Tahoe Killshot Page 9

He was asleep in back. What a surprise. I got out into blast-furnace heat, opened the rear door and repeated myself. Spot lifted up his head, eyelids drooping. He sniffed at the hot air coming in and put his head back down with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “C’mon, Spot. Time to go.”

  He ignored me.

  I reached in and tugged on his collar.

  He resisted, but soon realized he didn’t have a choice. He groaned and finally got to his feet.

  Spot has been in downtown Reno, Sacramento, Oakland and San Francisco, so I knew what the reaction would be. People stopped and stared. I concentrated on finding a path that stayed in the shade of buildings so he wouldn’t burn his feet. At one point, we were faced with a hundred foot stretch of sun-baked sidewalk that was hot enough to sear a pot roast. On the other side was a giant hotel with a tropical garden of lush plants like those in Kauai and graceful palm trees arcing over a man-made waterfall. Above the waterfall, a monorail emerged from an opening in one side of the glass wall of the hotel and curved off around to the other side. Why walk across the lobby when you can take the train?

  “Okay, Spot, time to run.” I pulled him into a trot across the cement, my sore muscles aching. After a couple of steps he started doing a weird, prancing dance. “Faster, Spot.”

  He didn’t need convincing. We sprinted to the tropical rain forest. Spot jumped over the plantings at the edge of the stream and into the water. A crowd assembled as Spot ran up and down the man-made stream, doing his best to splash all the water out.

  A security guard came up to me. “Is that your dog? Your dog can’t go in the water.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. I called out, “Spot! Out of that water.”

  Spot ran down the stream, did a quick stop and sprayed water all over us. The guard gasped. I pulled Spot toward the hotel entrance. He was too long to fit in the revolving doors, so we went to the side where the regular doors were.

  “Hey, you can’t take a dog in there,” the guard yelled from behind us.

  We pushed inside to a breeze of cooled air that smelled like carpet cleaner and popcorn.

  The cacophony of beeping slots and electronic poker machines and other games was overwhelming. Crowds of people ambled through the gaming tables. A clown juggling orange balls went by on a unicycle.

  “Sir, dogs aren’t allowed in the hotel,” a loud voice called out. Another security man.

  “I have an appointment at Remake Productions. They called about a Seeing Eye dog. Where would their offices be? Up on the mezzanine?”

  “No one except the blind are allowed to have a Seeing Eye dog.”

  “I am blind.” I walked Spot toward an escalator that went up in a curve toward the monorail station.

  “I’m calling the police,” the guard said. He ran over to an office with walls that were mirrored on the outside and, no doubt, one-way glass on the inside.

  I was certain that Spot had never been on an escalator, but he pulled me onto the moving steps without hesitation. The monorail train floated by above us as we neared the mezzanine. I looked up at the mirrored ceiling and waved.

  A shopping arcade stretched off in one direction. The first shop was a boutique with R-rated lingerie in the display window.

  I stuck my head in. “Can you tell me where the business offices would be? I’m looking for Remake Productions.”

  A young woman chewed on her gum, blew a pink bubble, popped it, then sucked it back in her mouth. “Next floor up.”

  We took another escalator ride and found Remake Productions down a wide hall. I opened the door, and we walked into a small room with tan suede wallpaper and brown carpet. A large man slouched at a desk, a computer keyboard in his lap. He wore a T-shirt and blue jeans just like the roadies who’d been loading Glory’s truck. Maybe it was the Remake uniform. A cigarette dangled from his lips. He had three-day whiskers on his chin.

  “Be with you in a minute,” he said without looking up. The cigarette waggled as he spoke and an ash fell off on the front of his T-shirt, but he didn’t notice. He reached out, moved the mouse, clicked a couple times, then typed on the keyboard.

  “Okay, that looks better,” he said. He clicked the mouse again and turned toward me. “Big dog,” he said, cigarette bouncing. There was no surprise on his face or in his voice. Probably had Great Danes in his office every day. “Lots of spots,” the man said. “Be a good name for a dog like that. Spot.”

  “Yes,” I said as Spot looked from him to me.

  The man squinted against the cigarette smoke. “Oh, almost forgot.” He turned back to the computer screen and did some more tapping on the keyboard. “There. Better still. Not great. But better.”

  “I’m looking for Tyrone,” I said.

  “Who?” The man was scowling at the screen, moving the mouse, clicking it like he was sending Morse Code.

  “Tyrone Handkins. Works here.”

  “Oh, Handy. Worked. Like me. We’re flirting with the past tense around here. Bossanova may want him to switch over and work with Hot Summerz, but don’t bet on it. Glory was the tap root for this little money tree. Without her it’s time for some pruning.”

  “Bossanova?”

  “Tony Nova, the boss.”

  “Where do I find Handkins?” I said.

  “Beats me. He never comes to Vegas. Gets his marching papers from Bossanova and hits the road.” The man’s cigarette was unfiltered and had burned almost to his lips. He shook out another, lit it off the end of the stub and dropped the stub in a foam cup half full of coffee. It hissed.

  “Where does he live?” I asked.

  “Handy? Got me. L.A., I think. I only met him just once. It’s not like he’s gonna invite me to his next slumber party.” He sucked down hard on the new cigarette and the end glowed orange.

  “Do you have his phone number?”

  “No. Bossanova’s secretary handles personnel questions.” He turned back to the computer monitor.

  “What do you do here?” I said.

  “What is this, the Rockford Files? I do the ad layouts and handle the bookings. You want Hot Summerz for your wedding party? Let’s talk. It’ll cost, but you’ll have a wedding no guest will ever forget. Or maybe our boy band is more your style.”

  “Let me think about it,” I said. “What about Tony Nova’s number?”

  The man reached a card out of a small holder on the edge of the desk. “The numbers that come first, where it says bookings, are me. Phone and fax. My name’s Bill Banes. The ones down below are the business office.” The cigarette bounced violently in his lips.

  “Where is that?” I said, looking at the numbers. I was surprised to see the Northern Nevada area code.

  “Where is the business office?” The man turned from the computer and squinted at me through cigarette smoke. “Bossanova isn’t a real public guy. I gave you the phone number, okay?”

  “Thanks for your help. I’ll give him a call. C’mon, Spot. Let’s go.” I turned to leave.

  “Hey, you’re joking, right? I mean, about the name Spot. He’s not really...” his voice faded away as the door shut behind me.

  When Spot and I were almost down to the lobby, two cops pushed their way through the crowd onto the up escalator. People got on behind them. We got off at the bottom. One cop saw us and started yelling. He tried to work his way back down through the people, but he couldn’t move down fast enough. Spot and I were out onto the broiling street in seconds.

  “The sidewalk’s still hot,” I said, putting my hand in his collar. “You wanna get your feet wet again before we run?” This time I held onto his collar. He jumped into the stream and nearly pulled me over. I pulled him back out and we ran to the Jeep.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I stopped at a sandwich shop and got a jumbo sub. Out at the end of the strip was a motel with a sign that said “Air-conditioning!” and “Pool!” and “Pets Okay!”

  Once inside, I put all the tomatoes and lettuce on one half of the sandwich and gave Spot the other hal
f. The way he Hoovered it, I envisioned moving to Southern California and opening a chain of sub shops for dogs.

  I got on the phone and dialed the office number on the business card for Remake Productions. A pleasant, recorded voice said to please call back during business hours. I worked on my puzzle late into the evening. At times it seemed futile, but I added several more pieces.

  The next morning I fixed coffee in the in-room machine and dialed Remake Productions. The same voice answered live. “Remake Productions.”

  “Hello,” I said. “May I speak to Tony Nova, please.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, he’s out. May I take a message?”

  “How about Tyrone Handkins?”

  “I’m sorry, there is no one of that name here.”

  “When will Tony Nova be in?”

  “I can’t say, sir. All you can do is leave your number.”

  “What about your address? I’d like to stop by.”

  “We don’t give out Mr. Nova’s office address for security reasons. I can give you the address of our Las Vegas office.”

  “Thanks for your help,” I said and hung up.

  I remembered Watt Waitsfield, a guy in Reno who works for a database company. One of their clients is the phone company. Watt had called me when a loan shark was squeezing him about his gambling problem. I couldn’t do anything to scare the lender away, but I got them to restructure the debt. Watt was very grateful.

  It had come in handy a couple times since.

  His side business required the anonymity of a pay phone, so I took another cup of coffee with me to the phone across the street, called Watt and left the pay phone number on his pager. I drank the coffee and waited. I could see Spot standing at the motel room window, chin resting on the windowsill, while he watched me on the other side of an endless stream of trucks and cars.

  Watt called back in a few minutes. He must have been in his car to find a pay phone so fast.

  “Hello, my friend. What’s happenin’?”

  “I’m vacationing in Vegas. It’s great. Only things missing are my friends Tony Nova and Tyrone Handkins. I thought I’d stop by their office and personally ask them to join me. But I can’t remember where it is.”

  “Let me see if I can help. What have you got?”

  I read off the business office number from the bottom of the Remake Productions card.

  “Great. Give me ten minutes.”

  Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again.

  “Did you find my friends?” I said.

  “One of them. The number rings at fourteen, twenty-two, twenty-nine, Desert View Highway in Reno. Suite G. The number is billed to Remake Productions, with Tony Nova on the data record. He also has an unlisted number that rings at sixty-nine Windemere Glen in Reno.”

  “What about Tyrone Handkins?”

  “M.I.A.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I hung up, checked out of the motel and headed out of town. I tried not to let it bother me that I’d driven all the way to Vegas only to find out that what I wanted was in Reno.

  TWENTY-THREE

  It was dark by the time I arrived back in the Carson Valley. I drove north into Reno and turned into the Wild Oats supermarket. I ordered a large pepperoni pizza and grabbed a six-pack of Sierra Nevada. I took the beer and the pizza box back to the Jeep and set them on the hood. I hitched a foot up on the bumper, ate a piece and opened a beer. Spot leaned forward from the back seat, staring at me with laser eyes and radar ears.

  When the pizza had cooled enough that the cheese wouldn’t burn, I let him out onto the blacktop parking lot and had him sit. I tossed him a piece.

  I always wonder what the point is of having such large teeth when they don’t get used. The pizza disappeared like a wayward duck into the intake of a 747 jet engine. Spot looked up at me and licked his chops. His tail swept the asphalt. I tossed him another piece. Same disappearing act, same sound effects.

  I poured a beer into the plastic ice cream bucket I keep in the Jeep. I held it steady while he drank it. When he was done he carefully ran his tongue around the bucket, getting every drop. Then he looked at the remaining bottles.

  “No,” I said. “One beer is enough.” I got a pliers out of the glove box, took Spot around to the side of the building and used the pliers to turn on the tiny square faucet shaft. Spot drank with gusto.

  “Okay, Spot, libations are over. Let’s go find Tony Nova.”

  I drove to the office address first. Suite G was the seventh door down a plain, sprawling building in a new office park. Suites A and C had lights on, but all the others were dark. I peered through the glass of G. The only light inside was a computer screen saver.

  I stopped at a gas station and bought a map of Reno. The street called Windemere Glen was a little curlicue.

  South and west of Reno is a broad expanse of land that slopes up toward the mountains. I headed up the long incline of the Mt. Rose Highway. The houses got fancier the higher up I went. Near the exclusive golf course neighborhood called Montreaux on the left, I found the turnoff on the right.

  Three turns later, I came to Windermere Glen. It went north a few blocks and then turned west and headed up toward the mountains.

  The brass numerals were set into a panel on the big iron gate. On either side of the gate were imposing walls of brick that swept up like an angel’s wings. Where the brick stopped the tall, wooden fence began, stretching off across the desert. There was no view of Tony Nova’s house from the road.

  I continued upslope for a half mile before I found a turnoff. I turned onto gravel and climbed into empty desert that would one day be filled with mansions. I kept watch for a glimpse of Tony Nova’s house down below me. But Nova’s spread was well-planned. His house never popped into view.

  The gravel came to a stop at a 50-foot-tall water tank that, in a fit of smart design, had been painted in patterns of sienna and beige and sagebrush-blue-green, the better to blend into the desert. I parked behind the tank. Spot and I got out into one of those perfect desert evenings. The air was cool and thick with the scent of sage. The million lights of Reno sparkled in the valley below. I got out the old-fashioned tire iron.

  “C’mon, Spot,” I said as I marched off into the desert.

  We still hadn’t glimpsed Tony Nova’s house when we came to his fence. I pried off some boards and made an opening. Spot and I stepped through.

  We continued across the desert. I tripped on a succession of sagebrush and unseen rocks. Spot had no problem. Maybe he can smell rocks.

  We came over another rise and saw Tony Nova’s house. Concealed lights lit tan, adobe walls. A swimming pool shaped like a kidney bean glowed blue in the night. Nearby were artful plantings with yellow garden lights. A small, cascading stream came down through the rocks and plunged into the pool.

  On the opposite side of the house was the entrance with a curving drive that looped around a fountain. Water shot up in four, graceful curves and splashed down into a blue reflecting pool. In the center of the fountain was a marble sculpture of a nude, muscular man. It looked like a Bernini.

  To the sides of the house were more gardens. There was a small pond that probably held fish. I’d seen hotels on Maui with less water.

  Near the fountain was parked a Burgundy-colored Mercedes with smoked windows. Nova could come and go and his distant neighbors would never even know what he looked like. On the other side of the Mercedes was a five-car garage.

  I touched Spot on the nose, a gesture that meant silence. We approached from the side where there seemed to be the fewest windows. The garden plantings were thick and we were able to get close to the house. A small lawn in front of us was well lit.

  I whispered, “Stay,” to Spot and ran to a small window set in the adobe wall. I stood in the floodlights and peeked in the window.

  Inside was a study, with a red Navajo rug on a cream-colored tile floor. On one wall were bookshelves with what looked like actual books
in them. In the corner was a kiva with logs stacked in a wall nook.

  I tried the window. Locked. I moved sideways to the next one. It, too, was locked.

  “Spot,” I whispered as I approached the corner of the house. “Come.”

  We went around the corner and tried other windows, working toward the front door. Tony Nova was security conscious. Every window was shut and locked.

  We got to the front door in the full glare of the floodlights. The wedge of the tire iron slipped a short way into the crack between the solid oak door and the steel jamb. A little flexing suggested it wouldn’t give at all. I was about to move back to a window when I thought to try the knob.

  It was unlocked. Spot and I walked inside.

  I knew Spot would alert like a search dog the moment he sensed human presence, so I kept my hand on his collar, the better to feel his tension. There was a mountain bike parked in the entrance hall. It had a lot of chrome and burgundy metallic paint.

  We went through the entrance hallway, looked in on the living room and dining room and continued on to the kitchen. Spot did not alert. We walked softly down toward the bedrooms.

  All were empty.

  Back in the center of the house was an enclosed courtyard with a glass roof. We walked across the courtyard and looked into a large great room. Spot went rigid at my side.

  The room was artfully lit with down-lighting from recessed ceiling cans. At one end, a conversation pit was sunk three feet below the floor. The curved leather seating wrapped around a fireplace with a huge copper hood above it. Nearby was a gun case displaying several hunting rifles.

  A framed replica of a famous painting hung on the adjacent wall. I knew it from one of my art books. It was “The Banjo Lesson” by Henry Ossawa Tanner and showed a black man teaching a young boy how to play.

  At the other end of the room was a home theater system, with an eight-foot screen in front of brown leather couches. Spot’s tension was directed at the far wall which was glass. A slider was open. On the dark deck outside was a hot tub, the water churned into a froth by underwater jets. I saw the shape of a man sitting in the tub facing away from us, toward Reno. We walked across the room and out the open slider.