Dying for the Highlife (6 page)

That afternoon, after Eric left for the gym in a huff, one of Heather’s old girlfriends from high school called. She was a serial dater and had spotted Jimmy Homestead’s Internet dating profile. Heather located it and had a moment of inspiration. The pieces of the puzzle then began to come together very quickly. She thought it through and approached Eric the next day.

“Eric, listen to me,” she said. He was in his usual position, reclined on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table. “Here is how we find him; all I have to do is respond to his site and set up a date. Then we can get the money out of him.”

Eric arched his eyebrows, apparently surprised she had proposed something with promise. Heather handed him a printed copy of Jimmy’s personal profile.

“Christ, what a slime ball,” Eric said when he finished reading it. He stared out into space for half a minute, and when he looked back at her, his eyes looked smaller and gleamed with an unusual intensity.

“Okay, here’s how we work this,” he said. “You respond to his profile and send him some pictures from your talent book—you got digital copies of those, right? The only thing I’m worried about is if he’ll recognize you.”

“It’s been almost twenty years.”

Eric shot her a reproachful look, as if he hadn’t forgiven her for a one-night stand she had when she was a teenager, before she ever met Eric.

“Well, hopefully he’s fried enough brain cells, so let’s figure he won’t know it’s you. I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry about. I’m sure you don’t look anything like you did when you spread your legs for him.”

“Well, I had my boobs done.”

“You also ain’t a teenager anymore.”

Heather bit her tongue.

Eric stood and began pacing. “Now, the goal is to get him stripped. Tell him you want to blow him or whatever—just get his clothes off. And that’s when I’ll burst into the room.”

“And then?”

“First I’m gonna slap him around a bit, just to scare him. Then you’re going to accuse him of trying to rape you. I’ll go into a rage and threaten to kill him for that. Then you’ll say, ‘Let’s call the cops instead.’ Once he’s in a panic over the mess he’s in, we’ll offer him an easy way out: pay us three million in cash.”

“And what if he says no?”

“Then I’ll break his fuckin’ arm. He’ll cooperate after that, I guarantee it.”

“My god,” Heather murmured. The prospect of violence stunned her for a second. It represented the point of no return. Moving forward with the plan now meant it was all or nothing: success meant wealth for life, tropical drinks in paradise, total freedom. Failure probably meant jail. This was unlike anything Heather had ever been involved in.

“You think he’ll actually give us the money?” she asked.

“One way or another.”

Eric’s face looked charged with an evil energy, and it scared Heather. She was then overcome by a wave of loss and regret so powerful her knees almost buckled. How had things got to this point? She always thought her beauty would naturally result in a privileged life; a rich, classy husband, interesting, successful friends, material surroundings that spoke of higher culture. But none of that ever happened. Instead, here she was, with her whacked-out, unemployed, steroid-abusing spouse, sitting in a lousy apartment, working on a desperate scheme to steal $3 million.

She blinked and took a deep breath. “Let’s do it,” she said.

H
eading north on Highway 50, I crossed over the California-Nevada border, passing the casinos and leaving South Lake Tahoe in my rearview mirror. I followed the highway around the lake, then downshifted and began climbing the pass over Spooner summit, toward Nevada’s Great Basin desert.

The pine-choked forest became sparse, replaced by brown hills dotted with sagebrush. I crested the summit and coasted down the grade, until I reached the flats outside Carson City. The late-afternoon sun was falling behind me as I cruised Highway 395 through the center of town, past the old bars, second-rate casinos, fast-food joints, and strip malls. Toward the north end of Carson, 50 reconvened heading east again. From there the highway stretched without interruption for four hundred empty miles across Nevada’s high desert and into Utah. Fortunately, I only had to drive eight miles before I saw the low billboard marking the brothel complex Jimmy Homestead visited a week ago.

I followed the potholed road around a few bends and back behind a low rise that hid the neon cathouse signs from the highway. The complex was made up of four single-story, chain-link-fence-enclosed buildings set in a horseshoe. In the middle was a large gravel parking lot. One of the establishments was a strip club; the other three were whorehouses, sanctioned and licensed by the state of Nevada.

I drove around the parking lot and parked in front of Tumbleweeds Ranch, the most upscale of the bordellos. The last time I’d been here was a year ago. I got out of my truck and walked over to a spot a little ways out and kicked at the gravel with my boot. It was here I’d shot an ex-mercenary who tried to send me to the next dimension with a sawed-off twelve-gauge. My shot didn’t kill him, though; Cody Gibbons finished the job by blowing his head off from twenty feet with a .44 hollow-point round. I lingered over the spot for a moment, then walked back to where I’d parked.

There were two motorcycles among the dozen or so cars in front of Tumbleweeds. One of the bikes was a customized Harley, the other an old Honda with long, makeshift forks and a sissy bar. I rang the buzzer and waited for the lock on the gate to be released. The sun had sunk behind the desert hills, and the temperature was dropping quickly.

When I entered the parlor the madam was nowhere to be seen, so I waved off the lineup of prostitutes and took a seat at the bar, which was scattered with a handful of men. I ordered a whiskey rocks and let the ice cubes melt while I scanned the velvet couches against the walls. A small group of ladies were talking and laughing, led by a stunning Asian whore I’d met last year, but I couldn’t remember her name. Three other women sat alone, separate from the group, seemingly aloof, or maybe just bored.

Two seats from me, a pair of men sat huddled over drinks. The larger of the two was a burly moose of a man; his shoulders were broad and bulged with muscle and his torso was thick as a barrel. He had a flat face with blunt features, framed by curly, reddish-brown mutton-chop sideburns that nearly met at his chin. When he spoke, I could see one of his front teeth was broken off, almost to the gum.

“It ain’t my problem you were dumb enough to not bring a coat,” he said.

“Gimme a break, it was eighty-five in San Jose,” said the other man, a wiry dude with matted-down brown hair. He wore an old pair of jeans and a black T-shirt with sleeves that were too short. Below his shoulder was a scrawled tattoo of a naked female.

“You said you were resourceful,” the big one said, with a chuckle that was more like a snort. “I’m sure you’ll figure out how to stay warm.”

The wiry man’s face bunched up in cords of tissue, and his eyes grew flat as pennies.

“You are truly testing my patience, Sanzini,” he said. “If we’re going to find this dude, you’re going to need me. I can’t ride at night without a jacket. I’m asking you to loan me the goddamn money to buy one.”

“Sure, how about if I buy you a whore too?”

I stifled a yawn. The tone of their conversation was one that could be heard endlessly in dive bars. Next they would start talking about how ruthlessly the local cops enforced drunk-driving laws. Or a recent bad-rap domestic violence charge. Or how thirty days in the city jail ain’t really that bad of a gig—hell, it’s three hots and a cot. I was trying to tune them out when one said something that made my head turn.

“Our whole reason for being here is the guy won the Lotto, right? Forty-three million, right? After I get my share, I’ll pay you back.”

“We got to find him first,” the one named Sanzini said. He cleared his throat, and then said, “Excuse me,” in a loud voice to the bartender, a stocky, balding man who wore his hair in a short pony tail.

“I’m trying to hook up with an old buddy of mine,” Sanzini said. “He was here a few nights ago. Blond hair, blue eyes, about six foot, mid-thirties. Does that ring a bell?”

“Lot of guys fit that description come through here,” the bartender said from around a toothpick.

“This guy probably was throwing money around like he had it to burn.”

“Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Blowin’ dough like he won the lottery.”

The man behind the bar shrugged.

“Who runs this cathouse, then? I need to talk to someone who knows something.”

The bartender set down a bottle he was holding and leaned forward. “The madam is in charge. She’ll be here later. If you ask her politely, she might be able to help you.”

“Good,” Sanzini said. The bartender walked away, shaking his head.

“Hey, Tony, when the madam shows up, let me talk to her. I got a way with older broads.”

“Huh? Screw you, Rancour. You’re just here because you got the connection with the security company. This is my deal. You stay quiet.”

“Well, try to use a little charm, then.”

“Blow yourself.”

I left the bar and took a seat at a vacant couch, near where the group of prostitutes had congregated. After a minute the Asian woman I’d met before turned to me. She had an exotic aura to her, and I seemed to remember she’d told me she specialized in unusual positions.

“Meow,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“What’s the matter, don’t you understand pussy?” she said, and the ladies around her all laughed like crazy.

“So,” she said, taking a seat on the arm of the sofa, “you wanna party?”

She wore a sheer turquoise gown, and the slit had fallen open, revealing her thigh all the way to her waist. Her legs were long and slinky, and the nipples on her small breasts were extended and pointy against a thin layer of silk that left little to the imagination. She parted her lips and eyed me with a sly expression that looked practiced.

I had met her during the investigation that resulted in the shooting in the parking lot. I had also been responsible for the death of her best friend’s fiancé, but I didn’t think she was aware of that fact.

“You’re so beautiful I doubt I could afford you,” I said. It was the same line I used with all prostitutes.

“We take credit cards,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“Mine’s maxed out,” I said, but she put her warm hand in mine and sat next to me on the sofa, then her mouth was next to my ear. “I guarantee you won’t leave disappointed,” she said. The beginning of the full-court press.

“You mind if we talk a little first?” I said, confident she didn’t remember me. Prostitutes who spend any length of time in the trade learn to forget the men they meet very quickly.

“Whatever you want,” she purred.

“Last week a blond dude came through here. About my age, maybe a little shorter. A decent looking fellow, probably drunk or on drugs.”

“Maybe you’re talking about Lotto-boy,” she said with a laugh. “Kind of handsome, ripped half out of his mind, went to the VIP room with three of us.”

“Lotto-boy?”

“Yeah. Guy claimed he won a forty-million-dollar lottery.”

I pulled the picture Sheila Majorie had given me from my front pocket.

“This him?”

She studied the photo briefly. “Yeah, that’s the man. But his hair’s longer now, and he looks older.”

We sat in silence for a moment, while she snuggled her chest into my ribs and ran her fingers down my forearm. I tried my best to ignore my body’s reaction.

“Did he say where he’s staying, by any chance?”

“He talked a lot about all his money.”

“How about where he’s staying?”

“He said he was going to drive his Ferrari down to Vegas.”

“You mean his Lamborghini.”

“Yeah, right. Then he said he was going to build the most bitchin’ mansion money can buy.”

“Did he say where?”

“Nope.”

I was trying to peel her arms off my shoulders when I saw the man at the bar, Sanzini, approach us.

“What’s this about a guy in a Lamborghini?” he said.

“I was having a private conversation with the lady,” I said.

He bent down to her. “Tell me about the guy in the Lamborghini.”

She looked up at his brutish face and crossed her legs. “You’re acting rude,” she said. “I don’t like rude.”

“I asked you a goddamn question,” he said, loud enough to get the attention of the bartender.

I walked around the couch and stood facing Sanzini, our faces no more than a foot apart. I noticed his partner at the bar, sitting quietly.

Sanzini stared at me, his eyes twitching in agitation. “Get out of my face,” he said, stepping back. I moved toward him, and he shoved me in the chest with both hands.

At that moment, a tall, gangly man emerged from a side room. He came at us, carrying a billy club, the kind with a short handle attached at a ninety-degree angle. A difficult weapon to defend against, assuming your adversary knows how to use it. He also wore a snub nose .38 on his hip. I sat on the back of the sofa and folded my hands in front of me.

The bartender pointed at Sanzini and me with two fingers.

“Maybe next time,” I said to the Asian lady, and headed for the door. Sanzini started to say something, but I didn’t wait around to hear it.

Outside it was still and dark in the high desert. I waited in my truck, and a minute later Sanzini stumbled out of the whorehouse, his friend trailing behind him. Sanzini held his thigh and limped. The pair made their way to their motorcycles, and I rolled down my window so I could listen to what appeared to be escalating into a shouting match.

“You are one dumb mother, Sanzini. Jesus Christ, ain’t no one gonna cooperate with you if you’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah? Well, fuck you, Rancour! The only dumb thing I did was hook up with you.”

The smaller man whom Sanzini called Rancour climbed onto the chopped Honda and crossed his arms against the cold.

I climbed out of my truck. “Why are you looking for a guy in a Lamborghini?” I said to Sanzini.

“Who are you to talk to me?”