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?”
“Maybe I know something about where he is.”
“Then you best start talking, boy,” he growled.
“Tell me his name and why you’re looking for him.”
“Jimmy Homestead,” Sanzini said. “Now tell me where he is, and maybe I won’t kick your ass.”
I looked over at the man called Rancour, who sat on his bike. He shrugged and smiled.
“See you later,” I said and began walking back to my rig. A moment later I heard gravel spitting beneath shoes as Sanzini came after me. I turned in time to see he was limping badly. He must have taken a good shot to the thigh from the billy club. He lunged at me and threw an awkward right cross that I easily sidestepped. Trying to fistfight with a bad leg is usually a losing proposition.
I chopped him across the back of the neck with the meat of my fist and kicked him hard in the ass, hard enough to leave what I knew would be an ugly bruise to go along with the one on his upper leg. The blows sent him sprawling. I continued toward my truck.
But like most low-life dumb-asses, Sanzini wasn’t smart enough to know when to quit. He rushed me again, and I turned in time to box him. We squared off, and when he lost his balance on his hurt leg, I drilled him with two good left jabs to the face. He spit a stream of bloody saliva at my feet and put his head down and tried to tackle me, but I stopped him with a solid right uppercut and felt my knuckles split against his teeth. Busting up my hands on this meathead pissed me off. But I gave him one more chance.
“Go home,” I said.
He came at me again.
I ducked his roundhouse and hit him with a straight right to the solar plexus. When he keeled over, I kicked him between the eyes with the toe of my boot. His body flipped back like a fish out of water, and he thudded into the gravel and lay still.
I watched the scene unfold in my rearview mirror as I idled away. Rancour ran over to Sanzini and stripped the leather coat from his body. Then the man with the billy club and the bartender came outside, and Rancour started his Honda and rode after me.
10
A t a hundred miles per hour, the 1982 Ford LTD was dangerously unstable. The nearly bald tires buzzed loudly against the pavement, the motor knocked and whined, and the chassis jolted at the slightest bump in the road. The man behind the wheel grinned like a maniac, a cigar clamped between his teeth, his mirrored flip-up sunglasses reflecting the sun.
John Homestead hadn’t felt this alive in years. He used to go on road trips like this when he was a kid, party trips on the open highway, where roadhouse beers and willing women always seemed just a few miles away. That was when he was young, back when money wasn’t a concern, and his natural good looks attracted more women than he knew what to do with.
Maybe those days weren’t just a sad memory, he thought, as he popped another couple of diet pills and washed them back with a slug of gin. Join a gym, lose fifty pounds, move out of his dump into a classy condo. Was it possible? Hell, yes. With a couple million to back him up, anything was possible. Fifty wasn’t too old to enjoy the good life. He eased up a bit on the gas pedal as he approached the speed traps outside Placerville, while he imagined the details of what his future might hold in store.
Tracking down his son had been easy. As a young man, Jimmy always had an affinity for the Lake Tahoe area, as he loved gambling and whores. John never quite understood Jimmy’s inclination toward prostitutes. Jimmy was always getting laid and had plenty of girlfriends. He certainly didn’t have to pay for it. But that was a long time ago.
It took John no longer than fifteen minutes to dial the Tahoe casino hotels and find that Jimmy was staying at Harrah’s. Apparently, after all these years, Jimmy’s habits hadn’t changed. John was
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?”
“Maybe I know something about where he is.”
“Then you best start talking, boy,” he growled.
“Tell me his name and why you’re looking for him.”
“Jimmy Homestead,” Sanzini said. “Now tell me where he is, and maybe I won’t kick your ass.”
I looked over at the man called Rancour, who sat on his bike. He shrugged and smiled.
“See you later,” I said and began walking back to my rig. A moment later I heard gravel spitting beneath shoes as Sanzini came after me. I turned in time to see he was limping badly. He must have taken a good shot to the thigh from the billy club. He lunged at me and threw an awkward right cross that I easily sidestepped. Trying to fistfight with a bad leg is usually a losing proposition.
I chopped him across the back of the neck with the meat of my fist and kicked him hard in the ass, hard enough to leave what I knew would be an ugly bruise to go along with the one on his upper leg. The blows sent him sprawling. I continued toward my truck.
But like most low-life dumb-asses, Sanzini wasn’t smart enough to know when to quit. He rushed me again, and I turned in time to box him. We squared off, and when he lost his balance on his hurt leg, I drilled him with two good left jabs to the face. He spit a stream of bloody saliva at my feet and put his head down and tried to tackle me, but I stopped him with a solid right uppercut and felt my knuckles split against his teeth. Busting up my hands on this meathead pissed me off. But I gave him one more chance.
“Go home,” I said.
He came at me again.
I ducked his roundhouse and hit him with a straight right to the solar plexus. When he keeled over, I kicked him between the eyes with the toe of my boot. His body flipped back like a fish out of water, and he thudded into the gravel and lay still.
I watched the scene unfold in my rearview mirror as I idled away. Rancour ran over to Sanzini and stripped the leather coat from his body. Then the man with the billy club and the bartender came outside, and Rancour started his Honda and rode after me.
10
A t a hundred miles per hour, the 1982 Ford LTD was dangerously unstable. The nearly bald tires buzzed loudly against the pavement, the motor knocked and whined, and the chassis jolted at the slightest bump in the road. The man behind the wheel grinned like a maniac, a cigar clamped between his teeth, his mirrored flip-up sunglasses reflecting the sun.
John Homestead hadn’t felt this alive in years. He used to go on road trips like this when he was a kid, party trips on the open highway, where roadhouse beers and willing women always seemed just a few miles away. That was when he was young, back when money wasn’t a concern, and his natural good looks attracted more women than he knew what to do with.
Maybe those days weren’t just a sad memory, he thought, as he popped another couple of diet pills and washed them back with a slug of gin. Join a gym, lose fifty pounds, move out of his dump into a classy condo. Was it possible? Hell, yes. With a couple million to back him up, anything was possible. Fifty wasn’t too old to enjoy the good life. He eased up a bit on the gas pedal as he approached the speed traps outside Placerville, while he imagined the details of what his future might hold in store.
Tracking down his son had been easy. As a young man, Jimmy always had an affinity for the Lake Tahoe area, as he loved gambling and whores. John never quite understood Jimmy’s inclination toward prostitutes. Jimmy was always getting laid and had plenty of girlfriends. He certainly didn’t have to pay for it. But that was a long time ago.
It took John no longer than fifteen minutes to dial the Tahoe casino hotels and find that Jimmy was staying at Harrah’s. Apparently, after all these years, Jimmy’s habits hadn’t changed. John was
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