s cruisers, two Carson City PD squad cars, two unmarked cars, and one ambulance. The cops surrounded us, getting in each other’s way, arguing, talking over one another. Pace yelled for everybody to shut up, and a plainclothes officer led him aside. Another plainclothesman, a pudgy, middle-aged man, took control, getting Edward loaded into the ambulance, telling another cop to cover the dead body for Christ’s sake, and instructing the others to interview witnesses.
Cody and I sat where we were, watching the ambulance leave. The plainclothesman in charge knelt next to the covered corpse of Julo Nafui.
“I sure hope you guys have licenses to carry those weapons,” he said.
“The dead man was a hitter hired by Conrad Pace,” I said. “I shot him in self-defense.”
“Sure you did,” the detective said, in that unmistakable tone that comes from being lied to on a regular basis. “Get up. We’re going to the station.”
At least he had the decency to cuff our hands in front. As we walked with Lieutenant Gordon DeHart to his squad car, I looked out past the commotion and saw Pace easing his truck through the desert. Two uniformed cops with shovels were hiking back toward us. When Pace reached the paved road, his tires screeched and the motor revved loudly as he went through the gears. The sound slowly faded into the darkness, like a long echo that didn’t want to die.
******
It was three A.M. before Lieutenant DeHart gave up trying to sort out my story of the tangled events. I found myself unable to explain what happened in a way any sane person would believe. I finally told him to lock us up so we could get some sleep. They put Cody and me in a clean holding cell, and I immediately fell into a dreamless slumber.
******
“I think I’ve got a broken rib,” Cody said when we woke the next morning. His jacket and vest lay on the floor. He pulled up his shirt to show me the six-inch round bruise in his flesh the shotgun blast had left. “There’s not much a doctor can do,” he said, grimacing as he prodded his side with his fingers. “They’ll just wrap it.”
A deputy showed up a few minutes later and led us to a room with a rectangular table. Lieutenant DeHart sat there, next to a man in a suit and tie.
“This is Jack McGregor, Carson City Chief of Police. Help yourself to the coffee and donuts.”
Cody and I sat down. “We’ve interviewed three witnesses who support your claim of self-defense,” McGregor said. He was a tall man with a craggy face and droopy eyes. “Some guys were sitting in their car smoking a joint, and they saw everything.” He drummed his thumbs on the table, rapping out a quick rhythm. “Based on that, we won’t press charges.”
“So we’re free to go?” I said.
“Not yet. Tell me what you know about Conrad Pace.”
******
Two hours later, Cody and I walked out into the weak sunlight, and DeHart gave us a ride over to the hospital where Edward had been admitted.
“Why’s McGregor so interested in Conrad Pace?” Cody asked DeHart.
“Chief McGregor is part of a national anti-corruption council. To say he’s interested doesn’t quite do it. He’s leading our zero-tolerance-on-corruption program.”
Cody laughed. “I’d say him and Pace are gonna have a lot to talk about.”
We had to wait an hour for Edward to get released. His doctor told us he had a fractured skull and a concussion, had taken fifteen stitches in his head, and needed at least a week’s rest. While we waited, Cody charmed a nurse into wrapping his ribs.
When Edward came out of his room, he had a three-inch-wide bandage reaching from the back of his neck to the top of his head. They had shaved the area.
“How you feeling, man?” I asked.
“Not so great,” he admitted.
“Wait until you see the cool new haircut you got,” Cody said, then put his arm around him and walked him outside like Edward was his little brother.
DeHart dropped us off at Edward’s car in the nearly deserted parking lot in front of Tumbleweed’s. The brothel complex looked different in the light of day. A large windmill I’d never noticed stood next to one of the whorehouses. Behind the buildings, a series of low hills stretched out until they rose into a steep ridge that in the distance looked painted against the sky. I looked at the ground where the battle with Julo Nafui had taken place. The gravel was uniform and smooth, as if it had never happened.
We didn’t talk much as I drove us back to South Lake Tahoe. We were almost over the pass, the lake just coming into view, when Cody looked over at me.
“The only time I ever heard Julo Nafui’s voice was when we saw him in the hallway at Pistol Pete’s. Remember? He said, ‘You’re trespassing.’ That’s it. Never heard him say another thing.”
“He was a man of few words, I guess,” I said.
“Some dark shit going on inside that dude.”
“No doubt.”
“Good thing he’s dead.”
I dropped Cody off at his truck at the Chatter Box, and he followed me to Caesar’s. We put Edward in a wheelchair and I called John Bascom’s suite from the courtesy phone in the lobby.
“Reno, where the blazes are you? I’ve been calling you all morning!”
“I’m downstairs in the lobby.” I pulled my cell out of my pocket. The battery had died.
“Edward Cutlip is missing,” he yelled.
“I’ve got him right here. We’re on the way up.”
Bascom’s wife answered the door. They looked stunned when Cody wheeled Edward in.
“Give your man a raise,” Cody said.
“Good god,” Bascom said. “What in hell happened?”
“Julo Nafui, the man who murdered your son, is dead,” I said. “Your case is closed. It’s done. And if it wasn’t for Edward, Nafui might have killed Cody and me. Then he might have come after you.”
“He’s dead,” Bascom said, as if he didn’t believe it.
“Nafui’s brains are splattered all over Carson City, man,” Cody said.
“Reno?”
“My first shot probably killed him,” I said. “If it didn’t, Cody’s shot definitely did.”
I gave Bascom the details of what happened, and when he asked what we were doing at a whorehouse, I told him I wanted to t
alk to the hooker who knew Samantha Nunez. I didn’t think it was any of Bascom’s business why we were really there.
“Did the bastard suffer before he died?” Bascom asked.
“Not for long enough,” Cody replied.
“What Edward did took a great deal of courage and guts,” I said, and Bascom stared at me then looked away, his expression blank, as if he was considering something that had never occurred to him.
“He’s got cojones the size of bowling balls,” Cody added.
“My wife is present,” Bascom admonished.
“I’ll mail you my expense report,” I said, and turned to Edward, who looked drowsy. “Have him see a doctor before you leave town, please.”
We all stood in the suite silently. Through the window I could see the skies were dark and heavy, and the cold seemed to wait outside patiently, knowing it could outlast any mortal circumstance. Bascom nodded at me grimly. Cody and I turned to leave, but before we could, Nora Bascom stepped in front of the door.
“Thank you for killing him,” she whispered, her eyes shiny and wet. “I hope he rots in hell.” Then she pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand. I unfolded it with the fingers of one hand. It was a check for $50,000. I accepted it without any philosophical musings. I’d earned it.
“Hope he rots in hell,” Nora Bascom whispered again, as if it was an invocation. I nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
******
It was four o’clock and snowing by the time we were packed and ready to leave. Cody’s ribs were hurting, so I found the two-year-old bottle of codeine I’d taken from Samantha Nunez’s apartment. He snatched it out of my hand and swallowed enough pills to sedate a horse, then cracked a beer and tried to get comfortable in the passenger seat.
The clouds resting on the granite ridges above the westbound pass were battleship gray when we rolled out of town. I drove slowly, the truck’s tires crunching over fresh snow, the pines blurred in the haze, the alpine lake choppy and black. Behind us the lights of the casinos glowed steadily, as if even the fiercest winter storm posed no threat.
Cody fell asleep as we went over Echo Summit, his beer can resting half full between his legs. When I stopped at Placerville an hour later, it was dark and the snow had turned to rain. I called Wenger and left him a voicemail saying I’d be in the office sometime the next day. Then I called Beverly Howitt. Her cell voice mail wasn’t working, so I left a message with the clerk at the hotel where she was staying.