Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel Page 6

  “Apparently not.”

  “No wonder he’s pissed.”

  “Those cops didn’t read those guys their rights,” I said.

  “Yeah, and did you like how they left that one who’s face you pounded lying there?”

  “Something ain’t kosher with those guys.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Any idea what’s behind it?”

  “Nope.” I sipped my beer and took a few chips from Cody’s bag. The blatant misconduct we witnessed was hard to ignore, but whatever trouble might be brewing between Marcus Grier’s office and the cops from Nevada was none of my business. Cody would surely understand that, I hoped.

  6

  The white police van rolled across the state line and came to a stop at the police complex in Nevada. Pete Saxton and Dave Boyce opened the rear doors and brought their suspects into the booking room.

  “Put ’em in the drunk tank,” Saxton said to the jailer, a grizzled ex-prison guard nearing retirement. “I wouldn’t feed them anything unless you want to clean up their barf.”

  “We aren’t drunk, officer,” Rodrigo sneered, his brown face reddened.

  “You sure were having a hard time walking ten minutes ago. What was in those forty-ouncers you were drinking, fruit juice?”

  Boyce finished writing on a sheet of paper and handed it to the jailer. “Don’t let them out until we show up in the morning, okay, Sam?”

  “You got it, hoss.”

  • • •

  When Pete Saxton woke the next morning, he made sure to put his shoes on before leaving his bedroom. The workers remodeling his kitchen had turned his home into a shambles. Sawdust coated the hardwood floors, and the other day he had stepped on a nail, the tip jabbing into his heel and drawing blood. He would talk with the contractor the next chance he got, tell him to keep the place cleaned up or he’d take it out of his pay.

  He took his coffee out to his new deck, the freshly stained redwood shiny and smooth. The hot tub he had installed a week ago gurgled quietly. He’d not yet had a woman in there, but planned to bring one home soon, preferably some young thing for a little soak and poke action.

  Saxton finished his coffee and picked the dried mucus from the corner of his eyes. So far, his arrangement with the greaseballs from Pistol Pete’s was going better than expected. They wanted some low-rung pushers cleared out of town, a pretty easy task, especially given what they were willing to pay. It might get a little sticky since the Mexicans were operating out of California, but he was sure he could handle whatever issues came up. Who would complain too loudly about a group of crystal meth-dealing beaners getting shit-canned?

  The best part, though, was the deal was ongoing. After the Diablos Sierra was done with, the mob would move their boys in, on the Nevada side of the state line. Saxton would receive an envelope weekly for making sure they were not harassed. He looked at his watch. In an hour he’d meet with Joe Norton and his crew. The heavy-metal gangbangers from Jersey were strictly white trash, but what do you expect from a group of drug dealers recruited by the mob? At least Norton seemed reasonably intelligent and sane.

  But intelligence and sanity are relative terms, Saxton thought, a smirk on his face. When Norton had told him about a local bounty hunter named Reno shooting Billy Morrison, Norton’s right hand man, Saxton was incredulous. An accused rapist jumps bail, gets shot and captured, and takes the big bounce. What’s the issue here? Sounds like Billy Morrison’s life was circling the drain anyway. But now Norton had a hard-on for Reno, and Saxton said he’d do him a favor and look into it. So he’d talked to the black sheriff, who apparently had some history with Reno. What had that accomplished? Probably nothing.

  Saxton drove his SUV to Dave Boyce’s house, a mobile home in a trailer park that was once a haven for prostitutes. Boyce’s ex-wife had cleaned him out when they divorced and was still taking half his paycheck. The good news was she wouldn’t be able to touch the crisp twenties stuffed in those weekly envelopes. Still, Saxton was a bit worried about his partner. Since his wife left him, Dave Boyce spent two hours each evening working out at a martial arts club, beating the shit out of heavy bags, speed bags, sparring partners, whatever and whoever was available. On weekends he hung out at the casino nightclubs, trying to seduce every woman he could find. To Saxton’s knowledge, Boyce hadn’t had a piece of ass in months. A week ago Boyce admitted as much, adding that the fact he couldn’t get laid despite being the most handsome and personable bachelor in South Lake Tahoe was a testament to how screwed his life had become.

  Boyce was waiting on the street when Saxton drove up. “Thanks for the ride,” he said. “The mechanic said my motor is seized, so my truck’s headed for the scrap heap.”

  “What you gonna do for wheels?”

  “Ever hear of a ten-speed?”

  They drove a few miles around the lake and parked in the Douglas County PD lot.

  “Go check out the van,” Saxton said. “I’ll get the wetbacks.”

  Five minutes later Boyce pulled up to the curb, and Saxton emerged from the building with the gangbangers. Both were cuffed behind the back.

  “Where are you taking us?” Rodrigo said.

  “To the bus stop. You’re going back to Mexico.”

  “You can’t tell us where to go,” said the other cholo, the stocky one with a crew cut.

  “Just keep on telling me what I can and can’t do,” Boyce said, steering out of the police complex and onto the highway.

  Five miles into Nevada, they turned onto a dirt road leading away from the lake. They drove down a rutted trail into the forest and stopped when the path ended in a dirt circle serving as a turnaround.

  From the trees, Joe Norton and six HCU members appeared, carrying bats and lengths of two-by-four.

  Saxton opened the rear doors and pulled the gangbangers out into the crisp morning air.

  Rodrigo looked around, taking stock of the situation. He stuck his chin out, gesturing at the men standing in front of him.

  “It takes that many of you to take me, even with my hands cuffed?” Rodrigo spat, his saliva spraying the ground.

  Norton walked up to Rodrigo and slapped him across the face, not hard, just enough to taunt him. “Shut up, you little bitch,” Norton said.

  “Take my cuffs off and we’ll see who the bitch is.”

  Dave Boyce stepped between Rodrigo and Norton. “How about you and me? I’m about your size, cholo. Mano e mano.”

  “You want to fight me? What happens if I beat your ass?”

  “Then no one will mess with you. You have my word. My partner will even give you a ride home.”

  Rodrigo stared at Boyce. “I don’t believe you, but you wanna fight, let’s do it, homes.”

  Boyce removed the cuffs from Rodrigo’s wrists. The moment he was free Rodrigo tried to stomp Boyce’s foot, but Boyce danced away, then came back and feinted with a left jab. Rodrigo sidestepped and rushed forward with a series of furious punches, one clipping Boyce’s head and drawing blood above the eye.

  Boyce moved laterally and smiled. “That all you got?”

  Rodrigo came at him again, wild with adrenalin, punching and kicking in a blur. Boyce blocked a left hook and stunned Rodrigo with a hard jab to the face, then threw a snap kick, the ball of his foot driving into his opponent’s midsection.

  Rodrigo staggered back, blood streaming from his nose, his features contorted in pain. Boyce flew at him with a spinning back kick, the point of his heel spiking into the gangbanger’s thigh. Rodrigo dropped to a knee.

  “Get up, puta, or I’ll beat you to death,” Boyce said.

  Rodrigo pushed himself up, his eyes feral and black with rage, but as soon as he stood, Boyce whipped a kick into his ribs, then threw a right hand that broke Rodrigo’s jaw with a sickening crunch. Boyce followed with an uppercut before Saxton grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms and walking him backward.

  “Easy, Dave, no need to kill him.”

  Saxton waited until he could feel the te
nsion in Boyce’s body ease before letting him free. They stood looking at Rodrigo, who lay in a bloody mess on the dirt.

  “What about this piece of shit?” Norton said, pointing at the remaining Mexican, a man almost Norton’s size.

  “Don’t hurt him too bad,” Saxton said. “No broken bones or blows to the head or face, got it?”

  The big cholo was expressionless, his fear hidden. Saxton turned to him. “You’ll be dropped off at the apartments with your Mero Mero there, or what’s left of him. Then you collect your friends, get on a bus, and vamoose. Comprende? I’m telling you to get out of town. We don’t tolerate drug-dealing scum like you in Lake Tahoe—and I’m talking South Lake, North Lake, Truckee, and I work in Reno, too. That means you and your gang need to disappear from the whole region. I’ve told these boys to take it easy on you so you’ll be able to clearly communicate to your fellow gangbangers that you are done here. Do you get what I’m saying?”

  The man swallowed and nodded. Saxton removed the cuffs from his wrists, then climbed into the white van along with Boyce. He made a U-turn and slowly drove away, looking in his rearview mirror, watching Rodrigo crawl to a sitting position while the HCU team knocked the other Latino to the ground and took their boots to him.

  7

  The month the dozen HCU members spent at John Switton’s house had pushed John the Hammer to his breaking point. None of them lifted a finger to clean up after themselves; most lacked even the common decency to flush the toilet. The trail of food wrappers, soiled laundry, and dirty dishes they left in their wake reminded John of pictures he’d seen of a capsized garbage barge. Within two days, the tidy residential home became a filthy, chaotic flophouse. John talked to Vic Servino and Joe Norton, and when he got nowhere, he hired a full-time maid and spent his waking hours in his office at Pistol Pete’s.

  When he finally found suitable rental properties and Norton and his boys split, John learned three of the gang members had left their guitars and amps behind, in the detached cinder block building where Robert played the drums. Switton wasn’t thrilled when his son told him they had formed a band and would be rehearsing three times a week. But John decided not to meddle, as Robert’s social life was limited, and he seemed excited about the prospect of his first metal band. At least the freaking room was mostly soundproof.

  The previous night, when John came home from the casino and saw Robert wasn’t on the couch watching television, he went out to the back building. The blast of sound that greeted him when he opened the door was startling. The guitars howled over Robert’s driving beat, the bass drum propelling the rhythm at a speed John had never heard in any form of music. The singer, if that’s what he was to be called, was growling in a thick, horrible tone, as if Satan himself was speaking through his vocal chords.

  The room’s walls and ceiling were carpeted, and sections were covered with yellow foam mattress pads. A coffee table was shoved in a corner and looked ready to collapse under the weight of empty beer cans and bottles and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. John stood with his fingers in his ears until the onslaught finally ended.

  “What do you think, Dad?” Robert said, wiping the sweat from his face.

  “It ain’t exactly the Bee Gees.”

  “Who?”

  John turned to the singer. “Do people actually listen to this?”

  The lead guitar player put his beer down after a long swig. “No one your age, pops,” he said.

  “No one my age would wear a ring in their nose, either.”

  “It’s called fashion. You don’t know what it means? Try a dictionary.”

  “Hey, Tom,” Robert said.

  “Look, you can wear a ring through your scrotum if you want,” John said. “And I don’t really care what kind of noise you make, as long as I don’t have to listen to it. All I ask is you treat my property with respect. That means clean up after yourselves when you’re done playing.” John pointed at the coffee table.

  The second guitarist, wearing a billy goat beard to hide his weak chin, began tuning his instrument. John reached over and yanked the power chord from the man’s guitar. “You need to clean the place before you leave tonight. Or you can find someplace else to play.” John flung the chord at the man and walked out.

  An hour later Robert’s bandmates were talking loudly in front of the house. John waited for them to drive off, then went out to his back patio and stood in the shadows. After a minute Robert appeared from the structure, his deformed physique and unnatural gait silhouetted as he walked across the dark yard, carrying a small box clinking with beer bottles. He dumped the bottles into a garbage can on the far side of the house, then returned to the room, and a minute later began the trek again. After the third time, John wheeled the garbage can over to the cinder block building and helped Robert clear the trash from the interior. Then he led his son inside the main house, made him a snack, and they watched television together before going to bed.

  • • •

  By the time John left for the casino the next morning, the frost had given way to a spring sun that bathed the meadows along Highway 50 in light. Clumps of purple wildflowers spotted the glistening, dew-covered fields. Between stands of pine, John could see two white plumes reflected on the blue surface of the lake, as if painted on a sheet of glass.

  Driving with his window open, John tried to enjoy the scenery. But it felt artificial, as if he was watching a movie, and once it ended, an ugly reality would resume. He shook his head at the thought. The gig in Tahoe had saved his ass from financial ruin. Sal Tuma had personally extended himself, offering John a deal he should be grateful for. So why couldn’t John accept the situation and be content?

  The answer was obvious, he thought, walking to the Employees Only entrance at Pistol Pete’s. It was bad enough he was forced to board the HCU jackasses for a month. Now three of them had befriended Robert, and it seemed they would become frequent visitors to his home. If they showed John a modicum of deference, that would be one thing. But instead they displayed an utter lack of respect, in effect dismissing him as an old man whose comments and opinions carried no more weight than a child’s. In his prior life, it was an offense no sane man would make.

  John had not asked Sal Tuma or Vic Severino why the HCU goons had been brought from Jersey to South Lake Tahoe. In truth, John didn’t give a shit, as long as they weren’t stupid enough to draw Robert into any trouble. But they were stupid, and that was the heart of the problem. No doubt HCU would be involved in criminal activity. If Robert was hanging around with these bozos, trouble would be inevitable. Go to bed with dogs, wake up with fleas.

  Clearly it was time to have a serious chat with the so-called musicians who’d enlisted Robert as their drummer. John would start with the guitarist with the nose ring–Tom, if he remembered right. Nothing physical, just a one-on-one conversation to let him know the issues. And if he copped an attitude, then what? John felt a delicious rush course through his veins. How long had it been since he’d been involved in a violent situation? Twenty years, at least. He’d left his life as a mob hitman after what he’d thought was a supernatural warning. In retrospect, maybe it was just nerves. Regardless, his life as a legitimate businessman had suited him fine. But the situation in Tahoe might call for different tactics.

  John sat at his desk until his emotions subsided and the impulse to crush Tom’s skull with a crowbar faded. He was surprised he would so readily contemplate reverting to his old ways. His career as a real estate investor had sometimes involved dealing with difficult adversaries, but from the beginning, he’d squelched any temptation to use muscle. All things considered, it had simply not been necessary.

  But now he was playing in a different league, one where the rules of lawful citizenry might not apply. If Robert’s new friends weren’t the types to respond to reason, so be it. There were other ways to make a point.

  John thumbed the cap off his scotch bottle and poured himself a short drink. Strong-arming any member of HCU
presented a few problems. They were under the domain of Vic Severino and Sal Tuma, and pissing off either mobster would be a bad strategy. Severino signed his checks, and Tuma was John’s gravy train. So he would have to show restraint when the time came—he might rough up Tom a bit, but nothing heavy, no broken bones, just slap him around and send a message.

  Whatever happened, John reminded himself he must avoid the police radar. As the paper owner of Pistol Pete’s, he could not afford problems with the law. Sal Tuma would have his ass if he didn’t keep his nose clean.

  John spent the next hours handling miscellaneous paperwork. His signature was required on various documents on a daily basis. Besides the actual casino operation, in itself a complex undertaking, Pistol Pete’s also ran its own restaurants, gift shops, video arcade, and theatre, each managed as a separate profit center. The theatre alone was a large business, a two thousand-seat venue for pop concerts, comedy acts, cabarets, and the like. The hundreds of people employed by Pistol Pete’s reported up to a dozen senior managers responsible for their own respective departments (slots, card tables, security, dining, entertainment, etc.). These managers worked directly for Vic Severino.

  It was late afternoon when John took a break. Though his role didn’t require any real decision making, he found himself spending an increasing portion of most days involved in the routines of the business. This was by choice, he realized. Still in his fifties, John had no desire to be retired. His habits were those of a professional businessman, and he enjoyed learning the nuances of Pistol Pete’s operations, and applying himself, if only to a minor degree, to the successful running of the company. And there was no mistaking his role was to be minor—Vic Severino had made it clear John was to remain outside of the enterprise’s true inner workings.

  John turned on the Yankees game and dialed the number for the young, talkative prostitute he’d taken a liking to. She was also a Yankees fan, and he’d bought her dinner once, after she hung around in his office and watched a game with him. He felt his genitals react to the thought of her arrival—she was a wonderful piece of ass—but he also looked forward to her bubbly company. He got her voice mail and left a message.